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It’s an exceptionally clear day, and for that Nie Huaisang is grateful -- it makes his present sport a far easier prospect. The clutch of hawthorn trees he’s stalking through now sits at the technical border of the Unclean Realm. Although the grove itself spans across both the Nie property and the neighboring compound belonging to the Julu Wong, the harvest has always more or less gone to their neighbors. The exception: a generous basket full of thornapples that almost always transform themselves with the help of the kitchens into tanghulu by late fall. Just enough sweetness to lighten Quinghe without spoiling it, Huaisang figures, and would be more mad about the implied abstinence if the tanghulu weren’t genuinely the light of his autumnal life.
Nie Huaisang isn’t here for the haws, however. Dead leaves crunch underfoot as he clutches the hooped net in hand, eyes scanning back and forth for what he thought he’d seen a glimpse of earlier and -- there. He freezes.
On the ground not ten bounding strides forward, under the shade of a tree heavy with fruit, sits the bird. It’s a relatively small, brown thing, feathers darkening to black the further down its tail one looks, but it’s eyes are a dead give-away. Like it’s been done up with a delicate hand, it wears pale blue streaks of color that encircle its darting, worried eyes. Nie Huaisang wouldn’t have known it for anything remarkable otherwise, but the books on bird watching available to him in the Nie library had been clear on the blue surrounding the eyes. He’d seen the hwamei two days ago simply doing his best to stay as far away from the practice yards as possible, especially since his brother was on a trip to Gusu. Once discovered, he’d done his best to track it around the property. He’d spent time down in the markets yesterday getting a simple but sturdy bamboo cage to suit it, and a net he was promised would make the task of catching it far easier.
So far, however, the reality had been far from the promised ease.
Huaisang mutters under his breath as he slips out of his clunky silken shoes, shifts the net from one hand to the other as he tucks up the long shifts of his robes into the band of his trousers to keep from creating more noise than strictly necessary. He pauses to consider his approach. The bird, for its part, seems invested in pulling a worm out of a half-rotten haw mouldering on the crabgrass lawn. Huaisang bites at his lip, trying to remember to keep his breathing even and through his mouth only as he slinks forwards on stocking-feet across the cold, dirty ground. He slides the pole of the net through both hands as he tries to judge the best distance from which to make his leap, but the indecision damns him as the bird looks up -- tilts its head with the wriggling worm squirming in its short, needlepoint beak -- and flies away.
Nie Huaisang can’t help himself, he cries out in dismay as he collapses onto the ground. He’s been out here for hours. He has half a mind to stalk back down to the vendor who sold him this damn net and shake him until he gets his money back.
“The young master seems quick to give up today,” comes the voice of Meng Yao from the far edge of the wooden-post fence of the grove. He’s in a set of his cold weather robes but has on a fur cloak that speaks to the fact he must’ve walked here from the main property; the exposed hills get inordinately windy this time of year.
“I honestly can’t tell if you’re teasing me or not,” Huaisang huffs. “I’ve been at this all morning.”
“Frustrating to see your quarry fly away I’m sure,” Meng Yao says, softening his voice slightly, eyes crinkling. “Although, shouting about it will hardly bring it back.”
Meng Yao is of course correct about that, however Huaisang feels like he ought to be allowed a small tantrum given the effort he’s put in so far. “This blasted net has been absolutely no help,” he says slapping it on the ground next to him and glaring at it darkly. “Guaranteed to increase bird catching efficiency by seventy-eight percent... by what metric I ask you? Honestly --”
“If only the young master applied himself to his sect studies with the same voracity,” Meng Yao says, although a quick glance at his face shows Huaisang that he seems to be poorly hiding a smile.
“Please don’t play at being Da-ge until I’ve had something hot to drink,” Huaisang groans. “I don’t think my constitution can stand it today.”
“Come then,” Meng Yao says walking over and offering Nie Huaisang a hand. “Let’s get you back down to the kitchens to be adequately watered and fed.”
Huaisang takes it, although he levers himself up with the net pole as well. He keeps holding onto Meng Yao’s hand as he leans the thing against a tree and then bends to slip his feet back into his discarded shoes. For balance, yes, but also because sometimes Nie Huaisang enjoys feeling delicate. Once sorted and robes smoothed out, he picks up the net once more and examines it. He can feel Meng Yao doing the same over his shoulder as they walk the trail together.
“I should launch it across the yard, that at least will be satisfying,” he says, and looks out at the hill sloping below them. He wonders if he could throw it hard enough for it to knock over the scare-crow planted in the field.
“Did the craftsman at least tell young master that songbirds are better caught passively in live traps?” Men Yao sighs, apparently taking some measure of pity on Nie Huaisang.
Nie Huaisang looks up sharply at that. Meng Yao’s already begun his descent so Huaisang clutches the net and hurries to catch up with him. “Isn’t this net a live trap?”
“Those work best to fish out certain kinds of birds that are first tangled in other kinds of traps, often with weights from trees,” Meng Yao explains. “For songbirds, the young master will want to try a different approach. The net in young master’s hand won’t work.”
“Meng Yao,” Nie Huaisang exclaims, pausing his hurried stride for a moment in his blossoming delight. Not only does Meng Yao have knowledge of the art of trapping birds, he knows enough to actually help him. “You’ve been holding out on me!”
“And the young master hasn’t been doing what he told Chifeng-zun he’d make an attempt to do in his absence,” Meng Yao gives Nie Huaisang a sideways glance. “How many pages of the Song of the Blackened Saber has young master managed to study since Lord Nie left two days ago? How many of the defensive forms Nie Zonghui demonstrated for his lordship has the young master applied himself to practicing?”
“Oh god, I take it back,” Nie Huaisang says, blowing stray wisps of his hair out of his face as he returns to navigating the rocky terrain of the trail. “You aren’t playing at being Da-ge, you’ve been secretly possessed by him. He’s puppeting you now even as we speak.”
They walk the next half hour or so in silence, before Huaisang abruptly sprints ahead of Meng Yao and places a hand on his chest to slow him for a minute. “A-Yao,” Huaisang tries, using his best pleading voice. “It’s been ages since I wanted to be good at something that holds a trace of martial value. Surely you understand how the process of tracking, stalking, and trapping might be explained to my brother in such a way that he will not find this to be a waste of my time.”
“Hmm,” Meng Yao says as if he actually needs to deliberate this declaration.
Huaisang would bet he doesn’t in the slightest, Meng Yao is by-in-large the cleverest of all of his brother’s advisors; what Huaisang is a bit shocked at himself about is the way he likes feeling as if he’s being toyed with. “It’s been many years since this one has had cause to hunt. I’m not sure what little I remember will be of any use to your lordship.”
He gently lifts Huaisang’s hand from his chest even as he lets his gaze linger as he continues to walk. Meng Yao might be quick-witted, but Huaisang can play at being crestfallen more beautifully than anyone in the castle, this he knows and does so to full effect now. Meng Yao smiles before he can stop himself although he doesn’t laugh.
“Perhaps this one will take the hours freed up from his schedule tomorrow by his young lordship’s attending to the books in the library seeking his most esteemed study,” Meng Yao says pointedly. “To see if it isn’t possible to broaden what this one recalls on trapping songbirds.”
“Ugh,” Nie Huaisang huffs but let the argument go, secretly quite pleased.
It’s a fair deal, and the one Huaisang expected. That still means he intends to whine about it for the rest of the day, just with a far more excited heft to his heart. Meng Yao is clearly in a mood to indulge him; Huaisang will take advantage of every aspect of that generosity before his brother gets back and Meng Yao returns to being more his brother’s man than theirs both.
-
In the morning, Nie Huaisang forgets himself and his promise to sideline his chase for his studies momentarily when he catches the hwamei’s song through an open window. His head turns swiftly to the window being allowed to carry in fresh air as his robes are being laid out by his valet, but despite how he cranes his neck, he cannot see the bird. He dances with urgency, barley throwing on his inner robe and shooing the man out, forgoing weather-sensible layering in favor of dashing outside to verify what his ears are hearing. The net he dumped by the exit closest to the grove after they’d trekked back yesterday has been thoughtfully hung up and he almost tears it taking it from its hook, thoughtlessly buoyant and excited by the prospect of the birds not having yet moved on from the vicinity.
It takes a frantic moment or two, but he spots a clutch of them by the leafless trees adorning the craggy grasses outside of his chambers. They hop around, brightly whistling to each other, and Nie Huaisang holds his breath fascinated by them completely. They’re gorgeous, delicate, and when one climbs up onto the edge of a rock and breaks out in its song sequence, he understands in a fundamental way why someone would go to great lengths to possess such a creature. Almost as an afterthought, he remembers he’s holding the net.
He tightens his hands on the pole, doesn’t even realize he’s lowered himself slowly into a crouch, until a pointed cough carries from the open doorway back inside of the castle’s inner chambers. Nie Huaisang straightens up immediately, feeling caught, and looks back at the house.
In the doorway stands Meng Yao, face relaxed but inscrutable, his hands folded into the small of his back. Huaisang mulls over the exchange they’d entertained yesterday -- horribly boring family poetry in exchange for the secret careful knowledge of catching and keeping living grace. And on top of that prize, enticing in and of itself, it’s Meng Yao himself who knows something about the activity. The man’s depths often inscrutable behind an affable wall of courtesy have never failed to thrill and entertain Huaisang when coaxed out of hiding, and his familiarity with hunting is exactly the sort of thing in which one wouldn’t expect him to hold any authority. That contradiction excites Nie Huaisang. Both because it affords him a satisfied sense of certainty Meng Yao possesses the information he needs to cage one of these birds, but also because there’s something thrilling in the way Meng Yao is often something other than he appears. A part of Nie Huaisang wants to pick that appart; a part of him admires it.
He allows himself one last lingering look at the hwamei, imagining the one on the rock with its head cocked in the direction of Huaisang’s energetic presence is bowing to him in challenge when it dips its head.
He makes his way back over to the sliding doors and steps up onto the balcony and carefully sets down the net again, this time outside. He looks at Meng Yao who brings the circle of his hands forwards and bows to him. “Good morning, young master. Breakfast will be ready within the hour.”
Nie Huaisang waves him up out of the bow annoyed with the needless formality as much as he’s annoyed at what he’s about to acquiesce to doing. “I’ll take some tea in the library, you can tell the cooks to forget the rest of it.”
“Of course,” Meng Yao says. He’s too put together -- or perhaps too kind -- to look amused at Nie Huaisang’s capitulation, but there’s a certain glint in his eyes as he excuses himself to see to Huaisang’s needs.
-
The reading is exactly as hellish as Nie Huaisang was expecting it to be. Bad poetry is a very specific kind of torture, really. He doesn’t have anything against the lyrical poetry of the masters or the illustrative epics on dual cultivation he has to hide in the ink drawers of the family library lest they be found and confiscated (or heavens forbid, destroyed), but “The Song of the Blackened Saber” is barely more than porcine exsanguination instructions with florid language and a laughable attempt at meter.
Huaisang pours himself the last of this pot of iron goddess and considers sending for some food -- he deserves it for his herculean perseverance; depending on which sect retainers are working, he’s not at all above bribing someone to bring him a pot of hawflower wine especially since his brother will still be gone for another two days.
He looks at the next stanza in which the ritual for pre-slaughter washing is described and sighs. There’s a way to describe reverence in killing, the link between the resentful energy generated, its consuming nature, and the consummation of the animal’s flesh that might be poetic, but either Nie Wanglei was genuinely dense or allergic to embracing even a hint of sensuality in his verse.
“Incredible how boring someone can make murder seem,” Nie Huaisang mutters to himself.
Perhaps sensing his restlessness, someone levys a quiet knock on the door to the reading room, and Huaisang allows the intrusion with a command of: “Enter.”
It’s someone from the kitchen with a full tray of stew, rice, pickled eggs, and vinegared vegetables. “Constable Meng says you need to eat since you skipped both breakfast and lunch, young master.”
Nie Huaisang grimaces. The hunger was a fine yolk for his attention. Now that he can smell the food, he finds himself too exhausted from the mental gymnastics of forcing himself to steady and thanks the man before waving him off as quickly as possible.
He checks his progress against the total number of chapters while bringing the stew up to his lips. He’s gotten about a fifth of the way through the book, which is harrowing. His brother asked him to finish it, he should maybe try for half or else Meng Yao might not consider his end of the deal held up. He’d just skim it and pretend he’d given it a proper amount of attention, but it’s often harder than expected to put on airs of a struggling scholar around Meng Yao; he has an eye for Huaisang’s willful indolence.
He sits up and calls out, “wait!” and is pleased to see he managed it in time as the retainer slides the door back open and bows. “I’m going to need more of the oolong.”
The man bows again. “As the young master wishes.”
Nie Huaisang works a bit more on getting some food down, and then places his bowl on the lacquered tray it was brought in on. He raises himself up onto his knees and arches his back in a satisfying stretch. He will have the damned trick to catching these birds, even if instead of his dinner, he has to chew these pages up and swallow them down in order to internalize them satisfactorily.
Two full pots of tea later, Huaisang retires from the library far later than he’d like. He almost forgoes asking for a bath, but his back is stiff from holding himself up in proper reading posture all day so he deserves one. He sends his valet out for the water and tub despite the hour, and spends the meantime twisting his hair up high to keep well off his shoulders so it won’t get wet. He keeps his innermost layer mostly on account of the chill, but when the man heads out again to fetch the second batch of water he cuts his losses and disrobes behind his privacy screen.
It’s no time before the cold midnight air raises gooseflesh, the silk slithering off Huaisang’s skin forcing him to suppress a shiver as he lays his robe at the side of the tub. The steam rising from the very hot water is thick with the fire in his chamber so low, and so it takes him a minute to register that the person reentering his room with two pails isn’t the valet Chengmei, but Meng Yao.
Nie Huaisang freezes, eyes widening, and reflexively lowers himself into the bath out of an expectation of modesty. He moves thoughtlessly, hissing at the contact against his bare thighs and collapses into the water in a rushed descent far too fast for how hot it is. He’s able to stop himself when the edges of it lap at his waist, the bright hot burn of the water punching the air out of his lungs. He narrowly avoids swearing. The contrast to the cool, damp air is enough to get his heart beating fast.
“You didn’t have to attend to me yourself,” Huaisang says when he can get his breath back.
“That’s a good way to get burned,” Meng Yao chides. He doesn’t add that he’s seen Nie Huaisang naked before and that his hiding in the bath water is entirely unwarranted, but Huaisang can hear it anyway.
“Come cool it down for me then.” Nie Huaisang knows his eyebrows are twisting in a pleading entreaty as the heat doesn’t fade and stays well inside the realm of uncomfortable. He tries panting, deliberately trying to channel the heat sitting the skin of his lower body out through his breath with is qi, but it’s hard to focus when he’s naked and squirming, with Meng Yao standing over him. The squirming just seems to reinvigorate the press of heat on to adjusted skin with a burning drag of water. “Please,” Nie Huaisang manages.
Meng Yao goes to pour one of the buckets, but pauses; Nie Huaisang almost cries. “Did the young master want both pails of water or just the one?”
“Both, one, I don’t care, Meng Yao please--”
And with a soothing apology, Meng Yao tips in the water. Nie Huaisang paddles it around to mix it with his hands and the relief is almost instantaneous. He relaxes against the wood of the container, sighing. Meng Yao adds the second, and Nie Huaisang lifts his head as the water line rises up on to his chest and says, “Thank you.”
Being naked for a bath is different than naked by medical necessity. Meng Yao’s seen Nie Huaisang stripped shoulder to calves. Huaisang fell from a tree last autumn and had his ribs skewered by a stubborn branch, twisted his ankle but managed not to break anything. All the doctors had been with Da-ge or down in the village tending to a stomach illness that had broken out amongst the farmers. Meng Yao had tended to his wounds himself, helped get the wood out of him, patched up the hole left behind. Being naked and only being so much wounded and bruised skin is one thing. It’s a curious thing to be seen naked while in the process of attempting to unwind, Nie Huaisang finds. He’d be lying to himself if he were to pretend he’s never considered being naked in front of Meng Yao for other reasons, but idle thoughts aren’t the same as the less explicit experience of being exposed under Meng Yao’s calm gaze.
“How did your studies progress?” Meng Yao asks.
“Why, are you going to quiz me?,” Huaisang asks, and then sighs. “I got through most of it. Though, if I ever have to read through the specifics of farmyard butchery again, it’ll be too soon. I don’t care if it’s our legacy, the way the masters have written about it is excruciating.”
“Sometimes boring things are still necessary,” Meng Yao replies as Huaisang cups his hands together and leans forward to pour the gathered water down his face and neck. “In fact, sometimes boring things can be a relief, as hard as that might be to imagine.”
Nie Huaisang snorts incredulously at that, and glances at Meng Yao who’s eyes appear caught on the water running down Huaisang’s neck. The dismissive retort Huaisang was about to reply with withers in his throat. “I find it hard to imagine you believe that,” is what he says instead after a second, watching the other man carefully.
Meng Yao smiles, but keeps his gaze lowered. “It’s hard to be bored when one has responsibilities to shoulder, and it is sometimes very nice to have very few responsibilities.”
There’s something wistful in Meng Yao’s tone that pulls at Nie Huaisang. Meng Yao goes to clean up the mess of Nie Huaisang’s clothes and the moment shifts again much like the swirling water of the tub or the winds outside rattling the window.
“Do you want me to hurry up so you can bathe too? I don’t mind if you take it here, I can have more towels brought in, more hot water too,” Huaisang offers, looking for a way to break the silence and realizing the lateness of the hour; it’s likely closer to dawn than dusk at this point.
Meng Yao places the folded wool and silk on a clothes horse and is faced away from Huaisang as he replies. “A gracious offer, but no -- the sect disciples and retainers have plenty to fuel their imagination about my true value to the Nie when Da-ge is home, it wouldn’t be fair to ensnare you in that as well, A-Sang.”
Nie Huaisang considers this, considers the fact that Meng Yao decided to tell him this gently rather than politely. He’s not surprised Meng Yao knows he’s called his brother’s wife and worse behind his back, just as he knows Da-ge’s regard and love for Meng Yao’s worthiness and competence are bright and true. How correct the talk may be about the full breadth of his brother’s affections aside, Huaisang examines his own feelings and finds himself hurt that expanding their closeness, being receptive to a gesture of comfort, isn’t something Meng Yao wants if it means people might speculate he’s fucking Nie Huaisang too. After all, his own reputation inside of his sect is hardly that of a stellar hier -- he’s fanciful, fragile, too outwardly delicate by far. Huaisang’s not entirely sure why there’s a bright flare of shame and anger at that, just like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the looks Meng Yao gives him sometimes or the way he reacts to them, but Nie Huaisang resolves to push the feeling down and away. Whatever Meng Yao’s reluctance, it’s not a profound enough injury that he particularly feels it would be worth all it would unravel to dissect it. Huaisang resolves to let it go.
“I kept up my end of the bargain,” Nie Huaisang says. He knows it’s a bit of a conversational left turn, but Meng Yao doesn’t show up most nights to draw Huaisang’s bath for him: they need to talk about what Nie Huaisang’s owed for his day’s labor.
“I know you did,” Meng Yao agrees. He’s moved on to adjusting the heated stove ducts that run below the chamber’s bed. “Sword forms in the yard in the morning, find me before lunch.”
“Sword forms? Only if your plan is to make me too sore to lay traps and sit in the grass with you,” Nie Huaisang protests, but he’s smiling, the feeling blossoming inside of him half-way between triumph and giddy anticipation.
“You’re made of tougher stuff than that,” Meng Yao tuts, but his tone gets Huaisang to turn and look at him. His expression looks the same as it did when he was watching the water on Huaisang’s skin -- careful, assessing, and ever-so-slightly hungry. It sets goosebumps into the wet skin of Huaisang’s arms hovering above the refuge of the bathwater.
-
Nie Huaisang wakes up earlier than he normally would and doesn’t try to coax himself back to sleep. Instead, he gets up, dresses himself, and goes wandering through the stone halls of the fort. He walks to Meng Yao’s chambers before he can think the better of it and is pleased to find his door open in invitation, candle-light glowing from within. Nie Huaisang still knocks and calls out “A-Yao?” He hears shuffling coming from inside before Meng Yao pulls open the door and greets him in the hallway.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Meng Yao asks. “Come, help with this. Young master will need to know how to do this part on his own in the future anyway.”
He has a ceramic jar open on the low table partitioned off by a privacy screen, a mortar and pestle out as well as a secondary pot that looks almost like something perfumed oil or rouge might come in. Huaisang walks over and inspects the contents of the open jar, which smell like wet, dead leaves and something acrid, more verdant. He wrinkles his nose and Meng Yao smiles.
“Fermented boiled birch bark,” he explains. “The inner portion, the green wood. It has to sit for a month, but it lasts a long time after that if you keep it in water. You take out a small piece and grind it down. Do it with me so you can get a feel for the pressure.”
Huaisang kneels and Meng Yao shuffles around behind him folding his hands around Huaisang’s. He leans over Huaisang’s shoulder so he can see what they’re doing, and then guides the younger man’s soft, work-free hands with a gentle squeeze. Nie Huaisang blinks rapidly and tries to focus on the pressure and the sweep of the pestel as the thready green mush slowly transforms itself into a semi-translucent gel. There are bits that aren’t entirely disintegrated, but before they can be incorporated Meng Yao stops the motion of their hands. Nie Huaisang bites his lip to stop a protest as Meng Yao puts space between his chest and Huaisang’s back.
“It’s good enough this way, but it could also be boiled again which would help purify it,” he explains as he reaches for a flat wooden scoop. He lifts the paste from mortar and scrapes it into the smaller pot to the side, and once done, fills the negative space with water. “It cannot be allowed to dry out or it turns into a stiff resin.”
“What is it?” Huaisang asks, openly fascinated.
“An adhesive,” Meng Yao explains.
“We’re going to use glue to catch the hwamei?”
“Yes,” Meng Yao nods. “Come, I’ll walk you to the practice yard.”
Nie Huaisang had almost forgotten he’d agreed to do sword forms, wants to protest now that he’s already engaged and excited with promised activity meant to come after, but the firmness in Meng Yao’s tone brooks no argument. Nie Huaisang spends the walk over to the weapon’s rack trying to collect enough of himself again to remember the movements he never intended to commit fully to memory in the first place.
In the corner of the yard, reading quietly, Meng Yao sits and occupies himself as the sun rises higher in the sky. Every now and then as Nie Huaisang sweats and stubbles, less fluid than he’d prefer to be even unpracticed, he feels Meng Yao glancing up and letting Nie Huaisang’s movement occupy him instead.
-
They pack lunch to take with them, including two jugs of wine Men Yao rolls his eyes at but doesn’t refuse Nie Huaisang, and then begin their trek further into the property. The plan sounds ridiculous, Nie Huaisang supposes, but no more so than running around shoeless with a net in hand. Meng Yao seems thoroughly unconcerned about how well it’ll work which Huaisang would like to believe is on account of the fact of its assured success -- but Meng Yao’s ability to stay calm in the face of adversity is something Da-ge treasures about him and Nie Huaisang admires wildly.
“Won’t they smell it?” Nie Huaisang asks. “The paste I mean.”
“I suppose one would have to ask the birds,” Meng Yao replies. “The smell doesn’t stop them from landing on the branches, though. The hawthorne grove was a good place to seek them out, lots of bug activity and leaf cover. Going there first might be a good suggestion unless the young master has seen them elsewhere this morning.”
Huaisang hasn’t and says as much, so they make their way out to the trees. Meng Yao gives Huaisang the careful direction, showing him which branches to break as bait. He gets out the pot, tossing the water out, before dipping the edge of the branch into it. The adhesive clings in a long, sinuous strand that Meng Yao carefully wraps around the branch in a gentle spiraling motion. He has to break the connection with a sharp swipe of his fingers, and then motions for Huaisang to coat a branch in the same fashion. They power through about eight branches a piece and place them into the trees without much difficulty, binding them to larger branches with short strips of cotton.
“Now for the tricky part,” Meng Yao allows. “We wait.”
“And just hope they show up?” Huaisang asks, a bit incredulous.
“Ideally, this sort of trap is best executed with a caged bird used as a lure,” he says after a minute as they get comfortable on a small hill a small distance away from the baited trees. “One used to being outside and happy in a cage; it calls out to its wild counterparts with social birdsong, and they arrive to investigate.”
Nie Huaisang smiles, and lets himself look just a little bit smug. “Well, we don’t have a laughingthrush, but we do have my knowledge of bird calls.”
“You have the calls of a hwamei committed to memory?” Meng Yao asks bluntly, and sounds surprised.
“It pays to be thorough,” Nie Huaisang says, which is a ludicrous thing for him of all people to say on a number of levels he’d normally be the first to admit -- but. This is the first part about him, his first interest, in quite some time that someone else has helped encourage. Huaisang wants the vindication, wants the endeavor to succeed, so yes. He did the research and put in the practice.
He whistles brightly with a melodious pattern, and the sound Huaisang manages to produce is clear and trilling. Meng Yao watches him, something curiously sharp in his gaze that Huaisang likes feeling on him. It feels, broadly, like Meng Yao underestimated him and is correcting his assessment of him right before his eyes.
The novelty of sitting out here in the weeds wears off after the first half an hour or so, but Nie Huaisang gamely keeps up the pattern of whistles every so often. When he quiets down after this sequence, he licks his lips and looks over at Meng Yao. His throat is dry and he’s not in the mood to consider quitting just yet. “Can you pass me the wine?”
Meng Yao hums in response and fishes out a bottle from underneath him and hands it to Huaisang. He takes it in hand gratefully and takes a swig before handing it back to Meng Yao who does the same. The flavor of it is tart and clear, heady with its aged ferment. Nie Huaisang watches him swallow carefully, the muscle of his throat working, and considers the way he’d felt behind him earlier this morning, the careful precision in his grasp, the line of him against his back. Remembers Meng Yao’s gaze while bathing the night before. Huaisang feels himself start in on a blush. He decides to blame it on the way he’s set up and primed his body to pay attention to the slightest of motions, he doesn’t often engage his attention in such an active fashion outside of art making and then his gaze and what emotion he can glean from even the softest of physical expressions is paramount. The way a small rivulet of liquor escapes the edge of Meng Yao’s mouth, the way the line of his neck moves, none of it is what Huaisang would quantify as soft in the slightest. He drags his eyes up to look Meng Yao in the face and finds himself being watched in return while he drags the back of his hand across his mouth to clear up the mess.
Nie Huaisang considers the sort of assumption that his gaze might lend itself to if any one other than the two of them were here to see it, and wonders if the possibility of desire bothers Meng Yao or the unnecessary audience to it. Huaisang opens up his mouth, not entirely sure if he’s going to say something or continue with his whistling, when the flutter of several wings and a few squeaking chirps makes itself known, drawing both men’s gazes. Nie Huaisang watches the descent of a clutch of birds onto the rigged trees, eyes scanning them hoping beyond words and yes -- the telltale painted sky blue eyes. Yes, yes, finally.
Nie Huaisang can’t stop himself from slapping the ground in vindication, taking a breath to say god only knows what and how loudly when suddenly he finds himself unable to, Meng Yao’s hand locking into place over his mouth, even has he slides alongside him, his other arm and leg winding around him holding him down, holding him still. The fingers of his hand spread wide and grip, not occluding his nose entirely, but pressing up against his last remaining airway in a clear warning.
“Be quiet,” Meng Yao hisses into his ear, the sound of his voice measured despite the urgency of his language and his actions. “They have to stay on the branches without moving for a moment or the birdlime won’t set. You can’t startle them, or they won’t come back today. They’re smart. Be patient, and be quiet.”
Nie Huaisang can feel his face heating up even as the firm fingers against his jaw, sticky, he realizes as Meng Yao adjusts his grip, with the same substance on the branches lulling the birds into a false sense of security. He starts off breathing too fast for the amount of leeway he’s being afforded and he only starts to adjust his reaction once he begins to get dizzy with it. When Meng Yao speaks a quick, “good boy, just like that” into his ear as his chest rise even’s out, Huaising has to shut his eyes. He’s deliriously happy his back is what’s pressed flush against the front of Meng Yao or he’d be embarrassing himself right now, the fluttering part of his brain drawing parallels to being trapped under Meng Yao’s hands to the birds they’ve been stalking sending a sharp spiking arousal right through him like a brand from Meng Yao’s palm down to his balls.
Time for Nie Huaisang is counted in heartbeats while held like this; he cannot watch the tree from the way Meng Yao has his head grasped, limiting all his focus to how he’s being touched. The fact that he’ll soon have to stand up from the way he’s curled on his side adds an anxious humiliation to the mix of things swirling through his head and much to his horror, it doesn’t inherently help dampen his growing hardness. The thought that Meng Yao might never help him like this again, might never touch him again in this way or otherwise, however, is another matter entirely and Huaisang squeezes his eyes closed, tenses his body sharply and then relaxes it with every measured breath out. By the time Meng Yao unwraps himself from Nie Huaisang, fingers catching against the skin of his lips ever so slightly thanks to the residual birdlime, he has himself more or less under control.
Meng Yao laughs, delighted, before yanking at Huaisang’s shoulder. “We got one, come on!”
The banked desire gladly redirects itself towards elation as Huaisang looks up towards where Meng Yao is running to and sees a tied branch twitch and flutter as one of the laughingthrushes is stuck to its boobietrapped bark.
Nie Huaisang crowds Meng Yao as the latter scoops the poor, unhappy bird trilling it’s fright into his hands, one hand firmly around its wings as the other pulls the branch away from its sticky talons. With both hands around the bird now, Meng Yao picks it up peering at it, smiling broadly enough for his dimples to show. He looks at Huaisang who feels both excited and unsure, reaching out a finger to touch the twitching feathers of its back.
“Go get the cage,” Meng Yao suggests, and Huaisang shakes his head.
“I want to hold it,” he explains. Meng Yao hesitates, bird still firmly between his hands.
“You’ll have to use quite a bit of pressure, or it’ll escape,” Meng Yao explains. “And all of our work will be for nothing. Are you sure, A-Sang? There will always be the opportunity to hold it once it gets acclimated to being indoors.”
“I’m sure,” Nie Huaisang says softly, tongue wetting his lips. He’s not positive why it’s so important to hold it now, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt he wants to, absolutely.
Meng Yao nods, and then turns it towards him. “Put your hands -- here, look, one under the belly, one over the top of mine and press down; more. More, A-Sang, he’ll be fine --”
After a minute of adjusting, Meng Yao pulls his hands away and the bird shivers in Nie Huaisang’s hands. It’s a strange feeling -- not simply awe, not simply the pride of a successful hunt. There’s a part of his brain that’s whispering a greedy mine and yes, alright, the possession of the bird is part of it, but it’s also not all of it.
“Hi,” Huaisang says to it, laughing. “Hello.”
Meng Yao reaches out to where one of his braids has come free and his whipping into his face, tucks it behind his ear, the stroke of his fingers along the shell of his ear electric for the touch. Nie Huaisang looks at him full of wonder and grins when Meng Yao smiles again and says, “Well done, young master. Da-ge would be proud.”
The feeling that suffuses him wraps around him and encases him as sturdily as the cage intended for the hwamei is still flitting around anxiously inside of his hands. Unlike the bird, the rush of feeling Huaisang is possessed with bears no resemblance to fear.
Meng Yao goes to collect the cage from where the rest of their belongings are resting on their look-out hill, and then hurries back, and helps guide Huaisang’s hands in through the cage’s door. He looks up, keeps eye contact with Huaisang as he carefully wraps his hands around Huaisang’s wrists and pulls them apart, freeing the bird to test the boundaries of its new accommodations. He leaves them there, much to Huaisang’s delight, after they shut the cage door and only gives up the touch to nod and say: “Let’s get him home.”