#numinousdread

Dressed in a plain robe of funereal white, Shen Zechuan is as silent as a specter as he approaches his vanity, methodically opens all his cosmetics, and alights upon his chair with the authority of an emperor upon a dragon throne. Xiao Chiye makes no move, even tries not to breathe too loudly, in utmost respect of the ritual before him.

Shen Zechuan paints the rice flour white across his brow with a wide brush, over his eyes, upon the swells and hollows of his sculpted cheeks, and finally over the petal-pink lips Xiao Chiye’s gaze delights in lingering upon. The exquisite features of his face are obscured in the opacity of the white, to his spectator’s curious disappointment. But vermillion is daubed upon his eyes, edges softened into a delicate haze and cut with an artful black liner to emphasize the elegance of his phoenix eyes. Eyes Xiao Chiye wishes once might glance his way. 

Next comes the elm-soaked hair, woven in artful waves upon his brow, adorned with jeweled pins that glitter so assiduously in the candle’s light Xiao Chiye would hardly be surprised if they were true diamonds. His mind wanders for a moment, wondering what patron of his past or present might have been generous enough to gift such treasures….

Immediately he thinks of Li Jiangheng, his foremost rival in the attentions of the opera singer. And the only one he can think of with enough disposable income to make an empress of an entertainer. It incenses him, the thought of losing out. But less so than the devastation of losing him. 

“...Viceroy?” 

Xiao Chiye looks back to see Shen Zechuan glancing at him over the point of his shoulder, eyes lowered with an arresting demureness. “Sorry?” he asks, his attention now reverted to him. “I asked if you didn’t have a sweetheart you’d rather be with tonight,” Shen Zechuan asks, reaching for another diamond pin. “It’s the Shangyuan Festival, after all.” 

Xiao Chiye stands, rising slowly to his feet, walking purposefully over to Shen Zechuan’s side to pluck the pin from his hand. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he replies, his somber smile undisturbed even as Shen Zechuan attempts to snatch the pin back from his hands. Unsuccessfully. 

He gestures obscurely to the walls around them, covered from floor to ceiling in giant red lanterns. “Since you couldn’t enjoy the festivities, I decided I’d bring the festivities to you.” 

Shen Zechuan gives him a stern look that might have been frightening if it hadn’t been so lovely. Even under all that paint. Xiao Chiye lets his gaze linger upon the part of his pretty mouth, enchanted utterly by the sight of the clandestine pink tongue that peeks out behind the brazen crimson of his painted lips. Xiao Chiye wonders how hard a slap he’d receive if he caught him by his pale chin and thumbed away the red that hides away the pale pink of his lips from him. 

Willowy fingers unfurl, palm extended in requisition of that stolen pin, demanding its return. But Xiao Chiye only taps the diamond head of the pin against his free hand. “Let me adorn you with it,” he offers instead. 

Shen Zechuan huffs out a laugh with no edge of mirth to it, lowering his eyes once more to soften the inevitable blow. “I’m afraid you haven’t earned that right,” he says softly. “Even if I weren’t terrified at how crookedly you’d apply it.” 

Shen Zechuan looks away, feigning a distraction to allow a moment for Xiao Chiye to regain his face, while amending the slight with the elegant rondeur of his cygnet throat bared for his perusal. It’s an ambiguous invitation at best, and yet Xiao Chiye hedges his bets upon the possibility, touching a careful fingertip to the fine hairs at the nape of that perfect, unpainted neck. Under his touch, he feels Shen Zechuan tense, though he doesn’t move as Xiao Chiye drags his fingertips down the valley of his spine, against the gentle protrusion of his bones. 

And when he does, moving just out of range of that insouciant caress, Xiao Chiye snatches the edge of the collar back, only to be thwarted by the hand Shen Zechuan smooths over the nape of his neck, hiding it away from his wolfish eyes. “That is also not permitted,” he admonishes softly, but there is no mistaking the threat the lies between those words. 

“Then tell me what is,” Xiao Chiye demands, as genteel as he can manage.

Shen Zechuan looks at him with exasperation. “You’ve earned nothing from me,” he explains simply, as though he were placating an unruly child.

Xiao Chiye’s eyes are intent on him as he moves closer, enough that Shen Zechuan can feel his tea-mild breath warm upon his brow. “I’ve brought a sky’s worth of lanterns to you,” he points out. 

“And tanguyan fit for a noble’s tongue,” he adds, demonstrating both his understanding of Xiao Chiye’s efforts, as well as his indifference to it. “An entire festival within my walls. Yes, I know.” 

It’s entirely unsentimental and utterly utilitarian for Xiao Chiye to believe that any efforts on his part—even unwanted ones— constitute reciprocation of some manner of Shen Zechuan. But the expectation of reciprocity is the only language that nobility and men of Xiao Chiye’s kind understand, so he turns back to him with a soft smile to offer compromise. 

“So let us celebrate,” he decides, picking up another pin to show the viceroy. “In honor of Shangyuan Festival, how about a few riddles? If you win one of me, you’re free to adorn me as you please. If I win one of you, then I’ll dress myself, as I please.” 

Xiao Chiye’s expression is mildly perturbed, but there’s no deliberation in his mind. “Alright,” he concedes. And then, without hesitation: “You first.” 

Shen Zechuan looks almost pleased, his eyes drifting to the lantern-lined ceiling as he thinks of a riddle to begin with. “He is a grumpy man with thick skin and a big fat belly. Mute if you ignore him, loud if you keep touching him,” he recites, conducting the lilt of his words with the diamond hair pin in his hand. 

Xiao Chiye frowns. 

“Ten seconds,” Shen Zechuan warns cheerily. “Nine, eight …”

“I don’t know,” Xiao Chiye states, unhappy about his first defeat.

Shen Zechuan plucks the hair pin from his hand as delicately as he would a dahlia’s petal, and places it in his hair. “Too bad. A drum.” 

Xiao Chiye clicks his tongue with displeasure. “My turn. Two houses with doors wide open. They allow a million people in but can’t stand a tiny grain.”

It gives Shen Zechuan pause enough. “I give up.” 

Xiao Chiye takes the diamond pin from Shen Zechuan’s hands and places it precisely beside the one already nestled expertly within his hair. “A pair of eyes,” he says at last, satisfied with his work. 

Shen Zechuan laughs softly, his eyes landing upon the breadth of Xiao Chiye’s shoulders. “Clever,” is his verdict, spoken in half a whisper. He clears his throat. “They are twin sisters of the same height; they work in the kitchen, arm in arm. Whatever is cooked, they always try it first. But they despise soups.”

“Chopsticks,” Xiao Chiye answers easily, reaching into the red lacquered box for a silk peony hairpin in a staid deep coral, and affixes it above Shen Zechuan’s left ear. “A thousand threads, a million strands. Reaching the water, vanishing all at once.”

Shen Zechuan finds himself hesitating not for lack of answer, but for the unexpected scent of Xiao Chiye’s nearness: of the brightness of a wild sun, the gelid fraicheur of a wind descended of mountainsides, that blows through tall, untouched grasses in a faraway idyll. 

“Ten seconds,” Xiao Chiye reminds him, and Shen Zechuan is quick to assert plaintively, “I don’t know.” 

“A rainfall,” the viceroy informs him, answer curt, and points with a flick of his chin towards the aoqun hanging upon the door.  Shen Zechuan reaches for a pale pink one, but Xiao Chiye stops him. “No,” he says, imperiously. “The red one.”

Shen Zechuan reaches for the dark crimson aoqun embroidered with white peonies, but it’s Xiao Chiye who divests it from the hanger, holding it open for him to slip into. Xiao Chiye arranges the robe with exacting care, positioning the stiff collar perfectly center to Shen Zechuan’s nape.  Shen Zechuan peers down to straighten the blouse, unwittingly exposing the slightest sliver of skin that peeks out from behind the guard of the high collar. Xiao Chiye’s wanton gaze lingers upon it, taking advantage of Shen Zechuan’s distraction, until he realizes what he’s doing and catches his wrist to stop his hands. 

“I’ll do it,” Xiao Chiye says softly, and there’s only an edge of imperative to his words. He starts from the bottom, lining up the knot button with the clasp and fastening them methodically. There’s a shadow of consternation that flickers upon his brow when he gets to the last one, just at Shen Zechuan’s throat. Xiao Chiye swallows hard, his downturned eyes perusing the tenuity of the opera singer’s slender throat, the semblant translucence of his pale skin complimented by the vermillion red of his collar. Sure and steady are Xiao Chiye’s fingers as they attend the final button, in what appears to be assiduity on the viceroy’s part. But his fingers linger upon the clasp, unwilling to let go of the provisional closeness. 

He lets out a breath at last, his hands falling away in surrender to their obsoletion, knuckles brushing upon Shen Zechuan’s lithesome chest as they do.  “Your turn,” he says finally. 

Shen Zechuan’s pulls a demure but dubiously mischievous smile at the corners of his rubicund lips, rests the tip of his index finger upon his chin in pantomime of thought. “Hmm,” he hums, his smile widening to show teeth like pearls glinting in the delicate lamplight. “Sometimes it’s curved like a smile, other times, it’s round like a plate.”

Xiao Chiye says nothing, his footsteps the only sound in the silence of the room as he drifts over to the closet behind him. He skim through the robes, pulling out a cloud-white pei with water sleeves the color of a pale sky darkening. “The moon,” he says softly, his breath warm against the shell of Shen Zechuan’s ear as he leans in to supply the answer, excusing his nearness by draping the robe over Shen Zechuan’s narrow shoulders.

Shen Zechuan watches as Xiao Chiye moves away, realizing the gravity of this game as he slips his arms within the pale pei. The indomitable red of his high collar peeks through the opening of the pei’s collar, as insouciant as a tongue. There’s a note of quiet pleasure upon his features as he examines the combination, choosing a dark red skirt embroidered with gold fauna to match. “What belongs to you, yet others use it more than you do?” he asks, and Shen Zechuan’s half distracted with the arrangement of his skirt, tucking and arranging as he must. 

Occupied with his costume, Shen Zechuan does not see Xiao Chiye choose a gilded fengguan from a mannequin’s head, a stunningly ornate headdress ornamented with nine dragons and nine phoenixes, covered in gold leaf and inlaid with hundreds of glass beads of deep carmine that glitter as exultantly as real rubies. “I’m waiting,” Xiao Chiye reminds him, catching the point of Shen Zechuans jaw to angle it upwards and watch his face as he crowns him with the phoenix coronate. 

The fan of his inky lashes flutter timorously before Shen Zechuan dares to look up at the viceroy through them. Xiao Chiye recognizes the practiced flirtation, but the realization brings no less admiration for his proficiency. “Me?” he asks, the brilliant smile he pulls breaking as beautifully as a dawn. 

Xiao Chiye clicks his tongue in displeasure, his hand dropping away at once. 

“Your name,” Shen Zechuan laughs, reaching for his ivory fan at the edge of his vanity. “Naturally. It’s a very good riddle, of course.” 

The viceroy leans hard upon the vanity, brow purled in an unhappy louring. “You knew the answer.”

Shen Zechuan walks to the mirror to examine his costume and finds himself pleased. “I did,” he admits. “But you’d already crowned me. It seemed a waste to undo your efforts.” 

Xiao Chiye pushes off the edge and walks over to station himself behind him. “You knew all the answers,” comes his quiet accusation. “The whole time.” 

Shen Zechuan’s gaze is piercing in the mirror, staring at Xiao Chiye in vivid coquetry. “The Viceroy is too comfortable with triumph,” he contends, and Xiao Chiye’s vaguely aware of being condescended to, even in the gentle lilt of his erudite words. “I wouldn’t presume that you would know that sometimes—”  He turns to him now, eyes meeting his with nothing less than audacity. “Sometimes one must lose to win.” 

He punctuates his point by tapping the tip of his fan beneath the point of his jaw, smiling to himself as he returns to the vanity to examine his makeup one last time. 

“And what have you won?” Xiao Chiye asks, still sullen in spite of Shen Zechuan’s concession and his apparent victory. 

Shen Zechuan carefully pulls a heavy brocade sash over his head, and arranges the sash deftly upon his shoulders. “The company of Xiao Chiye,” he replies easily, turning to him in his full glory, his face neutral under all that makeup. It’s a gesture meant to show him how uncontrived the statement was, bereft of the guile of artfulness or artifice. That he means it.

“It isn’t winning if it was yours to accept in the first place,” Xiao Chiye argues, almost peevishly. “I’ve been asking for an audience for you for weeks now. Maybe months. You could have had my company whenever you wanted it.” 

“Not the playboy Viceroy,” Shen Zechuan asserts. “Not the lecher, not the drunk, not the one who keeps the company of that boorish Prince Chu—who, by the way, I understand you have a bet with? Regarding my favors and who might win them of me first?” 

Xiao Chiye does not move, does not flinch from Shen Zechuan’s accusatory gaze, the tips of his ears a perfect berry-red the only indication of his remorse. 

“I don’t care, actually,” Shen Zechuan continues, but the way the lilt of his words adopt a slight staccato hint otherwise. “But it was nice… to see a glimmer of who you are. Behind all that. I really hadn’t much faith that there was anything of note.”

There’s a silence between them, a stillness that neither of them are willing to break. Xiao Chiye’s ears feel scorched with a shame so great, so enervating, that he’s ultimately reduced to the unlikely boldness of having little left to lose and asks, “And what have I won of you?” 

Shen Zechuan laughs mirthlessly through his nose. “I considered offering you the opportunity to undo the work of your own hands. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all evening? But I don’t think you’ve quite earned that, either.” He moves to a vase the pluck a white peony streaked with amaranth red, and tosses it in Xiao Chiye’s direction. “You can come back when it’s faded.” 

He staggers to catch it, but snatches it out the air, nearly crushing it in his hand. His fingers unfurl and so does the bloom within the palm of his hand, and Xiao Chiye stares at it to discern its meaning. “Tomorrow?” he asks, hopeful. 

Shen Zechuan’s turned in silhouette when he opens his fan and hides his pleased grin behind it. He bows once to the Viceroy, the little pearl strings on his phoenix coronet tinkling softly as he does. As if on cue, an attendant opens the door, through which Shen Zechuan might make his escape. But he turns back suddenly, fan stuck to the palm of his hand as his eyes light up in remembrance. “The tangyuan!” he exclaims, but his face falls immediately into a beautiful consternation. 

Xiao Chiye looks to the wooden box upon the vanity and slides it open, the large porcelain bowl  within. “Ah,” he replies, reaching into the box and uncovering the bowl. The white and pink tangyuan float within the ginger-sweet broth, like perfect summer moons. “They’re a little cold, but no colder than if you eat them later.” 

Shen Zechuan strides forward, gathering his water sleeves to his chest as he turns his mouth up for Xiao Chiye’s perusal, lips parting obediently. “Feed me.” 

Xiao Chiye stares at that rosebud mouth in bloom for him, remains frozen in aesthetic arrest of the sight of him before he reaches for the spoon and scoops one out for him. He holds it up to Shen Zechuan’s lips, that accept the ingress of the porcelain between them, the deep crimson of his lips closing about the pure white of the tangyuan and sucks it cleanly into his mouth. 

Shen Zechuan’s eyes lower as he daubs carefully away at the ginger broth at the corners of his mouth, his pink tongue peeking out as he licks his lips clean. “Tomorrow,” he confirms at last, commits a shallow bow as he watches Xiao Chiye slowly bring the empty spoon to his own mouth.