Work Text:
The corner of Shen Qingqiu’s lips quirk up as he relaxes slightly, his posture entirely incongruous with the shouting, clanging of swords, and overturned tables in the wreckage around him.
Really, though, this is the only reason to come to these things, he thinks.
“Shizun, you’ve received an invitation.” Ming Fan is standing by his desk, holding the letter out in such a way that Shen Qingqiu can clearly see the calligraphy - elegant and effortless in a way that screams that its author had been taught properly - pronouncing that it is, in fact, time once more for the annual Peak Lord Council and subsequent dinner and he, as is his due and burden, has been invited.
If he could avoid all of these gatherings forever, he would. It is much more efficient and effective to conduct individual visits; it keeps the others on their toes and means he really only has to converse with those he can actually stand and can leave whenever he chooses.
He sets aside the brush in his hand and looks up. Not at Ming Fan of course; just enough to let him know he’s been heard and acknowledged without seeing the misplaced adoration on his face. There’s a reason he’s the most likely to become his head disciple: Ming Fan just bows, putting down the letter on the desk and leaving with alacrity. Shen Qingqiu can hear the shouts of “what are you all doing here? Don’t you have chores to do?” and the sound of what must be every junior disciple on Qing Jing peak fleeing at what is most definitely not a run. They’ve all already run around the peak at least twice that day.
Picking up the letter reveals more details: it is not only the annual council dinner, but apparently is Bai Zhan peak’s turn to host it (Qing Jing thankfully isn’t for another four years and Shen Qingqiu wonders if there’s some way before then to change the records. Perhaps Shang Qinghua can be bribed). Shen Qingqiu can feel his lips turn up in what cannot be called a smile but might have been one in a different life.
The memory of the last time Liu Qingge had kicked open his door with “urgent news” that could have absolutely been ignored for at least another shichen runs through his mind. Perhaps this could be fun after all.
It’s not as difficult as one would think, to sow discord. From the outside, the Cang Qiong lords are to present a united front, a unified generation, past and future, no matter their differences. But as Shen Qingqiu knows well, one can hide all sorts of other intentions behind something even so flimsy as a fan or careful wording.
It takes not much more than a quick letter to An Ding peak to get Shang Qinghua to agree to letting Shen Qingqiu switch which table he will be seated at. Shen Qingqiu can almost feel the enthusiasm at being roped into what Shang Qinghua no doubt must assume is some sort of extra surprise plan radiating off of the reply he receives.
With that done, another few letters takes care of the rest. A seemingly harmless question here, an incorrect recipient there. There’s other work Shen Qingqiu should be doing, and his hand is starting to cramp slightly from holding the brush in such a way to keep his writing neat and refined, but it will all be worth it in the end.
There are a couple junior disciples sweeping outside when he finally finishes, robes perfectly in place, a practiced serenity on his face as he exits. They trip over themselves trying to look even busier as he passes.
“Was...was Shizun smiling?”
“Shh, he might hear you, and I can’t practice the guqin any more or I’ll go mad!”
It couldn’t have gone better if he had actually been trying and not just irritated at having to attend the stupid dinner in the first place. Shang Qinghua, in all of his earnestness, had rearranged the entire seating to accommodate Shen Qingqiu’s request, and Shen Qingqiu wasn’t sure how the resulting rearrangements had exactly led to an impromptu duel in the courtyard, but the sounds of yelling and swords clanging could be heard echoing throughout the hall. The dinner was intended to be small enough to only be head disciples and a small gathering of inner disciples, but it was still a large enough number that bets were coming out of the wordworks and if a couple choice phrases were to be believed, even a tournament bracket starting to place.
It was slightly hard to make out the details over Liu Qingge’s own yelling, though. Someone had tripped moving between tables and in their flailing to not crash, had ended up ripping off Liu Mingyan’s veil. Shen Qingqiu raises his eyebrows, shifting slightly in case he can see her face. Not that he cares all that much, but it would infuriate Liu Qingge to know that he knows, and that in itself is worth the trouble.
He’s stopped by the sight of a mandarin being offered in front of him. Somewhere in the background, he thinks he smells smoke and wants to turn to see. It would probably irritate Yue Qingyuan more if he did.
He takes the mandarin instead.
It’s not as if he’s invited Yue Qingyuan to sit - he has a perfectly good seat at the dais above the rest of them, as usual - but he finds himself simply shifting the mandarin in his hand, the black and white robes out of the corner of his eye dominating his awareness.
He could open the mandarin, of course, but that would also mean his nails would be stained, reeking of oranges as if he hadn’t risen far enough to not have to do that for himself anymore. He adamantly tries not to think about it.
“Here.” The mandarin is suddenly gone, his hand empty and strangely bereft of something he did not want in the first place and he distinctly refuses to turn towards Yue Qingyuan though he can smell the sweetness of it as the mandarin is opened. Yue Qingyuan hasn’t had any trouble getting his hands dirty for things that didn’t matter.
Bai Zhan peak has good fruit, it turns out. He eats the pieces, enjoyment of the disaster playing out in front of him warring with not wanting to make Yue Qingyuan think he is enjoying being treated.
The smell of mandarins grows stronger as Yue Qingyuan piles up the shreds of peels, stacking them neatly before shifting and leaning in. “It seems all of this is because you wanted to sit nearer to me?”
Shang Qinghua, that traitor! To have twisted his words like that, to tell Yue Qingyuan, of all people! In order to murmur in his ear, avoiding the discarded mandarin peels, Yue Qingyuan’s hand is now next to his. It’s not touching his, not yet, but if he just…
Turning his hand so that it’s palm down and not up as if he’s expecting another mandarin slice or some rot is a perfectly normal gesture, of course. It’s not his fault that Yue Qingyuan’s hand is in the way.
Yue Qingyuan does not move his hand away. Shen Qingqiu will not be the first to give in.
Maybe he should come to more of these dinners after all.