Work Text:
There's folded paper cranes on the side of the table, baked goods beside them and a small sketch of the moon. Fuchai has been staring at them for a while.
“Xishi—” he smiles; one that spreads all over his face and softens his features, the lantern's light shimmers over his eyes and the smell of burning wax wafts in the air. “—thank you.”
Xishi's eyes are crescent slits, hidden by her jeweled fan with dangling jade and pearl. She shuts it and offers the king of the Wu a small smile.
A songbird chirps in the birdcages covered in white drapery. And Fuchai is suddenly feeling humiliated by how his heart rate twists and sings.
It's not as if he never received birthday gifts — how could he not? When he was the Wu king; any disrespect meant execution for the offender's bloodline.
But lately it doesn't make sense, he always thought that the poets were exaggerating, that the bards were foolish and the painters and their muses were tragic. He'd known pleasure, of course; he had concubines both male and female and everyone was more than happy to bend to his will.
Love, though? Fuchai doesn't know what that word means, but if he had to take a guess, he would say something about Xishi's eyes under the starlight, the way her hands are both gentle and capable, the way she says his name and he suddenly wants to relearn every syllable
the way she knows books he haven't heard of and read them aloud to him that morning by the—
something about her smile, unveiled from her fan.
Fuchai has never envied poets more than right now. Distantly, Zixu's voice echoed in his head; warning but Fuchai — Fuchai who has never known the drunken feeling in his ribcage — wouldn't listen.
(‘and what if she was using you, your majesty? i served you and knelt at your feet and served your father before - i do not wish for you to be fall because of that—’
‘zixu. you better not finish that sentence or i would be the one using your fallen head for all to see. she's not like that, you don't know her and what if she was using me?’ she can use me again and again and i would love to bleed out so long as she was the knife in the wound, fuchai had thought, but didn't say.)
He lifts his head.
“It took me a while to do but I'm glad you liked it,” Xishi says, which is only for the intent of making Fuchai feel guilty, but Fuchai doesn't know that.
What he knows is that Xishi is bowing her head and turning to leave, and gods help him, he wanted to stay. He wanted; like a rotten dog unworthy but clawing to make-believe that maybe, he can be worthy. (He cannot and will never be.)
“Xishi, please,” Fuchai hears himself murmur, ”wait."
—
That night, Fuchai convinces Xishi to stay the night. They stay up, sitting by the balcony and trying to decipher the stars, time passes like flamed bird burning out.
When Xishi yawns, Fuchai simply stands, his hand hovering over Xishi's. For a moment, he looks so unsure of himself, eyes seeking permission — Xishi's slow nod — before taking her hand lightly in his, kissing the knuckles and guiding her back inside.
“Fuchai,” she drawls, as she takes out her hairpins, letting inky silk fall over her shoulders, ”your council is probably waiting for you to attend the festival in your honor,”
He cannot care less about the council, not right now, he moves behind her, hand barely touching as he helps her with the rest of the hairpins. Xishi sighs; Fuchai feels his fingers tremble - gods, he's so pathetic.
“I won't go,” his voice is a soft thing, as if he didn't even mean to say it out loud.
Xishi's expression shifts, surprise and another unreadable feeling Fuchai cannot read. Amusement but darker.
Later, they lie together, huddled under the blanket but not touching. Later, next morning, Fuchai wakes to a ghostly kiss on his forehead and distantly,
he thinks that he would let Xishi cut him open if she ever so wished.