#yanping

“Can you teach me that?” Zhang Qiling asks, out of the blue, one evening.

Zhang Hailou is removing some of his razors from his mouth. He doesn’t need to per se, but it is a habit left over from when he had yet to acquire his current mastery over the razors. And he doesn’t, in fact, on most nights. But tonight they are spending the night in particular luxury, and Zhang Hailou is reminded of his younger years in Xiamen.

“This?” Zhang Hailou holds up one of his razors. “You want to learn this? You don’t need to.”

Zhang Qiling’s abilities are far beyond anything he has seen so far. He once thought of himself as so strong he was almost superhuman, but now he knows better. His own mother is faster than him, probably almost as strong, and certainly more experienced. Zhang Qiling is far faster and far stronger. He does not know how old Zhang Qiling is, but he is not lacking in experience either.

For all he knows, Zhang Qiling could be his mother’s age, or even older.

No. As Zhang Qiling gazes at him, Zhang Hailou decides that he cannot be too much older than himself. Zhang Qiling is always composed and near-unreadable, but in the dim glow of the beautifully crafted lights in the room, Zhang Hailou thinks he can see a hint of expectance.

To learn a skill of death and deception? Zhang Hailou is probably just seeing things, but he lets the words slip past his lips. “If I may, how old are you?”

Zhang Qiling blinks once. Zhang Hailou now knows him well enough to tell that it means he is taken aback by the question. He seems to think for a moment before answering, “Under fifty.”

Zhang Hailou himself is coming upon fifty soon, so he was actually right. Zhang Hailou laughs at that. “I didn’t think you really were younger than me. I mean, I thought all of you Main Family were old as can be, only donning that young mask as deception. You know my mom, right? She says she’s over a hundred – is that true?”

Zhang Qiling shakes his head.

“Wait, so she lied to me? How old is she really? Has this whole Zhang clan’s longevity been a lie?” Zhang Hailou is used to speaking without much thought, and the words roll off his tongue fluidly in stark contrast to Zhang Qiling’s silence.

“I don’t know how old she is. She can be over a hundred,” Zhang Qiling answers. “Will you teach me that?” He still hasn’t given up.

Zhang Hailou taps a razor with a trimmed fingernail, soft tinks punctuating his sentence. “Why? Like I’ve said, you don’t need this. You don’t have to fall back to these unnatural skills. You’re faster and stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. Even if someone had a gun, they’d have a hard time shooting you.”

But Zhang Hailou cannot deny that he is also curious. Even when his mother taught him these skills, he has never seen anyone else try to place the blades in their mouth. It was something his mother only taught him, too, saying that he might as well place his clever tongue to good use as she sliced the inside of his mouth open. Zhx was already by his side by then, and held him in the nights as Zhang Hailou shook under the safety of his covers as blood welled in his mouth.

Zhang Qiling does not answer him, but Zhang Hailou still acquiesces. “Alright, I’ll teach you, but I don’t think it’s worth it to learn more than spitting and holding one in your mouth,” Zhang Hailou says. He takes a razor and rams it into the blade of a dagger, denting the brittle metal to cover its blade. He washes the now-blunt piece of metal with soap in the basin before crossing the room to where Zhang Qiling is seated on the bed.

He takes it wordlessly and opens his mouth, tucking it under his tongue. He purses his lips very briefly as he closes his mouth. Zhang Hailou guesses that he isn’t used to the taste of metal in his mouth.

“Move it back above with your tongue, try to touch it as little as possible,” Zhang Hailou coaches. “Then send it out with your cheeks and breath.”

Zhang Qiling follows his directions, and the metal clatters onto the ground with surprising force. Zhang Hailou cocks an eyebrow. “You’re better at this than I expected. You never talk and I don’t really see you do things with your mouth…” Zhang Hailou trails off as he remembers the accurate and varied whistles Zhang Qiling can produce. “Okay, yeah, there’s the whistles. You are pretty good at those.”

Zhang Qiling picks the blade up from the ground, washes it and starts practicing again, spitting the metal into his palm this time. Zhang Hailou watches him until flecks of red start appearing on his palm. He reaches out, almost impulsively, to catch Zhang Qiling’s wrist.

Zhang Qiling stops, and looks at him in question.

“You’re bleeding,” Zhang Hailou states the obvious. He did try his best to blunt the sharp edge of the blade, but it apparently is not good enough. “Take the blade out,” Zhang Hailou says, and Zhang Qiling complies, opening his mouth and navigating the blade onto the tip of his tongue. His lips glisten with blood and spit as they part slightly, letting the silver flash past and fall onto his palm.

Zhang Hailou is still clutching his wrist, and now he lets go. “I think you might not be doing it right,” Zhang Hailou murmurs. “Any cuts shouldn’t be on your tongue as much as your palate and maybe inner cheeks.”

Zhang Qiling’s tongue sweeps across his lips, leaving an obvious line of crimson in its wake. Zhang Hailou feels his eyes track that motion hungrily, and his hand moves to clutch Zhang Qiling’s jaw in a daze.

Zhang Qiling – does he know what he’s doing?! – opens his mouth. His lips, glistening with blood and saliva, part slightly, revealing a flash of silver. He allows Zhang Hailou’s fingers to stroke his tongue and the inside of his cheeks, warm and moist. Zhang Hailou feels the small cuts there, soft flesh flaring under his rough fingertips. It can’t be comfortable, but Zhang Qiling just looks up at him past long black lashes, eyes devoid of any emotion.

Zhang Hailou draws his fingers back, bringing the piece of metal out with him. He can see his own eyes reflected in Zhang Qiling’s, a concoction of filthy, worldly desire waiting for a spark to ignite. Zhang Qiling was too good for that, he knows. He forces himself to turn his back to Zhang Qiling, his breaths still unsteady as he washes his hand and the blade. He stares at the blade, quietly recovering his composure. He feels Zhang Qiling’s eyes boring into his back, his presence always so powerful despite his silence.

He is tantalizingly close.

Zhang Hailou cannot bring himself to do this to Zhang Qiling. Zhang Qiling needs to be – no, he needs Zhang Qiling to be – untouched, a pure symbol of their cause. For everything he’s doing, for everything he’s lost.

“I don’t think it’s worth your time to learn this.”