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In Wei Ying's humble opinion, the flute shouldn't have been so accessible in the first place. It really should have been behind glass or something of the sort. Who just leaves old relics out in the open for everyone to touch? Albeit, there was a number of stanchions blocking it and several other instruments off from the public by a good 5 feet. But that isn't exactly foolproof as seen by Wei Ying's graceless tumble onto it.
Now, before anyone goes accusing him of disregarding art, he had no intention of ever reaching beyond the stanchion. It just so happened that several ignorant teenagers decided shoving each other was the funniest thing, and that had to include Wei Ying. He tried sending the absolutely dashing museum docent an apologetic look as he hurled face first into possibly millions of dollars of old woodwinds. The (surprisingly hard!) flute obviously banged a lovely bruise into his nose. What he didn't expect was to rise from the floor in a completely different room decorated in smooth brown shelves with an eye burning white scheme. He caught a glimpse of the scenery outside a perfectly circular window. A slow, silent snowfall littered various tree limbs. Quite an odd view when it was, last Wei Ying checked, the middle of spring.
Wei Ying sat holding his nose, staring down at the flute with disdain. Clearly, he had a serious concussion and resorted to hallucinating. The least the flute could have done is disappear with the rest of the world. Or mad him hallucinate a sick ass rock concert. But no, he had to sit in the equivalent of heaven's straight jacket room. The thought slammed into him. He wasn't... dead... Was he?
Walking to the window felt like forever and no time at all. It took him a solid few minutes to reach his hand out, palm open to the sky. Surely, he'd feel nothing because hallucinations don't-
Wei Ying screamed, yanking his hand back into the room like he'd been burned with acid. He held it to his chest in mortification. It was only one snowflake. One freezing cold, wet snowflake.
"Ooookay, I'd like someone to grab my hand now. Don't be shy!" His voice trembled and leapt between octaves. He waited.
And waited.
After what had to be 30 minutes, Wei Ying let out a long shaky breath. Mind numb, he walked to the flute, picked it up and found an odd comfort in the warmth and faint vibrations of it. There wasn't a definitive door to the room easily visible, so rather than take an appropriate exit to ascertain his (now doubtful) mortality, Wei Ying climbed out the window.
Since nothing beyond this perfect white landscape mattered anymore, Wei Ying let his feet guide him through the beyond. Death was strange. He didn't think it'd be this cold. Perhaps it was just how his spirit felt in his body. Would he get used to it? Feeling like he would freeze to death when he'd already died once didn't sound very heavenly. Oh gods, was he in hell? It very well could be. A colorless, empty, cold, world where he had to wonder for all eternity, by the looks of it? Shit, did he really screw up his life that badly? Sure, he didn't have the greatest childhood and might have done some stupid things. But spending eternity in an earthly prison? That seemed kind of harsh. Maybe he'd wonder long enough to run into King Yan. Surely, he could negotiate his way back to life. This had to be a mistake! He died over a BAMBOO FLUTE!
A deep, hissing voice muttered into his ear, "do not move."
Wei Ying froze as recommended. Okay, maybe he walked farther than he thought. Meeting the ruler of hell so soon, he realized he didn't have an argument ready. Fuck it. You only die once, right?
"So, there's been a misunderstanding," He started, "A mix-up? Either way, I really don't belong here-"
"Silence."
Something colder than the snow pressed into Wei Ying's throat. He did his best to glance down at it and- HOLY SHIT THAT'S A SWORD MAYBE HE WILL DIE TWICE.
Wei Ying gave a shaky laugh, "Haha, alright, there's no need to destroy my spirit! I can just go back to the room! We don't have to go that far!"
The blade pressed into his neck just a bit deeper.
His words came out as a whisper this time. "Okay. Yeah. Silence. I got it."
"Remove this disguise at once," King Yan commanded darkly. If murderous intent had a tone, it was this one. When Wei Ying made no move or inclination to follow as told, the blade hiked up to the top of his throat. "You value your life very little."
Wei Ying squeaked in fear. Panic filled his lungs, so naturally, he turned to rambling. "Not true! I did! Those teenagers are at fault; I promise I didn't intend to die via dizi. I'm not 'disguised' as anything! A bad excuse for street fashion, maybe! It's hard to buy good pieces when you work minimum wage even with thrifting! You've got the wrong guy! I didn't fuck up enough for hell I don't think!"
"Silence."
Wei Ying went to open his mouth to retort, but his lips held together tightly. He struggled for a moment. Not one muscle moved. Oh, he's so going to die.
A hand rested on his back and... Something pushed through him. It felt like the aura of his body shivered which made so sense because he's dead and doesn't have a body. For a moment nothing happened. Then the hand pressed into him again and something... Flowed into him. It didn't feel warm or like water. But it moved like it, almost. Wei Ying's stomach swooped in excitement. He didn't know what this was, but it made him feel like he could burst with it. If his lips would work, he'd ask to feel it again. The absence of it made his lungs seem hollow.
The hand latched onto his shoulder and spun him around. Wei Ying wasn't sure what King Yan would look like, but dashing museum docent man was not his first guess. He's not complaining though. Not when he's looking at Wei Ying with a mixture of disbelief and... despair?
He's not sure when his lips had loosened back up, so even he was surprised when he muttered, "I'm not that ugly..."
Apparently, humor was not the way to go. Were there... Tears? In King Yan's eyes? The king opened his mouth slowly. From his lips tumbled a reverent, "...Wei Ying?"
Hiking back to his designated straight-jacket room took forever which meant Wei Ying had time to lament his situation. (He'd gotten surprisingly far. How long had he walked for?) To start, he hated hell's strange insistence on being cold. Most depictions of purgatory included a lot of fire and torture. Burning alive, perhaps. Though, his nerves burning against the wind and snow could potentially count as burning alive. The absolute silence of it all also freaked him out. He's used to the bustling of the city: cars honking, people yelling, construction on every other corner. Here, the loudest sounds came from his sneakers crunching with each step. Talk about creepy.
King Yan didn't even speak. At most, he glanced back every few minutes like Wei Ying would be stupid enough to run. He must have been thinking it by the way his eyes widened a fraction with every glance. Wei Ying took those small moments to analyze the king's pristine face. He was surprisingly young looking. Perfect think black eyebrows. Thin pink lips always stuck in a perfectly neutral line. High cheekbones dusted a light pink from the cold. Golden, piercing eyes the only indication of emotion. Michelangelo must have carved him from jade. Even the odd forehead band and white robes with blue cloud accents couldn't be real. They fell too perfectly. Not a stain in sight. And his hair. Wei Ying thought multiple times of running his fingers through the inky black waterfall. Biblical stories of Satan depicting him as the most beautiful angel in existence made a lot of sense if this is the guy who fell from the heavens.
King Yan stopped in front of Wei Ying's supposedly new residence for eternity. He gestured towards the door, so Wei Ying strode in without argument. Might as well be condemned with style. Making their way around a beautiful white partisan decorated like the King's robes, Wei Ying stared back into a medium sized room.
A low table with a cushion behind it sat on the far side of the room. Two openings on either side of the room led to the only other two visible rooms. Wei Ying elected to keep his eyes on the desk. There weren't exactly instructions on where to sit, so he stayed standing.
More silence (because that's just how hell is, Wei Ying guessed) followed. A nearly audible breath escaped King Yan. Wei Ying shut his eyes, preparing for damnation.
"Sit."
Wei Ying's yes snapped open. King Yan stood to the left, gesturing into the left room. Wei Ying followed, finding a small table with more cushions around it. Sure, the room was outdated by modern terms, but the elegance of it all left Wei Ying too intrigued to ask. He tried his best to sit with grace. Something about the King made Wei Ying want to impress him. Despite himself, a strong shiver ran through him. Fuck, hell is cold.
King Yan then left the room. Wei Ying gawked at his fleeting back. Even more so when the King returned and wrapped a large white robe around Wei Ying's shoulders. Not one to turn down niceties, Wei Ying buried deep into it, inhaling the sandalwood scent and sighing out contently. Pleased, King Yan set about the room. He eventually settled across from Wei Ying at the table with a hot pot of tea, two cups and assorted nuts. Once a cup was poured, King Yan pushed both it and the nuts to Wei Ying. He glanced warily between them and the King. After a moment of neither disapproval or insistence, Wei Ying reached for them. The tea was lovely and the nuts were unusual but satisfying.
He ate and drank slowly until the King's pointed stare unnerved him enough to speak up. "So... What am I here for?"
King Yan frowned the tiniest frown in existence.
"This is punishment, right? I'm to be damned for eternity, so shouldn't I be... I don't know. Flayed? Eaten alive by vultures? Forced to listen to cringey teen pop music until I tear my own ears off?"
King Yan had the gall to look confused! His mouth opened once then shut quickly. You'd think Wei Ying had a second head. His response came in the form of, "You... are alive."
Wei Ying went to retort. Then stopped. "...I am?"
"I cannot find reason to say otherwise." King Yan frowned deeper. "I would not hurt you."
"Isn't that what King Yan is supposed to do?"
King Yan once again looked as lost as one could without moving much of one's face. "I suppose. If you are dead."
"So... You aren't King Yan? I'm not in hell?"
Poor (not?) King Yan shook his head slowly. "You are in the Cloud Recesses, Wei Ying. Do you... not remember?"
Wei Ying felt the world starting to shift. So he's not dead. This isn't the deity of hell. Or maybe he is and they're messing with him. Regardless, something was incredibly wrong. Panic welled in his throat harder than the first time. "Haha... ah, no? I think you've got the wrong Wei Ying! That's ok! Totally fine! You can take me back to the museum now." He rose from his seat, looking around for something- anything- that could allow him to telephone home. Maybe JieJie could pick him up? Wait. "The Cloud Whatever sounds cool and all, but where am I? I need to get back. We're still in New York, right? You own an acre or something? I won't even tell the cops! We can just move on from this like it never-"
Not King Yan grabbed his wrist (HOW DID HE GET THAT CLOSE SO FAST) and Wei Ying threw his free arm as precisely into the man's face as his fear addled brain could. He definitely made contact as Not King Yan fell back, but he failed to consider the man might not let go. They both crashed to the floor where Wei Ying proceeded to scream as loudly as his lungs would let him.