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The circumstances of their arrangement are simple: the emperor of Shengyuan, suffering the affliction of a very unruly brother, had expressed as much to the emperor of Tian Ning who, in turn, had volunteered the tutelage of his most strict and uptight relation. And so it came to be that Long Feiye found himself with the headache known as Zhong Wumei.
Over the course of the fortnight since the pest entered his life, Feiye has been forced to endure many things. The rudeness does not phase him, nor does the shouting or shows of force. It’s the hysterics, dramatics, and outright tantrums that contribute to the dull pain at the front of his skull every time he blinks.
He has better things to do with his time than babysit an overgrown child who is not interested in taming his impulsive streak or his temper. He suspects the emperor knows this, is certain he has been given this task with nothing but ulterior motives. The emperor of Tian Ning does not care if the crown prince of Shengyuan is a childish, self important boor. In truth, Feiye believes it would be a boon to Tian Ning if Zhong Wumei remained as moody and petulant as he presents himself to be. If only he could get him out of Feiye’s estate…
With new determination, Feiye decides to stop any pretense of civility. The next time Zhong Wumei acts out, he will not hesitate to discipline him properly.
“This is ridiculous,” Wumei has drawn himself up to his full height, certainly an attempt to make himself seem more intimidating. Unfortunately for him, Feiye is not a man taken in by cheap displays. “I am the crown prince of Shengyuan, what does it matter to me if I offend a strategist?”
Feiye, who has already coolly explained the importance of playing nice at court, does not bother to repeat himself. Instead, he narrows his eyes and studies Wumei.
“On your knees.”
Wumei gapes at Feiye, before huffing. “Who are you to tell me—”
“I said,” Feiye uses his coldest voice. “On. Your. Knees.”
Wumei drops to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Interesting.
Over the course of the next week, Feiye learns several things. It is alarmingly easy to get Wumei to stop running his mouth and actually listen, so long as Feiye dispenses with any niceties and simply commands him to do something. He still gets mouthy, is still prone to fits of temper, but if Feiye orders him into a submissive position, there’s no hesitation. Zhong Wumei complies immediately.
It’s interesting.
Feiye is not a man allowed to wield his power, this entire assignment is more of a snub to Shengyuan than their emperor seems to realize, and yet he finds himself wondering at the strange blend of disgruntled acquiescence that the young prince displays. It’s a purely strategic interest, of course. A weakness like this in the emperor’s brother has the potential to be exploited, should it extend past the confines of their arrangement.
He will have to consider how to find out.
It’s late, but not yet deep night, when Feiye hears the first crack of thunder. He’d been planning to shake off a day’s worth of paperwork with some vigorous sword practice, but the sudden storm rolling in strikes down that idea. He barely makes it back inside before the rain starts falling, and only years of careful attention and training give him the wherewithal to stop short of crashing into the other figure in the entryway.
With his hair down and outer robe shed, Prince Wumei looks much younger than he usually does despite the bullish expression on his face.
“Watch where you’re going!” he snaps, scowling at Feiye with all the arrogance his station and scant height advantage afford him.
Feiye levels a steady expression at his charge. “I am coming in from the storm, Prince Wumei. You are the one lurking in a dark hallway that one would reasonably expect to be empty at this late hour.”
Wumei snorts dismissively. “That does not give you leave to touch my person.”
It’s enough to make Feiye’s careful composure slip, just enough to afford a small roll of his eyes. He makes to step past the other man, when another crack of thunder sounds, this time much louder and closer than the first
Shockingly, Wumei’s hand shoots out, fingers tightly gripping the fabric of Feiye’s sleeve. The signs are clear, from the catch of his breath to the tensing of his muscles: Zhong Wumei is frightened.
Of the storm? It’s such a contradiction to the petulant and blustery man Feiye has become accustomed to, but when he catches his eyes there is an entreaty there. Wumei wants something from Feiye, something that embarasses him.
“Out with it.” He is not capable of gentleness, but he tries to be less harsh.
Wumei makes a face akin to sucking on a lemon, before looking to the side. When he speaks, his tone is clipped. “I don’t want to think.”
Feiye does not need further explanation—the admission causes everything to slide into place. There is no weakness to be exploited in Zhong Wumei, no compulsion to obey anyone with authority. His submission is to Feiye, and Feiye only.
The rain outside has cooled the temperature, but there’s a heat under Feiye’s collar he can’t explain. He observes Wumei with a new scrutiny, one borne of something beyond the assessment of a threat or a potential ally. Instead, Feiye notes his strong shoulders and chest, his large hands. Proud, even as he asks to be dominated.
Feiye is slightly surprised to find this is a service he not only has no qualms about performing, but that stirs something inside of him he had long considered poisoned away. A night of discoveries, for them both.
“My office.” Feiye says, turning to walk briskly in that direction.
He does not check if Wumei follows him.
He knows that he will.