Su Jining (BL) · Conversa

On the day you rode back into the capital, the Emperor personally granted your marriage in the golden palace, to be held in a month's time. You had never heard the name Su Jining before. You only knew he was a son of the Su family, raised in the seclusion of their inner chambers, of equal status and similar age to you, so the matter was settled in a bit of a muddle. You didn't care; when the other soldiers expressed their joy for you, you simply smiled, accepting the match. However, your servant said that the Su residence seemed less than pleased. "It’s said that Master Su let it be known that you, General, are ill-tempered and by no means a good match." The servant lowered his voice, his face full of indignation. "I don't know which gossip-monger is spreading this; they haven't even seen the General's face, yet they make up such stories!" You only gave a short laugh, not taking it to heart. Until the day of the meeting. You arrived a bit earlier than the appointed time and leaned lazily on the swing in the garden. Several old peach trees were planted there, currently in full bloom; a gust of wind would shower your shoulders with pink and white petals. You swayed back and forth aimlessly, the simple silver lotus-patterned locket around your neck swaying slightly in the light and shadow, glinting with a cold silver light. You thought that if the person were unwilling, you would certainly not make it difficult; you would simply break the engagement. Then you heard footsteps. You looked up. The newcomer was bundled in a set of bulky, thick clothes, looking as if they had been dug out from some old pile of rags—drab and grey, managing to pad a slender frame into a round, rolling mass. His face was also painted in dull, mottled colors, and he stood there awkwardly, looking exactly like a little actor deliberately playing an ugly role. You saw through all of this at a glance. But before you could speak, you saw his footsteps falter. Those eyes, hidden beneath the crude makeup, stared straight at you. Then, his whole body seemed as if it had been tripped by the roots of the peach trees, frozen in place, motionless. You saw his eyelashes tremble once, then again. He seemed to have forgotten to breathe. The garden was very quiet, with only the sound of petals hitting the ground—thin and soft. Yet his heart was beating like a drum; even through those bulky layers of clothing, you could almost see his chest rising and falling slightly. He had thought his heart was a block of ice frozen for a long time—hard, cold, and unheatable by anyone. But as you sat there on the swing, with peach blossoms falling all over your forehead and hair, and as you curled your lips into a smile—he suddenly felt that block of ice crack from within. Something warm surged out, flowing everywhere, beyond his power to pull back. The way he looked at you changed. From the initial deliberate provocation, unease, and calculation, it turned into something you were very familiar with yet found strange—if you called it soft, it was also panicked; if you called it panicked, it was also joyful. He looked as if he had been struck by something, standing there, not knowing where to put his hands or where to look, yet unable to bear not looking at you. The tips of his ears, beneath that dull makeup, were quietly burning. You watching him like this, finding it a bit amusing, and thought this person was much more interesting than the rumors suggested. You tapped your toes on the ground to stop the swing, leaned against the rope, and as the lotus-patterned locket swayed, you spoke. Your voice wasn't loud, but it was clear and refreshing, like spring water in a mountain stream, falling drop by drop, neither too light nor too heavy, onto his eardrums. "If you are unwilling, you may simply tell the truth. There is no need to make yourself look so unsightly." He stiffened all over. Not because his trick had been exposed—but because your voice was too pleasant to hear. So pleasant that his newly cracked heart sank a bit further, down to a place even he couldn't find. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but the words in his mind were like peach petals scattered by the wind—drifting everywhere, unable to gather into a single sentence. Only one thought remained, turning over and over: How can he look like this? How can he look like this! All the speeches, calculations, and scripts for filing a complaint he had prepared beforehand shattered into dust at this moment. He even forgot how ridiculous he looked, feeling only that standing before someone like you, he was the greatest fool in the world. "Tomorrow—" He heard his own voice, trembling like a peach branch in the wind, but he gritted his teeth to steady it. "Tomorrow, let us meet again." Without waiting for your response, he turned and left. The bulky clothes made his departing figure look a bit clumsy; he nearly tripped in his haste, but he forced himself not to look back. He couldn't look back; he was afraid that if he did, he wouldn't be able to take another step. The wind blew the hem of his clothes—drab and grey, like a clumsy butterfly. After walking a few steps and making sure you couldn't hear him, he suddenly covered his face. His palms were frighteningly hot. He closed his eyes, and all he could see was you sitting on the swing—the peach blossoms on your brow, your slightly curved lips, and that swaying lotus locket. He suddenly felt the road home was too long—so long that he had a stomach full of words to say but no one to listen, so he could only mutter to himself in a low, hurried, and fragmented voice, as if trying to suppress his heartbeat: "Next time... next time I must dress like the most tender leaf blooming under the peach blossoms..." He then suddenly remembered something, gritted his teeth, his voice carrying a mix of annoyance and shame: "I'll tear that servant's mouth out when I get back! Who told him to describe the man like that? Saying he's ill-tempered and unreliable—"