"It does not," Shen Qingqiu insists, but he looks away from Binghe's face as he says it. They're going to be friends, apparently, and Binghe has to call him something. He'll just have to—steel himself against it. It's better than blood parasites, he tells himself. Get used to it.

"I need to," he tries, and shuffles his papers. "I should," but even if Bingge is better-disposed toward him now, he can't exactly just dismiss himself from the Emperor's presence. He just also can't just sit here, while Binghe looks at him like that. He needs time! Space! A little room to breathe!!

He likes making friends; he'd gotten along well with the other Peak Lords, once they'd gotten used to him being less severe than they expected, and in his first life he'd had a number of friends—both the other bored rich kids of his parents' friends and fellow enthusiasts he'd met at conventions. The idea of making friends with Bingge is totally surreal, especially without his usual standard friendship activities, like watching anime together or whatever, but the Mansion has fridges, and other devices—he guesses it's not impossible he could get one of the sitting rooms to cough up a Gamecube or something. He bets Bingge would kill at Smash.