Chapter 7 Keep It

Chapter 7: I'll Keep Him

They had reached the master bedroom door when Shen Shiyan, carrying Shen Ci, suddenly stopped.

After a moment's thought, he turned and headed towards Shen Ci's small room.

This was the first time Shen Shiyan had entered since they moved to the side courtyard. He turned on the light and placed Shen Ci on the bed. The ends of Shen Ci's hair clung to Shen Shiyan's clothes, and when they separated, it crackled with static. The room, unexpectedly neat and clean, seemed to have been tidied by Shen Ci himself. The few outfits prepared by the maid were neatly folded and put away in the small open wardrobe. On the bedside table sat a cup, somewhat old, with a cartoon pattern.

Shen Shiyan smoothed his hair and asked, "Why didn't you say anything while writing? Did it hurt a lot?"

Shen Ci's eyes were half-closed, waves of nausea churning in his stomach. He forced the sick feeling down, his voice weak. "It hurt a lot, daddy."

The child's words trailed off with a slight drawl, a little tail of grievance and coquetry that wormed its way into Shen Shiyan's ears.

"Hmm." He acknowledged stiffly, then left the room to look for medicine, though he didn't hold out much hope.

The side wing had been hastily fixed up for someone to live in; even some small appliances were missing, let alone common medicines. The maid was already resting. Shen Shiyan rummaged through the drawers and cabinets but found nothing.

He sighed, returned to the room to fetch Shen Ci's cup, filled it with hot water, and went back.

Shen Ci cherished this little yellow bear ceramic cup. But if he knew it was a cup Shen Rong had left behind when he was little, running around while the maid followed him feeding him water, and she had forgotten to take it with her, he would have smashed it to pieces immediately.

The walls of the cup were thick. Shen Ci held the bottom, not feeling much heat. He lowered his head to drink. The steam wafted up to his somewhat wan little face. His lip stung from the scalding water, making him jolt and spill some more. A small patch on his hand instantly turned red.

Shen Shiyan immediately took the cup and placed it on the bedside table. He pulled out a tissue to wipe the water from Shen Ci's hand, his brow tightly furrowed.

"Sorry, daddy."

Shen Ci lowered his head. The discomfort made him uncharacteristically a little sad.

He looked at the two small wet circles on the quilt, then felt the bed dip slightly. A gentle, cool breath brushed against his hand.

Slowly looking up, he saw Shen Shiyan somewhat awkwardly avert his gaze. He then blew gently into the cup. The water inside, like a tiny, tiny lake, rippled in circles.

When he thought it was cool enough, Shen Shiyan brought the cup to Shen Ci's lips, his brow still furrowed.

Shen Ci carefully took a couple of sips from Shen Shiyan's hand. The warm current flowed from his tongue tip down his esophagus, finally bringing a comforting warmth to his stomach, easing the discomfort a little.

In all honesty, this was Shen Shiyan's first time taking care of someone else. He himself had never been properly, attentively cared for. When he caught a cold, got sick, or even ran a fever over 39 degrees Celsius, Shen Sinian would just give him some money and tell him to go to a small clinic for an IV drip.

Perhaps precisely because he had never received such care, he could now muster a bit of patience to look after Shen Ci.

The boy propped against the upholstered headboard had his left cheek bathed in the warm yellow light of the bedside lamp. His long hair looked exceptionally silky. The tip of his nose, brushing against the cup rim, flushed slightly red.

Looking at him, Shen Shiyan always thought of himself.

"Feeling better?"

"A little better. It still hurts a bit, but I can manage on my own. Daddy, you should go back to sleep. It's very late."

Shen Ci's hand still rested on his stomach, pressing gently. He curved his eyes into a smile as he looked at Shen Shiyan.

Shen Shiyan didn't move, as if confirming whether Shen Ci was truly feeling better, or as if peering through Shen Ci's eyes to see if there was any performance in his words, if he was playing pitiful and acting obedient in front of him to gain a little sympathy.

Probably, the "daddy" Shen Ci had been calling these past few days had instilled a sense of responsibility in Shen Shiyan. His chest rose and fell, and he let out an almost inaudible sigh, placing the ceramic cup back on the bedside table.

"Lie down and close your eyes." There was no extra comfort or concern. Shen Ci felt a twinge of disappointment, but it was quickly replaced by a habitual sense of normalcy. He *had* been trying to appear pitiful, hoping Shen Shiyan would feel sorry for him, so he could monopolize a whole night's worth of care and affection.

The light went out. The last bit of hazy brightness vanished from behind Shen Ci's closed eyelids. It's okay, he thought. After all, he had already given a lot of care. His nominal daddy was just a boy seven years older than him anyway—

Those chaotic thoughts scurried through his mind, only to disappear without a trace the moment Shen Shiyan tucked the quilt around him. A moment later, he felt a warm hand slip in from the edge of the covers. It gently took his hand, placed it properly by his side, then replaced his own hand that had been pressing on his stomach. It began to rub in slow, gentle clockwise circles.

Shen Ci actually often had stomachaches, especially during his time wandering. Young children were fragile to begin with. He often ate stale, dirty hard buns in the cold wind, or half-opened, long-expired snacks he found. Those things that had once filled his belly, treasures to him that drove away hunger, had also gnawed his delicate stomach full of holes.

There were two winters when he nearly froze to death on the streets. In his dazed, half-asleep state, a hand tirelessly soothed his discomfort.

He felt like he was back in winter again. He felt like he was cold snow, sullied with dust in the depths of winter, being cupped by a hand, slowly melting into a puddle of clear snowmelt in the spring breeze.

Shen Shiyan's wrist grew slightly sore. He kept rubbing until Shen Ci fell into a peaceful sleep. Then he withdrew his hand, smoothed down the quilt that had puffed up a little, looked at the sleeping Shen Ci for a while, and quietly closed the door behind him.

He didn't return to his own bedroom but went back to the study and pulled open the drawer.

The scene of Shen Ci writing in the evening resurfaced. Shen Shiyan looked at his own name, written so clumsily on the draft paper, lost in thought.

How many years could he be Shen Ci's father? He didn't know. But at least until Shen Wenzhou completely passed away and a new head of the Shen family took over.

A few more years, probably.

Shen Shiyan pulled out the top sheet of paper, took a pen from the pen holder, and covered Shen Ci's handwriting with his own. He also wrote two names: one was his own, the other was Shen Ci's.

His eyes flickered with shifting light. After a long while, he let out a soft, almost eerie chuckle in the darkness.

He tossed the pen back, stuffed that sheet of draft paper with his writing to the very bottom—as if he had never been there—turned off the light, and went to rest.

I'll keep him—Shen Shiyan thought as he lay on his side before sleep, then thought of Shen Ci's hair, soft but yellowish at the ends, his slender limbs, skin and bones, clearly malnourished.

He slowly closed his eyes. The image of the young Shen Shiyan, kneeling on the ground with knees red, swollen, and bruised, mouth bleeding from Shen Sinian's belt, flashed through the darkness.

I'll keep him. Consider it raising a younger version of myself all over again.