Chapter Text
JIANG CHENG
"Wei Wuxian."
"You’re finally awake!"
Jiang Cheng’s glare forms before he even lays his eyes upon his martial brother.
"You look like a corpse, bro," says Wei Wuxian as nonchalant as if he’s describing the weather.
Jiang Cheng breathes in and out heavily, slowly, noisily— with such pathos he hopes it is enough to dispel some of the frustration he feels inside. It certainly alerts Wei Wuxian that this matter is more serious than he would have thought, because he avoids eye contact with Jiang Cheng from that moment further and appears more abashed.
"He was unharmed, wasn't he?" Wei Wuxian whispers. The fear behind his words is the only thing that keeps Jiang Cheng's temper from rising further.
"Barely. What were you thinking?!"
"I don't know. He heard my song; I thought it fun at the time…"
"Fun?!" Jiang Cheng sits up and winces at the stab of pain in his temples. "You do know some aren't as careful as we are, don't you? Say, Miss Wang Lingjiao, who would go as far as to warm herself up with human blood—"
Wei Wuxian stands abruptly. He walks to the window with his shoulders set in a tense line, and his hands clenched tightly by his sides. "Thank you for keeping an eye on him," he says. "But what happened to you?"
Jiang Cheng leans back down on the pillow heavily. His whole body aches, head to toe, spirit to the very last cell.
"You fucked up big time, Wei Wuxian."
NIE HUAISANG
Nie Huaisang wakes up to loud rattling noises. It takes him several minutes to orient himself—he’s in his room, in bed, face turned to the wall—and another minute to identify the ruckus. Somewhere outside the block, construction workers are demolishing a building and operating heavy machinery; its loud clanking and beeping reach Nie Huaisang’s room unfiltered. He's growing more and more awake by the second, no longer able to tune it out. The light streaming through the window bothers him greatly; he glimpses at the windows and finds the curtains hanging to the sides. He must have been deathly tired last night if he hadn't even bothered to draw them.
Last night.
What did he do last night?
He remembers a strange place, a lot of dressed up people, costumes, art…
Oh! The opera!
He dwells on the matter more as he prepares himself for the day. The memory of colours and dim lights trickle through his still sleep-addled brain, joined by a gentle tiredness, like the sort one feels after finishing one’s magnum opus. Exhaustion born out of the artist carving their very soul in marble for days on end. The details escape him still, yet he finds no cause for alarm in him.
En route to the bathroom, he sniffs the air and stops in his tracks. That's most certainly the smell of beef stew! Nie Mingjue must be at work at this hour so that leaves only…
Nie Huaisang tiptoes toward the kitchen, anticipation building in his chest.
"Good afternoon," says Meng Yao from the kitchen table. He's sitting by the window seat and working on a word puzzle from the newspaper.
"Good afternoon. I didn't know you were coming." Nie Huaisang glances at the stove briefly. His stomach growls loudly both at the sight of the stew and at its wonderful scent, much more flavourful here.
Meng Yao finishes filling in a few words before he deigns to look at Nie Huaisang. There's a pleasant smile on his face, as welcoming as he always tries to be. Nie Huaisang relaxes as they exchange a nod.
"Mingjue-xiong asked me to keep an eye out for you today. He didn't say why and you don't look sick…" he trails off, leaving the question up for interpretation.
"I'm just tired," Nie Huaisang responds with a sigh. More tired than usual. "I went to bed late last night."
"About that, what were you doing?"
Nie Huaisang takes a seat at the table. The food simmering in the pot keeps distracting him; he can already taste the thick sauce and the trace of anise sprinkled over the beef and tomatoes. Meng Yao follows his line of sight and preens.
"Patience. It's almost done," he says.
"Thanks for tolerating my brother. I love you!"
"You haven't even tasted it yet!"
"If it's anything like the dumplings you made last week, I'm surely not getting ahead of myself."
Meng Yao inclines his head in thanks and modesty. "So about last night…" he insists more firmly. There's caution in his eyes when they make eye contact.
Nie Huaisang sighs. "I went to Madama Butterfly with my friends and I met this man at the opera… charming little smile he had! I—"
He tilts his head, confused by his own memories. At the opera?
"That's not right… somewhere else, we met somewhere else. He told me something about the… the…"
Meng Yao is staring at him in open concern now. It startles Nie Huaisang to see such an expression on his face. Words pour out of his mouth in an effort to appease the situation:
"No, no, don't worry, we—we talked about art. Yes. We met by a fan! A large one, mounted on a wall covered in gilded wallpaper." With that, more images come to him and the haze lifts. "I went to an art gallery! What the hell, I'm drained! Sorry, it's taking more than usual to gather my thoughts."
"'More than usual'?"
Nie Huaisang reaches across the table and slaps Meng Yao's forearm resting next to the newspaper. Meng Yao retracts his hand and hugs it to his chest with a laugh.
"Nevertheless," Nie Huaisang goes on pointedly, "it was a good night. Now, how's that food coming along?"
Meng Yao tuts at him shaking his head. He stands up and checks up on the dish, while Nie Huaisang steals his pen and finishes the puzzle. As they eat, Nie Huaisang describes some of the art he has seen. Shivers go down his spine at the memories—they come to him from a deep fog, as if he'd dreamed it all and sunlight stole them from him brushstroke by brushstroke. Meng Yao listens dutifully, making appropriate noises where the conversation requires it. If it were Nie Mingjue, he'd be worried his brother was zoning out and responding on autopilot, but Meng Yao is one of the few people he can talk to about art with who not only pays attention to his ramblings, but understands what Nie Huaisang means. It's a relief to be in his refined company.
(No wonder Lan Xichen enjoys it so much!)
"I have great news!" Nie Huaisang declares once they are finished with the late lunch. "My inspiration is back."
Meng Yao raises an eyebrow at him. No words are needed to convey it: Really?
"Tsk, I'll show you! Watch me! I'm going to draw Right Now!"
"Go, go, I'll clean up the place." His friend shoos him away with a brisk movement of his hand.
"You're the best!"
Nie Huaisang dashes back to his room and makes good on his promise. For the next few days he becomes a ghost in his own flat, boxed in by three different canvases and swimming in watercolours. He'd started out with acrylics when artist's block hit him weeks ago, but the beautiful lotus aesthetic of the art gallery instilled in him a desire to use water , to let the colour flow and ebb on the thick paper in the way that it desired, not so much filling in his sketch as gently guiding the droplets here and there.
The first attempts don’t work out at all, but he persists. By the time Sunday rolls around, he has a whole new set of art pieces to hand in to his workshop professor, all done differently to his usual technique. Atmosphere was never Nie Huaisang’s strong point, and he was fine with it, preferring to paint birds and people removed from context instead until he could draw them from memory alone. The landscapes he has captured now carry a mood unlike any of his previous works: it isn’t watercolour but longing that spreads across the surface in fuzzy spots of colour.
Silhouettes of trees bordering a lake; an empty circle in the sky in guise of the moon.
Hidden among the layers, the desire to go home.
Meng Yao hums appreciatively when Nie Huaisang finally reveals the art. He gives him a pat on the back, something Nie Mingjue could be doing as well, but his brother wrinkles his nose and forehead as he stares in total concentration at one of the landscapes.
Nie Huaisang waits with bated breath, anticipating a word of wisdom and even hopes for a compliment from his older brother.
Nie Mingjue opens his mouth at last: "Why did you leave that spot whi—"
"Brother, please," Nie Huaisang cuts in swiftly, his polite smile barely hiding the annoyance he feels, "enjoy it in silence."
Nie Mingjue shrugs.
By Sunday evening, he's tired and joyous of what he has accomplished. Who would have thought a simple visit to an art gallery could kickstart such a productive week for him? Now that his assignments are off his back, he's thinking about going out again and figuring out what even makes the place so alluring in the first place.
He's lounging on his bed, listening to music and zoning out when his phone beeps.
Mo Xuanyu: wanna grab some drinks at the usual place?
Nie Huaisang: yeah!! what time are we meeting?
Mo Xuanyu: can you make it by 8?
Nie Huaisang: sure see u
Mo Xuanyu: 🍺🍺🍺
At the bar, Nie Huaisang doesn’t waste a single minute looking for his friend. Mo Xuanyu is sitting near the entrance, facing the door, caught in the middle of one of his raucous bouts of laughter. He’s wearing one of his trademark shirts, a monstrosity littered in sequins he found at a thrift store and which reflects the pub’s lights like a beacon for Nie Huaisang to follow.
"It is fashionable when I wear it," Mo Xuanyu once said and that was that.
He plops down on the seat across from him with as much grace an exhausted student can muster at the end of the week. Next to him are sitting two people, a girl dressed in a yellow sundress and a boy in a black shirt. The girl smiles at him in greeting, whereas the boy only inclines his head a fraction.
Mo Xuanyu makes the formal introductions: “These are my cousins—Jin Zixuan and Luo Qingyang. This is Nie Huaisang, the famous painter I was telling you about.”
“I’m not your cousin,” the girl retorts in annoyance at the same time Nie Huaisang says, with less ire and more resignation, “I’m not famous yet.”
Mo Xuanyu waves their words aside with a chuckle. “So?” he directs at Nie Huaisang, eyes wide open and watching him expectantly.
“I finished!”
Mo Xuanyu's face splits into a wonderful grin. "I'm so happy you're back in business! Let's celebrate!"
"What'd you get?"
"Mint lemonade," Mo Xuanyu stage whispers.
"That's a shy start,” Nie Huaisang says, stifling a laugh.
Next to him, Jin Zixuan pretends to cough. “Mo-xiong is our driver tonight.”
“Hey, I’m a responsible adult with a job. It is my duty—”
“He lost a bet,” stage-whispers Luo Qingyang.
“—my duty,” repeats Mo Xuanyu, “to be a role model for the younger generation.”
Nie Huaisang laughs. “I see, I see. Then I shall order lemonade as well, in solidarity.”
Jin Zixuan and Luo Qingyang are childhood friends, Nie Huasiang finds out soon after that, friends of the sort that have so much foundation between them that they end up following one another across the country. Platonically married souls, perhaps. Luo Qingyang is an aspiring lawyer with miles to go yet, and her friend Jin Zixuan is studying economics (and much better at it than his cousin Mo Xuanyu.) The two of them came to Fei— to sightsee, visit the mountain nearby and of course, bother Mo Xuanyu like a real family. Their conversation mostly stays around tourist spots and good restaurants to check out, information the older two are more than eager to bestow on the young.
Half an hour in, Nie Huaisang thinks of the missing member of their trio. “Where’s Lan Wangji?”
Mo Xuanyu's expression drops considerably. "Ahh, Lan Wangji… I don't know what's up with him. He's busy, but school's out and we're his only friends! Where is he going?" To illustrate his point, he takes out his phone and reads out a text message exchange: "I invited him out tonight, he said 'Sorry, not tonight', I asked him why, and then he said 'I have a date.' What does that mean?"
Nie Huaisang furrows his brows in deep concentration. "Do you think that maybe… he has a date?"
"Oh, come on, Huaisang, a date?"
"He's plenty attractive!"
"Sure, but I don't want vultures vying for his beautiful visage. It takes time to get to know him well," Mo Xuanyu insists with pathos. "He's only twenty…"
"I'm sure he's got it under control. Lan Wangji doesn't do anything he doesn't…"
As he talks, Nie Huaisang looks around the place. This quickly proves to be a fatal flaw, as he is wholly unprepared to spot his very own crush a few tables away, slouched quite miserably. It's most certainly the tour guide from the art gallery; Nie Huaisang would recognize that gorgeous slope of the nose anywhere.
"Excuse me," he says, grabs his drink and stands up.
"A-Sang?!" Mo Xuanyu whispers behind him, wholly scandalised.
He gives Mo Xuanyu a wink. “Forgive me,” he whispers back, aware that the smile growing on his face diminishes every ounce of genuine remorse in his words. To the teenagers he wishes a good vacation, and receives a twin look of mild confusion in return.
Jiang Wanyin (an unforgettable name, really) is very gruffly sipping on a straw. A strange blue drink is lying in front of him on the table, one third of it drunk. Some whipped cream still lingers to the topside of the glass and a piece of biscuit is balanced evenly on the edge of it in such a way that it suggests there were other tasty decorations lining it before.
Nie Huaisang has had such drinks only when he was in dire need of comfort food therapy.
"Hi!" He waves at the man. "Are you waiting for someone?"
Jiang Wanyin looks at him with such startled eyes that he probably hasn't even processed the question. A beat later, he lets out a confused 'No.'
"Perfect!" Nie Huaisang takes a seat across from him and sets his drink down nonchalantly. "I've been thinking about you lately! I'm happy to see you."
The man looks even more awkward and wrong-footed. It curbs some of Nie Huaisang's enthusiasm and he manages to take a mental step back. Perhaps he hadn't been a lasting presence after all?
(They did part in quite the strange way.)
"I'm sorry, is this weird? I'll go."
"It's—it's fine. I wasn't expecting you to rem—be here," Jiang Wanyin says. He clears his throat and very politely moves the straw out of his face.
"I must thank you. Your gallery gave me the final push I needed to figure out my homework." Nie Huaisang looks at him brightly. Jiang Wanyin is as gorgeous as he remembers. For a second, as Nie Huaisang’s eyes roam over his face, taking in his features, his eyes stop on the art guide’s lips and, mesmerized, he recalls the kiss they shared, the clash of his warm face against Jiang Wanyin’s cold skin, and he shudders. The lips part and move and Nie Huaisang snaps out of his reverie.
“I asked, what do you study?” Jiang Wanyin repeats himself, sounding quite irritable with the whole affair.
“Illustration, but I participated in a workshop centered on composition and lighting this summer.”
The tour guide nods, then falls silent and focuses on his radioactive drink. Nie Huaisang, used to carrying conversations by himself, leans back in his seat with a confidence he only feels in half and gives a few more details about his workshop. He wasn’t terribly keen on taking it, but between going home over the summer and facing his desperately non-arts oriented family, and staying here in Fei—, where he could indulge in his hobbies and friends, he naturally picked the more favorable option.
“My brother is staying here too. I am obligated to keep an eye on him,” he explains further, shrugging.
The mention of a brother catches Jiang Wanyin’s attention. “Is your brother just now starting college?”
Nie Huaisang can’t help it—he bursts into laughter loud enough to make other patrons turn their heads to their table. It takes him a couple of seconds to get his bearings, but the stifled chuckles continue in a more silent fashion the following minute. “Nothing like that! Ahaha, I did phrase it quite vaguely, my bad. My brother’s pushing thirty!”
Jiang Wanyin mumbles a quiet ‘I see,’ before busying himself with his drink again. He hides behind it in embarrassment, perhaps, but Nie Huaisang notices a tiny smile playing on his lips. Pleasant warmth seeps into his body at the sight: he desperately tries to think of another outlandish thing he could say just to get another hint of a smile out of this man. Anything at all.
(There he is, staring at Jiang Wanyin’s mouth again. Get a grip, you dumbass, he tells himself fervently.)
“I know some things about brother-wrangling too, I suppose,” Jiang Wanyin says tiredly. “Despite his age, mine is in need of serious supervision.”
“To our brothers!”
Jiang Wanyin meets Nie Huaisang’s raised glass with his own in a gentle tap, the discrepancy in enthusiasm between them glaringly obvious. Even so, his cooperation cheers Nie Huaisang up properly and he deems their meeting off to a good start. Whatever happened that night at the art gallery, bustling as it was with fashionable people and with the heavy scent of expensive perfumes mixing in the air, Nie Huaisang clings to their chance meeting then, and clings even harder to their chance meeting now. His head is clear, his back unencumbered by chores, and his heart is beating madly in his chest like a seismograph: they make eye contact and Nie Huaisang becomes aware that he is alive. There is blood rushing to his face, colouring his cheeks; he takes out his paper fan from his bag and hides behind it coyly.
They talk a bit more, nothing special, but the words flow casually, in a way Nie Huaisang has rarely experienced with what should, in all honesty, amount to a stranger. Jiang Wanyin isn’t exactly chatty, but it turns out he is a decent listener; over time, his shoulders drop into a more relaxed posture, leaving him open to the conversation and miles more approachable. The change is so slow Nie Huaisang only notices it when Jiang Wanyin huffs with silent laughter and leans on his elbow on the table surface. It spurs him on like a little bell notifying him this is something precious to hold onto. The feeling creeps along his ribs like a slithery snake, coiling around his chest with a weight that calls for attention with every breath he takes.
For all of Jiang Wanyin’s striking blend of handsomeness and grave seriosity, once the cloud of metaphorical hearts surrounding Nie Huaisang’s head dissipates a little, he notices the tour guide is rather pale and, despite their shared companionship and seemingly genuine pleasure at being in each other’s orbit, his eyebrows tend to droop. If he allows himself to stare for a minute longer, he notices a trace of hollowness on Jiang Wanyin’s face, his cheekbones sharper, his jaw more pronounced. The light plays in his eyes strangely, but that might just be the locale’s bad array of lamps.
Even as he wonders if he simply didn't notice Jiang Wanyin's thinner constitution before, Nie Huaisang asks, “Has something happened? You look… depleted of energy."
Jiang Wanyin cracks a self deprecating smile. "A small family matter is taking its toll on me. I thought I handled it but…" He trails off and stares pensively at Nie Huaisang. "I just need some time to fix it. Don't worry."
"Let me know if you need a drinking partner." Nie Huaisang toasts again before downing the drink in one go. He's glad he didn't order alcohol straight off the bat—experiencing this conversation with even more fog in his brain might have led to catastrophic decision making on his part, namely sliding onto the same bench as Jiang Wanyin and trying to steal another kiss from him without a hint of shame.
They lapse into silence again, comfortable and easy. The familiarity is not lost on Nie Huaisang. He has for sure never met this man before that fateful night at the opera, yet the feeling of time past lingers around Jiang Wanyin like an old childhood promise. It's extremely difficult to pinpoint what he reminds Nie Huaisang of—perhaps the way he tilts his head as he listens is similar to the mannerisms of Nie Mingjue's mother, or maybe it is the cadence of his words which flows like an ancient poem rolling off the tongue of a school friend years ago… Briefly, sitting on the wooden bench of a small pub on a Sunday night, Nie Huaisang understands the passage of time in its entirety.
On his way home, Nie Huaisang spends the entire bus ride composing a text message. He frets over it out of belated panic—yes, he really did spend two hours talking with the hot tour guide from the art gallery, and yes, they did successfully exchange phone numbers.
Once his feet leave solid ground and the bus starts to move, realization crashes down on him all at once like a wave, shaking him to the core.
He likes to think that he knows himself decently well. Well enough, in fact, that he could distinguish when simple infatuation would turn into something stronger.
He wonders, now, as he stares at his phone blindly: Is this something stronger?
A whole swarm of butterflies is loose inside of him, tickling his innards with their tiny legs and the tips of their wings. His veins are full of bubbles. His head is heavy and full of static.
Perhaps it is, he thinks and presses send.
Nie Huaisang: let's meet up again sometime! I had fun 🙂
The matter remains that there is something unusual about Jiang Wanyin and Nie Huaisang isn't entirely sure how deep he should be digging. Nobody has the sadness of times past so tightly interwoven in their every act.
They do meet again, not too long afterward. Nie Huaisang is taken on a second tour of the gallery, this one infinitely more romantic: it is just the two of them in the whole place, two bodies strolling without rush like two ghosts passing from room to room at nine in the morning.
Nothing happens that is worthy of description. There are many items on display. Nie Huaisang remarks a couple in particular, but overall only the mood remains in his memory. Quiet, muffled laughter at a silly art joke he made. A constant brightness on Jiang Wanyin’s face that, in his selfishness, Nie Huaisang hopes he is the cause of. The brush of their hands in front of ancient scrolls, an accident at first, an accident a second time still, until one of them—both of them?—reach for the other's hand. The simplest of gestures, a small point of contact between them, yet enough to keep Nie Huaisang present in body and spirit, mind sharp, heart thudding in his chest.
Nie Mingjue takes his new crush in stride. “Uh-huh,” he says when Nie Huaisang describes the guide’s charming smile. “Yeah,” he says when he hears about the vast knowledge the man holds. “So you’ve said,” he says, not even looking back at Nie Huaisang, when the latter tries to explain Jiang Wanyin’s awkward movements.
“Brother, if you don’t care then—”
“Of course I care!” Nie Mingjue exclaims. “The details, not so much, but seeing you so animated makes me happy.”
Fighting his blush, Nie Huaisang decides to leave his brother’s comment unanswered and adds to his initial thoughts. “I wonder if he had an injury. Yesterday we went to the park and he tripped over the kerb.”
Nie Mingjue shrugs as he takes a large bite from his pork loin.
“It was cute, I caught him by the waist, but I’ve seen him struggle with some stairs too.”
“Maybe it’s an excuse for you to get closer to him.”
“Maybe…”
Nie Huaisang squints at the food on his plate, far from satisfied with this answer.
The weather keeps to sweltering heights all throughout the next weeks, with little to no summer showers sprinkled in. Nie Huaisang spends a lot of time outside, generally being a nuisance: when he isn’t pestering Mo Xuanyu and Lan Wangji, or basking in the awkwardly adorable company of Jiang Wanyin, he is exploring the city of Fei— armed with a sketchbook and a large bottle of water. He practices drawing buildings and cityscapes and fills countless pages with these glimpses into everyday life, like inky windows into the hidden charm of the world. He doesn’t know much about the trees and flowers decorating the green spaces between apartment blocks, but he sees them and immortalizes them on paper just the same.
There is no need to know something in order to celebrate its existence.
Caught in this euphoria of creation, Nie Huaisang notices a banner over the gate of the Botanical Garden saying ‘Free Admittance’ and doesn’t even think about it, just takes out his phone and invites Jiang Wanyin right away. It’s pleasantly warm today, more than bearable in the shade; a faint breeze wafts the fragrance of the flowers from the entrance of the Gardens toward Nie Huaisang and lures him closer.
Jiang Wanyin agrees to the impromptu meeting, much to the artist’s delight.
“You didn’t have to run all the way here, I would have waited for you,” Nie Huaisang tells him sweetly, holding back his grin.
“I didn’t run anywhere,” grumbles Jiang Wanyin. “I live close by.”
“Still…”
“Tsk, so are we going in or not?”
Nie Huaisang does chuckle then and links their arms together. “Let’s go!”
The Botanical Garden spreads far into the city. Nie Huaisang has come here on occasion when he needed to get away from school and linger in the silence of the herbarium or the greenhouses. It opens with an ornamental area brimming with flowers in full bloom; the main alley splits into several smaller paths, each of them adorned on the sides with dahlias, lilies, and hydrangeas. A couple of roses can be seen in the far distance, separated by bushes and shrubs.
In one of the tropical greenhouses, Nie Huaisang convinces Jiang Wanyin to become his art model. He instructs him how to stand, encourages him to relax, then translates Jiang Wanyin’s powerful presence into an assembly of lines, painting his silhouette in quick, confident strokes, and he goes one step further and fills the background with an array of leaves, flowers, rocks and stylized orchids to ground the sketches in reality. Nie Huaisang wants to remember this moment in its entirety.
Jiang Wanyin waits for him to finish and listens to each direction without looking at him. His posture changes from stiff to mildly embarrassed to ultimately what seems to be fondly resigned. The embarrassment comes in waves whenever someone enters the greenhouse to enjoy the sights, but it serves Nie Huaisang well: in trying to pretend he is casually admiring the plants, Jiang Wanyin manages to blend in with the crowd, thus offering Nie Huaisang the wonderful sight of him, viewed from the side, gradually becoming more and more lost in thought.
Sketch by sketch, Nie Huaisang moves further back, until the minutiae give way to the simple shape of Jiang Wanyin. A silhouette he begins to know by heart.
Jiang Wanyin has clearly spent enough time surrounded by art—staring at him is like staring at a large painting, sparking fascination and awe in whomever is lucky enough to witness him. The dignity of old paint has touched him over time and given him the same air as the very items he presides upon.
Timelessness.
An attempt at immortality on canvas.
When they reunite beside the carnivorous plants of South America, Jiang Wanyin appears genuinely relaxed. He must have had enough time to organise his own thoughts, if the smile on his face is any indication of it.
"Thank you," Nie Huaisang says.
Jiang Wanyin glances at him for a second, shy, before he folds his arms across his chest and stares at the ground. In a hoarse voice he asks, "Did you get what you needed?"
And more.
"Yes, I did." He sees doubt forming on Jiang Wanyin’s forehead and he frowns. "I did. You have this… charming air about you, it's hard to explain but—"
"—but somehow it draws you in?"
"Mm, no! Well… yes, but that's not the main thing!" Nie Huaisang insists. Tiny droplets of water slide down one of Jiang Wanyin’s forearms from a sprinkler. A large, faded spot on his forearm catches Nie Huaisang’s attention in particular. “Is that a bruise?”
Jiang Wanyin brings it to the light for a second, then quickly unfolds the sleeve of his shirt over it, alarmed. “Yeah.”
Its colour reflected the light strangely, like Mo Xuanyu’s questionable shirt back at the pub. Nie Huaisang watches the spot, now covered by fabric, and thinks.
Perhaps sensing his growing concern, Jiang Wanyin takes a hold of his hand and says, “Don’t worry, it will fade.”
They walk in silence for a while, following one of the side alleys heading toward the Alpine area. A significant number of visitors are strolling outside now that the afternoon has settled in fully. Only by the edge of the pine trees, away from the noise and the bustle, does Nie Huaisang try to put his feelings into words.
"My grandmother used to call my brother an old soul. When I was a kid, I made fun of him for it—called him elderly brother sometimes, when he would complain that he was tired.” A tiny chuckle escapes his lips at the memory. Nie Mingjue didn’t like his jokes very much.
By his side, Jiang Wanyin listens attentively, glancing at him now and then as they walk.
"I understood what she meant later on, but now I think she was wrong to use such a phrase,” says Nie Huaisang. “If she had met you…”
“My soul is plenty old,” Jiang Wanyin agrees lightheartedly. His tone is far from mocking, yet Nie Huaisang realizes the weight of his message did not quite find its way to the tour guide.
He stops walking and faces Jiang Wanyin properly.
“The way you make me feel, it's like the clock stops for as long as I'm with you. I could step out at any point in history I wanted."
Confusion grows on Jiang Wanyin’s face.
"You make me feel aware of myself. I exist."
He puts the back of his hand against Nie Huaisang's forehead and keeps it there for a few seconds. "Is this the sort of talk you have with people on the first date? Is the sun getting to your head?"
Nie Huaisang slaps his hand away, blushing furiously. "I'm serious!"
"So am I. What in the world are you talking about?"
"And I was trying to be poetic…" Nie Huaisang mumbles before returning Jiang Wanyin's look fiercely. "I like being around you!"
The words seem to untether Jiang Wanyin. He opens his mouth to speak, but makes no sound. In the shade of the trees, he looks rather pale and vulnerable; his eyes widen but he doesn't lean away when Nie Huaisang reaches out toward his face and places his hand against his cold cheek, cupping it tenderly.
"I don't know much but I'm pretty confident about this," Nie Huaisang adds, gesturing between them with his other hand. "Do you feel it too?"
More silence.
Gradually, like watching a time-lapse of a flower blooming, Jiang Wanyin's eyes find him properly. He almost looks as if he is waking up and he blinks like his vision is clearing up at last.
Nie Huaisang wants to kiss him so much that his thoughts turn into white noise.
"I don't know what I feel." Jiang Wanyin places one hand over Nie Huaisang’s on his cheek. He breathes in once, his eyes closed, then adds quietly, a handful of words meant to travel only in the space between them: "but I want to."
They move in together for a kiss, their lips meeting in a bruise. Nie Huaisang angles his head a bit and presses closer to him.
Jiang Wanyin meets him just as eagerly; he places his hands on Nie Huaisang’s hips and holds him in place as their lips slide against each other wetly.
"We've kissed before," Jiang Wanyin breathes out.
"But this felt like a first kiss, didn't it?" Nie Huaisang gives him a second kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Second now." After that, a third.
Jiang Wanyin lets out a pensive noise as he passively accepts the affection. Nie Huaisang is starting to read him. This tiny crease he has on his forehead isn't a sign of his growing temper, but one of fondness. He kisses it last before they part and put some distance between them.
Infatuation—adoration?—looks back at him from Jiang Wanyin’s chocolate eyes. For millennia, artists have created in the name of love, and Nie Huaisang is no stranger to it, yet each time he is struck by it, he is defenseless, a simple creature wandering the Earth who sees the sun rising again.
Their first kiss, in the dead of the night, lacked what first kisses ought to have. Their first kiss was a risk accepted by two strangers. A conclusion to a moment of mutual attraction. It was a farewell.
Today's kiss is a promise.
Nie Huaisang holds onto this promise more tightly than ever as he boots up his brother's laptop and finds Nie Mingjue's work platform. Baxia is perched on his shoulder, huddled close to his ear. Softly, quietly, it chirps a little songs—a performance for one.
[Search: … ]
He stares at the screen for a few seconds.
The Night-Spec logo is a simple stylized candle, halfway burned, placed in the top left corner of the app. The windows look like their design was last updated in the early 2000’s, with flat borders and a beige background worthy of a grandmother’s computer. It reminds him of playing simple card games on the computer when he was knee-height—the rising nostalgia placates his nerves. He has good reason to verify this, even if it may change things in the long-run.
With shaky hands but a clear picture in his mind, he starts typing.
[Search: glowing eyes, scales, old]
A few milliseconds later, the results page returns a list of countless creatures of myth and legend.
Baxia’s song falters for a few seconds, only to begin anew.
He clicks on the first entry and starts to read.