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This was not his apartment.
This also wasn’t his body, Fang Rui was pretty sure, because he spent a lot of time looking at his hands and these hands— Well, they were nicely taken care of, with clean neatly trimmed nails and no evidence of recent injuries, but they weren’t quite the same shape. Broader, a bit more firmly muscled, evidence of calluses in different places.
Fang Rui had the presence of mind to look around to check if anyone else was around before he said, “What the fuck.”
Definitely not anywhere he recognised. Also probably nowhere in China for that matter; there wasn’t any hanzi on the papers scattered on his desk. It looked like English? And he could read it?
Fang Rui was not fluent in English. He knew the words he needed to communicate with international gamers, which wasn’t much beyond “BOSS,” “Mobs,” “Go over there,” a bunch of words for colors and classes, and more swear words than anyone really needed. Huang Shaotian had taught him a lot of those. An Wenyi and Luo Ji had attempted to tutor him into knowing a few more polite phrases before the World Championship, but it hadn’t helped that much.
But he could read this, and it looked like a daily schedule. Fang Rui automatically glanced over towards where he knew a clock would be, to check if he was running late.
If Rodrigo Fontana was running late. The sun was rising and he had to go make sure that—
Okay, Fang Rui had to be dreaming. Duke Mo?
Fang Rui leaned over the desk and checked the words again.
They hadn’t changed. He did get a nice flurry of memories about how Duke Stefan Morgenstern, called Duke Mo by his intimates (or those who wanted to pretend to be), had been his charge for the last decade. Rodrigo was very fond of his Duke, and protective of him, and did not like the idea that Duke Mo was supposed to have potential spouses paraded in front of him over the next few weeks.
But it was his job to take care of Duke Mo, no matter what, so Fang Rui— Rodrigo— whoever he was—
He straightened his doublet, checked in the mirror that he was otherwise impeccably groomed, and stepped out into the hall.
Rodrigo knew exactly where he was going. Fang Rui was still quietly screaming in the back of his head that this had better be a dream and not like one of Wei Chen’s dumbass harem novels where the hero transmigrated into a foreign world. Though, in those novels the hero was usually the Duke of wherever, and Fang Rui was just a manservant.
He wasn’t sure that was any better. Whatever. He could be Rodrigo for now and let this story play out. He’d just wake up in another few hours, right? And then this’d be a great story to share over breakfast before practice began.
Rodrigo opened the door and called out, “My lord?” as he did every day.
Duke Mo made a noise from over by the window, which was still curtained. Well, Duke Mo did like his privacy, and he didn’t like any of the other servants coming in while he was there. Rodrigo was the only one who had permission to enter at any time he liked.
“It looks to be a beautiful day,” Rodrigo said cheerfully, pulling the curtain open to reveal a beautifully-cared for lawn studded with thickly-leaved trees. “Does my lord have a preference for his outfit today?”
Then Fang Rui turned and saw Duke Mo’s face and blanked out for a moment just looking at him.
Duke Mo was gorgeous. He’d known that. It was part of why the Duke’s hand was so sought-after, along with being the sole member of a rich old lineage. But Fang Rui hadn’t put together the hooded eyes and true-black hair with pale skin and long graceful fingers with Mo Fan. Duke Mo didn’t look exactly like him—they weren’t in China, they weren’t Chinese—but the affect and particular curve of Duke Mo’s mouth called Mo Fan inescapably to Fang Rui’s mind.
And, look, Fang Rui thought that pretty much everyone in Team Happy was hot. It was hard not to; everyone was competent and they’d fought so hard and long together. But Mo Fan was young, quiet, and fiercely dedicated to his work, and he didn’t talk. He just watched them, eyes sharp and shadowed, and said “Understood” when directly questioned.
So Fang Rui hadn’t thought of him like this, but he’d also never seen Mo Fan wear anything but a hoodie and jeans, in varying colors and rattiness.
Duke Mo, even in what was presumably his nightclothes, wore tailored silks. They were a deep navy blue, the same color as his eyes, and the hems were embroidered with gold thread. They draped over his lean body, accentuating his collarbones and the creaminess of his skin.
Fang Rui swallowed.
Okay, maybe he was in a goddamn romance novel after all.
“You choose,” Duke Mo said, words clipped but not harsh. He was just like this. “Today will be boring regardless.”
“Okay,” Fang Rui said, and desperately clung to Rodrigo’s knowledge and instincts to move to Duke Mo’s closet and pull out appropriate clothes. Plum hose and darker black breeches, a matching chemise, a wine-red doublet with golden accents, and a dramatic black jerkin with fashionable slashes letting the doublet’s colors show through.
Fang Rui was agonizingly aware that he was expected to help Duke Mo dress.
He was absolutely determined to be polite and not use this excuse to touch Duke Mo and make his apparently deeply-set crush even more obvious than it was. But then, as he was trying very hard not to look at Duke Mo’s (irritatingly firm and well-shaped) butt, Duke Mo quietly said, “Rui, are you upset with me?”
Fang Rui bluescreened.
After a moment, Duke Mo shifted away from his hands and said, stiffly, “I can do the rest, Rodrigo.”
“My lord—” Fang Rui— Rodrigo— followed Duke Mo. He couldn’t let his lord withdraw like this, not on such an important day! “It’s nothing. I know this is not your desire.”
Fang Rui had meant it about his hands on Duke Mo. Rodrigo, he learned as he spoke the words, meant it about the suitors.
Duke Mo breathed out, and he relaxed. His hand came to Rodrigo’s shoulder, obviously familiar, and stroked the edge of his collar. “Rui,” he said again, and what the fuck were English nicknames that this was clearly an intimate name for Rodrigo. “It’s just politics.”
“I know.” Fang Rui, in a trance, let himself raise a hand to take Duke Mo’s. His fingers were warm and smooth as they tangled with Rodrigo’s. “I still worry, my lord.”
Duke Mo looked at him, midnight-blue eyes uncanny when Fang Rui’s brain still thought they should be night-black, and then slowly brought their entwined hands to his lips. Fang Rui flushed as Duke Mo kissed his knuckles, one by one. “They cannot take you from me.”
Fang Rui bowed his head and stepped, with Rodrigo’s familiarity, into Duke Mo’s embrace. “I know, my lord,” he said, and tilted his head up for a kiss.
If this was a dream, Fang Rui thought in the moment before Duke Mo’s lips stole all his words away, then it was a really good one.