Chapter Text
Crown Prince Helian Yi, Golden Dragon of Jin, stands on the balcony overlooking the bustling central courtyard of his palace. It is the Crown Prince’s decade party and everyone who is anyone in Jin is here. Holding the second most coveted seat of power in the land for a full decade is almost unheard of, a feat of cunning and valour well worth celebrating—Helian Yi’s words. Zishu would sooner run himself through with Baiyi than celebrate the bloody road that brought brought them here, but he is not given a choice. He never is.
Still, he joins his prince on the balcony as he is bidden, accepts his prince’s warm smile with an elegant bow and lowered eyes. Helian Yi touches the top of his head fondly, a master to a beloved pet. Zishu represses a shudder. Even after all this time, it still feels unnatural to bend himself into the shape of submission for this man. It is not in his nature to bend to anyone, let alone a dominant as needy and praise-seeking as his cousin. If he were not a prince, this man would attract only the most biddable of submissives. If he were not family, Zishu would have escaped his clutches long ago.
“Look, Zishu,” he says, guiding Zishu out of his bow with gentle hands. He touches his chin and directs his gaze to the glittering throng of party goers. “Look what we have accomplished. The most powerful figures in the nation come to pay tribute to me, like falcons to their master’s hand. Truly remarkable.”
He looks like he can’t quite believe his luck. As the fourth born dominant of his lord father, Emperor Qing of Jin, Helian Yi was never favoured as heir. Not until his elder siblings’ backers began dying at critical junctures and their power waned, not until the fourth prince’s star began to rise—not until Zishu. The Crown Prince of Jin is not the true falconer, after all.
“Truly,” Zishu agrees. “You should be proud, Your Highness.”
“Call me cousin,” Helian Yi admonishes. “Are we not family, Zishu?”
Zishu arranges his face into a facsimile of warmth and inclines his head, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. Helian Yi clasps his shoulder, looking pleased, and Zishu feels the lump grow.
Soon, he thinks, it will have to be soon.
Below them, lords and ladies of the inner circle mingle freely in a courtyard lit by stings of paper lanterns. Elegantly robed submissives, dripping with jewels, silks, and all manner of adornments, hang from the arms of the kingdom’s most wealthy and powerful; pretty little stones in a weiqi game they have never been granted the privilege of glimpsing. Lord Deng of Qiling—a stalwart of the Emperor’s court, one of the few who has the old dragon’s ear—escorts a young submissive half his daughter’s age. The young man looks happy to be pawed at like a piece of meat, but Zishu knows better. That young man is Dong Ying, former heir to the richest noble family in Qiling. Former heir because Lord Deng conquered their home, stole their lands and scalped his parents living when he was just a baby. Servants loyal to his late parents saved him and raised him as their own. All these years he’s been biding his time, waiting until Lord Deng lets his guard down and finally marries him. Only then will he strike and take back what was stolen.
Zishu has been watching this little revenge drama play out for months without inference. Officially, because having a submissive as the new Lord of Qiling increases the chances of securing the allegiance of a powerful faction when Helian Yi makes his play for the throne. Unoffically, Zishu quite likes the thought of that lecherous old goat biting it at the hands of his plaything.
He surveys the sea of strutting dominants and their pretty, collared pets. It’s an act: every puffed out chest, every lowered head. Biology may govern a person’s psychological needs, but it doesn’t dictate their personality beyond that. Submissives need to surrender control, and dominants crave that surrender like air. Both dynamics experience debilitating mental, emotional and physical symptoms if they don’t cater to these needs, the same way your lungs burn if you refuse to take a breath. But these are simply the demands of the body, not the indicators of strength, worth and social position that people make them out to be.
Just because a dominant needs someone to master, doesn’t mean they must pantomime mastery in all things. Just because a submissive needs to surrender control to another, doesn’t mean they must always be controlled. Not that the lords and ladies of Jin understand this distinction. To them, this neverending power play is normal.
“You should join the party,” Zishu tells his cousin.
“And leave you here, all alone in your shadows?”
“I like my shadows.”
“I know. That’s what worries me.”
For ten years Zhou Zishu has lived in the shadows, doing his prince’s bidding, securing his power and legacy by whatever means necessary. He has done things that would shame his master to an early grave if illness had not already put him there. For Helian Yi to speak as though Zishu’s place in the shadows is one made for himself kindles a familiar fire in his belly; as though Helian Yi has not pushed him every step of the way, as though he has not pleaded, cajoled and begged Zishu to wade ever deeper into the black for the sake of his reckless ambition. To think, he’d believed in this man once.
“No need for worry,” Zishu says, instead of fuck you. “I will be here.”
Watching. Waiting. Longing to be free.
“You will, won’t you?” Helian Yi sounds pleased. He looks as though he wants to touch Zishu. He has looked like that for some time. It never fails to churn his stomach. “You’ll always be here for me. My Zishu.”
There’s no rule against two dominants fucking, but the way his cousin looks at him…he doesn’t want Zishu like that. Or, at least, not only like that. If Helian Yi wanted his body, he would have taken Zishu to bed long ago. He is his prince’s servant in all things, after all. It would merely be another mission. No. He suspects what Helian Yi wants is far more complicated than that.
I won’t, he thinks, even as he says, “Of course, Your Highness.”
Soon, Zishu will be gone. Soon, he will be but a memory. A footprint in snow, gone with the fresh fall.
Beyond the palace, the desolate frosted planes of Jin seem to extend to the ends of the earth. But there’s more out there, Zishu knows. Much more. He intends to see it all.
Soon, he thinks.
By the time Wen Kexing slips through the window of Windsong Manor, he’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter. Aunt Luo catches his arms when he stumbles over the landing and guides him to sit on the bed. She hisses when she notices his sweaty skin and glazed eyes, the blood streaking robes, a few shades darker than the crimson silk. Her gold nails bite his skin. It is, frustratingly, not enough.
“What have you done?” She snaps.
He almost laughs. What hasn’t he done? He is the master of Ghost Valley, lord of all evil ghosts. Perversion is his nature.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” His voice emerges gravelly and strangely melodic. He sounds drunk, like he’s been smoking, though he hasn’t touched a drop or inhaled anything more damning than the damp valley air.
“Nothing,” she repeats bitterly. “Tell me more lies, Wen Kexing, and see what happens.”
He snatches his wrists from her grip, sneering. “I don’t answer to you and I won’t be lectured. I’m not eight years old anymore, Auntie.”
“You think your age matters? It doesn’t matter if you’re eight or eighty, I’ll still put you over my knee whenever I please, you little monster.” She tries to twist his ear, but he ducks backwards, out of reach. She goes for his undefended torso, pushing him flat on his back and flipping him onto his belly in one quick move. Usually, he’d counter her easily, but he’s sluggish tonight, stars in his vision, breathing heavy.
“Aunt Luo!”
He kicks backwards. She catches his foot and squeezes his ankle gently before laying it back down on the bed. She stands over him and doesn’t touch him, though he feels her presence like a weighted robe. He lays there and squirms.
Get up, he orders himself, now!
His body doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch, just stays where his mast—Aunt Luo put him.
His cheeks burn. He buries his face his face in her sheets, mutters, “I don’t need you.”
“Then why are you here?”
When he remains stubbornly silent, she sighs. A moment later, the bed depresses. Her robes brush his clenched fist. He hears the soft plink of metal before her declawed hand is carding through his hair, scratching his scalp. He releases a long, involuntary sigh. When she gently turns him on his side and guides his head into her lap, he goes without complaint. Each pass of her hand purges tension from his body until he’s more noodle than man, until only the tangled knot in his chest remains.
“Please don’t make me talk about it,” he whispers, just shy of begging.
“A-Xing,” she chides.
“I can’t, Auntie.”
She pushes his fringe back and kisses his temple. “You can, baby. I know you can.”
He shakes his head again, mutinous.
“Won’t you try?”
Another shake.
“Don’t you want to be a good boy for me?”
A whine rips out of him. He clutches her robes.
She strokes his temple, humming, indulgent.
“Tell me what happened, baby.”
She cups the back of his neck and squeezes softly. He goes limp.
“‘ill’d ‘im,” Kexing mumbles into her thigh.
“What was that, baby?”
He shakes his head again. She waits him out.
“I killed him, Auntie. Terror Ghost, the last of the old chief’s hit squad. They’re all dead now.” He giggles, half mad. “All of them…all but you.”
She’s quiet for a long time. Then she asks, quietly, “Do you want to kill me, A-Xing?”
He used to dream about it, the same way he would dream about all their deaths. Whenever he pictured her, she was always drowning in a deep pool of Meng Po soup, silently begging to be put out of her misery; he would oblige with a trident in the back, watch as blood burbled from her lips and she died, choking.
“For a little while.”
She strokes his hair. “Do you still?”
The knot in his chest tightens. “I should. You helped kill them.”
“Yes,” she admits. “It haunts me every day, and it will follow me for the rest of this life and beyond. I wish I could have done more for your parents. I wish I could have protected them.”
His nails gouge her thigh, but she doesn’t even flinch.
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
Instead of pressing like he expects, she cups his cheek and turns his face toward her. She stares at him for a long moment, assessing, before visibly softening. Such a strange thing to see: stone softening.
“Would you like to kneel?”
Relief rushes through him, so strong it makes him sag. He nods. Tears spring to his eyes, though he’s not entirely sure why. He wants to crawl out of his skin to escape himself. He wants to disappear.
“Good,” she says.
Aunt Luo settles into her favourite reading chair and places a square pillow by her feet. She puts him on his knees and arranges him so he’s facing toward her, head resting on her thigh, hands folded in his lap. She has a book in one hand and uses the other to stroke his hair and spine. After a while, his eyes flutter closed and he begins to float, somewhere between sleeping and waking. The giant knot in his chest loosens with every slow breath and his entire body melts like butter. By the time Aunt Luo summons him back to earth, the blood on his robes is stiff and crusty. She’s finished her book.
He feels calm, steady—ready.
“Done?” She asks.
“Yes,” he says firmly. His voice is clear and strong.
She nods, pleased. “You have a job for me, then.”
Clever, his auntie. Always so clever.
“Summon your girls. I need to teach them a song.”
She frowns. “A song? Why”
“More of a nursery rhyme,” he amends, standing and smoothing his robes. He looks down at her. “As for why…what do you know of the glazed armour?”
Every step jostles the seven little agonies buried in his chest, and yet Zhou Zishu feels like the luckiest man in the world. When you’ve lived as a beaten dog for long enough, even the life of a sickly beggar feels like the height of indolent luxury.
The bridge he’s chosen to sun himself beside is warm and comfortable enough to while away an afternoon. The verdant scent of Mirror Lake is accompanied by the steam of roasted pork from the nearby restaurant, and the chatter of the bustling crowd is pleasant rather than distracting. The south is far warmer than the north, a trait apparently shared by its people. The people of Yue are joyful and generally well mannered, except for those few who are precisely the opposite, and they generally give up making nuisances of themselves when he doesn’t fight back.
“Look at that funny beggar, Master. What’s he doing sitting there without a cup? Doesn’t he want money?”
At his level of martial skill, it becomes necessary to tune out ninety percent of what you hear unless you find the gossip of bored housewives two streets away particularly scintillating, but something about this girl’s voice catches his attention. For a moment he’s confused. The voice is high, girlish, curious in the way of small children and childish teenagers; nothing that would typically sharpen his ears—then he hears him.
“He’s enjoying the sunshine, A-Xiang.”
Rich, lush, a purr in every syllable. Gorgeous voice.
Zishu squints over at the balcony. His eyes widen.
Gorgeous man. Without his permission, his eyes scan that long, lithe figure from top to bottom. Even sitting, Zishu knows this man will be tall—taller than him, and Zishu is by no means short. Beneath his robes, he will be strong: back and shoulders broad, narrow waist, long legs. The kind of beautiful that could be sculpted from marble, softened by creamy silks and sunlight.
The man’s head turns and they lock gazes. His eyes are so dark they appear black, the kind of dark that swallows light and shines like obsidian in the moonlight. His skin is pale and flawless. Every plane of his face is generously apportioned: full cheeks, plush lips, a narrow nose and elegant jaw. It’s a sweet face, a vulnerable face, the kind of face suited to raptures of pleasure and fits of begging.
This one would bend so beautifully, Zishu thinks.
For the first time in years—the first time ever, if he’s honest—Zishu is bowled over by the urge to reach out and take. He swallows roughly and reigns himself in. The death sentence nailed into his chest leaves no space for such pleasures, even if he was inclined to partake.
The man raises a snow white fan and peers over the top. He can’t read the look in his eyes, a rare enough occurrence that Zishu feels doubly compelled to unravel him.
Suddenly, there’s a little lordling tossing him coins that Zishu is obligated to brush aside. Honour will not allow him to take money he does not need, and sense warns him not to pluck from the pockets of those who hold no allegiance to him or his.
The girl kicks off the balcony and floats to his side in a display of qigong more masterful than most martial artists twice her age. Though she called the man in white her master, she is clearly no mere maid. A bodyguard, perhaps? She’s a bit young for it, but her master is a beauty. Zishu is not blind to the many eyes that have turned in the man’s direction since Zishu first took notice of him, some more covetous than others. Clandestine protection, a hidden dagger, may be of more use to him than the typical hired thug. It’s the unfortunate reality of hired protection that the majority are dominants of the worst breed—raping, murdering, backstabbing cunts with no loyalty and rarely a scruple to be found. Zishu would sooner trust a sow to guard the vegetable garden.
The girl offers him wine, which he accepts with glee that is only partially feigned. This, he has no issue taking. He only begins to regret it when she’s striking at him with that vicious whip and he’s forced to use the swift moving steps to escape her. The chances that a Window of Heaven agent is secreted in this little corner of jianghu is minimal, but it’s not zero. He puts his worry aside and prepares to engage the girl properly, finish this quickly, when there’s a blur in his peripheral vision and the man in white is suddenly beside Zishu, catching the whip before it can strike him.
The rope smacks his palm with a muted thwack that Zishu feels in his groin. His breath catches at the way the man’s face doesn’t so much as twitch, though he knows the blow must have hurt. Moments ago, that whip carved through a peddler’s grain cart like it was empty air. To take the force of such a blow on a bare palm and not bleed or even redden the skin…
This is not a man who needs guarding, Zishu thinks, followed closely by, very long legs.
The man bows and apologises for his maid. Zhou Zishu assures him the apology is unnecessary—or, more accurately, Zishu the stammering, idiot beggar does. Despite the masterful quality of the disguise, Zishu’s act feels thin as tissue paper, a feeling cemented by the incisive way the man is looking at him—looking through him.
Zishu’s skin prickles. The monster inside his skin sits up and takes notice.
Whoever this man is—and Zishu has no doubt he’s someone formidable—he’s like no one he’s ever seen before.
Then the man tilts his head, tilts those plush lips into a coy smile, and Zishu feels a hot flush crawl over his skin and sweat prickle his forehead.
Zishu hurries away as soon as he’s able, heart pounding. He’s not sure what’s happening, exactly, or why it’s happening. He feels like a boy with his first crush, or what he assumes that might feel like, anyway. Zishu never had a first crush and he was never really a boy.
That’s not quite true, is it?
A memory surfaces. Large, shining eyes and a small, trembling body he wished to fold into his arms and keep forever.
He huffs at himself. It’s been years since he thought of that day; the day he met his shidi for the first time, the day he lost him. Zhen Yan may have been the first shidi who died because of Zishu’s negligence, but he was not the last, not by a long shot.
If he closes his eyes, he can still see that boy’s dimpled, smiling face; he can still feel the way he folded so perfectly into his arms, tucked beneath his chin like a secret. Zhen Yan was always trembling, full of restless energy that even fleeing across the country had barely put a dent in. Even in the midst of their fear and despair, it had driven his parents to distraction. But all it took was Zhou Zishu pulling him into his arms or lap for all that jittery energy to drain out of him, to have him sighing and swaying, sleepy-eyed, deeper into Zishu’s arms.
The first time Gu Miaomiao saw it happen, she clapped her hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes. Suddenly self-conscious, Zishu had tried to pull away, despite Zhen Yan’s whining and clutching at his robes, but Gu Miaomiao was quick to assure them it was fine. She had a hushed conversation with her husband, Zhen Ruyu, and his master, Qin Huaizhang, that had their eyebrows climbing their foreheads. They said no more about it, but Zishu caught his master looking at him afterward, soft and proud and infinitely fond. At the time, Zishu had only been pleased that no one was angry at him and he could continue helping his friend. He didn’t understand what they’d done or the implications of it.
He understands now, of course. Understanding doesn’t make it easier.
It’s probably for the best that he met his fated match and lost him young. Even if Zhen Yan were alive today, the son of two legendary healers would hardly want anything to do with the monster Zishu has become. Even if he did, the kindest thing he could do for his match would be to send him away while he still lived. With Bi-shu insensate, practically dead, Zishu is the last living member of Four Seasons Manor and the last one who deserves be living, given his wealth of sins. No, if Zhen Yan were alive today…Zishu would not even be worthy of looking that boy in the eye.
Lost in thoughts too maudlin for such fine wine, Zishu accepts the Mirror Lake boy’s token despite the churning in his gut. This boy, too, is better off without Zishu. That won’t stop him from touring Mirror Lake and taking advantage of the Zhangs’ hospitality—and their wine cellar. Zishu never claimed to be a good person, after all.
He encounters the man in white and his maid by the river bank. He considers taking the man up on his offer of passage before catching sight of a quicksilver smirk and deciding he’s better off staying as far away from temptation as possible. Luckily, the ornery old boatman has a change of heart when he feels cheated, so Zishu is soon watching a tall figure in white and a shorter one in purple fade into the distance.
After Zishu stiffs the boatman and laughs himself sick over it, he takes a stroll through the apricot blossoms. If he were to die here, it would be worth it, he decides. It might even be nice to end it now. Here, among the blossoms, it is peaceful. He has good wine, an excellent view. What else is there to see and do that he has not already done in his year of drinking his way across jianghu? For one such as himself, to die peacefully among the blossoms would be more than he deserves.
A fan arcs toward his head. Zishu folds backwards and watches it pass overhead. He shifts out of the path of a thrust palm and parries with one of his own. They exchange moves—three, seven, twelve; within the swish of a horse’s tail—Zishu’s breath quickens with more than simple exertion. If he’s not mistaken, they’re evenly matched, or as close to it as Zishu has ever encountered. When his assailant vanishes, Zishu takes a moment to extend his senses and his focus. His opponent’s sea of qi is as vast as planes of Jin and thrumming with vitality. Where Zishu’s sea of qi is as cool and still as a lake in the heart of winter, this man’s qi is more akin to a bubbling cauldron.
If they were to strike palm to palm, qi to qi, Zishu would be overpowered. Even if he were at his full strength, Zishu suspects this man would still have the edge, but in a straightforward fight like this, with neither of them reaching for their reserves, it’s an even fight.
They end their spar locked wrist to wrist. Zishu can’t help the way his hand clenches where it’s locked around the other man’s wrist. It feels so right to have him in his clutches. He wants to yank him in, wants to fold him in his arms and...and…
The man pulls away. Zishu lets him. They will meet again. It’s fate—or so the man claims.
As he leaps for the treetops, Zishu finds himself hoping against all reason that he’s right.
Of course, when they do meet again, Mirror Lake is on fire.
The Zhangs are dead, all except their youngest boy, the little whelp Chengling who reminds Zishu so keenly of Jiuxiao he can do nothing but protect him with his whole heart. Unfortunately, his heart is not the issue. With the nails doing their best to drive him into his grave, it’s all Zishu can do to slow their progress. Any attention he can spare for the world outside his agonised body is spent making sure that the little purple maid is holding her own against the ghosts. She’s doing well—very well. She’s clearly a talent, but one of her should not be enough to overcome a twelve-man squad from ghost valley, and yet it is.
One of the ghost lets fly a hidden dagger that the girl deflects. The steel is dark as pitch and hewn with speed and stealth in mind. No flashy metalwork or stylish adornments. An assassins weapon, not a ghost’s.
Who are you behind those masks, Zishu wonders before he leaps to his feet and joins the fray.
He slices through three of them in the space of a breath and disarms four more.
The girl compliments him and he can’t help but smile at her guileless enthusiasm. Still smiling, she plunges her dagger into the heart of the nearest masked assassin. Truly, it is the gift of youth to wholeheartedly believe that you own every moment. He wishes he still had that kind of confidence, but Zishu is overly aware of his own mortality these days.
Zishu spins to a stop and is confused when the room continues to spin without him. Then his eyes flutter and his body sways and he thinks, oh, I’m falling, and then he is, and then—
An arm across his shoulders, bracing, lifting, and Zishu is on his feet. Instinct takes over before his brain can catch up. Baiyi is out of her scabbard and headed for a soft, white throat—until she isn’t. The man in white is suddenly beside him, Baiyi curved around their backs, her tip held between two elegant fingers. The man looks admiringly at the blade, then at Zishu in much the same way.
“Nice sword.”
Zishu spins them apart and sheathes her.
“Who are you?”
The man flicks open his fan with a playful flutter and introduces himself.
“Wen, Wen Kexing.” He smiles slowly and gives him a thorough once over, top to bottom. Zishu flushes. “And you are?”
Before he can even decide how he’s going to respond, the old boatman is coughing up blood, is dying, and Zishu is pledging to deliver Zhang Chengling safely to his uncle for the paltry sum of three maces of silver.
They bury Mister Li in front of the temple. Chengling cries and the girl in purple—Gu Xiang, if her master is to be believed—picks her teeth while she waits for the crying to stop.
Wen Kexing asks which Xu character he uses and Zishu decides “willow catkins,” is as good an answer as any.
Wen Kexing hums. “Strong and supple, flexible as willow in the breeze. It suits you, Master Zhou.”
“Thanks,” Zishu says gruffly before deciding, for the third time in one day, that retreat is the only reasonable means of keeping his sanity around such an outrageous flirt and hurrying inside the temple.
After they’ve had dinner and Wen Kexing has challenged his first impression of the man as an untouchable, peerless beauty with the sheer force of his terrible personality, they bed down for the night.
Wen Kexing, it turns out, is a light sleeper. Many times during the night, Zishu wakes to find him out of bed and standing at the mouth of the temple, staring out into the night like a sentinel, watchful, awaiting a danger Zishu cannot see or sense. Disquieted, Zishu tries to sleep, but can only find shallow rest when the other man is not beside him. He ends up meditating most of the night instead.
By the time dawn comes, Zishu is more than ready to get moving. He hustles Zhang Chengling along, feeling like a farmer with only a single, lame chicken to corral, and manages to successfully ignore Wen Kexing’s many shameless solicitations. By now, he knows that Wen Kexing has at least some interest in the glazed armour. He would assume he’s after the so-called treasure like every other dullard in jianghu, but Wen Kexing is no idiot. As a fighter, he far outclasses anyone Zishu has seen, fought or heard about who is not a being of legend. What could he possibly learn from the armoury? What would he have to gain?
No, if he wants the glazed armour, it’s not for his own gain. Which begs the question: what does he want it for?
Zishu doesn’t ponder this again until Qin Song’s assassination attempt, where Wen Kexing protects Zhang Chengling along with Gu Xiang instead of taking advantage of Zhou Zishu’s distraction to steal the glazed armour from Chengling. He must have deduced that the boy has it on him, must know that he could take it now, but the man merely helps the boy, uses his pristine teal sleeve to clean the blood from his mouth, smiling kindly all the while.
Chengling sways, injured and out of sorts. His eyes are glazed, his skin an unhealthy, waxy shade of pale. Gu Xiang, too, is off balance. She’s snappish, tense, pacing the length of the riverbank like a bloodhound. Zishu is too tired to deal with these children’s hormones, but it’s not like there are any other options.
He considers Wen Kexing. The man is submissive. He would bet all the gold in his pocket on it, but he’s uncomfortably aware that the only reason he knows this is because of his strange and suspect attraction to the man, his desire to put him on his knees and keep him there. Beyond this, Wen Kexing does not act in any way typical to submissive. He does not lower his eyes. He does not make himself appear smaller. He does not deflect, preen or heap flatteries on eligible dominants—well, he does, Zishu supposes. The man is a font of terrible romantic poetry and even worse flirtations, but they are goading, teasing things, as far from the shy invitations and coy advances of a typical submissive as one is likely to find.
Even considering that things in the south are different, he is atypical. Only married submissives wear collars here and they are typically understated, utilitarian, designed to protect the submissive’s neck from unwanted, forced drops. Still, most submissives in the south wear high collars to discourage breaches of etiquette and for the sake of propriety. For a dominant interested in sexual play with a submissive partner, the unblemished expanse of a neck is unreasonably tempting.
Well, you would know, Zishu thinks wryly. It has not escaped his notice that among his many lissom limbs, the man’s neck may be the most alluring, though his legs are equally compelling.
Wen Kexing snaps at Gu Xiang to sit and meditate. She bares her teeth. They lock eyes. Hers lower quickly. Shoulders hunched, she retreats to the logs by the fire and folds herself into a compact lotus. She only begins to relax and sink properly into meditation when Wen Kexing threads a hand through her hair and murmurs, “A-Xiang,” in a tone that is at once commanding and entreating.
No, Wen Kexing doesn’t act like a submissive, which, given his level of power and the easy command he exerts over his dominant maid, it is not hard to guess why. Submissive leaders are rare for a reason. Not because of any inherent weakness in biology, though that is the prevailing opinion of most dominants, but because a submissive leader will field ten times more sieges, challenges and plays for power than a dominant in the same position. They are doubted at every step, challenged at the smallest sign of struggle. Whoever Wen Kexing rules, he must do so with an iron fist. It would not surprise him if he was passing himself off as dominant.
For this reason, when Zhang Chengling begins tugging at Wen Kexing’s clothes the same way a child might beseech their dominant parent for a drop, Zhou Zishu takes command of the situation. He orders Zhang Chengling to meditate like his Xiang-jie, and when the boy only blinks up at him, wide-eyed, lip wobbling, Zishu sighs and sits beside him to demonstrate.
The boy puts his head on his shoulder immediately and squirms until Zishu puts an arm around him. He sags into the embrace, sighing, eyelashes fluttering. Zishu is tense, only able to relax when he sees Wen Kexing’s amused smile. This kind of comfort giving is not entirely foreign to Zishu, of course, though he is out of practice. There were many orphaned disciples at Four Seasons Manor when he was first disciple, and many of them favoured Zishu’s gentle, if awkward, brand of comfort and discipline to their master’s or sect uncles’. The uncles knew to send the small, timid ones to Zishu. Without fail, they would climb into his lap and curl up like kittens, going down easily under his hand. He would cup the backs of their tiny necks and wonder at the trust placed in his unworthy hands. Would they still trust me this way, he wondered, if they knew I had lost my fated match, that I had been careless with a godgift that so few are lucky enough to be granted? He was never sure.
Once Chengling is under, Zishu carefully disentangles himself and goes to sit beside Wen Kexing.
“I’ll play for them,” Kexing whispers, “but first…”
His eyes flick towards the woods.
“Yes,” Zishu agrees.
Instead of the body of Qin Song, the Phantom Musician, they find blood. A lot of blood, though, unfortunately, not enough to kill. Zishu says as much.
“A-Xu! To wish for death…what kind of unscrupulous man am I travelling with?” He sounds aghast, but his eyes twinkle.
If this man isn’t cut from blood-soaked cloth, Zishu will eat his robes. He rolls his eyes. “Feel free to leave me be, then.”
He walks back to the shore, smiling to himself when Wen Kexing scampers to catch up. “A-Xu! We’re not going to follow the trail?”
He sounds disappointed.
Maniac, he thinks fondly.
Zishu shrugs. “Either he’ll die from his wounds or he won’t. Either way, he won’t attack like that again, and since Qin Song only has one means of assassination, what have we to fear?”
Wen Kexing hums, noncommittal. “It’s not wise to keep enemies at your back, A-Xu. A defanged snake is still a snake. Venom is its nature.”
There is a wealth of knowing in those words. Wen Kexing’s face is carefully placid, guileless, but Zishu can sense a darkness in him, coiled, waiting to strike. He, too, is a snake—though perhaps he was not always. Perhaps this snake was born a different kind of beast, a fluffier, softer sort that, through trial and pain and wretched circumstance, found that skin ill-fitting and fashioned himself another.
Only time will tell who and what Wen Kexing is. Zishu, who fashioned himself a snakeskin cloak the day he kissed his prince’s ring and left the ill-fitting thing behind in Jin, can’t help but hope he will someday glimpse the man’s soft and fluffy underbelly. Whatever the truth of Wen Kexing, they are one in the same. Zishu is sure of that, if nothing else.
The beggar sect puts Zhou Zishu on his knees in shamefully short order. Gasping, seven blazing lances of agony driving heartlessly into his meridians, it’s all he can do not to choke on blood. It pricks his pride to be overcome by this rabble of incompetents, but his wounded ego is nothing compared to the fury of Wen Kexing.
In the space of a blink, Wen Kexing goes from happily munching nuts, watching the chaos unfold like a spectator at a magic show, to what can only be described as a murder tornado.
He kills the beggar harassing Zhang Chengling with a single, dismissive flick of his fan. Then he’s out of his chair and flying into the fray. He lands in front of Zhou Zishu in a whirl of teal and cream, face a smooth mask of deadly calm, aura a blaze of fury, and proceeds to cut down every beggar present with the kind of single-minded focus Zishu has only ever seen in assassins and the truly battle-hardened.
Only once the last beggar is dead does the facade crack. Wen Kexing hoists Zhou Zishu to his feet and pats him down, eyes wild.
“Hey,” Zishu says, and when that fails to snap him from his haze, “Look at me! I’m fine. I’m okay. Everything’s okay now. You saved me.”
Wen Kexing swallows convulsively. “I saved you,” he repeats, strange, like he’s not really hearing himself.
Concerned, Zishu steps closer until they’re pressed chest to chest, until Wen Kexing is shuddering, swaying into his arms. Zishu catches him by the shoulders. Their lips hover close together, their noses brush. Up close, Wen Kexing’s eyes are warm as polished maple wood. Zishu’s arms ache to close around him. His hair smells sweet and floral and the musk of his lightly dewed skin is particularly appealing this close to his neck. It would be so easy to bury his face in his hair, nose behind his ear and kiss a path down that long neck the way he’s fantasised. Wen Kexing would let him, would welcome it even here, in the middle of the street, in broad daylight.
Instead, Zishu steps back. His breath shudders. Wen Kexing’s eyes are glazed, expression open and vulnerable in a way that yanks at Zishu’s memories. They’ve never met before, but Zishu feels as though he’s known this man forever and is known in return.
It’s a heady feeling. Dangerous. He still knows next to nothing about this man and what he does know is enough to make him wary.
The Wen Kexing beneath the persona of a rich, affable young master is beginning to take shape in Zishu’s mind: a kind heart, bruised by hardship; an upright disposition, buried beneath layers of blithe unconcern and concealed contempt; a curious, adventurous spirit, tinged with the melancholy of lost opportunity.
Wen Kexing is a stranger, more complicated man than Zishu first suspected, but he is no less interesting for it, no less beautiful. Zishu is clearly attracted to Wen Kexing, in part, because of the danger he represents. It is one of the many reasons why crossing this boundary is a bad idea.
“A-Xu?” Wen Kexing sounds confused. He should. Despite his best efforts to act like stone to Wen Kexing’s water, he has been slowly worn down by the man’s relentless pursuit. The last few days he’s been less openly hostile in response to his flirtations, one might even say welcoming, and the strange spark between them has only grown since the first moment they locked eyes across the Yue thoroughfare.
Without his permission, Zhou Zishu’s hand is rising to cup Wen Kexing’s cheek. He nuzzles Zishu’s palm, wide eyes peeking over the tops of his fingers. Zishu’s heart clenches. God, the things he would do with this man, if only he had time; the places he’d take him, the things they’d see and do. But Zishu has a death sentence nailed into his chest and Wen Kexing has secrets nested within secrets, the least of which is his dynamic.
A face intrudes: young, dimpled, chubby with baby fat. Zishu’s already burdened heart pulses with fresh hurt.
He has no right to be this hung up on a man he’s just met, a man who is not his fated match. What would Zhen Yan say if he were alive today to see Zishu pawing over a stranger? How hurt he would be to see their bond treated so cheaply, how ashamed he would be of his soul’s zhiji.
Zishu drops his hand and takes a hurried step back. He pretends not to see the hurt in Wen Kexing’s eyes.
“Let’s go,” Zishu says and goes to collect Chengling.
Wen Kexing follows along, but keeps his eyes lowered. When Zishu offers his knee as a stepping stool so Wen Kexing can mount his stallion, he braces Zishu’s shoulder and steps up, accepting of Zishu’s guiding hands, his fussing over the saddle. Wen Kexing needs no help correcting his seat, but he allows Zishu to place a hand on his lower back anyway and make small adjustments. It’s the first time he’s displayed submissive behaviour in front of him and Zishu could not feel less deserving of that trust. Instinct tells him it’s because he needs to drop. The confrontation with the beggars, his fear for Zhou Zishu, threw off his internal equilibrium, an issue that was only exacerbated by Zishu’s rejection.
Though he can hardly feel worse than he already does, Zishu forces himself to acknowledge his own culpability and take responsibility. Wen Kexing is responding to him the way any submissive might to a receptive dominant. He’s reaching out, trusting, asking for the help he needs—and Zhou Zishu wants to give it to him, wants it desperately, in a way that warns he might be a little off centre himself.
But he can’t. To give Wen Kexing all the love, attention and adoration he deserves, only to snatch it away in a paltry two years would be a cruelty beyond what even the famously cold and callous Leader Zhou is capable of. When they reach Lake Tai, he’ll make some discreet enquiries about a local service. He’ll make it right.
Zishu helps Chengling mount the grey mare and swings himself into the saddle behind the boy. Together, they ride for Lake Tai.
By the time they reach Sanbai Manor, the sun has passed its zenith and is casting strange shadows on the ground. Despite its well-appointed glamour, beneath the veil of richness, Sanbai Manor is a haunted place. Not too long ago, the sect was home to one of the worst massacres in the history of jianghu. The previous sect leader and his entire brotherhood were murdered in their beds by vengeful ghosts. Not long after, the notorious Tragicomic ghost made her debut. It was assumed she killed Lake Tai along with her Neon Palace Sect, though to this day no one knows why.
They stable the horses and proceed to the main hall under guard—though you would be forgiven for not recognising it as such. Two stick-limbed boys in their first growth could hardly hope to hold their own against a single tavern thug, let alone two martial masters. Jianghu was at peace for twenty years before the five lakes massacres, but that is no excuse for this paltry security. Is Zhao Jing running a martial sect or a teahouse?
They enter the main hall and are greeted by an effusive man in gold and olive robes who can only be Zhao Jing. He’s warm, affable, a little simple minded. Not at all what Zhou Zishu was expecting of a powerful sect leader, though there are worse traits for a guardian, he supposes. Chengling is a sweet, easily cowed boy. Zhao Jing’s gentle, powdered hand will, at the very least, suit him better than Zhou Zishu’s rough grip.
Zhao Jing thanks them for saving Chengling. Before his eyes, Wen Kexing transforms from the subdued, vacant-eyed man he was while they travelled via horseback to the puffed-up peacock he generally is. For a moment, Zishu is so relieved to have him back, he fails to notice the rigidity of his fan hand, the minute wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the faint compression of his lips. Nothing anyone else would notice, but subtle signs of distress than Zishu is naturally attuned to.
Something’s wrong, he thinks. He looks between Wen Kexing and Zhao Jing, who are conversing pleasantly, not a tight smile or sour look between them, and yet there is an undercurrent of something strange, lingering. Do they know each other?
A Mount Tai disciple bursts into the hall and begs help for his master, Ao Laizi, and Zishu must place the inquiry aside for another time.
The night is long and arduous. There is a beautiful banquet, where Wen Kexing continues to be, at once, too loud and bright and too quiet and subdued in the ways that matter. Chengling is also subdued, but this has more to do with the crush of unfamiliar people and his sudden acquisition of uncles who all clearly want more than he is willing to give. Though Zhao Jing keeps a respectable distance and is attentive to his needs, Shen Shen, Chief of Mount Dagu, is a waspish nuisance of a man, who only becomes worse the more he drinks. Eventually, he is dragged off to bed and Chengling is also encouraged to retire.
Zishu is thankful for the boy’s absence when they find the bodies at the gate, when Zhao Jing’s glazed armour is stolen, though he’s less thankful when he finds Wen Kexing comforting the boy after an attempt on his life.
“What happened here?” The chief of Mount Hua, Yu Qiufeng, asks when he arrives with a harried Zhao Jing.
Yu Qiufeng is agitated, snappish. He advances on Wen Kexing, who fans himself languidly, unimpressed and unmoved by the display of aggression. The man’s hand jerks, like he wants to reach for Wen Kexing’s neck, but his eyes find the open collar, the bare expanse of skin. He hesitates.
The only thing keeping Zishu from breaking his wrist is the knowledge that if he does, it will be seen as the act of a dominant defending his submissive, something that could put Wen Kexing in serious danger. Like Yu Qiufeng, anyone who sees his bared neck and open collar will assume he is dominant and unable to be bullied in submission. Still, holding himself back isn’t easy. It’s only because of his many years of training to be a jade-faced imperial spy that he manages it.
“Assassins,” Wen Kexing says shortly.
“From Ghost Valley?” Yu Qiufeng asks, before answering his own question, hissing, “Those bastards!”
Wen Kexing shrugs. “If you say so, though if these people were ghosts, the reputation of the valley leaves much to be desired.”
“What are you saying, huh? Who would do such an evil thing if not evil ghosts? The bodies at the gate carried Happy Ghost’s mark. Why else would he do that if not to create a distraction for his ghosts to kidnap this boy?” Yu Qiufeng asks.
“As you say,” Wen Kexing says peaceably, though this hardly placates Yu Qiufeng, who only grows more belligerent.
Zhao Jing moves forward to smooth Yu Qiufeng’s ruffled feathers and Zhou Zishu takes the opportunity to ask Wen Kexing, “Are you alright?”
Wen Kexing gives him a chiding look. “A-Xu, don’t insult me. I’ve had sneezes give me more trouble.”
“Not that.”
Wen Kexing studies him, judging his sincerity, and seems to come to some sort of decision. His expression smooths out into something altogether pleasant, banal; something altogether terrible. “Fine, A-Xu. Nothing to concern yourself over.”
He clasps Zishu’s shoulder reassuringly—one friend to another—and Zishu hates it, hates even more than he’s brought this on himself.
“Do you need…” He clears his throat. “That is, I was going to make some enquiries…about a service.”
“A service,” Wen Kexing says blankly.
“Yes.”
The resulting silence is…awkward.
“That won’t be necessary,” Wen Kexing says calmly before bundling Chengling up and escorting the boy to his room, closing the door firmly behind them.
Zishu may have fucked up more than first anticipated.
He doesn’t get the chance to apologise until later that night, after they’ve found Yu Tianjie’s body and uncovered the soul winding spell of the suspiciously absent Hanged Ghost.
The trail of wire leads to Zhao Coffin House, where they’re almost decapitated by a wire trap, leads to hallucinogens and drug men and Wen Kexing calling him by his real name and Zishu developing all kind of questions in response, namely: How does this menace know my name and how the hell did I miss it?
Wen Kexing kills the ghost—one of the ten devils, if he isn’t mistaken—and spirits them to a nearby lake where Zishu, stung by this fresh secrecy, proceeds to act like a wronged maiden to every overture of aid.
“Zhou Xu!” Wen Kexing finally snaps, jabbing his acupressure point and freezing his arm long enough to yank down his robes and bare the nasty bite on his shoulder. “Why are you being so difficult? I’m just trying to help.”
He huffs and plucks the knife from Zishu’s lax grip. Opens the wounds quickly and easily, pressing his mouth to them and sucking out the spoiled blood with clinical care. He doesn’t make any jokes, doesn’t let his lips linger, just gets the job done and wipes the area down as best he can with their paltry medical supplies before replacing Zishu’s robes.
“You don’t have to do everything alone, you know,” Wen Kexing says quietly. “I can help, I promise.”
Zishu’s throat thickens. He turns and catches Wen Kexing’s retreating hands, threading their fingers together, pressing them palm to palm. He squeezes. “I know.”
Wen Kexing’s throat bobs. “Then why won’t you let me?”
They’re not only talking about the injuries now.
Making a decision, Zishu brings Wen Kexing’s hands to his face and whispers, “Take it off.”
Wen Kexing’s eyes widen, but he complies quickly. His fingers find the hidden seam beneath his jaw easily and peel away the mask with infinite care.
The mask drops to the ground and Wen Kexing stares at the sharp planes of Zishu’s face. He traces the cut of his cheekbones, the narrow nose, proud brow and prominent jaw. When brushing his lips, his fingers tremble and he swallows harshly. He’s having trouble meeting Zishu’s eyes, a blush blooming on his cheeks.
Zishu is charmed. “That impressed, are you?”
Wen Kexing raises Zishu’s hands to his mouth and kisses his knuckles one by one. Zishu loses his breath.
“Truly, the heavens could not have crafted a finer face. I knew it would be so, and yet…I am overcome, as ever, by the perfection of you, my A-Xu.”
It’s Zishu’s turn to blush. Despite all expectations, Wen Kexing doesn’t tease, merely looks amazed by the reaction.
He brushes Zishu’s warm cheek. “Why hide so fine a thing?”
And there is it, the question Zishu has been avoiding, the question he must answer if there is to be any openness between them, any trust, after his disastrous misstep.
“I’m in hiding from my former employer. Or I was.” He smiles wryly. “You were right, Lao Wen, you are following a bad man.”
Zhou Zishu explains and Wen Kexing listens. He seems enraptured by the tale of a young first disciple, thrust into the role of leader too soon; a sect saved from destruction by a benevolent prince, pressed into service for the greater good of a kingdom. Then the tale takes a turn for the tragic: his people dying one by one, his soul crushed under the weight of sins too great for one man to bear, the slow crush of responsibilities grinding his bones to ash with every passing year.
“But you escaped, right?” Wen Kexing says, eyes wide and hopeful. “You’re okay now?”
He could lie. He should lie. The truth will be the death of them, the death of this beautiful, budding thing between them, but maybe that’s for the best—nip their infatuation in the bud before it blossoms into love.
(Deep in his heart of hearts, Zishu knows it is already love, knows it is already too late for this not to hurt, but what else can he do? He cannot lie—not to this face—and he cannot tell the truth—not to this face—so what can he do? What is he supposed to do? What the hell is he supposed to—)
So Zishu disentangles their hands and presses Wen Kexing’s palms to his chest.
“A-Xu, what—”
“Feel. Use your qi.”
Brows furrowed, Wen Kexing does as he’s told. Zishu bears witness to the slow realisation: that he’s broken beyond repair, meridians savaged, nailed in place to wither like vines; that his days are numbered, growing shorter every moment.
“A-Xu,” he whines.
“I know.”
Wen Kexing pulls him in by the front of his robes and Zishu goes gladly. Their foreheads press together. Their noses brush and they share breath.
“How long?”
“I don’t know exactly. Two years. Two and half, if I’m lucky.”
“If you’re—!"
Zishu cups his face and kisses his forehead, his eyebrows, his cheeks, chin, the tip of his nose. When his eyelashes flutter and his eyes close, he kisses his softly trembling eyelids as well.
“I’m sorry, Lao Wen. I’m so sorry.”
Wen Kexing makes a terrible sound: part animal moan, part sob. He curls in on himself, presses his forehead to his knees and begins to shake. Zishu doesn’t know how to help him, doesn’t know if his touch would even be welcome, so hovers uselessly until Wen Kexing raises his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, though he’s not yet crying. His devastation is quiet, contained, yet no less affecting for it.
Resolve sets his shoulder, firms his trembling mouth.
“What can I do? How can I help?” Wen Kexing asks.
Zishu swallows. “There’s nothing to be done.”
“Bullshit.”
“Lao Wen…”
“Don’t. Just don’t.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Composes himself with some difficulty. “I won’t let you give up, A-Xu. I won’t. I refuse.” He stands, brushes down his robes. “I’m going to catch us some dinner, and when I come back, we’re going to discuss solutions.”
Wen Kexing leaves, charging through the underbrush, out of sight, before Zishu can object to any part of that.
While he’s gone, Zishu distracts himself trying to solve the soul winding box. It doesn’t take long. A piece of the glazed armour plops into his palm. Zishu stares at it. It’s kind of ugly; clearly an interlocking part of some kind of whole. Another puzzle?
By the time Wen Kexing returns, Zhou Zishu has moved on from inspecting the glazed armour to attempting to meditate away the possessive longing that has invaded his heart and mind. It won’t work. For a dominant with his current degree of imbalance, equilibrium can only be restored by putting a willing partner under. He’s put it off too long. He never preferred paying for a scene partner like most single dominants, and when he was Leader Zhou, such a thing was unnecessary. He issued a hundred small orders every day, enough to even him out indefinitely. It’s only now when he's in command of himself and himself only that he’s off-kilter.
Wen Kexing sits on the opposite log and skins the rabbits methodically. He doesn’t look at Zhou Zishu. His hands are steady, his face placid, but Zishu is attuned to him. They’ve been in sync since the moment they met, so Zishu knows he’s teetering, knows the sheen of sweat on his forehead isn’t from the heat of the fire but from the heat of his blood, knows the increased respiration isn’t from trekking through the forest but a reaction to oncoming drop fever. If Wen Kexing doesn’t drop soon, his body will simply fall unconscious and he will be prey for whichever unscrupulous character happens upon him. If Zhou Zishu doesn’t put someone under soon, he may be that unscrupulous character.
“Lao Wen,” Zishu says quietly, firmly.
A chord of tension stretches between then, tight enough to be plucked.
Wen Kexing hunches.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Zishu reassures him. “If you don’t want—”
Wen Kexing’s head snaps up. “If I don’t want?” He says, incredulous.
Zishu winces. That’s fair. “You didn’t…that is, at the time, you weren’t aware I was…” He waves at his chest, where the nails are pulsing with every damning breath.
To his surprise, Wen Kexing scoffs and looks annoyed instead of devastated.
“You’re not going anywhere, Zhou Xu. Not unless I say so. Don’t think I’ll let you.” He says it like a threat.
Zishu confuses himself by finding it adorable instead of annoying.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Tell me why. If you’re so convinced there’s no hope, explain it to me. Your injuries are terrible, but I’ve seen people come back from worse.”
Zishu raises an eyebrow. He certainly hasn’t, and he has seen most terrible things capable of being inflicted on the human body. Wherever Wen Kexing has been, Zishu highly doubts he has seen worse horrors than the leader of the Window of Heaven.
“Not that much worse,” Wen Kexing admits, “and it was a long road to recovery, but it’s true. I’ve seen it. You can be helped. We just need to find the right people.”
A lazy smile, long evenings spent drinking and philosophising and scheming under the watchful eye of a little black shadow. If they knew he was in such dire straits and hadn’t summoned them, Beiyuan and Wu Xi would murder him. They might still.
Zishu rubs the back of his neck. Wen Kexing’s eyes narrow.
“You know someone,” he guesses.
“I…yes. Maybe.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Who?”
They sneak back into Sanbai Manor before dawn to say goodbye to Chengling. The boy cries like he’s being abandoned by his own parents, which immediately sets Wen Kexing off. They cry together while Zhou Zishu watches awkwardly, feeling strange in his own skin. He’s never known what to do when people cried, and now that Wen Kexing isn’t speaking to him, he can’t even look to him for advice.
They pull apart and say goodbye eventually. Zhou Zishu leaves the boy with a mechanical sparrow and instructions to summon him if he’s ever in danger. They’ll be at the heroes conference in Yueyang, and they’ll be watching, but for the moment he must be brave and stay with his uncles.
“But I want to stay with you, Shifu,” Chengling says, peering up at him shyly.
Wen Kexing ducks his head, but not before Zishu catches his shit-eating grin.
Asshole. This has his meddlesome fingerprints all over it.
“Chengling, this is where our paths diverge. I have delivered you to your uncles. You have a fine future ahead of you in Yueyang. Gao Chong is stern but fair. If you follow his orders and are a dedicated disciple, he will teach you well.”
“Shifu, I want to learn from you.”
“Chengling, I’m the last of my sect. I have no place for you, nothing to teach you.”
“That’s not true,” Chengling says, surprising firmly.
“Gao Chong can give you everything you need. It’s what your father would have wanted.”
“It isn’t,” Chengling insists, mulish, but doesn’t elaborate beyond that, not even when Lao Wen presses him.
They leave, but not before Wen Kexing pulls Chengling aside and whispers something in his ear that makes the boy’s eyes shine. He hugs Wen Kexing tightly and lets them go without further argument.
“What did you tell the kid?” Zishu asks suspiciously as they retrieve their horses from the stables.
Wen Kexing doesn’t answer him. Just spurs his stallion into a canter before Zishu has even mounted his mare.
Right. They’re not speaking.
Zishu sighs and follows after him. Whether they speak of it or not, it doesn’t change the nature of things. Zhou Zishu is dying. What’s the point of asking his friends to make the long journey here to tell him what he already knows? They’ll just be two more witnesses to his death, and he wants no more of those, especially when they’re people he cares about. If Lao Wen isn’t mature enough to respect his choice, then what’s he even doing following Zishu around?
They reach Yueyang the next day. After a full day of travelling in impenetrable silence, Zishu is grateful to be greeted at their inn by a friendly smile and the offer of food and wine brought up to their room. Wen Kexing laughs and shares a smile with Zhou Zishu for the benefit of their audience, before following the attendant up to their room on the second floor.
It’s only when the doors close behind them and Wen Kexing begins freezing him out again that the reality of being stuck in a room with him for days on end hits home.
They can’t possibly go on like this.
“Lao Wen, enough,” Zishu says.
When he doesn’t respond, when he doesn’t even look at him, Zishu feels his jaw clench.
Wen Kexing is laying out his possessions on a low table: comb, hair oil, ribbons, guans and hairpins. He seats himself in front of a bronze mirror and begins taking down his hair.
Zishu walks over and stands so his reflection will be visible in the mirror. “May I?”
Wen Kexing still won’t look at him. He keeps his eyes trained on the table, fringe hanging in his face. Slowly, he nods.
Something inside him unravels, and Zishu lets out a great gust of a sigh and folds to his knees. He presses close to Lao Wen’s back and lifts his hair away from his nape so he can kiss the sensitive skin there. Wen Kexing gasps, shivers. He’s so responsive. Zishu wonders if he’s always like this or if it’s because he’s so close to drop fever, teetering right on that edge, so close to tipping over.
“How will you stop me?” Zishu asks.
Lao Wen’s lips press together, trembling.
“You don’t have to speak. Just show me how you will stop me.”
His hand snaps out, cobra quick, and pinches the meat of his thigh hard enough to bruise.
Zishu lets out a bark of laughter, rubs the sore spot. “Yes, yes, I understand.”
There is no position he could put Wen Kexing in that he could not get out of. They are both too skilled for that.
He removes the silver crown from Wen Kexing’s hair and frees the loose bun from its ribbon. Hair falls around his face, accentuating it’s heart shape, bringing out the warm shades of brown in his large eyes. Zishu is struck, once again, by how beautiful he is, how singular. He feels like the luckiest man in the world to have drawn such a gorgeous creature’s attention.
Wen Kexing still won’t look at him, but he’s lost that wary tension. He looks malleable, ready to bend. Zishu wants to press him down and cover him, put them back to chest and feel the fight drain out of him, hear him whimper and whine and surrender; wants to wrap him in ribbon and leave him tied up like a gift until he goes boneless and flushes all over; wants him out of his mind, delirious with want, a creature wholly made of need.
Later, he tells himself. For now, this is enough.
Zishu picks up the silver comb and begins passing it through his Lao Wen’s hair, section by section, removing any knots. On the second pass, he selects a lovely elm oil and has the distinct pleasure of watching Lao Wen’s eyelashes flutter and his mouth part as the comb passes over his scalp.
Once he’s done, he noses into the back of his hair and inhales deeply.
“Gorgeous,” he whispers.
Kexing releases a noise: the distant cousin of a whimper. He’s hot, close, unreasonably tempting. Zishu could purr with how good it feels to just be near him. How much better would it be to hold him?
Zishu kneels up and presses himself to Kexing’s back, hooks his chin over his shoulder and looks into the mirror. He’s still avoiding Zishu’s gaze. Zishu hums, considering. He stands and nudges him up. Kexing stands, stumbling as though confused, already a little lost inside his head. Zishu slips in behind him and sits, spreads his legs and pats his lap.
“Sit.”
Kexing squirms.
“Lao Wen,” he says, a warning note in his voice. “Don’t make me ask again. I’ll put you over my knee and I won’t stop until you cry.”
Kexing shudders and bites his lip. For a moment, Zishu is sure he’s going to deliberately act out just so he can get the spanking he’s so obviously eager for, but his desire to be good wins out over physical gratification. He sits in Zishu’s lap, gasping when Zishu spreads his legs further and he slips right into the cup of his crotch.
Satisfaction rolls through Zishu’s body at the acquiescence, how sweetly he follows orders. “Good boy.”
Zishu’s hard. From his squirming, his Lao Wen can feel it.
“Don’t move,” Zishu says. He hooks his chin over his shoulder again, wraps him in his arms, nothing between them now but their thin underrobes. It feels so good to be close to him, so right to have him in his arms. Zishu is hot all over, heart aching with a kind of joyful pleasure he’s never felt before.
Kexing bares the terribly tempting expanse of his neck. Zishu kisses a bruising line from his ear to his collarbone, wet, open-mouthed kisses that will disappear like steam on a mirror come morning. Their cultivation is too high for such marks to last; a boon for Wen Kexing’s image, but what Zishu suspects will be a continual frustration for him.
Zishu nips sharply at the jut of bone, revels in Kexing’s gasp, the way his ass rolls back, sliding Zishu between his cheeks through their thin, single layer robes.
“Stop,” Zishu says firmly and Kexing subsides with a whine of complaint that Zishu feels in his heart. It shudders through him, that wanting sound. Gods, but it would be so easy to open him up. They have oil. It would only take a single push to bend him over, press his chest flat to the dresser and put that beautiful ass on display. All he’d have to do is hike up his robe, yank down his pants and slide home.
But he’s not ready to give this up yet, not for sex, not for anything. He has Lao Wen close, has him cradled in his arms, right where he always should be, shielded by his body—safe.
Zishu can feel himself slipping into that pleased-proud-doting space that means he’s doing everything right. He’s never gotten here so fast before, but then he’s never had a partner who makes him feel the things Lao Wen does.
(Large eyes, dimpled cheeks, a big smile just for you, don’t forget, don’t forget, don’t you dare—)
He wants to drop Lao Wen too, knows he’s close by the haze in his eyes, the fretful, instinctive motions of his body, simulating sex, fucking without a cock to ride or a hole to rut.
Zishu wraps him inside the cage of his limbs and waits out his restless squirming. He’s still expecting sex, doesn’t understand why he’s not getting it. He’s slipping, tumbling, nearly right where he wants him.
Zishu wraps a hand around the back of his neck and directs his gaze to the mirror. He still won’t look him in the eye, lips pushed into a petulant pout. Because he’s deep in domspace, this small rebellion only makes Zishu more loving, more indulgent of his Lao Wen.
What a little brat, he thinks, adoring.
“Look at me,” he says, hot against the shell of his ear.
A whine, more petulant than the last.
“Lao Wen, look at me.” He noses behind his ear and sucks a pretty bruise into the sensitive skin. Panting, Kexing lets it happen. His face twists with a rapture that looks like agony. “Come on, love. Be a good boy for me.”
Their eyes meet in the mirror and hold. The last barriers fall away and they connect, soul to soul, finally. Zishu glimpses the depths of his Lao Wen, the small, shivering animal at his core, wet with its own blood and the blood of others; a fluffy little beast with teeth like knives and the softest of pelts. His essence is dark and deep and lovely. He’s a gorgeous, prickly little beast, and Zishu adores him.
Soul connection rushes between them like lightning, settling molten in their bellies, making them both gasp.
Though Zishu has connected during play before, it’s never felt like this, not even once. This is more than an emotional connection. This is a soul connection—a fated match. He would recognise this feeling anywhere, has felt it only once before, though it was nothing like this.
Kexing looks lost, broken open. They’ve done nothing but press their bodies together, haven’t even properly kissed, and yet Kexing looks more debauched than most people Zishu has taken to bed. Zishu himself is hungrier than he’s ever been in bed; pleased, proud, covetous of every inch of Lao Wen’s skin, his every sloe-eyed look, the endless expanse of his neck, which should always be carrying his mark.
Zishu rucks up Kexing’s robes to bare his trembling thighs, drags his palms all the way up his inner thighs until he can go no further. Kexing gasps. Zishu hums. His cock and balls are warm, already plumping from the merest suggestion of touch. Zishu cups them gently and Kexing makes a noise like he’s dying for it. Zishu drags Kexing’s legs wider and rubs his inner thighs, careful not to touch where he’s hot and needy. After some whining and squirming, Kexing melts against his chest, soothed and roused in equal measure by the teasing touch. In the mirror, his eyes are black and hot as coals.
Zishu nudges under Kexing’s thighs, murmurs, “Up, love. Yeah, just like that,” until he puts his feet on either side of the table, legs open to the mirror. This time, when Zishu strokes his thighs, he can see the gooseflesh break out on the skin, the way his thighs tremble and try to widen, how his hips twitch and his heavy cock sways.
Kexing sobs when Zishu strokes down his thighs and holds them open, thrusts his hips forward to guide those beautiful thighs open wider. Kexing arches so hard his cockhead kisses the table.
“So hard, just from this,” Zishu murmurs, pleased, proud. “How lovely you are, how perfectly you fit in my arms.”
Kexing gasps. His tip beads with clear fluid.
“Oh, you like that?” Zishu kisses his cheek, meets his gaze in the mirror. He hardly recognises himself—dark-eyed and intent and soft all at once—but it is the ruin of Wen Kexing that steals his attention. He’s red-mouthed and panting, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his neck and face. He looks debauched, vulnerable, limbs sprawled and pleasure exposed. There’s a lost look in his eye that Zishu wants to gentle, a begging writ in every line of his body he wants to hush and soothe.
Zishu secures his hold on Kexing's limbs, pinning him between his body and the table, whispers, “You could spend just like this, couldn’t you?”
Suddenly, Lao Wen is scrambling for a handhold Zishu will never allow him. “Ah!” His face contorts into something that might be pleasure, might be panic as he fights to stave off orgasm.
So responsive.
Zishu shivers. Can only kiss his throat and thank the heavens for sending him such a gift.
Zishu nudges him so the tip of his cock presses against the table, testing. Kexing moans, high and thready. Tears spring to his eyes. He looks panicked.
He’s going to spend.
Well, we can’t have that.
Below Kexing’s flushed cock, his balls hang like fuzzy little apricots. Ever so gently, Zishu lifts his cock out of the way and delivers a single, stinging slap to his balls.
Wen Kexing yelps. His hips twitch like he doesn’t know whether he wants to jerk toward the sensation or away from it. In the mirror, he’s dewy-eyed and gorgeous, flushed all the way to his sex. His eyes aren’t tracking. He’s a creature of sensation, enduring pleasure and pain at his master’s behest. He’s perfect. Zishu wants to eat him alive.
Zishu slaps them again and again until he’s panting, squirming, a different kind of on-edge.
Zishu stands abruptly and lifts him onto the table, crowding him up against the mirror. Kexing goes without complaint. His cock smears the polished surface. Bottles and various utensils go clattering to the floor as Zishu pins his hips to the table, arms wrapped around his torso so he can’t move an inch or even brace himself against the mirror; he can only rely on Zhou Zishu to hold him up.
Their eyes lock in the mirror.
“Look at you,” Zishu whispers, close to his ear, like a secret. He strokes his inner thighs, watches them tremble, watches his cock twitch. “How lovely you are like this. I’ve barely touched and yet you’re about to spend, aren’t you?”
Wen Kexing whimpers, fretful. He’s too far down to fully understand what’s being said now, only that he’s being spoken to, that his A-Xu wants something and he wants, desperately, to give it.
He’s so there, so ready, Zishu’s doesn’t even need to touch him. He’s barely touched him at all, really, and isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t it spectacular that they affect each other this way? He wonders if he could talk Lao Wen into an orgasm—no touching of any kind, only his voice. He suspects he could.
Zishu opens Wen Kexing’s thighs as far as they will go, adjusts him until only the tip of his cock is pressing against the bronze; meets his eyes in the mirror. “Come on baby,” he croons, “it’s okay, you can let go. Let me see you spill, beautiful. I want to see it all.”
And just like that, Kexing is crying and his cock is pulsing. He’s too tightly restrained to arch or writhe, can only cry out and watch as his cock spurts onto the mirror, can only let himself be moved when Zishu grinds him against the glass, forcing out the last sticky pulses.
Zishu releases a shaky breath, gasping, “Good, gorgeous, oh, that’s so good. You lovely thing, you beautiful, perfect thing.”
Wen Kexing shudders through the aftershocks, gasping. He looks overwhelmed, wobbly-lipped and needy in a way that makes Zishu want to crack open his chest and pull him inside. He swings Kexing into his arms and walks them to the bed instead. He lays Kexing down and pulls his robe back down over his crotch. He would prefer to bury his face between his thighs, lick and suck him to another orgasm while he’s teary-eyed and overwhelmed, but this is their first time. Best not test any boundaries just yet.
Instead, Zishu slips into bed beside him and pulls him into his arms, tucking his head under his chin. The tension leaves them both at once. They share a slow exhale.
“Good?” Zishu asks, once they’ve both come down a bit.
Wen Kexing nods.
“Are you still not speaking to me?”
Wen Kexing kisses Zishu’s chest where his inner robe gapes open, framing the first of the nail scars. He kisses around the ugly scar, never touching.
“Does it hurt?” Wen Kexing asks instead of answering, which is a kind of answer.
“Yes,” Zishu admits, “but only sometimes.”
“Which sometimes?”
Zishu nudges his chin up and brings their lips together softly, murmurs against his skin, “Take a guess.”
Wen Kexing’s smile is so brilliant Zishu can’t help but share it. They stare at one another, basking in this simple happiness for a long moment.
Wen Kexing strokes his face, his smile falters.
“A-Xu, won’t you even try?”
Zishu sighs. He should have expected this, should have known it wasn’t settled.
“It’s not about trying Lao Wen.”
His face is carefully blank. “What’s it about then, A-Xu? Explain it to me.”
Zishu wants to pin him down and spank him, punish him silent, pleasure him back to compliance with sweet kisses and sweeter words, but knows that’s just the drop talking.
“It’s about living, Lao Wen. I don’t want to spend my last years trying to survive when I could be drinking all the world’s wine under a different sunset every night.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Is it? Or is it making the most of what time I have, while I have it?”
“You could have more,” Lao Wen insists stubbornly.
“Or I could die even younger.” He rolls them over until Wen Kexing is flat on his back with Zishu between his legs, where he’s beginning to think he should always be. Zishu ruts between his legs, catches his gasp in his mouth. “I could fuck you in every bed in jianghu, I could make my home between your thighs, I could bring you such pleasure and satisfaction, my Lao Wen, but none of that happens if I waste what time I have left trying not to die.”
Lao Wen snarls and wraps him in his limbs like a python. “Don’t,” he hisses, “don’t you dare think so lowly of me. As though I would put something as paltry as pleasure above your life. You insult me, you insult us.”
“It’s not an insult to want to enjoy our time together while we have it. It’s a compliment. It’s—"
Suddenly, Wen Kexing is gone from under him. Zishu stares dumbly at the spot where he vanished and turns slowly toward him. He’s out of bed and pulling on his outer robes with angry, jerking motions that make Zishu’s blood boil.
“We’re not done,” Zishu says. “You’re still under.”
Wen Kexing shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
Sure enough, he looks completely present in his body. Zishu frowns. He must have kicked himself out of subspace. Zishu prefers to let it happen naturally, knows that subs get the most out of a session doing it that way.
“You should stay,” Zishu says. It trips inelegantly off his tongue, sounds too much like an order.
“I said I’m fine.”
Zishu watches him collect his ornaments, tie all that lovely hair back up again, put it all into perfect order again. To see his lovely, debauched Lao Wen tucked away so soon…his hands clench into fists. Unlike Wen Kexing, Zishu is not quite up yet. He must restrain the urge to drag him back to bed where he belongs, where Zishu put him.
“Where’re you going?” Zishu asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Lao Wen!” Gods, they’ve just scened. They should be in bed, resting, recuperating, basking in the glow of shared intimacy. Instead, they’re doing this—whatever this is.
Wen Kexing rounds on him. “You’re not my keeper, Zhou Zishu.” He advances on the bed. “Keep acting like it and you won’t be my dom anymore, either.”
Zishu is standing before he’s even made the decision to move. Zhou Zishu again, huh?
Wen Kexing strides towards the door, but Zishu catches him by the wrist and pulls him back around. “What the hell is wrong with you, Lao Wen? What is this?”
“Me!” Wen Kexing yanks out of his grip, laughing cruelly. He threads fingers through his perfect hair and yanks it out of order again, tossing his guan and ribbon to the floor. He looks half-mad, laughing like that, with his hair around his face, eyes wild. He looks like some feral beauty, raised by wolves. Zishu’s heart quickens.
Lao Wen shoves a finger in his face, snarling.
“You’re the one talking about your death like it’s something I’m supposed to be fucking happy about. You’re the one asking me to just shut up and deal with it like, like I’m supposed to just accept you’re dying without knowing anything more about it. What am I supposed to do with that, huh? What am I—”
Zishu yanks him against his chest and kisses him. Kexing gasps and Zishu licks into his mouth, opening it further, making it wet and perfect. Kexing clings to his back and whimpers. They move together, exploring, chasing, retreating, until Zishu has him pressed up against the wall, has him right where he needs him, in his arms, between Zishu and hard, unyielding wall.
Kexing rips out of his grasp, gasping. He slips out from between Zishu’s body and the wall like an eel. Zishu’s palm smacks the wall. “Lao Wen!”
“Don’t distract me,” Kexing says, nearly pleading. “Don’t you dare.”
“Lao Wen,” Zishu says again, hoarsely. “Come here. Come back to bed.”
“No!”
They stare at each other, three paltry paces apart. It might as well be a chasm.
“I won’t,” Kexing says firmly. “Not until we talk about this. Just answer me one thing. What if it were me?”
Zishu’s mouth goes dry. “What?”
“Go on. If it were me dying, if I told you to be happy with the time we had left, that in two years I was going to die and, well, you were just going to have to accept that, you tell me what you would do.”
When Zishu doesn’t respond, can’t respond with anything that isn’t, a shocked, disbelieving refutation of reality, Wen Kexing walks him back towards the bed and shoves him down, crawls over him, pressing him back. His long hair curtains their faces, blocking out all light, all life beyond this moment. “Would you let me die, A-Xu?”
He brushes their lips together. “Would you be happy fucking me in every bed in jianghu while I died?”
Zishu’s heart seizes. No, of course I wouldn’t. It would fucking destroy me.
Oh.
“I’m sorry,” Zishu says.
Wen Kexing kisses him, soft and slow. Tears slip down his cheeks. Zishu strokes his spine until he softens enough to be rolled beneath him, until he’s quiet enough to be kept, for the moment. They trade small kisses, sip at each other’s lips over and over until the skin is sore.
“Did you mean it?” Zishu asks eventually, “About me not being your dom?”
Wen Kexing nuzzles his cheek. “No. I was upset and when I force myself out of a drop there can be side effects. I get moody.” He kisses his cheekbone. “Sorry.”
Zishu cups his face and looks him in the eye. “Please don’t leave our bed like that again. I want you to always feel good after a scene. I want you to come back up naturally.”
Instead of arguing for any exceptions like Zishu thought he might, Kexing captures Zishu’s hand and kisses his palm. “Okay.”
“l’ll…” Zishu clears his throat. Lao Wen waits him out. “If you can find someone in the city to give me a second opinion, if they say there’s a chance, I’ll contact my friends and ask them for help.”
Wen Kexing’s face splits into a grin. He hugs him tightly, buries his face in his neck. His cheeks are damp. “Thank you,” he whispers.
Zishu kisses the top of his head. No, thank you.
They pass the rest of the day entwined in bed. When the bell rings for dinner service, neither of them rise to answer it.