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Wang Zhi comes to see him on what Ding Rong thinks is his twenty-second day imprisoned. With no one to see, and with nothing to do, even the counting of the coming and going of daylight has started to become uncertain.
When he hears footsteps coming up the isolated cell block that he has been placed on, Ding Rong raises his head. The moment he sees the red of Wang Zhi’s uniform, however, he looks down at his knees.
“Am I to die now?” he says, a little surprised to hear how raspy his voice is.
There is silence above him, and then a key turns in a lock. The cell door creaks open.
Ding Rong’s gaze snaps up in time to see that Wang Zhi has come alone, and what is more, he has stepped into the cell.
Reckless.
As he approaches where Ding Rong sits on the ground, Wang Zhi’s expression is as unreadable as it had been when he emerged from the shadows to take back his commandership. His hands are hidden in the cape he wears; Ding Rong doesn’t doubt that his gun is drawn, ready to be lit and fired in one swift motion. It’s a move that few have mastered besides Wang Zhi.
Ding Rong doesn’t move, and eventually Wang Zhi stops short of where he is sitting.
The cell door has been left open behind him.
A test?
Ding Rong meets Wang Zhi’s eyes.
“I’ve been assigned to He Tao,” Wang Zhi says.
His voice sounds louder than normal as it cuts through the cold prison air, but maybe Ding Rong has just gotten used to the sound of silence. After all, the only things he hears these days is the twice daily shuffle of a guard bringing him rice porridge and the occasional egg or citrus to eat.
“The border-pass,” Ding Rong says. He races to understand why Wang Zhi would tell him such a thing.
“That is where you will be serving your exile, as well.”
Ah.
Ding Rong continues staring up at Wang Zhi—Wang Zhi, who hasn’t bothered to visit yet before. Not that he’d been obligated to. Why should he?
Yet...
“Why did you come to tell me yourself?” Ding Rong ventures to ask. He glances past Wang Zhi again, to the open cell door. If he were to beat Wang Zhi in a fight, it would make no difference, he supposes. There would just be more guards to encounter on the way out, and Ding Rong is unarmed.
“Old time’s sake, I guess,” Wang Zhi says. His eyes scan over Ding Rong, probably taking in his unkempt appearance.
“Old time’s sake,” Ding Rong repeats, and he tastes a bitterness in the back of his mouth.
What a load of shit.
The vitriol must be apparent in his tone, because Wang Zhi cocks his head slowly, eyes flashing dangerously as if to say you dare? “Yes,” he says. “We worked well together before, didn’t we?”
Ding Rong stares at Wang Zhi, petty in his refusal to agree to such a basic thing. A truth.
“Oh stop it,” Wang Zhi bursts out suddenly, composure twisting away, melting into a pinched expression. “You had your fun. Accept that your attempt to undermine me resulted in failure. You didn’t kill me when you had the chance, and that’s—”
“I didn’t want to kill you,” Ding Rong snaps, irritated that Wang Zhi should bring it up again. “I just wanted to keep you.”
Why should every victory have to end in death? Did Wang Zhi think his methods were really so black and white? Shouldn’t he of all people know better?
Above him, Wang Zhi’s face changes once more, turning from angry to startled before his expression shutters altogether.
Ding Rong thinks back on his words, and feels a twinge of embarrassment. He hadn’t meant—well, he had—but he hadn’t meant for it to sound so—
“Keep me,” Wang Zhi says flatly. “How would you have kept me? As we did Yang Fu? Hidden away in a secret cell?”
Ding Rong turns his gaze to the ground. What did it matter, anyway?
“Do you think Shang Ming would have let you keep me?” Wang Zhi says, voice taking a softer turn. “Do you think he intended for you to be anything more than his puppet?”
Irritation drips through Ding Rong like acid, burning angry holes in his thoughts. Again with the condescension.
You needn’t lecture me, he wants to snap. He isn’t stupid. Of course he knew that Shang Ming would have tried to control him, but it was never about power, not in the long run. It—
But he is imprisoned now. What use is it to defend his impulsive choices?
“I would have kept you safe,” he says simply, and leaves it at that, never looking up.
Wang Zhi does not respond for a long time, but Ding Rong can tell he hasn’t left yet. He is merely standing before Ding Rong, waiting for something.
“You’re a fool, Ding Rong,” Wang Zhi declares.
Kill me, then.
But when Ding Rong glances up, he sees that Wang Zhi’s arms are folded, and that his gun is nowhere in sight.
They say nothing more, and eventually Wang Zhi purses his lips, shakes his head, and lets out a laugh of disbelief. He looks down at Ding Rong as if he intends to add something else, but in the end he merely turns and leaves again.
Ding Rong watches him go, thinking briefly that if he were to jump after Wang Zhi while his back was turned, he could—could…
Wang Zhi pulls the gate close behind him, looking back at Ding Rong again with a strange look.
What? Say what’s on your mind. Kill me if you have no more use for me.
Ding Rong keeps his mouth shut, swallowing back the desire to yell after Wang Zhi. After a moment, the anger fades, rotting in the pit of his stomach.
If he is to be exiled, then that is that, he supposes. He has a will to live, all things said and done. If His Majesty has chosen to be merciful, Ding Rong has no choice but to be grateful.
#
He can hear Wang Zhi talking from just beyond the cage, where he sits on an obscene display to a crowd who haven’t the faintest clue who he is. It’s difficult to care or feel undignified when he is so unknown to the onlookers and they are so unknown to him.
“What can I do even if it’s not safe? I can’t bear to kill him,” Wang Zhi says to Tang Fan and Sui Zhou.
Ding Rong snorts softly to himself.
“And I don’t feel safe leaving him in the capital, so I’ll just have to take him with me. Besides, he’s been by my side all these years. I’m not used to things without him.”
Now you say such things, Ding Rong thinks, but his bitterness mellows when he peers out through the bars of the cage and sees Wang Zhi’s expression. It is...soft. Fond.
He does not understand it.
#
The guards leave Ding Rong alone once he approaches the doorway of the bathhouse, a move that seems unwise until he enters the steamy hut and sees Wang Zhi sitting on a chair beside one of two bathtubs, wearing plain white robes with his sleeves pulled back with a shoulder syringe. A knife rests upon his thigh, casually held there by the hand that rests atop it.
Ding Rong stops in his tracks.
Tilting his head, Wang Zhi merely smiles. “Well?”
“Do you intend to slit my throat in the bath?” Ding Rong says. Nevertheless, he takes a step forward, and another, and begins stripping out of his clothes as he goes, pulling his tunic up over his head and tossing it to the ground.
It is late autumn outside—overcast, from what he had briefly seen—and it is chilly in the bathhouse, even with the steam. Ding Rong resists the urge to shrink in on himself as goosebumps rise over his body.
Wang Zhi laughs. “Why would I make a mess of my bath like that?” he says.
“Do you think I’ve forgotten how to wash these few weeks?” Ding Rong says, stopping in front of Wang Zhi. He knows he must reek of grease and sweat. Sometimes he smells it, but mostly, he’s grown immune to his own stench.
Wang Zhi simply looks him up and down, not so much as wrinkling his nose. “My, you’ve grown bony,” he says, reaching out and poking Ding Rong between his ribs. His fleeting touch burns. “The guards mentioned you don’t eat everything you’re given. Do you really think you have the luxury to be choosy?”
“Better to starve than to risk food poisoning and shit myself to death,” Ding Rong retorts. He watches Wang Zhi’s mouth twitch.
The hand over his knife remains relaxed, and Ding Rong makes no effort to hide that he is staring at it as he pushes his trousers down, kicking them aside.
“I wouldn’t poison you,” Wang Zhi says pleasantly.
Ding Rong doesn’t respond to him. “That’s my dagger,” he says instead, eyes still fixed on the familiar blade and carved handle on Wang Zhi’s thigh.
“No,” Wang Zhi says, lifting it casually. “It’s my dagger.” He points the thin blade at Ding Rong, gesturing at the bathtub. “Get in the water before it grows cold, Ding Rong,” he says. “You’re filthy.”
“I’m a prisoner,” he says, but he turns and climbs over the side of the wooden tub nearest him, plunging one foot into the tub without a thought. The water is hot; Ding Rong can’t help but grit his teeth, letting out a hissed breath.
Wang Zhi turns, shifting in his seat and pushing his chair closer to the edge of the tub. He gets up on his knees, hanging off the edge of the tub and reaching over the water, dipping his hand over the surface. Water ripples where his skin touches the water. “Careful,” he says, and then splashes some water up Ding Rong’s thigh. “Get used to the temperature first.”
I know how to bathe.
Ding Rong only clenches his jaw, bringing his other leg in more carefully and submerging himself in the water. He lets out an uneven breath, chest hitching as the warmth sets into his skin and he ducks his head under the water. He stays under for a long time, pleased with the way the water mutes the world around him and soothes his dry, itchy scalp. It is hot—uncomfortably so, but Ding Rong can feel the chill in his bones finally fading.
Then he feels fingers in his hair, yanking him out of the water with a harsh tug.
“Are you trying to kill yourself in front of me?” Wang Zhi says.
Ding Rong gasps for air, realising that his lungs have been aching for it. “No,” he says, wiping water from his face. He sees that Wang Zhi has risen to his feet and is leaning over him, eyes blazing with anger. It’s a stark contrast from the casual air he’d met Ding Rong with when he’d walked into the bathhouse, and gazing up into the face of Wang Zhi’s wrath, Ding Rong feels a familiar deference cross over him. Reverence slips over him as if out of habit. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Wang Zhi’s fingers loosen in his hair and his glare falters, revealing something behind his tight grip and his anger that looks a little bit more like panic. The look disappears as Wang Zhi turns away. “Take your hair down,” he says, crossing the room and putting Ding Rong’s old dagger down on a table where towels and fresh clothes are folded and waiting.
Reaching up for the mess atop his head, Ding Rong lowers himself into the water again, puzzling over Wang Zhi’s intentions. They’d arrived in He Tao just a few days ago. They hadn’t exchanged many words on the journey north and Ding Rong had resigned himself to not seeing Wang Zhi for a long time after he was taken from his cage on wheels and placed in a small stone cell instead.
And now this.
Wang Zhi returns to the side of the bath, a tray of items for washing in hand. He places it down on his chair, out of view of Ding Rong, but then straightens up with a wooden, wide-toothed comb in hand. “Turn around,” he says.
“Why?”
“I am going to comb out your hair,” Wang Zhi replies. “Turn around.”
He does, slowly, pushing down his bemusement even as he feels Wang Zhi reaching out and dragging his fingers through the long tangles.
Silence sets in as Wang Zhi goes about combing at the ends of Ding Rong’s hair, holding the sections above where he combs in order to minimize any painful yanking. Ding Rong stares into the water and scrubs at his arms a little, shedding skin. He really is very disgusting.
After some time, Wang Zhi steps away and comes back only to pour a strong, ginger and cedar fragrance over his head. He sticks his hand over Ding Rong’s shoulder, holding out a handful of soap beads.
“Wash,” he orders, so Ding Rong takes the soap and crushes them in his palm, glad to follow this particular command even if it means his movements lead to more hair-pulling from Wang Zhi.
“What do you intend to do with me?” he says when Wang Zhi rids him of most of his tangles and then begins vigorously scratch at his scalp. “Why are you washing me?”
“I’m washing you because you haven’t bathed in nearly a month,” Wang Zhi says evenly. “You’re covered in dead skin.” He pours a new bucket of lukewarm water over Ding Rong’s head. “It’s very unbecoming, and I know you must hate it. You’ve always been a very clean person.”
Ding Rong shrugs. “What use is it to be cleanly when I live in a cell?”
“You won’t live in a cell from now on,” Wang Zhi says. “Stand up. Get in the new tub.”
Ding Rong stands, swaying in a brief moment of lightheadedness. He feels his hair blanket his back, heavy with water but finally untangled again, with a huge nest of the loose strands pulled from his head sitting somewhere out of sight to prove it.
Climbing out of the water, now full of suds and filth and floating hairs, Ding Rong pauses between the tubs, bowing his head as Wang Zhi pours another bucket of water over him. He shudders and scrambles quickly into the second tub, where the water has cooled somewhat.
“Where will I be living, then?” he says, turning to look at Wang Zhi, who has followed him over. Wang Zhi leans on the edge of the tub, forearms wet from washing Ding Rong.
He smiles softly, expression as warm as it had been when Ding Rong saw him through the bars back at the capital gates. “You'll be living in the governor's mansion,” he says, and reaches out, cupping Ding Rong’s cheek. “With me.”
Ding Rong sits frozen in place, hardly daring to breathe under this new touch. “As a servant?” he says.
Wang Zhi brushes his thumb over Ding Rong’s cheek and laughs. “In a sense,” he replies, and straightens up, turning away. “Keep washing.”
So Ding Rong does, though he tracks Wang Zhi out of the corner of his eye, watching as he picks up and brings back a small tray with a dish of tooth powder and a toothbrush.
Under Wang Zhi’s supervision, Ding Rong brushes his teeth once, and then again. His gums bleed and the spices in the tooth powder sting the inside of his mouth, but he just spits the blood out and rinses when Wang Zhi holds out a cup of water for him.
“Thank you,” he croaks. His mouth feels cleaner now, but there’s the lingering taste of blood. He wonders if there is blood between his teeth, because Wang Zhi simply arches an eyebrow at him and then goes to exchange the toothbrush for a towel, which he brings back over to Ding Rong like a common servant.
He is a servant, Ding Rong supposes. Even if he is governor of the He Tao region now, too.
“Come out,” Wang Zhi says, unfurling the towel and holding it out toward Ding Rong. “Before the water gets cold and you catch a chill.”
Ding Rong stands at once, water dripping heavily from his body as he steps out of the tub and wrings out his hair.
“You no longer seem confused as to why I have not killed you,” Wang Zhi notes, stepping forward and wrapping a towel at his waist. He unfolds a second towel, wiping it over Ding Rong’s chest and shoulders.
“If you intend to kill me, you will do it in your own time,” Ding Rong says.
Wang Zhi sinks to his knees, patting Ding Rong’s legs dry next. “Correct.”
“What I don’t understand,” he says, and lifts a foot when Wang Zhi taps the front of his leg, “is why you are doing this to me.”
“Am I doing something to you?” Wang Zhi says, wrapping Ding Rong’s foot in the towel. “Am I torturing you, Ding Rong?”
He wobbles on one foot, grabbing Wang Zhi’s shoulder as he begins to lose his balance.
If this contact is unwelcome, Wang Zhi shows no sign of it. Letting the towel drop to the floor, Wang Zhi grabs him by the hips, steadying him. “What do you think I’m doing this for, Ding Rong?” he asks, staring up with mirth dancing in his eyes. “Hm?”
Ding Rong stares, mouth going dry. “I couldn’t guess,” he says, and Wang Zhi smirks, rising to his feet.
“You’re fond of purple, aren’t you?” he asks, though it doesn’t matter.
The top he fetches from across the room is dyed lilac whether Ding Rong likes it or not. He does like it, though—the shirt is thick wool, comfortable and warm, and there is a simple geometric embroidery along the collar.
Hardly the garb of a prisoner.
And Wang Zhi dresses Ding Rong himself, which is certainly novel, too.
Ding Rong has never had another person dress him before, and he thinks even His Majesty would find it unnecessary for a servant to help him into a simple tunic and trousers. Even so, Wang Zhi insists, sucking his teeth and smacking Ding Rong’s hand away when he tries to fasten the fabric belt himself.
Ding Rong stares down at his shirt, examining his sleeves as Wang Zhi forces his feet into a new pair of socks and boots.
“I don’t understand,” he says when Wang Zhi huffs out a breath and straightens up.
A strand of hair has escaped his top knot, but Wang Zhi doesn’t seem bothered by it as he stretches his arms instead. He groans and rolls back his shoulders, meeting Ding Rong’s gaze. “What’s not to understand?” he says.
Ding Rong’s old dagger is all but forgotten, sitting behind Wang Zhi across the room.
He fidgets with his sleeve, frowning. “I am forgiven,” he says.
“Yes.”
“But I am not free.”
Wang Zhi nods, looking pleased that Ding Rong has caught on. “Not really, no.”
A servant. In a sense.
Ding Rong looks down at Wang Zhi, observing him carefully and finding no cracks in the sincerity of his expression. He sees only patience and amusement looking back at him.
He reaches out slowly, providing Wang Zhi’s plenty of time to duck away. When Wang Zhi stays still, Ding Rong quickly fixes his hair. “Have you lost your mind?” he inquires when he finishes smoothing the wayward strands down.
Wang Zhi smiles sweetly, eyes turning up into half moons. “I have thought about this very carefully, actually,” he says. He takes a step closer, until their chests are nearly touching and he has to angle his head back to meet Ding Rong’s eyes. “You needn’t worry,” he says, and then laughs, perhaps sensing how absurd it is for him to be placating Ding Rong.
Then he tips up onto his toes, and his lips brush Ding Rong’s.
He freezes, thoughts fleeing his mind.
He is being…kissed.
Wang Zhi’s lips are warm and soft, and do not pull away when Ding Rong presses his mouth back against them.
They kiss gently, chastely. Once, twice. Three times.
Each kiss feels more surreal than the last, and Ding Rong feels a pressure build up behind his eyes.
He blinks. Crying now would be ridiculous.
“You still don’t you see?” Wang Zhi says, leaning back and looping his arms around Ding Rong’s neck. He tilts his head to the side.
Ding Rong shivers, though it is unrelated to his bath or the damp hair on his back, soaking into his clothes. Though his lips part, he can’t find his voice. He gapes, and in that time, Wang Zhi smiles and moves in, resting his cheek on Ding Rong’s shoulder, draping himself against Ding Rong as if they were ever so intimate without reason.
Ding Rong curls his fingers into Wang Zhi’s sides. I still don’t understand.
As if hearing his thoughts, Wang Zhi lets out a sigh, his breath warm against the side of Ding Rong’s neck. “What was it you said you wanted to do to me?” he says, arms tightening around Ding Rong, forcing him to lean down a little. “What was it again?”
Everything falls into place. Ding Rong licks his lips, remembering that Wang Zhi has always been fastidious about his own possessions.
“I just—just wanted to keep you,” Ding Rong whispers, and Wang Zhi’s lips are on his skin, peppering aimless kisses against the side of his neck.
“So,” Wang Zhi says, “you see what I am doing now. I am keeping you.” His teeth graze Ding Rong’s skin. “Just as you would have kept me.”
Oh.
“Maybe you’ll resent me for it someday.” Wang Zhi sounds entertained by the thought, and perhaps a little bitter, too.
I won’t, Ding Rong thinks, but he lets the words dissolve on his tongue. He won’t make any such promises. Not now, not yet. Would Wang Zhi believe him if he spoke such thoughts aloud, anyway?
He unfurls his fingers where they’ve been curled at Wang Zhi’s sides.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms across Wang Zhi’s back instead. The weight of his arms must settle heavily against Wang Zhi’s body because he shifts closer, hugging tighter.
“What’s to thank?” Wang Zhi says, though his voice is muffled against Ding Rong’s neck. “Now you’re all mine.”
Yours. Ding Rong closes his eyes, breathing in deeply. “Yes,” he says, and Wang Zhi’s arms tighten behind his neck again.
That’s a sort of punishment, he seems to say.
Instead of slouching lower, Ding Rong uses his arms around Wang Zhi to pull him up closer. I can bear it.