The unofficial mantle of “Acolyte Ren's benefactor” settled across Shen Li's shoulders like a robe spun from fine silk and thorns. Each time the title, whispered or implied, reached his ears, a jolt of discomfort, sharp and cold, pierced him. He was an adult now, or so the calendar proclaimed. Yet, the weight of such responsibility felt foreign, like a ceremonial armor crafted for a warrior of grand stature, not a humble calligrapher with ink-stained fingers. The syllables of “adult” grated against his sensibilities, an ill-fitting garment worn for a court performance he had no wish to attend. Countless nights had bled into days, marked by the silent wrestling match with this inherited burden. His mornings were consumed by duties within the Imperial Scriptoria, his evenings claimed by the hushed corridors of the Imperial Infirmary. Truthfully, less than half his official tasks received his proper attention. His mind, a restless brush, painted scenes of suffering and neglect upon the canvas of his thoughts. A heavy heart guided his steps back to the infirmary each evening. Acolyte Ren, as if tethered by an unseen thread, would rush out of his chamber, his face alight with a feverish anticipation, like a favored hound greeting its master. Without pause, the acolyte would unburden himself, a torrent of grievances pouring forth from his lips, recounting the day’s indignities within the sterile confines. “Another procedure, they say. Another slice of the flesh. My thigh will be scarred anew. And the food… ah, by the Ancestors, the bland gruel threatens to unravel my mind. Am I an invalid of seventy winters? My stomach, perfectly sound, yet they feed me slop fit only for a starving cur.” The litany of complaints, poured forth with genuine misery, stripped away any pretense of his age, revealing the fretful child beneath the skin of an acolyte. A soft sigh escaped Shen Li’s lips, a whisper of weariness. His hand delved into his satchel, the soft leather already permeated by the faint, cloying scent of carefully wrapped sustenance. That faint aroma always twisted Shen Li's features. A small, involuntary grimace touched his mouth, quickly suppressed. Still, the thought of carrying the scented package openly, exposed to curious gazes, was far worse than the subtle taint upon his possessions. “What is it?” Ren's voice, usually bright and ringing, softened to a near whimper, like a whipped puppy. A mental image of a drooping tail, thick with coarse fur, flickered in Shen Li’s mind. Disgusting. He banished the thought, shaking his head slightly, and withdrew a lacquered box from his bag. Ren’s eyes, dulled by pain and boredom, widened. The gloom lifted, replaced by a flicker of hopeful curiosity. “A meal,” Shen Li stated, his voice even, devoid of inflection. “They assured me you are still some days from surgery, permitted to enjoy this.” “A meal?” Ren repeated, his voice barely a breath. “It is naught but a simple purchase from a nearby stall,” Shen Li added quickly, a defensive edge in his tone. “Do not imbue it with unwarranted meaning.” His insistence, a flimsy shield, sought to deflect the truth he dared not voice. He had spent hours seeking out a vendor near the infirmary renowned for their light, nourishing dishes suitable for recovery, yet prepared with an artistry that pleased the palate. The thought, nascent and vulnerable, he refused to acknowledge, let alone speak. He merely wished to appear as one offering a detached gesture of common human kindness, nothing more. But even this minimalist offering seemed to be enough for Acolyte Ren. His right hand, marred by previous injuries, twitched, scratching at his ear with an almost frantic energy. Shen Li caught a glimpse of the reddened lobe, a flush spreading across his cheek. His gaze drifted lower, to Ren’s fingers, bent and gnarled, a cruel twist of flesh from some past trauma. His face tightened. Why did those ruined fingers command his attention? Why could he not look away? A tightness seized his chest, a painful knot of unspoken pity. “…Thank you,” Ren whispered, his voice unusually subdued. He glanced at Shen Li, his eyes wide and hesitant. When their gazes met, Ren flinched, a jolt of surprise, and hurriedly fumbled with the lacquered box's clasp. Was it genuine surprise, or a practiced pretense? As if being caught observing Shen Li was an infraction, a trespass he wished to conceal. Watching Ren devour the food with mechanical fervor, a strange, desperate hunger in his movements, Shen Li leaned his weary frame against the narrow cot. It was a sight that should have been repulsive, food spilling onto his chin, his maimed fingers struggling with the small porcelain spoon. Ren’s little finger, his ring finger, his middle finger—all crooked, unable to bend properly. Shen Li could not discern if the awkwardness was genuine or a performance crafted for his benefit. Slowly, Shen Li shifted closer. His hand reached out, gently closing over Ren's, taking the spoon. “What desires your palate?” he murmured. Ren paused, mouth full. His eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on Shen Li. “The spiced duck?” Shen Li offered, his thumb brushing lightly against Ren’s knuckles. At the very least, he felt a responsibility to acknowledge the authenticity of Ren’s visible wounds, the pain etched onto his frame. With lips smeared with sauce, Acolyte Ren chewed, lowering his head slightly, and smiled. A genuine smile, innocent and blinding. Shen Li could not fathom why this young man, whose fingers would never properly straighten, whose thigh and back bore the fierce geography of shredded scars, could still conjure such unblemished joy. He simply could not comprehend it. He averted his gaze, unable to bear the brightness of that face. What amusement could he possibly find in such a state? Were it Shen Li, he would wish for oblivion. He selected a piece of succulent spiced duck, the richest morsel, and gently raised it to Ren's mouth. Ren bit down, chewing with vigorous enthusiasm, his smile unwavering. This acolyte, with his unnerving resilience, always unsettled Shen Li. Truthfully, the meticulously prepared meal was a consequence of an earlier detour, a visit to Ren's familial compound before arriving at the infirmary. --- This was only the second time Shen Li had returned to the lesser noble quarters where Acolyte Ren resided since his last skin graft procedure. Surprisingly, the household guards still recognized his face, still allowed him passage, his presence having been, for a time, a constant fixture. Ren's family, he had encountered them only thrice within the infirmary walls. Once, his father, a fleeting shadow. Twice, his mother, a woman of brittle smiles and distant eyes. The mother, especially, had adopted a demeanor of fragile kindness towards Shen Li, a silent reward for shouldering the responsibilities she so readily cast aside. Ren had simply rested his chin in his hand, his gaze following his mother’s retreating form until she vanished from sight. Shen Li had come merely to retrieve some of Ren's scattered belongings, a few scrolls, a favored brush, small trinkets to stave off the crushing boredom of the sick chamber. That was all. He knew, better than anyone, the suffocating ennui of being confined within stark walls. He had experienced it himself, in his own meager youth, and thus understood the small comforts that could ease such imprisonment. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Nor was it affection. That day, instead of returning directly to his own simple lodging, Shen Li had made the deliberate journey to Ren's compound. The heavy gates still swung open for him. But Lady Linya, Ren's elder sister, did not offer such a welcome. She leaned against the carved wooden frame of Ren's chamber door, her arms crossed, her expression a mask of dry indifference. “Still lingering about Acolyte Ren?” Her voice held a cutting edge. To be frank, Shen Li held little warmth for Lady Linya. How could she neglect her brother so utterly, never gracing the infirmary with her presence, not even once? Her own kin lay broken. That visceral, almost primal sense of familial duty, so strong within Shen Li, made him judge her, instinctively. He hadn’t even realized the judgment forming until the thought sharpened. The moment it crystallized, he clamped his lips shut, stuffing another bundle of Ren’s drawings into his satchel. “Indeed,” Shen Li replied, his voice flat. “He truly lost himself, didn't he? That mad boy is obsessed with you.” Linya's words sliced through the air, sharp as a dagger. Shen Li’s hands froze. He turned, slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread. “…Obsessed with me?” “Does that news please you so?” Her lips curled in a sneer. “I merely inquired,” Shen Li insisted, his voice a low hum. “None simply 'inquire.' You desired knowledge, hence you spoke.” She muttered the last part under her breath, a venomous whisper, but Shen Li pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, disregarding his presence, a trait he found common amongst this entire family. Lady Linya, Acolyte Ren, even their father – all possessed a talent for overlooking others. “Tell me, where did you vanish to after your schooling concluded?” “I… returned to my village for a time.” The news, he knew, must have traversed the breadth of the Imperial City by now. “It was not by my design that I learned,” she continued, a faint scoff in her tone. “But Ren… he threw a fit. That wretched boy, who never once sought the Divine Ancestors' favor, suddenly prayed, then raged, tearing apart the jade amulet his father bestowed upon him. He screamed, calling the Heavens a pack of useless curs.” “A jade amulet?” Shen Li asked, his brows furrowed. “Indeed, that trinket. He once treasured it, you know? Said it was a gift from their father. Then he cursed the Divine, locked himself in his chambers, and our house knew peace for a blessed time. The fool, he doesn't even comprehend who the true villain is.” Her voice, which had dripped with mockery, suddenly softened, dipping to a low, almost startled note. Likely, she had observed Shen Li’s changed expression. “What is this? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” “Do not lie. Do you genuinely harbor feelings for him? You… like him?” The question, laced with genuine disbelief, hung heavy in the air. “I said no,” Shen Li responded, his voice taut. “…By the Ancestors,” she gasped, covering her mouth with a hand, as if confronting a horrifying spectacle. “You are truly touched by madness. Truly.” Why did she persist in her accusations when he had already denied them? Irritated, Shen Li yanked the zipper of his satchel shut with a sharp *clack*, then snapped back at her. A sudden, unbidden urge to criticize her, to wound her with his own sharp words, rose within him. “Why utter such words to me? Your father once spoke to me of Acolyte Ren as his second son.” The words, pointed and loaded, hung between them. “What? What nonsense are you spouting now?” Her eyes narrowed, confusion clouding her face. A true contradiction. Shen Li understood the irony. Lord Feng, who often pricked at his nerves, had once remarked, “Shen Li, despite himself, always extends kindness.” No matter his true intentions. But now, he possessed an excuse. The mottled brown scars that spread across Acolyte Ren’s back. Just as Ren could not meet his eyes when discussing pain, Shen Li found himself unable to truly look upon those ravaged marks. “Ren,” Shen Li heard his own voice, surprisingly gentle. “Yes?” The acolyte’s hoarse reply seemed to cling to the very air. “Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?” His words, low and rough, drew closer. Shen Li pretended not to notice, yet he listened with an intensity that surprised him. “What strange utterance is that?” Shen Li questioned, trying to sound nonchalant. “I will not harbor affection for you.” In that suspended moment, Shen Li's heart plummeted. His stomach twisted, a sudden, searing pain. Something tightened, a vise clamping around his chest. The words almost escaped him, unbidden: *Why not?* The question, raw and desperate, almost spilled forth. The moment the phrase formed on his tongue, he recoiled, horrified by the naked truth of his hidden thoughts. *Shen Li, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the bitter admission. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. “Then instead, I will place my faith in you,” Ren murmured, his voice a strange blend of sorrow and joyous revelation. Like a seeker receiving a divine vision. How else could one describe his expression in that moment? Shen Li did not comprehend his words, yet he did not withdraw his hand. Did not flee. The suffocating weight upon his chest no longer merely squeezed; it stabbed, a sharp, insistent agony. “I am an unbeliever now. Honestly, you are of more tangible use to my life than any distant deity in the Heavens.” “Silence, you impious wretch.” This boy… “You blaspheme every single day.” “No, that is not true! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” Ren frantically waved his uninjured hand, as if his very existence depended on Shen Li's belief. His tone was desperate, on the verge of tears. If Shen Li did not believe him, he might genuinely weep. Caught off guard, Shen Li was rendered speechless. Then, as if making a momentous decision, Acolyte Ren slid from the cot, dropping to his knees on the cold flagstones. “Then I shall demonstrate,” he declared, his gaze fixed on Shen Li. “Hey, hey. What madness is this?” Shen Li stammered, alarmed. A large, surprisingly strong hand clasped Shen Li’s foot. Since he had been sitting with his legs drawn up onto the cot, the unexpected tug caused him to slide forward, barely maintaining his perch on the edge. His foot, dangling slightly in the air, was held firm in Ren’s grasp. Ren’s gaze then fell upon the pale, jagged scar marring the sole of Shen Li's foot, a faded memory of stepping on broken glass in his youth. His brow furrowed. And, to Shen Li’s utter disbelief, Ren’s eyes welled with moisture. Shen Li jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Ren bowed his head. “What are you—” “In the name of the Heavenly Emperor, the Divine Ancestors, and the Ever-Vigilant Spirits…” Cold fingertips brushed against Shen Li’s ankle. A sharp ache, both electric and profound, shot up his calf, coiling deep within his stomach. What lunatic ritual was this boy performing? He tried again to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him, his limbs suddenly heavy and unresponsive. Ren looked up once more, his face utterly devoid of revulsion, a strange, profound reverence in his eyes. Like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic. “I greet the Lord,” he murmured, and then pressed his lips to the very tip of Shen Li’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Shen Li’s ankle, a delicate tickle against his skin. The gentle pressure of Ren’s lips moved, tracing the base of Shen Li’s toes. “S-Stop it…” Shen Li whispered, throwing an arm over his face, hiding his confusion and shame. Ren’s right hand, the one with the gnarled fingers, tightened around Shen Li’s ankle. And in that moment—Shen Li stopped resisting. Three weak fingers, fragile yet insistent, held him captive. A delicate, almost reverent touch tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Divine Ancestors mere moments ago now traced a path upwards, along the curve of his calf. And Shen Li did nothing to halt him. That was when he understood. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of his eighteenth year—still was not over.

A Reluctant Confession