Chapter Text
Warmth envelopes Nie Huaisang the moment he steps outside. He has a proper shirt on tonight, courtesy of going to the opera with his friends, Mo Xuanyu and Lan Wangji. In the open summer air, he half regrets dressing up; he pops open the first two buttons, loosening the collar until it becomes easier to breathe. Next to him, Lan Wangji is wearing a summer-friendly cotton suit, but a suit nonetheless.
It’s a miracle he hasn’t fainted from the heat yet!
“I admire your endurance for the sake of propriety,” Mo Xuanyu tells Lan Wangji, echoing Nie Huaisang’s own thoughts.
“It is the opera,” Lan Wangji points out.
Mo Xuanyu exhales noisily. He fixes his black shirt, smoothes down a couple of wrinkles. “How did I end up here anyway? This is not my scene at all!”
“You are a good friend and didn’t want to let me suffer by myself,” Nie Huaisang sing-songs, mouth stretched into a cheeky grin. He places an arm around Mo Xuanyu’s shoulders and brings their heads together.
“Oh, don’t touch me! It’s too hot for this.”
Nie Huaisang steps back obediently. His amusement is obvious in his voice when he speaks, saying, “Thanks for coming, Mo-xiong! Truly.”
Lan Wangji turns to them with a slight frown marring his face. “Did you not enjoy the piece at all?”
They’d been to Madama Butterfly by Giacomo Puccini. The cast was exquisite, absolutely flawless in their performance. Nie Huaisang knows for certain he will look up a couple of the songs as soon as he gets home, and even keep an eye out for the official recordings done by the opera house itself. Chills go down his spine at the memory of Madame Butterfly’s final lamentations.
Despite this, Nie Huaisang hadn’t wanted to come. His inspiration has abandoned him for a while now and all he has left is a bundle of frustrations and a large pile of unfinished creations. Only at Nie Mingjue’s insistence did he finally give in and accept to attend.
“Invite Xichen’s brother, please, he hasn’t been himself the past few weeks,” is what Nie Mingjue told him.
Nie Huaisang complied, more out of curiosity than anything else. After that, dragging Mo Xuanyu along had been a natural follow-up.
“It was nice,” Nie Huaisang says. He takes a paper fan out of his small backpack and starts fanning himself with slow, wide sweeps. “It’s just this heat that’s getting to my head. I can’t think! I can’t paint!”
“Yeah, it’s this weather...!” Mo Xuanyu looks up at the sky with a grimace. “What do you say we grab an iced drink somewhere?”
“Sorry, I have to pass,” Nie Huaisang says.
Mo Xuanyu gapes at him. Even Lan Wangji raises an eyebrow in question. Both their attention on him makes Nie Huaisang hunch up his shoulders defensively.
“What?”
“Nie-xiong has been avoiding us for some time,” Lan Wangji states.
Mo Xuanyu comes to stand by Lan Wangji’s side and squints further at Nie Huaisang. “You’d tell us if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”
"Wrong? Nothing's wrong!" Nie Huaisang exclaims, taking a step back.
"You didn't come to last week's party," Mo Xuanyu points out. After a moment's pause, he starts listing more times Nie Huaisang skipped socializing.
When the count reaches his other hand, Nie Huaisang clears his throat, annoyed. "Ok, you can stop. I get it. I've been busy with my assignments. The deadlines are almost here and I've made literally no progress on two of them."
"Perhaps this performance will inspire you," Lan Wangji says. He starts walking down the sidewalk, toward the parking lot. "If you need a model or a drink, don't hesitate to call Mo-xiong."
"Hey, why are you advertising me without my consent?!"
"You would abandon Nie Huaisang?" Lan Wangji deadpans, going as far as stopping in place.
Mo Xuanyu huffs. "Of course not!"—to Nie Huaisang—"Do call me!"
"Thanks," Nie Huaisang says dryly. He knows they mean well, but lately it's become exhausting to balance his social life, his family, and his studies, not to mention the stone weighing down in his stomach whenever he thinks of his current bout of artist's block.
They're an odd bunch, the three of them. It's hard to say which one of them is the unexpected one: Mo Xuanyu, economic studies dropout now working in construction, or Lan Wangji, musical prodigy, actually going out with them on a frequent basis.
"Nie-xiong always finds the solution," La Wangji tells him firmly. "Do you need a ride home?"
Ah, yes. The perk of being Lan Wangji's friend: free car rides.
Nie Huaisang shakes his head. "I'll walk. I'm only twenty minutes away."
"Are you sure?" Mo Xuanyu asks.
"Yes. Go get your drinks, alcoholic or otherwise," Nie Huaisang shoos them away with his hand.
His two friends turn toward Lan Wangji's little car.
"Text me when you get home!" Mo Xuanyu insists, then the trio part ways.
Nie Huaisang lives with his brother in a quaint little block. He used to rent out the place by himself before Nie Mingjue joined him about a year ago, when his job brought him to the city of Fei—. The flat is within half an hour on foot from the city center, but the bustle of the main streets is well absorbed by the trees and other buildings in the area. Inside their flat, sometimes it is quiet enough to hear a roach crawling on the floor—not that they have pests anymore, thank you very much!
He vividly recalls the image of Nie Mingjue jumping a foot in the air when he found a roach resting on top of his house slipper.
If only Nie Huaisang had had his phone on hand to record the scene!
He stifles a chuckle as he remembers his brother's affected face. It is a well hidden secret between the two of them that Nie Mingjue hates creepy crawlers. So well hidden, in fact, that Nie Huaisang caught his brother struggling to take a spider outside one time at Lan Xichen's request. Nie Mingjue's expression was frozen in a grimace, and his shoulders so tense he might as well have been a living statue.
Nie Huaisang: ahahaha remember that bug?
Nie Huaisang: you should let Lan Xichen know the truth about you before you move in together
Nie Mingjue: Is the show over?
Nie Mingjue: Are you drunk? Don't talk nonsense
Nie Huaisang: just imagine the largest, fattest cockroach sitting in the middle of the bathroom floor fjfkglh
Nie Mingjue: 😠
Nie Huaisang: sorry sorry, I'm omw home
Nie Huaisang puts his phone away. It's eleven already, and it shows. There's much fewer cars on the road and most of the people outside are waiting for the last buses to pick them up. He follows the main street for a while, then takes a few turns toward the residential area.
He’s a side-street away from exiting the central area when he hears music. It's a pleasant tune, light hearted, probably played on a flute by the sound of it.
Nie Huaisang stops at the corner of the street and listens, intrigued.
The melody rises and falls sweetly; its fragile notes are barely carried by the breeze, yet Nie Huaisang hears them echoing deeply within his chest, like it is a song he knows intimately.
(He doesn't, not really.)
Images of his childhood flash in front of his eyes—moments of carefreeness and carelessness—when he fell down a tree and sprained his ankle, or when he set loose grandfather's dog and they had to run after it for hours. All memories he treasures, all bearing the same mark of timelessness and all-encompassing joy.
He needs to know what this melody is.
The sidestreet is dark. One single lamppost flickers pathetically at its entrance, leaving the rest of it plunged into shadow. Nie Huaisang walks on undeterred, lured in by the song and with the rhythmical clatter of his heels for company. The tall buildings lining the street on both sides make the noise echo loudly, enough to dispel some of the haze clouding Nie Huaisang's mind.
(He doesn't question it yet.)
Ahead, a small porch light comes into view. It shines warmly above a solid, wooden door. Sitting down on the handful of steps leading to the entrance is a man. There is a flute in his hands and he is playing it with focus, eyebrows furrowed and forehead wrinkled in concentration. The song, however, maintains its ethereal quality, still feeling like it's coming from far, far away.
Only at the sight of this stranger does Nie Huaisang finally stop.
"What is that melody?" he asks.
The man startles violently. He turns to Nie Huaisang with his eyes wide and curious.
"You heard it?"
"Faintly. It's beautiful."
This remark makes the man's face twist with skepticism. As he stands, he twirls the musical instrument in one hand with practiced ease. Nie Huaisang's eyes follow the movement of the flute with fascination.
"Well, it doesn't have a name. I made it up on the spot," the stranger says. "I'm sorry to disappoint."
"Ah."
"Say, are you interested in art?"
Nie Huaisang straightens his back. He gives the man a good look—he's dressed in dark colours, wears some dangly chains decorating his vest pocket, has three entire different patterns on his person, and his hair is very messy, barely held together by an elastic hair band.
That is definitely an artist, if Nie Huaisang has ever seen one.
“Maybe. Why do you ask?”
The man shrugs. “Since you’re here, I thought I might as well recommend the art gallery I’m guarding.”
He’s security?!
“We have many fascinating pieces which I am sure you have not seen before.”
Nie Huaisang looks at the building behind him more closely. The windows are covered in large posters, one advertising a real estate firm and another some local fast food place. Warm light streams through the paper. If he strains, he can pick up some background chatter—this surprises him the most. An art gallery open at this hour? And one bustling with people, at that?
“I didn’t know there were any open so late at night,” he comments as he steps closer.
“We don’t advertise. The owner is, hmm, eccentric,” says the security guard through stifled laughter. “However, there’s high quality stuff inside! Enter, enter! No entry fee for students.”
Interest piqued, Nie Huaisang walks up the steps and pushes the door open. He’s been waiting for something like this to happen!
The art gallery is housed in a building with long, narrow hallways. The first hallway he steps into goes straight ahead in a long, long line. As he walks forward, he looks left and right at the walls, where delicate pressed flower collages are hung in silver frames. This doesn’t seem to be anything more than the standard decor for the place, as nobody else lingers in that area. Further in, doors appear on both sides, each with its own metallic plaque placed at eye-level. At first, Nie Huaisang thinks they’re organized by dynasty (‘Ming’ and ‘Qing’ make his eyebrows rise in bewilderment—such old art? Here?), but that theory falls down the drain when he sees more of them: ‘Lotus & Birds’, ‘A Storm is Brewing’, ‘Clouds’.
The hallway opens up to a large lobby with white walls and marble columns. Facing the entrance is a spiral staircase, winding up toward the next floor. A sizeable crowd lingers here, mostly grouped up in threes or fours, some gathered around paintings, others sitting down at the round tables spread around the place. Glasses, tea sets and jars of alcohol fill every available surface.
The moment Nie Huaisang steps inside, he almost feels the lapse in conversation.
Briefly, all eyes seem to zero in on him, then the words pick back up again as if nothing happened.
The majority of the people are pretty young, in their twenties and thirties, though he spots a few elderly patrons conversing in a corner. It’s an explosion of fashion and jewelry and makeup—some girls have painted scales on the skin of their face, around their temples and going up toward the middle of their foreheads. They’re dressed in long, flowing hanfu made from excessively patterned fabric and jewelry glitters ostentatiously on their forearms and fingers. Nie Huaisang blinks twice at the sight of a man sporting so much facial hair that he appears more creature than human. Another pair of young men is watching him back with strange, yellow eyes.
(Ah, he’s always wanted to try coloured contact lenses!)
The amount of pretentiousness exuding from these people makes Nie Huaisang sneak a few more looks around. He’s not really popular at university, but he thought he had a good visual grip on the students there. Surely there must be someone from his school here? They’d fit right in!
He reaches the short marble columns and the sleek banister of the spiral stairs and looks up toward the first floor, intrigued. Turned away from the crowd, the tension he feels at the back of his neck is unnerving, verging on unbearable. Whenever he isn’t looking, everyone seems to be watching him closely, almost drinking him with their eyes. It’s not the pleasant attention he enjoys at parties—far from it.
For a moment, he fears he stumbled into some exclusivist club and will be kicked out despite the security guard’s reassurances.
To escape the budding nervousness, Nie Huaisang decides to go up. The ink paintings displayed in the lobby are gorgeous, but the buzz of the crowd makes it too difficult to enjoy them.
The stairs lead to a small foyer. The wall in front bears a single fan, as large as the span of his arms. It’s made from metal, wood and lace in equal parts, mixed into an intricate design of crisscrossing lines and lacy flowers. Long-time admirer of fans of all types, Nie Huaisang freezes in front of it, mouth parted in surprise. One of his feet is still on the last step of the stairs and his hand is gripping the banister, yet he cannot move at all.
The striking presence of the fan keeps him rooted to the spot, reduced to amazement.
Footsteps come from the left.
A door opens and reveals a young man dressed in a dark suit, with dark hair, dark eyes and a very, very dark look on his face.
They make eye contact for a second—enough to break Nie Huaisang out of his reverie.
The man takes a double take; his expression turns into surprise, then settles on ambivalence as he comes closer.
“A new face,” he says and his voice is quite attractive, with the little bit of rasp it has on the edges. “Welcome. Did you have any trouble with security?”
“Hello!” Nie Huaisang says. “No trouble at all, why do you ask?”
The man frowns, calculating. “No need to concern yourself with that. Enjoy the exhibit items!”
With that, he by-passes him neatly, then goes down the stairs.
Nie Huaisang turns (as inconspicuous as possible) and watches him go from the corner of his eye. The man leans funnily on one of his legs and hobbles down with some difficulty. Though he feels awkward staring, it piques Nie Huaisang’s curiosity at once. Before he steps away from the stairs, he throws a last look down at the ground floor. He catches the back of the man walking away toward the crowd; his voice carries over all the way to the first floor as he yells for the security guard.
I should not be here, thinks Nie Huaisang. Still, he makes no move to leave. Now that he’s inside (with the gatekeeper’s permission at that), he wants to see what else the art gallery has to offer. The amount of creations it contains is much larger than he initially expected, and while it is indeed someone’s private collection and possibly private artwork itself, it is done with such skill, accuracy and respect to traditional painting values that Nie Huaisang could not possibly leave of his own accord.
He gives the large fan one last look before he ventures to the left, toward the room where the man came from. There is no marking on the door; upon entering, Nie Huaisang’s senses are filled by fragrant incense—a stick is burning in one corner of the chamber, in an elaborate ceramic burner. A couple of lights are mounted low upon the walls and the light they provide is dim, casting the room into a comfortable type of warmth.
Four long vitrines are arranged in a square, each parallel to a wall. Through the crystal glass, Nie Huaisang sees a multitude of statuettes of various shapes, spread around a few stone paths, in the garden of a pristine traditional compound. Most of them depict people dressed in ancient outfits; the paint is pristine, making it tricky to gauge their actual age.
It’s a collection of dioramas made of clay. The little people see to their business diligently: a lady and a gentleman stroll by the side of a pond full of lotus, a few children fly kites by the other side of the garden, some elders watch over them from a wooden deck. The other vitrines hold similar creations, only the architecture and the fashion vary between them.
Nie Huaisang spends plenty of time in that room, observing the artwork. There are many details that capture his attention: a tiny flower pin adorning the hair of a young lady, a delicate pattern hinted at through precise brushstrokes, the texture of the background so finely transposed onto the clay base for the buildings, platforms, and little guardian lions statues… It is a feast for the eyes, bound to keep any spectator charmed for minutes on end.
To nobody’s surprise least of all his, Nie Huaisang loses track of time gloriously. His older brother messages him at some point, asking about his whereabouts, to which he replies with a simple ‘night event at an art gallery on ___ street!!’ That pacifies Nie Mingjue, but it also enables Nie Huaisang to let himself loose in the building, now that he isn’t expected at home anytime soon.
He passes from room to room, enticed, entranced, absolutely fascinated. With each piece he sees, he feels more confused, and at the same time, more satisfied. These can’t be original, because he’s never heard of these pieces and there’s no proper authors listed—and if it were original work still, it would be an incredibly frequented place! Fei— isn’t a large city but it surely has plenty of tourists to check out such a thing!
But this poses another question: who is so talented as to make this incredible amount of art with such precision? Only in grand museums of art has Nie Huaisang felt such fascination before, moving through eras from a room to the next.
Another strange thing about the place is the crowd. They don’t seem very interested in admiring the art; instead, they keep each other company and discuss matters quietly, so quietly and afraid of being overheard that more than once the patrons have paused their conversations and stared at him with their gleaming eyes as he walked by.
He sees more eccentric artists: some wearing feathers, one wearing a cape, a few dressed far too thickly for the weather outside. It puzzles him. Is this a meeting place for the artists of Fei—? He has never heard of it before! How is nobody at uni talking about this?
Plagued by these thoughts, he continues his exploration for another hour, passing through various rooms. He does make it back downstairs, only to duck into the first side-room he sees—’Lotus & Birds’.
“This piece dates back to 1624, late Ming dynasty.”
Nie Huaisang jumps backward so hard he almost crashes into the newcomer.
It’s the man from before, looking considerably more appeased now. With the nearest lamp shining on his face brightly, it makes him look quite unhealthily pale. He holds one hand behind his back, stands straight, posture all proper and respectable, and the other he uses to gesture to the wall scroll Nie Huaisang spent the last dozen minutes staring at.
“It’s… authentic?” he asks, eyes returning to the artwork.
“Some are, some aren’t,” the man answers, lips stretching into a smile. He turns to the rest of the room, which contains about six more scrolls on the walls. “Would you like to guess which is which?”
Nie Huaisang follows his line of sight and smiles politely.
“I don’t think I would be able to tell,” he admits. “I am just a student.”
“The original pieces are family heirlooms,” the owner explains, “there is little chance you have seen them before.”
“And the imitations? Are you the artist?”
The man chuckles. “No, no.”
He steps forward, stops by Nie Huaisang’s side. Their arms brush lightly for a few seconds, then the man leans away and remains a palm’s width away.
Nie Huaisang is strong in many ways. Unfortunately, none of them help him now, when he is increasingly more aware of how attractive the man next to him is. The air inside starts to feel suffocating; heat gathers around his neck and chest, and he brings a hand to the collar of his shirt only to find it already open, but offering no relief. The man is describing the wall scroll in detail, pointing out each point of interest in the composition. He’s talking about ink, and brushstrokes, and gnarled pine trees, and metaphors, but Nie Huaisang’s eyes, though facing ahead, are more focused on the body hovering in their periphery.
He has a beautiful nose, he thinks.
And jaw.
And when the man turns to look at him briefly during his monologue, Nie Huaisang shyly adds ‘and eyes’ to the increasing list of qualities.
There is definitely a trace of blush on his face, from the warmth, from the embarrassment, from the thoughts that are starting to form in his mind. He’s very often met attractive people in artistic spaces—his eye seeks out the beauty in people like a heat-seeking missile. Beauty lies in a freckle, in a dimple, in an errant strand of hair that doesn’t follow the course of the rest. It lies in a nervous gesture made while waiting in a queue, or in a word spoken more kindly than a conversation calls for.
He falls in love often.
Now it is no different—and completely unique at the same time. He recognizes his small crush forming, knows it to be temporary, allows himself a few glances to the side to feed his infatuation. It’s tradition by now, to sigh about a stranger every day, and find a muse in another come morning.
Unlike the usual experience however, the way he’s finding it harder to breathe makes him fidget in unease. His heart is beating louder and his palms are sweating and he’s only listening to this man! They’re not even having a proper conversation!
The man pauses his speech.
Horrified, Nie Huaisang realizes he was paying so little attention he doesn’t have the faintest idea what he talked about! Did it sound like a question at the end? Should he nod?
“Excuse me, I ended up rambling about this. My usual audience is already familiar with these pieces and I haven’t had to present them in a long time,” the man says. “Please, don’t let me keep you. There’s plenty more to see.”
“Thank you,” Nie Huaisang tells him quietly, feeling like a fraud. At least the satisfaction of being a tour guide he provided to the man is genuine.
Two patrons wander inside and approach the two of them. It’s the ladies with scales painted on their face. Nie Huaisang marvels at the quality of the glitter powdered over their skin; it makes the scales shine pleasantly, almost life-like in the dim light. One of them—exceptionally beautiful, with sharp eyeliner contouring her almond eyes, and a shade of red lipstick so daring it seems to glow in the penumbra—steps forward and stops in front of Nie Huaisang..
“Jiang Wanyin, have you shown him my creations?” she asks haughtily, in a voice as smooth as silk, but accompanied by an unpleasant tone.
The man—Jiang Wanyin—doesn’t look too thrilled to be in their presence. The little smile he had on his face before is gone, replaced by a blank expression.
“I am not touring my guest. He is free to go wherever he desires,” he responds.
“In that case…” the lady smiles like a cat, showing a hint of teeth and a very unnerving glint in her eyes. She addresses Nie Huaisang: “I would like to invite you to view my personal work. Wang Lingjiao, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Feeling decidedly out of place, Nie Huaisang takes a step backward, closer to Jiang Wanyin. There seems to be another conversation going on over his head, one he can only recognize by the tension building up between the man and the lady. Wang Lingjiao’s companion stands behind her, one hand shielding her smirk, but not doing a good job of also muffling her tittering.
“The esteemed lady Wang Lingjiao is a fashion designer,” Jiang Wanyin says. “Please, lead the way.”
The lady bows with elegance upon being introduced. The smile on her face grows as she accepts the lead. With assertivity and shamelessness that only money and stature can back up, she sneaks a hand around Nie Huaisang’s back and the other she places on his elbow, and she keeps him close to her side. On his other side walks Wang Lingjiao’s friend. Both of them smell like brine. He feels claustrophobic, almost like he is trapped in a cave by the sea. He looks back and breathes out in relief—Jiang Wanyin is following them, but looking quite put off by the entire ordeal.
They cross the lobby. Wang Lingjiao stops in front of a side-door titled ‘Ruby’, opens it and steps inside confidently. Nie Huaisang follows at a more mellow pace.
The largest wall of the room is covered in sketches of clothes. They are modern, made in pens and markers, and depict outfits for both men and women. On the opposite wall, there is an enormous tapestry, spanning the entire width of the wall, depicting two seamstresses at work in an ancient setting.
The rest of the room contains a couple of mannequins placed to the sides, where they obscure neither the sketches nor the tapestry, and in the center, there is a vitrine with small puppets dressed in ostentatious hanfus.
Nie Huaisang’s apprehension evaporates in an instant. The sight is so beautiful, a mix of such colour, sequins, ribbons, and taste that he steps in front, to the middle of the room unprompted and spins around once, trying to take it all in at a glance.
Wang Lingjiao chuckles with obvious pride. “These are merely a part of my creations. I will let you decide which one you would like to know more about first.”
Nie Huaisang walks up to the wall of sketches and stares dumbly at the pieces it contains. The lines look so smooth and effortlessly made that his heart squeezes in his chest with admiration. Wang Lingjiao catches up with him with slow, languid steps, and begins her own monologue, delving deep into matters of fashion design.
An entire half an hour they spend there. The fashion designer’s friend leaves them at some point, but Jiang Wanyin remains by the doorway, silent, hands behind his back. He is so still he looks like a statue, but Nie Huaisang caught him turning his head to keep them in his field of view when they crossed the room to the tapestry, so at least he knows he hasn’t fallen asleep yet.
It is an exceptionally rich experience. Though Wang Lingjiao as a person doesn’t seem very pleasant, her passion for her craft leaves Nie Huaisang craving to draw clothes himself. For a few minutes, he even entertains the idea of switching his degree to fashion design altogether—thankfully, it doesn’t last very long.
He is tired when the woman concludes her presentation. She remains close to him, light dancing in her eyes strangely.
“There are more mannequins upstairs, showcasing the actual, original pieces,” she murmurs, placing a hand at the back of his neck. Her long, pointy nails scratch at his skin lightly and send a chill down his spine.
“That’s enough, I think,” Jiang Wanyin speaks up. He clears his throat and pops a small light green candy in his mouth.
“You want him all to yourself, then?” she asks, annoyed, but does put some distance between them.
With a red face, Jiang Wanyin says, “You know the rules.”
“Tsk, rules. Wei Wuxian let him in, he isn’t anyone’s guest.”
There’s something going on again that Nie Huaisang can’t follow in their dialogue.
“Enjoy the rest of your night, Miss Wang.” Jiang Wanyin completely disregards her complaint. He motions to Nie Huaisang to join him, which the student does hurriedly.
“Thank you for the tour, miss,” Nie Huaisang says, right before he and Jiang Wanyin return to the hallway.
“You should go home,” the man tells him quietly. Again, the conversation in the lobby ceases briefly when Nie Huaisang walks out.
“It is very late and I am tired,” he agrees.
“The newcomer is leaving already?” someone asks from the lobby.
There is a tall man standing in the doorway, face partly obscured by shadows.
“Yes,” Jiang Wanyin answers. He puts a hand on Nie Huaisang’s shoulder and urges him to walk to the entrance more quickly.
“A pity,” the person comments. “Do come again…”
Confused but silently glad to have the handsome tour guide so close to him at the end, Nie Huaisang lets himself be taken outside. The security guard isn’t there anymore. They go down the steps. Nie Huaisang stops, expecting Jiang Wanyin to remain by the doorway, but he keeps going, a limp in his step, and they bump into each other.
“Sorry,” Jiang Wanyin says.
Nie Huaisang looks at the main door for a plaque with the opening hours and doesn’t find any. Not even the name of the place itself is displayed, come to think of it.
“Are you open tomorrow?”
“Actually, about that…”
He comes close to Nie Huaisang and bends his head down.
“You shouldn’t—”
The front door opens. A group of three people, rambunctiously dressed, two men and a woman, leave the gallery with a saunter. They exchange casual farewells with the tour guide, and before they disappear into the darkness of the alley, they look at Nie Huaisang with a tad too much intensity.
Jiang Wanyin sighs next to him. His breath is cold when it brushes past Nie Huaisang’s cheek.
“You shouldn’t come back.”
“Is this an exclusivist club after all?” Nie Huaisang asks.
Jiang Wanyin urges him to keep walking. He remains in step with him as they too step into the shadows.
“Kind of. How did you find us anyway?”
“The security guard was playing music, it sounded familiar somehow…” Nie Huaisang replies quietly.
“I see. If you hear it again, please ignore it.”
They reach the place where the alley opens into the main street, where the street-lights bathe the sidewalk in warm yellows. The shops lining the buildings have their night-lights on, showcasing the items in their windows in a different lighting. Nie Huaisang steps into the light and stops.
“I hope you enjoyed the art tonight nonetheless,” Jiang Wanyin says.
It hits him then, that the man is saying goodbye for good.
Nie Huaisang clenches his fists. He’s not okay at all with the idea of never seeing this man again. Beyond his attractive looks, there’s a spark inside of Jiang Wanyin that reveals his sensitive side. Though listening to him talk about the art in the ‘Lotus & Birds’ room didn’t resonate with Nie Huaisang’s scholarly side, it certainly left an impression on his heart, and he fears this impression might be harder to move on from than he’s used to.
Only one more look, he tells himself.
When he sees the man staring back at him with his eyebrows slanted downward in regret, Nie Huaisang feels like he is struck by lightning. The need to get close to him and steal a kiss hits him all at once, driven further by the certainty of them never meeting again.
For a second, he catches Jiang Wanyin’s gaze flicker down on his face.
It’s all the push he needs.
“I don’t know you at all,” Nie Huaisang says as he steps back into the shadows, “but I think I have a crush on you.”
Jiang Wanyin freezes in place, eyes never leaving Nie Huaisang’s.
“And if you insist on keeping me away, then I ask for a parting kiss.”
Jiang Wanyin opens his mouth to reply. No words make it past his lips though and Nie Huaisang hesitates.
“I’m sorry, I…”
“No, wait,” and Jiang Wanyin grabs him by the arm, halting him in place. “I… I noticed you as well.”
“‘Noticed’?” Nie Huaisang laughs. “Well, that’s an honor! Do you agree, then?”
Jiang Wanyin places the back of his hand on Nie Huaisang’s cheek—he telegraphs the move from miles away and moves so tentatively that it makes him look almost afraid of the touch. Nie Huaisang smiles cheekily at him; his own heart is beating madly in his chest and if he had to move, his legs would surely not support one single step. The seriosity behind Jiang Wanyin’s action makes it seem like he asked for his hand in marriage and not just a simple kiss.
“Don’t return,” Jiang Wanyin says firmly.
The next moment, they’re kissing on the lips and it’s electrifying. Nie Huaisang puts an arm around his neck and stands on his toes to deepen the kiss. Jiang Wanyin moves his hands to his waist and holds him close. He’s strangely cold to the touch, like he just ate ice-cream before and the icy layer persisted. The relief it brings to Nie Huaisang comes in more ways than one. He sags against him and drapes both hands past his shoulders, securing his presence against Jiang Wanyin so intimately.
Exhaustion is catching up to him quickly. It’s a mere annoyance at first, a passing thought that he waves away because his day has been long and it’s past midnight now, but within a minute, as he’s floating in another world, only he and Jiang Wanyin and nothing else, it comes crashing down. While infatuation made his knees weak before, now they feel numb and heavy, and his arms turn from holding him to sagging against him bonelessly. Jiang Wanyin places a few butterfly kisses to the side of his mouth, then to the side of his head when his head drops to Jiang Wanyin’s shoulder.
“I wish you didn’t forget me,” he whispers so wistfully that it almost—almost—breaks through the building haze in Nie Huaisang’s mind.
Why would I? he thinks, confused, before darkness swallows his consciousness whole.
♣
“A-Sang? Come inside.”
Nie Huaisang opens his eyes blearily. Light blinds him and he hides his face in the crook of his elbow.
“Damn, do they serve alcohol at the art gallery nowadays?”
“What?”
He swallows. His tongue feels like cotton in his mouth and his thoughts are in disarray. Did he get home? He must have, because his brother is standing in the doorway to their flat, the door propped open by his arm.
“Go shower. You look like you got hit by a train.”
“I am so tired,” he whines.
Tomorrow he doesn’t have morning classes, so he should be fine sleeping in.
He showers, prepares for bed, all in slow-motion, moving about like an old man with several chronic illnesses. The exhaustion almost hurts. Where did all his energy even go?
Once he makes it to the bed, he falls asleep within the minute.
No dreams visit him that night.