Work Text:
Vigil of the Heart
*
The dirt in which Lang Qianqiu kneels has long turned crimson.
The sky above is a bleak grey, with dark clouds of doom hanging low on the horizon. They match the atmosphere, and they match his mood.
He is bent forward over the Guoshi’s corpse as he weeps and weeps and weeps, unable to stop, unwilling to stop.
“Why?”
The answer Lang Qianqiu craves does not come. The Guoshi is dead.
His voice blends with the roaring laughter of the wind, accusing and mocking him. Its resonance catches itself in the shrubs nearby, shaking its flowers off and driving the snow-white petals away. Lost, never to return.
Over time, malicious thoughts have grown and cast a shadow over Lang Qianqiu's pure heart; a year ago, he would not have thought of killing for revenge.
“WHY?”
The Guoshi's corpse speaks for itself.
So do Lang Qianqiu’s hands.
They are still stained crimson, the visible reminder of what he had done. He lifts them to his face, staring at them—as if he only then realizes that the Guoshi will never answer him anything ever again.
He had raged, and he had sworn and vowed to kill him—and so he had. Keeping true to the promise he had given over his parent's still warm bodies. Their lifeless eyes haunt him, staring at him whenever he closes his eyes at night.
“Will you haunt me, too?”
Maybe.
But no answer will ever come from the Guoshi, ever again.
Rage and grief, frustration, and sadness all become one as Lang Qianqiu keeps staring at his hands; as he keeps staring at the Guoshi's pretty face, still wearing the mask. All the blood aside, he looks peaceful, as if he was simply sleeping.
Despite knowing that no answer will come, Lang Qianqiu keeps asking: "Why?"
He had accomplished his darkest fantasy and should rejoice in glee and gratitude.
Just…
That is not how Lang Qianqiu feels at all—during all his life, he has never felt more empty.
His parents: gone.
An Le: gone.
The Guoshi had been the last string connecting the past with the future. He, too, is gone now.
Lang Qianqiu is one thing: alone.
And afraid.
For now, he still has memories: of their voices, laughter, and smell. But he fears to forget; fears about the memories withering away, slowly, gradually. Like a flower in the frost.
He forgets for a second why he is still here, remembering: the childish infuriation he had harbored for his Guoshi all his teenage years; the infuriation which had turned into an obsession in the darkest of nights.
*
The gasp Lang Qianqiu hears is quiet.
Just as if the Guoshi has fallen asleep over his scrolls, his features soft and relaxed. A memory from a time when Yong’an hadn’t known harm or threat.
What is Lang Qianqiu doing here? He forgets, just so. For a moment, allowing his thoughts to go astray in the past.
Even now, he can hear the sound of the brush dipping into the vial of ink, followed by the gentle sound of it on paper as he writes character after character. The characters are not as perfect as they could be; a quirky brushstroke every few lines caused by his distraction. It is bad enough for the Guoshi to notice. The gasp was soft. Like the shake of his head. "Your royal highness, where are your thoughts today?"
For fear of giving himself away, Lang Qianqiu denies his Guoshi the answer until he is certain his voice does not betray him. "I am sorry. I am sorry Guoshi, I did not mean to..."
With a swirl of his robes, the Guoshi turns. "Try again," he requests, settling on the bench to read.
*
'Try again.'
The words rattle in Lang Qianqiu's mind, and they reverberate against this skin; they take residence in his heart where they fester and spread.
The gods aren’t merciful enough today to chase the darkness of his heart away.
The Guoshi's skin is still warm when Lang Qianqiu touches it tentatively. Soft, like he remembers it to be from those accidental touches that hadn’t been fully accidental at all. The Guoshi’s fingers are long and flexible, with neatly trimmed nails. And they are pale, unlike Lang Qianqiu's crimson ones. It does not stop him from touching him; from burying his face in the Guoshi’s hair, sweetly scented with osmanthus and sandalwood.
Lang Qianqiu's gasp is quiet. Surprised. Not so much shocked by what he does, going far beyond anything that is considered normal. Appropriate.
The question is: does it still matter? Does it change anything?
No.
Killing the hand that feeds you, also isn't considered normal, after all...
It is in these thoughts that Lang Qianqiu finds his absolution; weeping, crying, and cursing all at once. There still is no rational explanation for the Guoshi's crimes towards the royal family of Yong’an, there’ll never be.
And so Lang Qianqiu’s fingers become bolder. Questing, and touching at last what he has desired to touch for so long.
The Guoshi's corpse is heavier than Lang Qianqiu had expected it to be; unresponding, like a bag of rice. But somehow still grateful in his colorful robes: vivid. Alive. He makes quick work of getting rid of them, shedding the outer two layers without tearing anything apart even if it means rolling him around in the dirt. There's no other way to rid him of all the remaining layers without active participation.
Lang Qianqiu's hands go still at that notion. Just for a moment, considering his choices.
“I hate you...”
A helpless wail, dancing away with the wind.
“I hate you...”
If he only did.
If he only could.
Taking pleasure from the Guoshi's corpse would be so much easier if he does not care; to rape, and to devour—to feast upon what never was meant to be his to touch. To curse him and to spit on his face in disgust.
But he cannot.
"But it is now," Lang Qianqiu screams as if to justify his decision and for the blink of an eye it is as if the Guoshi's eyes move in its sockets. "It is only just. It is what you deserve."
In silence, he corrects his words. 'What I deserve.'
Perhaps, memory will become the cure for his misery someday; maybe, his infuriation will ebb and fade away.
It becomes easier to find yet another excuse for his sickening thoughts; to find justification for what he does—is about to do for the first time in his life.
Just like the Guoshi, he had vowed to follow the same path of cultivation; the path of purity and chastity.
Lang Qianqiu smiles. To break the Guoshi's vows somehow fills him with glee; with strange emotions he is entirely unfamiliar with.
When the innermost layer comes undone, Lang Qianqiu gasps at the ethereal beauty before him.
The Guoshi is perfect. Skin smooth and almost unblemished, as though he’s made from the finest marble. The image of the Guoshi’s naked body lying on many layers of midnight blue and purple silks reminds Lang Qianqiu of a moonlit boat rocking in the gentle waves of the dark ocean, weathering an approaching storm.
"I apologize."
'You don't.'
"I am sorry, Guoshi."
In his mind, the Guoshi looks up, shakes his head, then says, 'Don't be...'
His voice is so soft. So forgiving. A melody woven into the winds.
The first touch is calm. Quiet. Setting his skin aflame.
The reassurance is what Lang Qianqiu needs. What the Guoshi deserves.
Or, maybe, it is what both deserve?
To heal. To move on.
Withdrawing his fingers from the Guoshi's stomach, Lang Qianqiu settles between his thighs after parting them. He briefly had considered to flip him over; to take him from behind like the filthy dog he is—deserves to be—but he can't bring himself to do it.
It feels wrong. Improper. Like nothing he had fantasized about it.
Well: he only very rarely had fantasized to take his pleasure in that way. Most of the time, it had been the other way round, the Guoshi teaching him what it means to cherish and to love. How it should have been; how it was meant to be.
Not that it would dissuade Lang Qianqiu. If the Guoshi had taught him anything, it was to adapt; to challenge an existing status.
And so Lang Qianqiu will, does—to pay respect; to try to understand.
He had never felt like this before. This overwhelming want is an emotion so strong that he struggles to keep up with it. His fingertips trail over the Guoshi’s face, his chest, then down to his hips where his hands settle. Adjusting and readjusting the Guoshi’s corpse until he can reach everything he has ever dreamt of.
Lang Qianqiu’s fingers tremble. From want and inexperience both. They shake as he pours scented oil into his palm, and they shake as they move toward his hole, ignoring the cock resting against the Guoshi’s stomach for the moment. Just like his skin, his hole is still warm. Responsive. Curling around the tip of Lang Qianqiu’s finger. Would it feel different if he were alive, Lang Qianqiu wonders, growing hard over his musings; over his finger slipping deeper inside.
Just a little more pressure and it would be carnage; a bloody affair. But he won’t. He never would. He takes his time—time he has plenty—to probe the Guoshi’s hole with his finger, relishing in the way how it clenches around his knuckle; takes his time to add more oil, another finger.
Lang Qianqiu’s heartbeat calms down over it, his touches getting surer, confident. The bulge beneath his robes growing, urging him towards impatience.
But impatience will not do the situation justice.
No matter how achingly hard he is, his cock dripping with precum and twitching under his robes; no matter how desperate he is, and how he cannot wait any longer—he wants to savior this; wants to take his time to claim the Guoshi as his own.
And so he does, until he’s bent over the Guoshi’s bloody chest with three fingers knuckle-deep in his hole, which is slowly adjusting to the girth. At first, it had surprised him that a corpse still is… responsive… kind of. But then, how should he know how a corpse behaves at all? It is not something that is widely talked about, and so he just assumes that’s how it is supposed to be.
Temptation gnaws, and Lang Qianqiu gives in.
There’s no need to fist his cock to hardness as Lang Qianqiu has never been harder in his life. He undoes his robes with shaking fingers, just as much as is needed before he pours a generous amount of oil into his palm, coating his cock with it. Even that single stroke is almost too much to bear, his cock twitching in his hand.
He positions the Guoshi’s unresponsive legs around his hips, then presses the blunt head of his cock against the Guoshi’s virgin hole. It fills him with delight to be the first to take his pleasure from his body; to be the one so fortunate.
Just…
Lang Qianqiu frowns.
The Guoshi’s body is not yielding. He can’t press further, stuck; being denied the velvet heat he had felt around his fingers. Frustration sings along his nerves, and new tears shoot into his eyes: of desperation and frustration now.
He withdraws, repositions the Guoshi’s legs and his angle, and tries again. It’s only a little better and Lang Qianqiu’s entire body begins to tremble. He doesn’t want to use force, doesn’t want to create a mess; he wants this to be soft and gentle like it had been in his dreams. Doesn’t want…
For lack of self-control, Lang Qianqiu’s hips snap and he cries out in surprise as the head of his cock is suddenly past the unyielding rim.
The fluttering of the Guoshi’s protesting muscles around him nearly has Lang Qianqiu topple over, the sensation that comes with it. He rolls his hips, tentatively. As much tentative as his excitement allows him to be. The sounds are strange, unknown, and obscene, and it takes a few shaky breaths for Lang Qianqiu to get used to them. To accept and to embrace them, to welcome the velvet heat; to feel it.
There’s a tugging in his chest. A coil of sparks in his belly, a visceral reminder of what he does. It makes him ache, and it forces him to focus because he doesn’t want this to end; wants to experience what all the disciples have gushed about. The bliss once a rhythm is found, the feeling of becoming one with somebody else, to pull moans and sweet whispers from a partner's mouth.
Well—
He will have to do without that. No sweet praises will fall from the Guoshi’s lips save in Lang Qianqiu’s head.
But he will not let him go, will keep him here to serve and to accept.
Lang Qianqiu focuses, drives deeper into the Guoshi’s hole, and aims for a steady rhythm. He manages, somewhat, for a few thrusts. Then, it is too much already, his body reacting faster than his mind can keep up with.
“Did you miss me?” Lang Qianqiu murmurs the question against the Guoshi’s skin. “Did you miss me as I missed you?”
As if in answer, the Guoshi’s body twitches underneath and Lang Qianqiu goes deadly still. Listening if there are noises; making sure the Guoshi is not just deeply asleep, faking.
Other than the song of the wind, there are no sounds.
And so he resumes his thrusting, the sound of slapping skin against skin blending with the howls of night, with the sound of weeping. No matter how enraptured Lang Qianqiu is by the pleasure coursing through his veins, no matter how good the Guoshi’s body makes him feel, he can’t stop crying; can’t stop thinking about what could have been.
Then.
In another life…
A new wave of tears gathers in his eyes as he clenches his fists helplessly in the Guoshi’s hair, tearing at the dark strands so hard it would hurt if he were alive; so intense that the tears fall at last. They land on the Guoshi’s lips, his mask, his throat; just everywhere, and slowly, Lang Qianqiu begins to kiss them away; kisses the Guoshi’s luscious lips.
So far, he had not, and his rhythm comes to a stuttering halt.
Lang Qianqiu pauses, lifting his fingers to his mouth.
‘Do not overthink.’
The Guoshi’s voice in Lang Qianqiu’s head is strained. Desperate. Scolding him, and he smiles.
“I am not,” Lang Qianqiu says, rubbing his teary eyes with the back of his hand.
After that, it becomes easier.
To kiss the Guoshi’s lips, that is, to keep the rhythm not so much. Just like his teacher, Lang Qianqiu is inexperienced, a virgin—and for the first time in his life, he wishes he wasn’t. He wants this to last, wants to drag this out and take his pleasure until dawn chases the morning mists away; wants to bury his nose in the crook of the Guoshi’s neck for all eternity.
Just—
The blissful eternity comes far too soon.
Caused by inexperience, Lang Qianqiu doesn’t nearly last as long as he wants to, a tingling sensation building and settling deep in his guts.
He wants to fight it, but it is a battle no one has ever taught him how to fight. He stills his movements, tries to catch his breath.
It helps little to calm down.
By now, he is too far gone, the Guoshi’s heat engulfing him is too scorching; burning him alive. Squeezing his eyes shut until he sees little stars dance on his lids, he thrusts again, hard and harder, until the sparkling stars begin to transform. Memories from the past ghost through his mind: about his parents playing with him as a small child; the deep friendship he had shared with An Le; about how he had clung to the Guoshi’s lips, soaking his words up like a sponge.
“Guoshi…,” Lang Qianqiu murmurs, then cries, unable to hold back anymore, “Guoshi!”
He weeps and moans and cries out until the world goes dark all around, and Lang Qianqiu collapses on top of the Guoshi’s corpse as he spills deep inside him with a shuddering breath.
Recovering after how long he does not know, he sits back, lets his gaze travel all across the Guoshi’s body. The salt of his tears dries upon his body, together with the blood.
Even like this, he still is so beautiful. So beautiful it makes Lang Qianqiu’s throat constrict with emptiness taking residence in his heart.
Is this how victory is supposed to feel? Dull and empty and aching?
Hardly.
And yet—
The feeling of emptiness persists with the shivers of sensation long gone by, left to rot as nothing more than memories.
Lang Qianqiu decides to think about that, in time. Then, later, perhaps.
For the moment, he forgets about it. Tries to, at least, to chase the emptiness away by huddling to the Guoshi’s side. Like this, he draws comfort from the Guoshi's still naked corpse, arranging his arms around his body, as long as he can; to weep, their bodies twined and tangled.
The emotions—unbidden and unwanted—hit Lang Qianqiu like a giant wave, breaking over him and pulling him under, down into a world where only tears and misery prevail. His breathing stutters then falters completely as his fingers weave into the Guoshi's hair. It's the softest thing Lang Qianqiu has ever touched; softer than the stray kittens roaming the streets of Yong’an.
"Why?" he asks as he bends his head down to kiss the Guoshi's slightly parted lips. "Why...?!"
'Because I had to. There was no other way.'
Lang Qianqiu's eyes snap open but under the curtain of tears, the Guoshi still lies there—a corpse, in the process of changing worlds, unable to say anything. And yet he whispers to Lang Qianqiu, breathes against his heated skin, all those words he had made him say in his fantasies.
And still, he can't stop it. Can't stop touching him, can't stop kissing him, to whisper all those confessions against his skin he had never confessed to anyone, not even An Le.
Time passes.
Night comes.
And time passes some more.
The wind picks up and Lang Qianqiu shivers, realizing how cold the night has become.
With his come still leaking from the Guoshi’s hole, Lang Qianqiu begins to hastily dress him, suddenly afraid that his body would turn cold; would become stiff and therefore hard to dress. Inauspicious to imagine burying the Guoshi naked for it would mean being in another world naked.
*
Lang Qianqiu stands, his body aching.
He pulls out three nails from his sleeves, his hands shaking uncontrolled as he keeps looking at them.
The Guoshi's age and status would command a display of respect of honor for his burial; a proper mourning period, incense, and joss paper. In his blind rage, Lang Qianqiu had brought neither. But then he remembers, remembers the flowering bush close by, its flowers a blinding white. He neither is a woman nor the Guoshi's wife, but nothing will ever stop Lang Qianqiu from weaving a mourning flower into his hair.
The flowers' pale white petals are stained by Lang Qianqiu's bloody fingers, red shadows on perfect white. Like the Guoshi's skin, he thinks and a new wave of tears prick at the corner of his eyes.
With effort he heaves the corpse into the coffin, his skin still sticky with come and tears and blood. He looks at his deflowered but neatly dressed body longer than is wise; longer than is sane.
A sigh. Sonorous. As if fallen from the heavens above.
Lang Qianqiu stills his hands. Listens.
There is nothing.
Except for the monotonous sound of hammering.
Three nails seal the Guoshi's coffin.
Three nails to separate the dead from the living; to bury all crimes, hopes, and dreams within its three layers.
What is not buried with it is Lang Qianqiu's longing, now that he has touched the forbidden it is only growing. To kill the Guoshi had been just, is what he had deserved, to repent the crimes committed against Lang Qianqiu's family and the kingdom of Yong’an in itself. But none of these rational objectives stop Lang Qianqiu from yearning; from imagining what could have been under different circumstances, in another life.
He waits.
Nothing changes.
Above him, the storm clouds release their content at last. Wind races around his shivering body and heavy rain clashes into his face. He falls to his knees in front of the sealed coffin, the rain blending with his tears as strength ebbs away, his hair plastered to his face. The screams die in his throat as pain stronger than anything he has ever known makes his throat constrict; renders him immobile. All he manages to do is bury his face in his blood- and cum-stained hands, smearing the fluids onto his burning cheeks.
The rain washes away everything: the tears, the blood, the cum. It washes away his sins and crimes until only doubts remain, but even those are scattered into the winds.
Shame, however, prevails.
He kneels until his robes are soaked, and he kneels until his thighs and knees and thoughts are numbed.
He kneels until nothing is left to be washed away.
From under three layers of wood, the Guoshi stares at him with lifeless eyes.
Unseeing, Lang Qianqiu sees. Shudders, and understands.
He looks around the devastation he has created, gaze landing on the sword the Guoshi has always carried.
*
For one year, Lang Qianqiu wears a white flower woven into his hair as soon as he’s alone and unbothered, and whenever it rains, memories threaten to consume him: about the Guoshi's lips brushing against his own; about the feeling of his skin, his warmth and the embrace never truly reciprocated. And whenever the sun shines brightly, Lang Qianqiu finds himself wondering what could have been, in a life less condemned to fate.
Independently of the season and the weather, the question of ‘why’ remains.
*