Instinct

by LShoe

Summary:

Shen Qingqiu feels the urge to hurt, and it scares him.

It was supposed to be a peaceful day.

The weather had been kind. Clear skies. Cool breeze. The disciples had all scattered after morning practice, and for once, Shen Qingqiu had not barked after them to keep training. He’d been... tired. Tired in a way he didn’t want to look too closely at.

The boy had wandered in sometime around noon. Dirt on his knees. A leaf stuck in his hair. Excited about something—some stupid story about catching a frog or climbing a tree or seeing a butterfly that landed on his arm like it was a sign from the heavens. He was always excited. Always smiling.

Always too loud.

Shen Qingqiu hadn’t even looked up from his scroll. “Go wash your hands before touching anything.”

Shen Yuan had deflated for a moment, then nodded and scurried off with his usual, “Okay, Father!”

And that should have been it. That should have been a small, ordinary moment.

But his heart hadn’t stopped racing.

He couldn’t name why the tension hit him like a blade, couldn’t explain the coil of something rising sharp and cruel inside his gut. It sat in his throat, a bitter taste, a flash of heat behind his eyes. Not at the boy. Not really.

But something in the sound of his footsteps. The echo of it. Something about the way the child’s voice had broken the quiet. That—combined with the mess on his clothes and the thought of a frog being brought into the house—had dragged something ugly to the surface. Like a reflex.

His hand had twitched.

Just for a second.

His fan snapped shut in his fingers before he even realized he’d moved. He didn’t strike with it. Of course not. He hadn’t even looked at the boy when he said the words.

But he’d heard the snap.

He’d seen the boy flinch out of the corner of his eye.

He hadn’t meant to. That was the worst part.

He hadn’t meant to do anything.

The boy had done nothing wrong.

The scroll trembled slightly in his grip. He put it down.

He could still hear the boy in the other room, humming to himself off-key. Still cheerful.

Still unharmed.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled through his nose and pressed a hand to his temple.

Why did he feel like he needed to vomit?

Shen Qingqiu didn’t leave his study.

Not even when the humming quieted. He sat in silence, the scroll still abandoned in his lap, his fan gripped too tight between his fingers.

It was a nice fan. Carved wood, pale silk, painted with a plum blossom. He’d broken one just like it last winter. A careless flick of the wrist. He didn’t remember why.

There were a lot of things he didn’t remember why for. Only that he’d felt... crowded. Or wrong. Like the air had gotten thick all of a sudden. Like something in his chest wanted to claw its way out.

And he’d taken it out on something.

The study door creaked open.

“Father?” A small voice. Quiet. Hesitant. “I washed my hands.”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t answer at first.

His eyes had gone to the doorway on instinct, flicking up too fast. He hadn’t moved, but the boy flinched anyway. He covered it with a bright smile, stepping in with both hands raised like he was proving something.

“See? Clean. I even used soap.”

Shen Qingqiu’s chest hurt.

His boy was so careful now.

“Good,” he said, voice too even. Too practiced. He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Come here.”

The boy obeyed immediately, cheerful again. That was the worst part. He didn’t even hesitate.

He was still so eager to be close.

The child sat cross-legged beside him, talking about the butterfly again. About how it had landed on his arm, and he’d stayed so still so it wouldn’t fly away. And how he thought maybe the butterfly liked him, because it had stayed longer than the others.

“It was brown and blue,” Shen Yuan said, turning toward him with wide eyes. “With little orange dots at the ends of its wings. I think maybe it was a spirit butterfly. You know, the ones that—”

Shen Qingqiu reached out to take the leaf from his hair.

And for a split second, just one shallow beat of time—

His hand trembled again.

He froze, fingers suspended an inch from the boy’s head, the ends of his sleeves shivering from how tightly his fist had curled.

He could feel it. That creeping heat beneath his skin. The muscle behind his jaw locking in place. The ugly, echoing voice that didn’t use words but still screamed in some language older than thought.

It told him to hurt.

To shut him up.

Because that’s what happens to children who don’t listen.

But the boy had listened.

He always listened.

And Shen Qingqiu hated himself so completely in that moment, it hollowed something inside him.

“Father?”

The voice was so soft.

Shen Qingqiu blinked. Realized how tight his throat was. How little air he’d taken in.

“I’m fine,” he lied hoarsely. “You were saying?”

Shen Yuan blinked at him, confused for only a second. But then he smiled again, bright as the sun, and leaned against Shen Qingqiu’s side like nothing had happened.

Like he didn’t notice his father had been one breath away from pulling his hand back like it had been burned.

Like he didn’t know what that look meant on someone else’s face.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t move.

If he did, he wasn’t sure what his hands would do.

He could still feel his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

——

The first time had been an accident.

Or so he told himself.

The second time had been easy to brush off. A flinch. A snap of his fan. A sharp word that cut too deeply for a mistake that didn’t exist.

But now... now he was counting them.

Six times.

Six times in the last month that his hands had clenched on instinct. That his breath had caught wrong. That he’d looked at his own son and had to fight himself back from doing something unforgivable.

He kept track because it scared him.

He kept track because it meant there might be a pattern.

He kept track because it was easier than admitting he already knew why.

Today, the boy had spilled his tea.

A simple mistake. Slippery fingers and an old teacup with a crack in the handle. It shattered when it hit the floor, hot liquid rushing between the floorboards.

Shen Qingqiu hadn’t spoken for several seconds.

The sound of ceramic breaking still rang in his ears, louder than it should have been. The scent of jasmine tea hit too sharp, too sweet. The boy had gone silent immediately, hands hovering above the mess like he couldn’t decide whether to clean or back away.

And Shen Qingqiu—

—twitched.

It wasn’t even dramatic. Just a flicker of motion, the faintest start of a step toward him. His wrist turned like he meant to strike. Like he was reaching for something that wasn’t even there.

He stopped himself before the motion finished.

But Shen Yuan had already scrambled back, eyes wide, mouth parted with something like confusion.

Not fear. Not yet.

But confusion.

Worse.

“I’m sorry,” Shen Yuan whispered, voice small. “I didn’t mean to.”

And that—that—was when Shen Qingqiu had to step outside.

He made up an excuse about getting a rag. But his hands were shaking when he left the room. He didn’t come back with anything.

Instead, he stood outside the door, forehead pressed to the wood, trying to remember how to breathe.

He knew what he looked like in that moment. He remembered too well.

The boy cleaned it up alone.

——

Later that evening, Shen Qingqiu found himself watching him from the other side of the room.

The child was curled up with a book in his lap, brow furrowed, lips silently moving as he sounded out the words. The fire crackled low. The room was warm.

Safe.

But his hands still wouldn’t unclench.

He sat with them buried in his robes, nails digging into his own skin until it hurt. It was the only thing that kept them still.

Seven times now.

Seven cracks in the dam.

Seven reminders that something in him was broken, and breaking more.

And his son... his son was too gentle. Too trusting. He shouldn’t be. Not with him.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t understand how he had made a child who still smiled so easily.

How someone could reach up for him without flinching.

Why the boy had never once tried to hide.

Why he’d never learned how.

Because he had.

He’d learned early. Learned the exact creak of floorboards that meant pain was coming. Learned not to talk back. Learned to swallow apologies he didn’t owe and say yes to voices that only got louder the more you obeyed.

He’d learned how to keep his head down and survive.

So why hadn’t his son learned fear?

Was he doing something right?

Or was the boy simply too young to know better?

Eight, he thought, looking down at his clenched fists.

Eight times now.

He hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved.

But the urge was there. Sitting beneath the surface. Hot and wrong and familiar.

He stood.

And this time, when the boy looked up, Shen Qingqiu didn’t lie.

“Come here.”

His voice didn’t shake.

He wished it had.

The boy blinked up at him from his seat on the floor, head tilted slightly like a curious bird. “Mm?”

“Come here,” Shen Qingqiu repeated. Quieter. Slower.

His heart was loud in his ears. His hands were still fists inside his sleeves.

Shen Yuan didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. He set his book aside and padded over, barefoot, eyes bright with that same quiet eagerness that always hurts to look at for too long.

He stopped in front of Shen Qingqiu, close enough to reach.

Close enough that it would’ve taken no effort at all.

No effort to shove. To slap. To grab a wrist too tightly or speak a word too cruelly.

Shen Qingqiu looked down at his son’s face and couldn’t breathe.

Why hadn’t he learned fear?

Why hadn’t he taught it?

Why—why—why—did he keep thinking of it as something he should’ve passed on?

“I…” he began, but the words thinned to ash. “I don’t…”

He reached out slowly. Like approaching something fragile. Or dangerous.

And maybe he was.

He touched the boy’s shoulder with trembling fingers and then sank to his knees in front of him, mouth too dry, eyes too hot. He couldn’t look away from the little hands in front of him, the ones that hadn’t learned to cover their head or brace for pain. He couldn’t stop staring at that open, thoughtless smile.

He had no right to be loved like this.

No right to be trusted.

And yet—

When he reached forward and wrapped his arms around Shen Yuan’s small body, the child immediately leaned into him with a little hum of surprise and then happiness, arms slipping easily around his neck.

Shen Qingqiu held him close.

Tighter.

Tighter than he meant to. His fingers clutched at the back of his son’s robes, twisting into the fabric, knuckles going white.

He couldn’t stop himself. He needed to feel it. The warmth. The proof that he hadn’t broken anything yet.

That he hadn’t made a mistake he couldn’t take back.

His fists clenched.

He held his son tighter still.

His shoulders trembled.

But he didn’t let go.

“Father?” His son asked, muffled against his shoulder.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t answer. He was scared if he opened his mouth, something would break. And not in himself this time.

So he said nothing.

He just buried his face in his son’s soft hair, breathed him in, and held him like an apology he didn’t know how to speak.

Shen Yuan, happy and unaware, giggled softly and hugged him tighter.

As if this was all he’d ever wanted.

As if he didn’t feel the way his father’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Notes:

I had a lot of different ideas on how this story would end. It was a big struggle to narrow it down to two ways I could end it, and even harder to decide if I wanted him to slip up and actually hurt Shen Yuan or not. Honestly, I might write that version and post it later.

I'm almost finished with the first few chapters of a series I've started writing, so hopefully I'll be able to post the first chapter soon! I'm actually really excited about it.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know if you find any mistakes!