Chapter 479 Heart Beating So Fast

Chapter 479: My Heart Is Racing

Cheng Ge rewarded every servant in the Lin residence. From the gatekeeper to the cook, from the gardener to the stable hand—not a single one was left out.

The sound of copper coins scattering was a clattering din, like a downpour of copper coins.

Each person who received a reward first looked fearfully toward Lin Nanshu, and only dared to accept after receiving his silent approval.

Then they watched the drunken marquis lead their young master away into the residence.

When the last handful of coins was gone, Cheng Ge patted his now-empty sleeve and glanced back at Lin Nanshu.

His eyes were hazy, clouded with wine, and his lips curved upward: "Where's our wedding chamber?"

The corner of Lin Nanshu's mouth twitched. He simply reached out, gently took the hand Cheng Ge was using to grip the red silk, pried his fingers open, smoothed out the crumpled silk, and then took his hand properly.

"This way," he said, his voice so low only the two of them could hear.

He led Cheng Ge through a moon-shaped gate, around a rockery, and past a grove of freshly transplanted bamboo.

The night wind rustled through the bamboo leaves, making the red silk stir gently.

Cheng Ge followed behind, his steps steadier than before, but still wavering.

Like a kite on a string—the line in Lin Nanshu's hand, no matter how strong the wind, it wouldn't fly away.

Lin Nanshu stopped before a door. It was new, its lacquer still gleaming, with no couplets pasted on it—spotless and bare.

Cheng Ge had already raised his foot. The door burst open with a bang, the door panel bouncing off the wall and springing back, only to be stopped by his foot.

Cheng Ge swaggered in, dragging Lin Nanshu along, and looked around, his gaze sweeping across the room.

Then he frowned—a deep frown, deep enough to kill a fly.

"Where are the dragon-and-phoenix candles!" His voice rang out loud and clear, shattering the quiet night.

Like a groom who'd discovered no candles were lit on his wedding night—flustered and indignant, righteous in his anger. "What's going on! Go get me the dragon-and-phoenix candles!"

Lin Nanshu stood behind him, watching the back of that bristling head of his for two seconds.

Then he turned and waved toward the corridor. A young servant scurried over from the shadows, head bowed, not daring to look up.

Lin Nanshu said something in a low voice. The servant acknowledged the order and ran off, his footsteps quickly fading into the corridor.

Cheng Ge was still standing at the threshold, one hand bracing the doorframe, the other clutching the red silk, his whole body tilting to one side.

He turned back to look at Lin Nanshu, his voice still thick with wine and self-righteousness: "Without dragon-and-phoenix candles, this isn't a bridal chamber at all."

Lin Nanshu said nothing. He simply took Cheng Ge's arm and helped him down from the threshold, leading him into the room.

Cheng Ge, supported by him, stumbled over the threshold, still grumbling: "They have to be red, bright red, two of them, side by side—"

"I know," Lin Nanshu said, his voice soft but steady, like a promise made for something important.

The servant came running back, holding two red candles.

The candle bodies were red, the wicks white, wrapped in red paper stamped with golden double-happiness symbols.

Lin Nanshu took them, set them into the brass candlesticks by the window, side by side, picked up the tinderbox from the table and lit them.

The moment the flames rose, the whole room was bathed in a warm, rosy glow.

The candle flames flickered twice, then steadied, their halos rippling across the walls in circles.

Like water ripples, like a dream, like words someone had kept locked in their heart for a very, very long time.

Cheng Ge stood in the middle of the room, looking at the two red candles, watching the firelight paint Lin Nanshu's face a warm red, and suddenly grew quiet.

He stopped fussing, stopped shouting—even his breathing grew quiet.

He lowered his head, looked at the red silk in his own hand, then at the end in Lin Nanshu's.

He smiled—soft, gentle, like someone chuckling in a dream.

The room was simply furnished, neat and tidy. A writing desk sat by the window with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone neatly laid out.

A guqin sat on a wooden stand in the center of the room, its lacquered surface warm and gleaming.

The strings caught the candlelight in fine silver glints, as if freshly wiped clean.

Thin tendrils of incense smoke curled from the censer lid's gaps, spiraling in the candlelight.

Cheng Ge's gaze landed on the qin, and his feet moved toward it on their own.

He pulled Lin Nanshu along, walked around the qin stand, and sat down in front of the instrument.

The bench was narrow—a tight fit for two. His shoulder pressed against Lin Nanshu's, his arm against the other man's.

The red silk hung between them, draped over the edge of the qin stand.

Lin Nanshu didn't move, just let himself be led, sitting down beside him.

Cheng Ge's fingers fell on the strings. He plucked one—the qin let out a resonant twang, startlingly clear in the silent room.

The tail note trembled, rippling outward in waves.

He tilted his head, fingers plucking at the strings randomly—no melody, no method.

"Teach me," he said, turning to look at Lin Nanshu.

The candlelight fell into his eyes, bright as two pearls just pulled from water, glistening with moisture.

Lin Nanshu looked at him for two seconds, then reached out and covered his hand.

His hand was slightly larger than Cheng Ge's, with a thin layer of calluses.

He placed Cheng Ge's fingers one by one on the right strings, his palm against the back of Cheng Ge's hand, guiding him in a gentle pluck.

He led Cheng Ge's fingers, plucking the open strings one after another.

Zheng—zheng—

"This is the open tone," his voice was low, right by Cheng Ge's ear. "Right hand plucks the string, left hand doesn't press."

Cheng Ge hummed in acknowledgment, drunk and hazy, but listening intently.

His fingers, guided by Lin Nanshu, traveled across the strings—from the thickest to the thinnest, seven strings, seven notes, like climbing stairs, step by step upward.

At the highest point, Lin Nanshu stopped and pressed Cheng Ge's left hand down onto the qin's surface.

"This is a stopped note. Press the string with your left hand, then pluck with your right." He guided Cheng Ge's left hand along the string, then plucked it himself.

The sound changed—no longer that flat, direct twang from before, but something mellower, like someone speaking, their voice trailing off mid-sentence.

Cheng Ge's eyes lit up.

"Beautiful." He plucked again, his left hand sliding along the string in imitation.

The sound followed his fingers, rising and falling like a mountain path, winding and twisting.

He was hooked, his left hand gliding back and forth across the strings, the notes rising and falling with it, like someone laughing so hard they doubled over.

Lin Nanshu didn't stop him. He simply pulled his hand back and rested it on his knee, watching quietly.

Cheng Ge played for a while, then paused, turning his head to look at Lin Nanshu.

The candlelight fell across his face, laying his drunkenness bare—

eyes half-closed, lips curled up, two rosy patches on his cheeks, as if someone had smeared rouge on them.

He met Lin Nanshu's eyes for a few seconds, then suddenly smiled. His hand moved from the strings, settling on the hilt of the sword at Lin Nanshu's waist.

His fingers slid down the hilt, tracing the faint engravings on the scabbard. "Let me borrow this."

The blade was modest in length—light and elegant; the scabbard plain black and unadorned, like its owner—quiet and reserved.

Cheng Ge drew the sword, staggering to his feet. The red silk slipped from his hand and pooled on the floor.

Sword in hand, he stepped back two paces, standing in the pool of candlelight in the middle of the room.

His shadow stretched long across the opposite wall, his bamboo-green robe glowing warmly in the candlelight.

A few strands of hair fell loose against his cheeks, his whole body swaying like a willow in the wind.

"Zheng—" Lin Nanshu's qin sounded.

Not the open-string notes from earlier, but a cascade of harmonics, like flowing water, falling from above and spiraling through the air.

Cheng Ge's fingers tightened around the hilt. The blade cleared the scabbard in a flash of silver. The candle flame flickered, splitting his shadow in two.

He was unsteady on his feet, but his grip on the sword stayed firm. His wrist twisted, the tip tracing a circle in the candlelight, the silver following his motion like a moon cupped in someone's hand.

Lin Nanshu's qin slowed.

One note at a time—like footsteps, like a heartbeat, like someone walking through snow, each step sinking deep and leaving a clear imprint.

Cheng Ge moved with that rhythm. His steps were unsteady, swaying side to side, but the sword never left his hand, nor his hand the sword.

The tip rose and fell—sometimes sweeping above his head, with candlelight gliding off the blade.

Sometimes it skimmed the ground, stirring a breeze that lifted the red silk, sending it floating before it settled again.

Lin Nanshu's qin suddenly quickened. Cheng Ge's sword followed, his wrist flicking, layers of blade-shadows piling up.

The hem of his robe caught the wind, tangling with the red silk before separating.

His hair came loose, swaying at his shoulders, swept across his cheek by the blade's breeze.

The qin slowed again, and Cheng Ge's sword slowed with it, the tip tracing circles in midair—one, then another, each one smaller and slower than the last.

Like someone carefully gathering something, afraid that rushing would break it.

On the final note, the sword tip froze midair—and Cheng Ge froze with it.

He stood there, sword in hand, breathing hard. The candle flame danced behind him, tracing a golden outline around his figure.

His face was flushed red from the wine and the swordplay, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

He looked at Lin Nanshu, and Lin Nanshu looked back. The qin had fallen silent, but the strings still trembled, their resonance humming in the air.

Cheng Ge smiled. He drew the sword back, tip pointing down, planting it on the floor to steady his swaying body.

He took a step forward, and the sword slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground.

He didn't pick it up, just staggered toward Lin Nanshu.

Three steps forward, two wobbles, the red silk catching at his feet—but he didn't stop. When he reached the qin table, his legs gave out and he pitched forward.

Lin Nanshu caught him. The strings hummed as Cheng Ge's robe brushed against them.

Cheng Ge lay across Lin Nanshu's knees, hair spilling over them—black as spilled ink, spreading across Lin Nanshu's plain robes.

His fingers curled against Lin Nanshu's knee, slightly reddened, faint marks from gripping the sword still on his knuckles—shallow, like the imprint of a fingernail.

Lin Nanshu looked down at him. His hand settled on the loose hair, fingers combing through gently—from forehead to crown, from crown to shoulder.

Cheng Ge's hair was soft, like water, slipping through his fingers and settling back. He combed slowly, once, twice, again.

Cheng Ge nuzzled against his knee, eyes fluttering open—hazy and unfocused.

He looked at Lin Nanshu for a few seconds, then pushed himself up using Lin Nanshu's knees as support.

Halfway up, he swayed. Lin Nanshu reached out to steady his arm, and Cheng Ge turned to settle face-to-face on his lap.

The bench was narrow, already cramped with two people; with this turn, he pressed flush against Lin Nanshu.

His knees braced against Lin Nanshu's waist, chest against chest, his breath falling on Lin Nanshu's chin—carrying the scent of wine and osmanthus cake.

His fingers moved from Lin Nanshu's knee to the collar of his robe.

"Time for the wedding night," he said, his voice soft, as if stating something completely matter-of-fact.

His fingers began working on Lin Nanshu's sash. Slowly—so slowly, like unwrapping a gift, afraid that rushing would damage it.

He fumbled for a long while, the sash slipping through his fingers twice without coming loose.

He frowned, tried again, and failed again. His fingertips slipped off the sash, brushing against Lin Nanshu's collarbone.

Lin Nanshu caught his hand.

Cheng Ge looked up at him. The candlelight fell between them, throwing Lin Nanshu's features into sharp relief.

"You're drunk, Cheng Ge," Lin Nanshu said, his voice low—so low that only the two of them could hear.

Cheng Ge shook his head—two shakes, then three wobbles. "I'm not drunk,"

his voice slurred, with a petulant, nasal tone, "you can't be drunk on your wedding night. I'm not drunk."

He went for the sash again. This time, it came loose. The sash slipped from his waist, falling to rest at the edge of the bench.

His fingers moved to the lapels, peeling back the layers of his crossed collar one by one.

First the outer layer, then the middle, then the inner—each one unfolded slowly.

With great care, like unfolding the petals of a layered flower, until the innermost layer revealed the color hidden underneath.

He paused, glanced down at his own bamboo-green robe, then looked at the moon-white garment on Lin Nanshu.

His brow furrowed again, deeply, as if pondering something of great importance.

"We don't have red clothes," he said, his voice carrying a little whine, like a child discovering that the new clothes for Chinese New Year aren't red this year. "For the wedding night, we're supposed to wear red."

Lin Nanshu watched him. The candlelight flickered across his face, his mouth turned down at the corners like a green plum soaked in wine—both sour and sweet.

"It doesn't matter," Lin Nanshu said. His hand moved from Cheng Ge's wrist to his waist, gently steadying him, worried he might slide off his lap.

His voice was so low it felt like a secret. "We don't need red for the wedding night."

Cheng Ge looked at him, eyes narrowing as if trying to tell whether he was just trying to comfort him.

After a few seconds, he smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting and his eyes curving into two crescent moons. "Then you look good in anything," he said, his voice soft as if speaking in a dream. "Even in nothing."

His fingers went back to the lapels, peeling them open layer by layer.

Like someone who had finally found the trick, he slid the overlapping collar edges from his neckline to his shoulders, one layer at a time.

"Yuli," he said, calling him by name, his voice as light as a whisper in sleep. "Your heart is beating so fast."

"Every little bit of support keeps the love going."