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“Don’t fucking do it,” Fan Wujiu seethed, both his hands gripped tightly on the other man’s shoulders. “I swear to god A-Bi’an, don’t fucking do it.”
But those words were left unheard, and his touch was nothing more than a ghostly tingle, for Fan Wujiu no longer existed in this reality.
Although it was a rainless night, the man had an umbrella with him. In his other hand, a long, red piece of rope— red symbolizing happiness, luck, and fortune. But its texture was quite the opposite; grating and absent of any leftover hope that he never had to begin with.
“Xie Bi’an, you big fucking moron!” Fan Wujiu shook him. He shook, and shook, and shook, but there was no response. “Look at yourself! Do you realize what you’re doing right now?!”
The man, unkempt and bleary-eyed, only stood there wordlessly. Fan Wujiu would’ve given the universe anything to physically beat some senses back into the frail young man— had he always been this skinny?
But of course, the universe had always been cruel and unfair, and Fan Wujiu could only watch in helpless horror as the scene continued on without interruption; the spotlight shining directly below the man on stage.
Except this wasn’t some damn theatre performance, and his dear Xie Bi’an wasn’t some damn actor.
Still, the curtains fell, and the credits started to roll.
***
“Well, well,” A fair lady croons, her palm resting daintily on her cheek. “What do we have here?”
The man blinks, unwavering and stoic. In one hand was a neatly folded piece of paper held delicately between his thumb and index finger. The other: a long, black umbrella.
“You’ve already given up your life,” She hums, extending an elegant hand towards him. “There really isn’t much to lose, is there? I could grant your wish under one condition— are you interested in knowing what that is?”
Xie Bi’an, eyes clouded and empty, hesitantly reaches for her hand. He hovers above for a brief second before the strange woman lurches hers forward, closing the distance between them.
“Please,” He replies simply. “Enlighten me.”
***
The moonlight illuminates through the window, creating a beam of brightness that splays across the wooden floor. There are dust particles floating about the air, adding a piece of quality to the dull, musky room they now shared for the rest of their time here.
Sitting on the twin-sized bed diagonally across from the window was Xie Bi’an. His once ghostly pale complexion was encroached by dark markings he’d received earlier that night from accepting the invite to Oletus Manor.
His bony hands grip the umbrella that remained sealed and unopened. Xie Bi’an gently brings it to his cheek—a light, delicate touch—and squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment.
His chest stirs intensely, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. Quite the opposite, actually. It was like his meeting with Lady Nightingale erased all of the grief and sorrow he’d harbored throughout those last few years of living. He wants to throw his head back and laugh his heart out— until he falls onto the mattress, kicking his legs into the air in pure joy—but he is too tired to even keep that image of him doing so in his mind.
Xie Bi’an stays like that for a while. The umbrella tucked safely in his embracing arms, and his scrawny frame refusing to move a singular muscle in phantom fear of somehow stirring the object from its slumber.
Despite the fluttering in his heart, his eyes are glazed and unfocused, resting on nothing in particular. His thoughts are distant, and he feels as if he isn’t at all aligned with reality.
He still calls out his name, albeit soft and hesitant. “...Fan Wujiu.”
Xie Bi’an sucks in a shaking breath, heart pounding in anticipation. He is made painfully aware of the clock’s loud ticking, although he idly notices that the handles don’t actually move in accordance with the sound.
The faint noise of crickets chirping could also be heard from outside, and he dimly wishes that they would sing a little quieter. Other than that, and his own breathing, he is met with complete silence.
Xie Bi’an grips the umbrella tighter, his chest squeezing in discomfort. The joyous feeling from earlier is starting to dissipate into painful apprehension. He curls in on himself, arms still around the umbrella, and waits, wondering if and when he should speak again.
Did they lie to him? Was it all an illusion? Were they laughing at how easily they got him to stay here? Accepting this offer was the equivalent of accepting candy from a stranger. If it is all a sick joke then what can he do?
“Fan Wujiu.” He calls out again, more forcefully this time.
The pit of anxiety inside him continues to grow, gnawing the walls of his stomach and eating him out. He lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and subconsciously squeezes the umbrella even tighter, clenching the center until his colorless knuckles redden.
A bead of sweat trails down from his temple, and his breathing quickens, but the usually calm and precise Xie Bi’an hardly took notice. He was listening intently for a voice— his voice— to say anything.
But there was nothing; he is once again met by the infuriating sounds of the clock ticking, the crickets chirping, and his own breathing.
“Fan Wujiu.” He repeats, throat raw and voice desperate. “She said that I would see you again— no, she promised that I’d see you again.”
Silence. It was clear that he wasn’t going to answer.
Xie Bi’an continues, despite his hopeless pleas going through deaf ears. “You’re supposed to be here with me. I died in hopes of being by your side! How am I supposed to live an eternity without you?!”
His voice cracks, and he pauses for the briefest of moments before letting out a loud, tormented laugh. Xie Bi’an brings his face close to the umbrella as his ears were met by the ringing of his own laughter. He wraps his arms around himself, as tightly as he could muster, with the umbrella sitting unchangingly in between.
His palms are uncomfortable and sweaty, and his heart is thrashing; begging to be let out of its cage. He tosses his head back and laughs, and laughs, and laughs until his stomach hurts, and he can no longer breathe properly without gasping and sputtering uncontrollably for oxygen.
If God came down and asked him what was so funny, he’d simply smile and point at himself, for Xie Bi’an must be foolishness personified.
Eventually, the laughter dies down, and despite the immense hurt—like a knife to the heart— the White Guard lays on his side tearlessly, his body still shaking from the tension. The weariness draped on him from the beginning completely envelops the rest of his body, and he feels as if he could no longer keep his heavy eyelids open. He finally loosens his grip on the umbrella and rests it next to his side, letting out one last chuckle of disbelief to himself.
“A-Jiu,” He murmurs; weak, distant, and with great sadness. “Why has it come to this?”
The question lingers in the air for a few hefty moments, before becoming nothing again.
Staying awake was overbearing. Xie Bi’an allows himself to slip into slumber’s welcoming arms, anticipating waking up and holding the person he held dearest to him.
Although deep down, he knew that it was nothing more than a delusion.
***
By some twisted miracle, the rain pours suddenly the very next day. Xie Bi’an stayed cooped in his room ever since their arrival last night, and was thankful that nobody knew him well enough to question it.
But the White Guard is restless. He paces alone in his empty room— nothing but a tidy bed, a small window, and the black umbrella to keep him company.
At some point, someone knocks on his door. An unfamiliar female voice kindly offers to introduce him to the other residents at the manor; however, Xie Bi’an did not reply. In lieu, he silently takes a seat on his bed and patiently waits for them to leave. The sound of footsteps shuffling away from his door could be heard not too long after.
A part of him feels guilty— he was always a well-mannered and welcoming person when he was alive. In fact, he could not recall a single time where he’d purposely ignore somebody calling for him.
He shudders, gripping his hand on his forearm; a pacifying behavior to the heaviness he feels looking back at his past.
And of course, his thoughts naturally shift from himself to his other half— which was never an abnormality for Xie Bi’an, who’d spent every free moment keeping the thought of Fan Wujiu in his head. However, in his current circumstance, those thoughts were grim and unbearable.
Although he was the only one residing in the room, it was loud. Or perhaps, his mind was playing tricks on him, edging him to amplify every single sound.
With each second that passes, the clock’s ticking only seems to get louder and louder, yet the handle stays completely still. He bit his lip, glaring at the circular device plastered on the beige-colored walls. The pitter-patter of the rain was even more aggravating— and oh god, he could feel a migraine coming.
‘Nobody told me that the undead could get headaches.’ He thinks bitterly.
He instinctively reaches for the umbrella resting on the bed, slender fingers slowly stroking the dark fabric. But to his dismay, the sound of his hands rubbing against the nylon did nothing but worsen his state.
The clock ticking; the rain tapping heavily against the windowpane; the scratching of the smooth, silky umbrella; the sleek texture of the nylon colliding with his own skin— he needed it all to disappear.
“Please,” He pleads, to nobody but himself. “Please make it stop.”
Despite that, his movements only got more rigid and aggressive. Was he even in control of his own body?
He abruptly springs forward from the mattress, staggering towards the direction of the infuriating ticking sound. With the umbrella clenched tightly in his right hand; he thrusts in a fit of rage, completely shattering the face of the clock.
But the sounds did not stop.
Xie Bi’an shrieks.
Gathering all his strength, he rams the tip of the umbrella into the clock once more. He does it again and again and again and again and again— until finally the ferrule crooks, and could no longer cause any damage.
He was left disheveled and achingly breathless, pupils dilated and body shaking from the rush of adrenaline. Sharp pieces of glass littered the floor, but Xie Bi’an didn’t spare them a second glance.
Instead, he crumples to his knees, holds the umbrella tightly to his chest, and wails.
“You’re always such a cry baby!” Young Fan Wujiu’s voice echoes in his head. “It’s just a scratch! I didn’t hit you that hard!”
He wails, though there are no tears. Instead, he repeatedly bangs his fists on the floor, like a disobedient child throwing a tantrum at the market.
“But it hurts!” He squeaked back, gripping his throbbing arm in pain. “You’re always so mean and reckless!”
Young Fan Wujiu looked hurt by his comment, but it quickly disappeared and morphed into defensive malice; a spasmodic habit Fan Wujiu was most infamous for. Nobody but Xie Bi’an could see through it, but it wouldn’t process at the moment.
He huffs; shakily breathing, and greedily gasping heavily for air. The pounding of his head only intensifies at his wildly frantic behavior. It starts to pour even harder outside, but Xie Bi’an’s head drowns it all out.
His mind is like the pittering raindrops: each one of them representing the deleterious thoughts that just keep on forming. And unsurprisingly, the ones that coalesced into one big droplet were the Nantai Bridge, Fan Wujiu, and the black umbrella.
If only.. If only…
“If only you weren’t so damn weak; it wouldn’t hurt as much!” Young Fan Wujiu snarled, his hands balling into a shaking fist. He raised it high— close enough to elicit fear to the smaller boy’s shaking body— and the barrier quaked. The dam burst, and water flooded everywhere. Xie Bi’an broke down and howled, bringing his tiny hands to his eyes.
Young Fan Wujiu immediately faltered, stunned with what could only be regret.
“A-Bi’an,” He panicked, not-so-gently pulling the other boy towards him. “Stop crying, you’re going to get me in trouble!”
But Young Xie Bi’an didn’t listen. Instead, he pushed the other boy off him, resulting in Fan Wujiu stumbling back and landing on his behind, harshly scraping both of his elbows on the rough concrete floor.
“A-A-Jiu!” Xie Bi’an cried out, eyes widening at the harsh realization of what he just did.
The other boy didn’t so much as to let out a yelp. He laid there for a few moments— Young Xie Bi’an was certain that he’d accidentally murdered his best friend— before slowly picking himself up.
Fan Wujiu stood there in silence: his braided hair loose and tangled, his eyes cast towards the floor, and his expression unreadable. The smaller boy quivered timidly waiting for the eruption— screaming, yelling, and a huge burst of tears that rivaled his own.
But it never came.
Instead, Young Fan Wujiu looked up with a boxy smile full of nothing but sparkling genuineness. “There! Now we’re even…! So please, A-Bi’an, stop crying.”
… And of course, Young Xie Bi’an didn’t listen. He extended his arms forward and ran towards the other, bursting into a new wave of hot, messy tears.
“A-Jiu!” He wailed, embracing the other boy in a tight, choking hug.
He wails, and wails, and wails, until finally— three soft knocks on his door. It was all he needed to snap back into reality.
He stops, breathing unstable, and hands shaking uncontrollably. The same kind voice from before speaks, only it was now laced with sincere concern.
“Mister Wu Chang, are you alright?”
Wu Chang.
...Wu Chang?
Who is that?
***
Two survivors downed: the Coordinator and the Doctor. The White Guard hums in satisfaction and brushes his hair back, basking in his quick moment of glory. One of the two ladies— Martha Behamfil, he assumes— curses him out under her breath, but he didn’t pay her harsh words any mind.
“Miss Michiko,” He calls out, hoping that she hears him from wherever she is, “I got two of them!”
“Nicely done!” The Geisha sing-songs. “Look at you! You’re already getting the hang of this!”
Before Xie Bi’an can reply, the Geisha suddenly dashed away— presumably to another nearby survivor. He shifted his focus back onto the two ladies, a question forming in his head: who exactly should he chair first?
But in a survival setting, there is no time to ponder for too long. Cursing at his indecisiveness, he hastily grabs the Doctor— anxious over what she is capable of— and quickly, yet delicately (in fear of inflicting any more unneeded injuries) places her on a nearby rocket chair.
Tall metal bars automatically obscure the survivor, and Xie Bi’an jumps back in surprise.
‘Oh. Okay then.’ He thinks to himself. ‘Then I’ll return later.”
He makes his way back to the Coordinator— only to find that she had somehow healed and escaped from where he’d left her. It is disappointing, but he decides not to dwell too much on it. Instead, he rounds his way to the harbor where he knew there was a cipher being worked on—
“Wu Chang!” A shrill voice calls from the distance. “There are many people here! Come as quickly as you can!”
He shouts back an affirming response and starts navigating towards the sound of the Geisha’s voice.
There are still four ciphers yet to be popped, and Xie Bi’an gleefully wonders if his first match would be a win. Lady Nightingale had promised to fulfill his wish in exchange for his role as a hunter in this weird, twisted game—perhaps it will finally be granted once he wins.
He.. really should’ve sorted out the details before accepting the offer.
“Ah, Miss Michiko—”
BAM!
He lurches back, yelping in shock at the impact of whatever-the-hell just hit him. As the smoke lightens up, he can see Martha laughing snidely, running to the direction of a chaired survivor.
It then occurred to him: the Doctor!
Although Xie Bi’an is normally a calm and levelheaded man, he can’t help but clench his head in frustration as he finally shakes off the stun of the flare gun. He mumbles a quick apology towards his partner, and with the help of his (rather odd) soul siphoning skill, is able to catch up to the Coordinator despite their distances.
“Don’t make this difficult, “Miss Behamfil!” He taunts audibly, bringing his arm back and swinging... only to realize that he’d somehow missed!
‘Shit!’ He curses quietly, as his umbrella makes contact with the rocket chair rather than the Coordinator’s flesh. The woman smirks wordlessly in triumph and uses the time to untie her teammate, making sure to trail closely behind her. Xie Bi’an scoffs and attacks again.
Only this time, he does more than just miss.
Somehow, his thumb manages to slip from the handle and instead clicks on the small button that was made for prompting the umbrella open. His eyes widened for a split second, but he didn’t have the time to process what had just happened as some type of black ink engulfs his entire body.
A bell’s chime can be heard and he stumbles forward, nearly tripping on his own two feet.
“Oh, you little fuckers.” He mutters, striding after the two survivors. “Come back here!”
Trailing after them is a hard task, as the forest’s mists obscure most of his sight, and the thin atmosphere makes it difficult to breathe. Eventually, he manages to catch up and propels his umbrella forward, smiting the Coordinator before she could slam the pallet down.
But that isn’t enough for him— he wants the Doctor gone, too.
“Stop healing where I can see you!” He gruffs, traversing ahead.
Of course, the pallet slams down on him, and he lets out a furious yell, clenching his throbbing head in pain. Fortunately for him, Michiko was in the distance. She dashes right to the Doctor's back, and lands a hit, successfully knocking her down before she could fully recover.
“Hell yeah!” He cheers, grabbing the struggling Coordinator, and heading towards the nearest rocket chair. “Not too bad!”
He shoves her in place and sticks out his tongue gloatingly. “Sucker.”
The Coordinator opens her mouth to retort, but is silenced by the blare of the alarm as the last cipher pops.
He swears out loud and looks around him— only to realize that there were only two or three survivors left. The Doctor was immediately sent back to the manor, which leaves the Geisha room to roam around looking for the rest. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long to join her.
However, they only managed to down one more person before the rest of them escaped— still a win on their side.
“Well done, Mister Wu Chang!” Michiko congratulates, obscuring a slight part of her face with her fan. “I think we did splendid today.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He flusters, rubbing the nape of his neck in embarrassment. “I think we make a great duo.”
“If you would like, we should team up again sometime!” The Geisha smiles, clasping her hands together in delight. Her expression drops only the slightest bit as she continues. “However, if I may ask, how did you manage to change your outfit so quickly mid-match?”
He looks down at himself quizzically and blinks.
He blinks, and he blinks, and he blinks—until he finally realizes.
He has a body.
***
Xie Bi’an’s voice repeated over and over and over again in his head— he was calling out to him, desperate and pleading.
But Fan Wujiu could not respond. He’d try to, but his mouth wouldn’t open, and the words wouldn’t come out. Instead, he could only sit in helpless silence as his name gets called out repeatedly, to the point where it gets so, so familiar that he couldn’t help but question if that was really his own name.
It was pitch black, and he vaguely wondered if darkness amplified sound, for the other was loud and in desperate hysterics.
Xie Bi’an was hurting, and Fan Wujiu, once again, couldn’t do anything but sit and watch the infected wound bleed out.
He wanted so badly to be next to him, holding him and whispering sweet words of nothing, lulling him to sleep. He wanted to stroke his hand while they both lay closely together, Fan Wujiu’s head pressed against Xie Bi’an’s chest. He would close his eyes, listen to the sounds of his slow, rhythmic heartbeat; until he, too, falls asleep.
But yet again, it was nothing more than inconsolable hankering. The forces above were hostile and brutal, and enjoyed seeing them painfully torn apart. No matter how much they begged, and yearned, and craved, it would not budge for them.
“A-Jiu,” Xie Bi’an called out weakly; despairingly. “Why has it come to this?”
And to that, Fan Wujiu wondered.
I don’t know, A-Bi’an. I really, really, don’t know.
***
Unfortunately, the moon was covered by thick storm clouds that night, leaving Fan Wujiu to sit alone in the dark with his own thoughts: nothing but the long, black umbrella keeping him company. It was silent, but if he listened closely enough, he could hear light drizzling from outside. The mere thought of it making contact with his skin sent shivers down his spine.
More importantly, how exactly did he end up at this place? The manor itself was full of residents— although he’d never actually properly introduced himself. They seemed to side-eye him with pity on his way back to his room, though. It was odd.
The last thing he’d recall seeing was his dearest Xie Bi’an—the long, red rope holding his skinny, frail body hostage by the neck. His breathing hitches at the ghostly memory and his grip on the umbrella tightens.
Xie Bi’an died because of him. And now suddenly, Fan Wujiu is alive again.
He, who caused Xie Bi’an so much pain, is alive and walking without him by his side. It is a sick, twisted curse, yet, it was very real. He shifts his position on the bed and lays down, sighing with a heavy heart.
Although he cannot see every little detail in the dark, he can vaguely make out the figure of the umbrella; it was warm and heavy to his touch. If Fan Wujiu retracts his hand, then he is certain that it would definitely feel like sleeping next to someone.
Like Xie Bi’an. He is sleeping next to his most treasured person.
His heart aches longingly; the universe granting him the ability to live again was absolutely useless if it wasn’t with the person he loved the most. Perhaps this was what Xie Bi’an had felt, too.
Those thoughts linger for a brief moment as he slowly closes his eyes, his own breathing and the weird, unshakable presence of the umbrella soothing him into a dreamless slumber. It wasn’t until he was dazed and half asleep, that a very unusual, lethargic, yet plausible thought enters his mind.
If he, Fan Wujiu, could hear Xie Bi’an call out to him despite him physically not being there, would it be the same thing vice versa? Of course, he could chalk it up to his mind playing tricks on him again— but Fan Wujiu was dead. Can the brain really be that powerful?
What if they were trapped in this umbrella?
Fan Wujiu shot up at this realization, covering his face in absolute horror.
That would explain how he got here in the first place— Xie Bi’an had brought him here. He could hear him without being physically present— was it because his soul was in the umbrella?
In hindsight, it was a stupid idea. If he’d heard himself saying it out loud, he would’ve definitely laughed and smacked himself across the face. But as he continues to juggle with this idea in his mind, it starts to slowly piece together.
...It would make sense, wouldn’t it? He was able to hear Xie Bi’an, and was aware of his surroundings enough to know what to do when they’d suddenly switched places. There was phantom warmth coating the umbrella— heavy and wistful— like another person was in the room.
Fan Wujiu must be going crazy. He must be.
They were both supposedly dead. But Fan Wujiu is physically sitting here. He can feel the folds of the mattress covers brush uncomfortably against his feet. He can hear the light rain outside that makes him feel so, so unsettled. The churning of his stomach is very real— it is a feeling he was all too familiar with in the past. It was all real.
He was real.
He fumbles with the umbrella, hands frantically tracing every lining and bump until finally— a pause. His thumb rests on a single, petite button.
“You do realize that opening an umbrella indoors is bad luck, right?” A familiar voice echoes in his ears.
“Don’t be a party pooper,” Fan Wujiu replied, pointing the umbrella directly at him. “Fight me!”
The man raised an eyebrow, rolling his eyes in fake irritation. But his fond smile betrayed how he truly felt at the moment.
“If you hurt me, I won’t hesitate to bring you to court!”
“Huh? You? Bringing me to court? You would definitely lose!” Fan Wujiu’s thumb rested on the bottom spring. “Y’know why?”
Xie Bi’an chuckled lightly, promptly deciding to humor the other man. “Why?”
“Because you’re super pushy and would definitely take the fall for me.” He bent over and erupted in raucous laughter.
Xie Bi’an let out a loud gasp, gaping in false indignation. “I would never do that! My sense of justice is strong. Unlike yours. You’re lucky that they don’t rank justice in numbers because yours would be in the negatives.”
“Shut up, that’s not true!” He argued back, pointing the tip of the umbrella towards him. “Now be careful, A-Bi’an! Don’t piss me off or I’mma stab you!”
“You would stab me? Your most favorite person in the world? How could you!” He firmly held his gaze, eyes narrowed in profound offense.
They stayed that way for a few seconds; before Xie Bi’an finally cracked, throwing his head back cackling. Fan Wujiu followed soon after, his chest heaving up-and-down in hysterics.
***
He unwillingly blinks, and the memory dissolves. But he wishes it hadn’t.
If there was an opportunity to relive every single moment he’d spent with Xie Bi’an, Fan Wujiu would take it in a heartbeat. Though, no god is giving enough to will such a beautiful thought into existence.
“Idiot,” He mutters, digging his thumb into the edge of the blade. “You were right. It was bad luck.”
Fan Wujiu exhales deeply, and presses the button.
***
“You are certain that you want to go through with this?” The lady in the feathered bird mask had asked, hands delicately folded together, and her focus entirely on the man in white. “There is no turning back if you accept. You are stuck here for the rest of eternity.”
“If my wish is granted, then there is no doubt in my mind.” Xie Bi’an didn’t miss a single beat. “I would do anything.”
The lady hummed in response and smiled eerily, her eyes landing on the long black umbrella clutched in his hands. “And tell me, Mister Xie Bi’an, what is your wish?”
A pregnant pause. He stared at her intensely, the atmosphere around them aching with rigid tension. Lady Nightingale waited patiently, seemingly unperturbed by his burning gaze. He opened his mouth to speak.
It will be okay, A-Jiu. Not even death could do us part.
***
“These little fuckers are getting on my nerves!” He foams at the mouth, gripping the umbrella tightly in his hands as the Prospector gives him a mock salute before skillfully propelling himself through the window.
There was one cipher left— and all four of the survivors had somehow escaped from their grasp, albeit injured.
“Now, now!” The shorter man chirps, clicking his tongue. “Don’t hit your big-ol’ head vaulting that window!”
Oh, how Fan Wujiu wanted to shove the Prospector and his stupid little candle hat up a mammoth’s ass.
“Worry about yourself, dipshit!” He spits, trailing close behind him not too long after. However, the Prospector was already making his way out the factory’s doors.
He’s trying to loop you. The rational part of himself whispers in his ears. Confuse him.
But of course, Fan Wujiu was erratic, spontaneous, and way too impatient to pull something like that off successfully. After another mock salute from the survivor, he huffs, aiming the umbrella outside to the direction the man was running towards.
Not my problem anymore!
A wave of white sweeps over him. As the last drop hits the ground, the White Guard opens his eyes, a circle of green smoke surrounding the radius he stood. The Prospector yelps in surprise, and panic-slams the pallet down on the wrong side.
Xie Bi’an smiles innocently, maneuvering himself forward and striking the umbrella at the same time, knocking the survivor down before he can vault. He hums, looking down on the man in satisfaction, before picking him up.
“Mister Campbell, you’re quite the agile one, aren’t you?” He muses, the Prospector struggling in his arms.
“Pssh, I fucking try!” He gripes, as the hunter lightly sits him onto the rocket chair.
“Ah, well then,” Xie Bi’an says with a sickly sweet, eager to please tone. “Try harder next time.”
The alarm blares, and the Prospector is sent back to the manor in a fit of rage, cursing to nobody in particular. The White Guard sighs in exasperation, shifting his attention back to the task at hand.
“A-Jiu, if you’d just go after Miss Gilman instead,” He scolds, holding the umbrella close to his face and shaking his finger in disapproval. “You know Mister Campbell is always a little more tricky to deal with.”
The umbrella (of course) remains silent, but Xie Bi’an could sense its frustration from a mile away. He tsks in disappointment, making his way to one of the two exit gates.
In truth, he wasn’t in any hurry to find anyone. Perhaps it was a weird outlook, but he didn’t mind losing if it meant that he could spend the rest of his time with Fan Wujiu. He’d admit that he’d like it better when they were both back at the manor— as it permitted them to be in separate bodies if the umbrella was unfolded— but Fan Wujiu was Fan Wujiu, and Xie Bi’an could not care any less about his physical form.
“Oh, I forgot to ask you something.” He perks up, the exit gate in sight. “Miss Michiko wanted to know if you would like to team up later this evening. I wanted to ask you earlier, but I didn’t get the chance to...”
...Ah, this one’s closed. They must be at the other one.
“And Mister Desaulnier wants me to join him for tea right after. I’m still not sure why you dislike him so much! I think he’s pleasant to be around.” He can almost hear the other whining in protest.
The White Guard stops walking and looks around, deciding that yes, it was a lost cause to continue pursuing anyone else. They’d probably opened the gate by now.
Instead, he takes a seat against a nearby broken wall, resting the umbrella on his lap. The dead grass below was damp, and it was definitely going to leave a wet mark on his behind. It wasn’t to anyone’s surprise— it had been raining a lot.
“A-Jiu,” His voice softens, caressing the umbrella fondly. “If you’re free later this evening, we can go for a long walk. We have an umbrella… so we should be okay.”
It is silent. The rest of the survivors are probably gone by now, leaving Xie Bi’an alone with nobody but his companion. His lack of response makes him think back to their first night— and Xie Bi’an frowns at the long rope of overwhelming feelings that had unfortunately tied the both of them down in the past.
But he drops it, and kicks it aside before it can wring his neck again. He is fine now. Xie Bi’an had Fan Wujiu by his side.
He brings the umbrella close to his cheek once more— lightly, delicately, and full of adoration. The clouds above were starting to gather, adding a darker shade of grey to the already bleak and colorless sky.
“Sorry,” He laughs airily. “I should probably wait until we’re back before asking you all of these questions.”
And in his mind, he can hear Fan Wujiu huffing silent in agreement.
Without another word, Xie Bi’an stands up from his spot and starts making his way home. In his hands grip a long, black umbrella.