The slanderous Mr. Strictly Responsible v. The Mischievous Disciple
"Are you awake?" Guan Yinheng said in a low voice.
Song Yaotian knelt on the ground, his head hung very low, not daring to look directly into Guan Yinheng's eyes, and muttered: "It's up to you, sir."
Guan Yinheng sneered and threw the folding fan at Song Yaotian's feet: "Fight yourself."
The coldness of the blue brick floor penetrated into the bones of his knees. Song Yaotian stared at the familiar Xiangfei bamboo pattern on the folding fan at his feet, his Adam's apple rolling as he swallowed a mouthful of fishy sweetness.
The halo of the glazed lamp swayed in front of his eyes, and he heard his rapid breathing mixed with the rustling of bamboo leaves outside the window.
"How many... How many shots do you want?"
Guan Yinheng picked up the tea cup, and the sound of the cup lid scraping against the porcelain rim made Song Yaotian's back tense up: "Hit him until I tell him to stop."
Song Yaotian stretched out his hands tremblingly and picked up the folding fan on the ground. The texture of Xiangfei bamboo seemed to have a burning sensation when he rubbed it in his palm.
He took a deep breath, raised his arms high, and the folding fan fell heavily on his palm with the sound of wind, and the crisp sound scared away the birds under the eaves.
The burning pain spread along the palm lines. Song Yaotian watched his left hand quickly swell with red marks, and a suppressed groan escaped from his throat.
Guan Yinheng lowered his eyes and blew away the foam in the tea soup: "Too light."
The second blow was pulled away with a sound of wind, and his knuckles hit the ridge of the fan bone. Song Yaotian bit his lower lip fiercely. The smell of blood spread in his mouth, and he suddenly remembered that during the Mid-Autumn Festival last year, when his husband used this folding fan to lift his chin and said with a smile, "You can teach me," the fan bone was still stained with the sweet scent of osmanthus honey.
