pridewrite day 19 (yes it is) prompt: time/change
Xie-wang doesn't sleep with a knife under his pillow. That would be insane; who would take the extra seconds to twist and fumble for something they need so immediately? Not to mention the risk of an attacker searching the pillow first and using his own blade on him, which he would absolutely deserve for being such a fool.
No, Xie-wang doesn't keep a knife under his pillow. He keeps poisoned needles in his hands.
Small ones, easy to manoeuvre, easy to hide. It wouldn't be any better to keep a blade in his hand than under the pillow, after all; any enemy attempting to attack him at night would see it and know, would target the weapon or have time to prepare for it. He'd only do such a thing as a decoy, and that would just get in the way.
But needles? No one will see them coming.
To make them a viable option he's had to train his body into a very specific kind of sleep since he first began his training to be an assassin. A careful, motionless sleep, so he doesn't risk stabbing himself. For security, it's small price to pay.
--
It is four years into Xie'er's life at Siji Shanzhuang, the first time Wen Kexing forgets his fan.
He notices this not because Wen Kexing makes a fuss but because noticing things is what Xie'er does. And because like recognises like.
He assumes that fact is also the reason why he was never asked to leave once he'd completely healed, and has never once been asked to swear fealty or accept discipleship. Instead he is allowed to wander the grounds as he wishes; the most anyone asks of him is if he can run an errand, or his opinion on new decorations. No questions, season after season. He even spends his days garbed in familiar pretty blues and whites that no one has ever demanded he take off.
Like recognises like.
So Xie'er recognises the way chronic survival shapes a life:
the way Zhou-zhuangzhu's pockets practically jangle with potions and antidotes, or how on good days he's somehow always the first to taste any food that reaches the table and on bad days he's the last;
the way that Xiang'er still takes an involuntary tiny step toward whatever direction her ge should be in whenever she's startled or threatened, before the conscious stance she takes at her husband's side;
the way Liu Qianqiao never turns her back on an unexamined corner of any given room, or how her idle fingers make perfect knots in any stray strip of fabric;
the way that Wen Kexing never so much as takes a bath without his fan in arm's reach.
Until he does.
Until they're ushered out of the dining hall to see Xingming make good on his boast that he can finally outpace Chengling at the signature swift-moving steps. They've only just hit the courtyard when Wen Kexing idly pats his sleeve, then his other sleeve, hands coming away empty, and gives a little laugh, quiet and to himself, turning back without a word to fetch his fan from the table inside.
Xie'er is the only one who even notices him slip away--ah, no, he's not; he catches Zhou-zhuangzhu paused as well to look thoughtfully back at the doorway for a brief moment before nodding and turning back to the group. Xie'er himself can't seem to do the same. He watches until he sees Wen Kexing re-emerge, sees his hand withdraw from his sleeve as he steps over the threshold again.
Xie'er almost lets out an undignified huff of disbelief. Even after that, the fool is going to simply keep it in his sleeve? Not hold onto it, not remind himself that the comforting weight of his weapon is still his to command?
Indeed, Wen Kexing seems entirely unaffected, the way he all but dances up to Zhou-zhuangzhu's side and leans into his personal space, only to be pinched affectionately by the latter. Kexing waves his hand imperiously at something Weining says, and then grins to follow it up.
Realising that he hasn't so much as taken another step and the group is pulling far ahead of him, Xie'er reminds himself to breathe and strides back into place. He does not look toward Zhou-zhuangzhu or his chattering wife; like recognises like, and he does not want to know if he was observed in his own observation. It happens unnervingly often, here at Siji Shanzhuang. Sometimes he wonders why he even stays with how irritating they can be about it.
No, he doesn't look over. He does, however, take stock of his own blades still strapped to his wrists, on impulse, and tries to imagine ever going without them. Impossible.
Wen Kexing is certainly a skilled weaponless fighter. And logically, of course, there are many skilled and trusted fighters here. Former assassins, ghosts--the sheer level of competence in this small group alone, the rest of the sect aside, could take on a small army, most likely. And further, why should they ever have to? This place is safe. As safe as anywhere Xie'er could imagine. Safer.
But how can even that be enough for Wen Kexing? To such an extent? Xie'er grinds his teeth, trying to let it go and failing.
Ever oblivious to his moods, or at least refusing to pay them heed, Xiang'er sidles up beside him and yanks on his arm, her hand closing unknowingly around one of Xie'er's daggers, pressing the flat of the sheath into his skin as she tugs. Strangely, his shoulders untense.
"Xie-gege, don't be so slow! I've bet so much on Chengling and you have to help me laugh at A-Ning when Xingming loses. Lai, lai, lai!"
Xie'er rolls his eyes but lets Xiang'er pull him out of his thoughts and into the evening's tomfoolery.
--
Later that night Xie'er sits on the edge of his bed, alone in the near-dark. Voices and a bit of music, followed by the faint scent of wood smoke, still float delicately to his open window from the main courtyard where the most reckless disciples occasionally stay up a bit too late drinking. Aside from them the pleasant hush of nighttime at Siji Shanzhuang falls soft in the corners of Xie'er's room, in the hall outside.
His muscles are pleasantly sore now from the spar Xiang'er talked him into after the dessert she'd also talked him into, and then the subsequent activities in her room with Xiao Cao which they had not needed to try very hard to talk him into. The back of his neck is still damp from the cloth he'd washed up with and the breeze from the window blows a chill down his spine. All in all, it's a perfectly ordinary night.
By the light of one candle, Xie'er turns a little glass vial this way and that in his hand. Inside it are poison-tipped needles.
How long he sits there he doesn't know. The voices outside grow dim; the moon glows brighter. The night noises of insects and frogs keep his controlled breath company. It's a perfectly ordinary night.
With shaking hands, Xie'er puts the vial down on the table beside his bed. A moment later, he gets up and takes it to tuck into his locked box. He blows out the candle. He lays down on his bed.
It's a perfectly ordinary night.
It takes many hours, but sometime before the dawn Xie'er finally sighs, fetches a knife to slip under his pillow, and falls asleep.
