鬼王

 without  much  in  the  way  of  realization,  content  with  a  careless  seat  on  the  floor  by  the  bucket,  his  focus  lingers  off  to  the  side              where  crystal-clear  water  shines  in  tints  of  carmine  that  darken  remorselessly  fast  in  the  dim  lighting.  a  lot  is  funny :  how  there  needs  to  be  a  drop  of  crimson  for  him  to  feel  familiar  &  comfortable  in  a  new  environment,  how  people  must  be  dripping  blood  before  Xue  Yang  recognizes  this  is  the  natural  way  of  his  doing  things,  its  barbarous  normality  a  taste  acquired  so  long  ago  he  can’t  even  recall  the  moment  he  began  nurturing  virulence  instead  of  forgiveness.  Hua  Cheng  speaks  of  striking  first,  permitting  no  chance  to  retaliate  &  Xue  Yang  lets  a  fragment  of  a  smirk  show  on  roseate  lips ;  𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑆  𝐼𝑆  𝑁𝑂𝑇  𝐴  𝐿𝐸𝑆𝑆𝑂𝑁,  𝐼𝑇’𝑆  𝐴  𝑹𝑬𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵  of  what  he  swore  to  live  by  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  ( how  could  this  all  not  be  funny? )

 ❝ I  was  going  to,  right  away, ❞  &  the  answer  he  gives  comes  after  an  abrupt  &  unanticipated  pause  during  which  he’s  trying  to  make  sense  of  the  fingers  across  the  top  of  his  brow.  were  it  not  for  the  halt  in  speech,  so  uncharacteristic  of  an  assassin  who  mere  moments  ago  was  reflecting  on  the  importance  of  being  decisive  &  unwavering,  his  expression  would  be  hard  to  read.  there’s  a  saccharine  stress  to  his  tone,  a  lick  of  mischief  he’s  always  known  for  that  he  can’t  shake  off  after  grasping  the  gesture  must  be  the  result  of  some  poorly  restrained  impulse.  ( yes,  of  course  it’s  funny ;  it’s  downright  hilarious. )  ❝ but  you  beat  me  to  it              &  honestly,  I  really  don’t  mind  sitting  here  if  you  feel  like  doing  all  the  work. ❞

 in  the  same  fashion,  abandoning  the  courtesy  of  warning  his  company  before  the  pursuit  of  any  intentions  himself,  Xue  Yang  dips  his  intact  hand  in  the  water  &  seizes  the  ghost  king’s  arm  by  the  wrist.  then,  holding  it  above  the  poor  excuse  of  a  blood  pool,  he  takes  to  tapping  away  with  a  wet  rag  at  the  back  of  a  dirtied  hand,  its  digits,  its  palm :  all  far  from  clean  despite  the  initial  touch  of  water.  ❝ what  about  you,  haven’t  you  been  doing  this  even  longer  than  me?  let’s  ask  È’Mìng  here,  shall  we? ❞

        “  i prefer tact,  a bit more  completion;  if we’ll be walking about together,  we can’t have you looking this disheveled already.  those creatures in heaven are snobby but it appears to be a double-edged sword at times.  ”     ───  he chides easily,  hand splashing muddled water again wordlessly when wet fingers slide through xue yang’s hair in uneven rows to settle strands that stick comically to his face,  point every which way in static bolts.  crimson rain sought flower whose grand entrance is heralded by silver butterflies drenched in a blood shower lecturing on sleek appearances?  how comical.  it’s one,  two,  three swipes through until he is satisfied,  tilting his chin until releasing it with a huff in tamped reluctance.  xue yang is young,  he must remind himself.  his flame flickers brightly and rouses in the face of adversary;  of course it will be difficult to wrangle his rearing head but it doesn’t make his boldness any less surprising when he makes it known.

        no stranger to blood he still watches with rapt attention as the dried splotches run anew down his palm,  in droplets off his fingertips as if they were flowing from his own veins.  that would be impossible,  of course.  centuries have passed since his heart last beat,  pumped and fueled his passion and he supposes this is where they differ out of all of their similarities.  he hopes xue yang will never relate to this.  at least,  that he won’t for a long while to come.  through his nose,  hua cheng breathes a snort like a bull rearing its head:  perhaps if he willed it,  smoke would billow from his nostrils like a hellish beast he is.  it comes as a tiger’s chuff instead when a crimson eye trails slowly to meet his gaze.

        “  like i said,  i prefer my actions to have an end.  ”     ───  wrist flicks to fling fat drops from his skin that leave liquid rows like claw marks on the back of his hand only to run anew with lines a deeper shade undiluted.  the same hand pulls at xue yang’s,  thumb swiping away pink remnants,  fingers threaded together for just a moment.  to get between every crevice,  yes.     “  at this rate,  you’ll never finish.  there’s an order to things,  one that makes more sense than stopping mid-shine to wash my hands only to dirty it.  do the job once right.  ”