Chapter Text
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Zhixing’s sought refuge at the Pillow Tower. Refuge from skull-numbing, despair-inducing boredom. There’s nothing for him to do, no task, no responsibilities. Not even lessons or exams. Just… nothing but to seek one silly distraction after another, spend money on whatever takes his fancy, and while away day after night after day. He finds himself envying the servants. Especially that latest addition to Father’s household: Zang Hai. Father hadn’t bothered telling Zhixing; not even Father’s steward had given Zhixing the news. He only found out when he ran into the new scribe in Father’s treasure house at night. Where said scribe was occupied inventorying, and catching Zhixing in the act of pilfering. Appearances mattered: Father tended to turn a blind eye unless Zhixing’s petty thievery became too blatant; then Father would perceive it as an insult to his absolute authority, and that was anathema.
It could have gone awry. The man could have raised the matter with the steward (or with Father himself; he’d insinuated himself well enough into Father’s graces.). Or he could have traded silence for reward.
In the following days, Shixing had been treading on eggshells. But nothing happened, and after a week he dared to relax.
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He slides into the herb-infused bath, prepared specially for him – with a bespoke mix, he’s been told, though he doubts that – and closes his eyes as he relaxes in the warm, fragrant water. He leans his head back onto the wooden pillow on the edge of the small square pool. If he were feeling less lazy, he could contemplate the sky from here, but he can’t be bothered. What’s so special about the sky? He spreads his arms and rests his elbows on the edge. It’s pleasant to feel boneless like that. Completely lax, ready to dissolve.
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He keeps catching glimpses of Zang Hai. He sees him worm his way into Father’s confidences at startling speed. No, the startling thing is that it happens at all. Zhixing is idle, not stupid, and he has the advantage of a spectator’s post: on the sidelines yet close enough to see. It’s morbidly fascinating. He doesn’t give it much thought but since he has nothing to do it’s like watching a play at the Tower. As in, an act that’s both funny and dramatic but much, much sharper and certainly not played to entertain. He realises this, fully, not after the demise of Father’s Master of the Scribes in the mausoleum incident, but when Father’s Master at Arms dies under odd circumstances, the whole thing is hushed up, and Zang Hai appears at the family dinner, on Father’s invitation (an order he couldn’t have refused, but still…).
Zhixing’s accepted that Father’s written him off. He’s settled into inadequacy, cultivated it, and uses it as a means of survival. No matter what Father did to twist things into the shape they have now, there are people who’ll never accept Zhixing’s elder brother as the legitimate heir. So Zhixing’s bent himself into what his brother’s mother wanted him to be: A wastrel, unconcerned with anything beyond chasing pleasure. Zhixing thinks that’s why he’s allowed to live.
And then Zang Hai shows up and things get messy.
Slowly. Barely noticeably. But also, undeniably. Gathering momentum like a boulder rolling downhill with the occasional explosive bump thrown in. Zhixing’s life is disturbed, and he blames Zang Hai for it.
He hates it.
He hates him.
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How come?
How come he hates him yet…
He’s sure he hates him: That obsequious smile, that servile bend to his spine, the way he draws in his shoulders to make himself smaller. How his gaze hangs on Father’s expression, on his lips as if every syllable was nectar he feeds on.
It’s all fake.
It has to be, because Zang Hai is the cleverest man Zhixing’s ever met. People with that kind of cleverness either don’t last long, or they outlast everyone. It isn’t clear which, in Zang Hai’s case.
He’s scary, the way he plays with danger: It may look reckless but those gambles always pay off. As a fellow-gambler Zhixing understands probability well enough. Zang Hai always beats the odds, the house loses. Therefore he must be calculating – careful, ruthless, quiet as a whisper or the silken steps of a tiger. He’s walking the edge of a blade, eyes observant, smile yielding, back ever ready to bow, quick and low.
Zhixing wants to see how he looks when he’s cornered – when the edge of that blade lies against his jugular, or someone tries to bury him alive… He’s envious of Father who’s seen Zang Hai like that. Yet Zang Hai has survived, and he’s thriving. He’s rising like a comet, and Father… Zhixin isn’t much involved with family affairs, but he knows they can be lethal – he has his and his mother’s own bitter fate to show for it – but he thinks his father is a fool to let Zang Hai close.
Closer than Zhixing.
Zang Hai seems to eclipse everyone around him with frightening ease.
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There’s something casually impersonal in how little worldly things mean to him. There’s something deeply personal about how he pursues acknowledgement. He drinks it in, fawns and scrapes in gratitude, a show of abject humbleness that is as false as it is impressive. Most people buy it, hook line and sinker. Zhixing learns that his elder brother has more sense than their father, who isn’t most people and yet…
Zang Hai never plays on his physical attributes. He never flirts with anyone; it isn’t clear whether he’s aware of his allure. It’s the same as the beauty of a sword, made of artful pattern steel with a hilt of finest jade: Breathtaking. Ice-cold. Lethal.
If Zang Hai knows his looks turn heads, he never shows it. He never uses it. Perhaps this is it – a thread to grasp and start unravelling whatever feels off and unsettling here – this kind of arrogance that makes him either unaware or choosy enough to eschew such tactics. Those dark eyes never show anything but cool consideration (sometimes he casts his gaze down, as if to hide – just what is he hiding?). That handsome smile never truly warms. He dresses conservatively, does his hair flawlessly, walks and moves measuredly. He eats blandly. He drinks tea instead of wine, in elegant, measured sips. Everything about him is deliberate and shallow.
A mirror to reflect whoever is looking at him.
A distraction.
A swamp overgrown with weeds mimicking firm ground.
What might be lurking beneath? There has to be something in that frozen stillness. Something that made Father take note – and become all but enthralled (he is, whatever he might say or pretend).
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