Chapter Text
The first time Wuming brings the mantou he procured (clearly from an unequal battle with yet another street vendor), Xie Lian doesn't quite understand why he is doing it, but accepts the offering with gratitude. He is unbearably hungry, so the buns disappear in the blink of an eye… while Wuming’s ears twitch suspiciously, their very tips quivering.
“Oh, forgive me, my good boy, I didn't notice you hadn't taken any… take the last one, alright?” The masked ghost recoils from the offered bun as if he’s been presented with an exorcism talisman. “Did I offend you?.. I'm sorry, I truly didn't notice!”
“D-dianxia should not feed this ghost,” the voice from beneath the mask sounds as though the speaker has bitten either his lip or his tongue, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “This one does not need to eat. Dianxia is the one who needs food, not this one. Dianxia could never wrong this one, but he should not give his own food away…”
“What if I ask very, very nicely?..” Xie Lian flutters his eyelashes a couple of times, and it is utterly impossible to resist. It is as though he is not a God of War at all, but a deity completely assured of his own power—a god of the most devastating, impossible beauty, the kind who would surely be the patron of all the loveliest young men and women in the world. “If you don't want to take off the mask, just lift it a little bit. I won't look, cross my heart!”
Wuming’s ears shoot almost straight up, only to press tightly back against his head. Xie Lian steals a glance at them—for days now, his hands have been itching to touch those soft ears, covered in what looks like the most delicate, downiest fur, which try so hard to pretend they aren't betraying their master every single second. As for touching the tail as well (which, of course, isn't thumping against the ground—but only because Wuming is diligently sitting on it!), that is entirely out of the question. After all, touching another’s body is a breach of propriety, as is stroking the beast-like features of demi-ghosts.
Holding something at arm's length isn't particularly taxing for the prince—it's not a sword, which sometimes had to be held in such a posture for an hour at a time, nor is it the heavy stones his body had grown used to during training—but the mantou is cooling, losing its flavor with every passing second.
“D-dianxia should not… treat this ghost this way,” the tips of ears twitch again, only to flatten down completely into the lowest position. “But if dianxia commands it, this one will do whatever is bidden.”
It sounds as though this wretched bun is either cursed or, on the contrary, is somehow meant to banish Wuming forever. The ghost himself is grateful for only one thing: that beneath the mask, no one can see his expression or his lip, bitten down once more. To receive such a gift from a deity’s own hands is something that could only happen in a dream, never in the waking world. After all, who is he to dream of being allowed to share a meal with a god? Ghosts don't need to eat—consuming their own kind is sufficient, and there is more than enough of that around.
“I command it. Eat,” the Bun of Discord is nudged even closer. “Or I’ll get upset and cry loudly under a tree.”
…That this particular phrasing (or anything resembling it) worked on this ghost roughly the way a handful of hot pepper works on a careless cat was something Xie Lian had discovered about five days ago—while trying to make him sit normally instead of hunching as though a dozen heavy boulders had been placed on his back. Mind you, it only made matters worse, because it took another three days to explain that a swallowed spear was also not the posture required for resting under the nearest tree.
The mask shifts just enough to stuff the entire mantou underneath in one piece, without revealing his face.
“Don't choke,” the prince sighs and, realizing that the bun snatched from his hand has already almost disappeared into the ghost's mouth, looks intently at Wuming. “I want you to be healthy.”
“I need you alive” freezes on the tip of his tongue. Too cruel an irony for a conversation with someone who is already unquestionably dead. Too vivid an expression of feeling for one who wanted to die himself.
The chomping slows. Ears twitch again and again, as though the process of eating the wretched mantou has thrown the ghost either into shock or a state of ecstasy—in fact, it is both, and Wuming is currently trying to control them, but doing so with body parts you didn't even have last month is no easy task. From beneath his thigh comes a muffled, rhythmic thumping, which ceases fairly quickly—at least you can sit harder on the tail, keeping it from striking the ground in an attempt to wag.
…As for the fact that his entire pelvis is twitching along with it, that is best ignored. After all, staring at the butts of ghosts you barely know is even more improper, Xie Lian thinks, than wondering if a ghost would like it if you scratched him behind the ear.
***
The fact that Wuming brings him flowers every time the blossom tucked into his hair begins to wilt barely fazes Xie Lian anymore. His ghost needs it for peace of mind—well, it is no hardship for the prince to rebraid his hair in a way that makes Wuming happy. In truth, what occupies his thoughts far more is how much better white flowers would look in the dark strands of Wuming's hair, and how those most adorable ears would also look quite wonderful with flowers tucked right beside them.
At some point, he decides he might as well put this theory to the test, and when Wuming brings the next armful of flowers (because the ghost also sorts through them, determining which is the absolute most beautiful one—a conclusion the prince reached from the observation that before each offering, Wuming thoughtfully reviews the flowers, discarding them one by one until only the final one remains), he pulls one out, and having mentally picked out the spot, beckons the ghost over.
“Dianxia?..” Ears twitch for a second, but he obediently approaches and freezes by his side, waiting for either a command or a blow.
“Don't fidget,” and the ghost immediately freezes. He seems to stop breathing entirely—as though he's been yanked from the world to a place where time doesn't flow (and only his tail thumps nervously from side to side, but Wuming's shoulders and head seem completely frozen in place). “There. Who's my good boy?..”
At the words “good boy,” Wuming once again sinks his teeth into his lower lip and, thanking the heavens that he has no blood, bites clean through it. The pain feels a thousand times weaker than the happiness, but it anchors him to the earth at least a little, keeping him from either floating away or shattering into pieces from this impossible, searing sensation inside.
Xie Lian sees that he was right the moment he takes a step back—in Wuming's black hair, the snow-white blossom looks like a frozen scrap of snow, delicate, promising coolness and a fresh breeze. The fact that, in order to find a comfortable position for the flower, he had managed to brush his palm over those ears—which were indeed as soft as they looked—at least three times was nothing but a happy coincidence.
He doesn’t notice the strange sound right away—a mix between a squeak and a choked, hoarse whimper coming from beneath the mask—catching it only a beat later.
“Did I upset you, then?.. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—you can step away,” and he steps back another pace himself. “I’m sorry, Wuming. You can… take it out if you want. But it really does suit you; you look so beautiful with that little flower.”
The whimper intensifies slightly, but then finally dies down as the ghost comes to life.
“Dianxia could never offend this one,” the voice comes out hoarse, and Xie Lian cannot understand why. “Dianxia… wastes flowers on one so unworthy.”
Wuming can hardly say outright that he seems to have found himself in that very paradise his god once spoke of. And even if his body is in torment, his soul… perhaps it has made it to heaven after all—his own personal heaven, where his god speaks to him, looks at him, and… and…
“Dianxia is too kind to his ghost,” he finally manages to formulate, and that is the end of any coherent sentences for him, because every single scrap of willpower must be poured into making his tail at least stop lashing from side to side as though it could be used to hack down enemies instead of a weapon (and, as Wuming has already discovered, attempts to quiet the tail only make everything else start twitching—which is why standing still is still a bit of a challenge).
Xie Lian deliberately avoids looking below Wuming's waist—and yet he still notices how nervously the ear twitches when the flower petal brushes it; drawing closer, he reaches out to adjust the bloom, and the fact that his fingertips happen to graze the very base of the ear is—honestly!—entirely accidental.
For the first time in his life, a thought crosses Wuming’s absolutely empty mind, which is currently flooded with perfect bliss: he really should find another way to distract himself, otherwise Dianxia might be upset to see him spitting out a bitten-off lip. It hasn't happened yet, but biting through it for the fifth time in two days is getting to be a bit much.
***
Several days later, when Wuming has more or less grown accustomed to the prince insisting that he eat, to wearing a flower (and selecting it for him personally—which led to the ghost once daring to object, arguing that this flower cannot be taken, it is the most beautiful one, and Xie Lian himself must have it, only to receive an instant “But I want the most beautiful one for my ghost!” that instantly turned him into a whimpering statue), and occasionally even to washing his tail, Xie Lian decides to begin a systematic siege.
Well, at least, that is exactly how it seems.
To start with, the prince had made the most pitiful eyes the evening before, while once again persuading Wuming to go to sleep beside him. Not a single refusal (“I must guard you!”), not a single internal scream (“I can't! This would… defile Dianxia!”), not a single attempt to gently melt away produced any effect. In his sleep, the God of War turns into a stubborn, clinging, very, very warm bundle of coziness that smells of green tea and campfire smoke, clutching at Wuming's tail at his every attempt to edge away.
His tail is absolutely thrilled by this. Wuming… doesn't quite understand it yet himself, but every half-asleep murmur of “G’d bo’…” makes him leap up internally and spin like a top with pure delight. Perhaps, if his deity truly wishes to sleep beside this wretched ghost… he is ready to be a pillow, a bed-warmer, absolutely anything.
But the prince had forbidden him to dig his nails into himself back on the first day, when Wuming had tried to calm down and accidentally pierced his own palm, and biting himself was out of the question—Dianxia might notice that something was wrong with his voice. This leaves Wuming with absolutely no way to stop his own, admittedly completely impossible, runaway imagination. Perhaps, if he serves the prince well enough, someday he might… no, that could never happen; better to go find some good food somewhere instead of entertaining these foolish notions.
Food, incidentally, also presents a problem—he has been commanded to eat half of everything he brings. And it is useless to explain that someone unworthy has no need for food, because to refuse food offered by a god would be akin to sacrilege; he lacks the willpower, the audacity, and the foolishness for that. For some reason, the prince smiles with satisfaction at such moments, and Wuming's tail—noticing the smile—starts thumping against the ground. It is a good thing his fur is thick; even if it leaves bruises, the prince won't see them.
And naturally, the prince—or so it seems to Wuming—perfectly understands everything passing through his mind. In particular, when Wuming tries to sit on his tail yet again, Xie Lian stops him, making him sit properly rather than flattening his fur against the ground. He probably just enjoys teasing this unworthy one—but if that is what he wants, so be it; Wuming will be happy just to have brought his deity a single drop of joy.
So when the prince pulls out a comb and asks him to turn around for some reason (he… wants to touch? Just like that? Not in a dream?!), the ghost does so, barely processing what is happening. And he is left even more bewildered when, instead of the hair on his head, the comb… touches his tail?!
“Forgive me, Dianxia, this filthy one should not…”
“I didn’t allow you to stand,” a nearly unfamiliar note of steel rings in Xie Lian’s voice, and Wuming plops back down almost instinctively, obeying the command of the stronger being. But the voice shifts instantly, turning warmer and softer. “I’m sorry, my good boy, but your tail is going to get all matted into knots soon, so I must brush it out. I have to take care of you somehow, since you take such good care of me, right?”
And while the ghost focuses every single ounce of willpower on his tail, lest it dare to move as long as his god is holding it, he loses absolute and complete control over his ears (and the way they flutter back and forth like the wings of a startled butterfly strikes the prince as unbearably charming).
Sweet torture, which makes his toes curl and his ears twitch, lasts nearly an hour (and Wuming will never admit to himself that he wishes it would last forever); toward the end, the prince even strokes his fur a few times, and each touch Wuming tucks into the most distant and innermost corner of his memory.
And so, he takes to brushing his tail himself in the mornings, just to hear himself called a “good boy” at least once more (which the prince, naturally, always does).