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Time has always felt less real to Nie Huaisang than he suspects it does for others. His reputation for laziness is partially due to a chronic lateness, as shi and ke, things he cannot see or sense, slip quietly by him. Even when he does see a difference, days and weeks, sometimes years, have a way of muddling together or floating just outside of his awareness.
There’s better things for his attention to grab onto—the way his birds’ feathers and songs change as they grow, a particularly funny punchline to a long, crude, joke, Mingjue’s laugh, the way a certain murderer’s eyes go soft when he’s lying, the fall of his husband’s hair on their wedding night—Huaisang has a fantastic memory for the important things; the passage of time just isn’t.
Birthdays sneak up on him. For someone as admittedly self-absorbed as Nie-zongzhu, Nie Huaisang has a disconcertingly difficult time recalling his age when asked. He’s sure his first few birthdays, while A-die was still around, were wonderful, at least Mingjue seemed to think so. Huaisang turned what, ten or eleven? Something around there, the year after A-die’s death (murder) and Da-ge nearly gave himself a nervous breakdown planning a celebration for Sangsang, despite Nie Huaisang being too old for such things, in the name of maintaining normalcy.
It did not go well.
Da-ge was a wonderfully competent and talented sect leader, but his talents did not extend even the slightest bit to entertainment. A tastefully expensive midday meal with visiting Lans is hardly the sort of celebration a child would care for. Also, Huaisang was going through some things, and was a prissy little brat. To be fair to himself, all children are terrible little tyrants, to an extent. The cuteness tends to make up for it. Mostly.
According to Da-ge, Huaisang was troublesome from the time he could crawl, refusing to cooperate with plans made for him, starting with his zhuazhou. He used to tell the story affectionately, though, the same way he told the story of Huaisang’s tenth-or-eleventh birthday (except, Da-ge would remember which one it was). With a smile in his voice, ending with his explosive, booming laugh, as if ‘troublesome’ was one of his favorite things about Huaisang.
For Huaisang’s first birthday celebration, he didn’t even ignore all of the pretty new objects set out for his zhuazhou; he carefully picked his way over them, not so much as brushing against one, to set himself heavily in Da-ge’s lap. Twice. The second time, he clung to Da-ge’s best clothes so hard A-die had to pry open his chubby baby fists to remove him without compromising Da-ge’s vast eight-year-old dignity. That rougher-than-usual treatment, of course, led to inconsolable wailing, and they had to wait for the longest time until Huaisang calmed down enough to grasp a thing between gurgling sobs.
Here Da-ge would chuckle before going on, like the punchline was just too good to contain his mirth until after its telling. It used to annoy Huaisang deeply, but if he made a face, Da-ge would only laugh longer.
One year old Nie Huaisang eventually plucked the celery from the array of objects, mouthing on it between wet hiccuping sounds. It was supposed to mean he would be hard-working, but Sangsang was obviously not happy about this supposed quality of his.
That’s it, that’s the joke: even at one year old, Huaisang was allergic to the idea of diligence.
If only Da-ge could see him now.
To be fair, he’s still not happy about it.
Ten-or-eleven year old Huaisang didn’t cry on his birthday. He threw noodles at Da-ge in front of the shocked Lan heirs and their uncle, and ran away to the aviary. Well, the place that would become the aviary, anyway. At the time, it was a little-used courtyard Huaisang liked to hide from his minders in.
Of course, he felt terrible the instant he stopped running, for embarrassing De-ge in front of another sect; as a new—very young—sect leader, Nie Mingjue’s place was precarious enough even a very stupid child could see it. Stupidity has never been included amongst Huaisang’s great store of flaws. Impulsivity, as it turned out, more than made up for it: ten-or-eleven year old Huaisang made the same stupid emotional errors as other children, and then had the wits to be horrified about them immediately after.
So, no, there was no crying, but by the time Da-ge found Sangsang he was a hateful, half-repentant, over-tired mess.
That feeling resonates deeply with Nie Huaisang at present, having drank too much last night, now awakening far too early to the disgustingly cheerful, gentle peering of his husband. Who is looming attractively, and wishing him a happy birthday.
At fucking Maoshi, no doubt. Huaisang would bet his soon-to-be-tragically-dissolved marriage on it.
Huaisang rolls to bury his face in the bedding and whines his displeasure into it. “Xichen-ge, I was sleeping in; aren't you supposed to be at that Gusu thing another day?”
He can hear the pretty smile in Lan Huan’s voice from here, through the damn pillow Huaisang has snugly tucked over his head. The bastard. “And miss my husband’s first birthday as a married man? That would set a poor precedent.”
“Are you sure, though?”
“A-Sang, I know what day your birthday is.”
“So do I, gege,” Huaisang groans; everything’s too swimmy for timetalk.
“I also generally know what day it is. And what day it is now.”
Lan Huan is not allowed to be right! It’s Huaisang’s birthday! Huan-ge’s valid point is invalidated by... ugh, something that won’t let him win.
“I know things! It’s spring now, so birthday’s coming up, then foaling, then...”
With a chuckle, Lan Huan’s warm body slips into bed beside Huaisang and gently removes the pillow squishing his head, soft kisses finding their way to his eyelids. “Here, A-Sang, go back to sleep for a bit.”
Huaisang snuggles into Huan-ge’s chest and crankily wonders why all of the things he loves insist on rising with the sun. What’s so great about a sunrise that’s worth all the noise, bleariness, and fatigue?
He should tell Lan Huan about his birthday. Hopefully he hasn’t made plans. Quiet is best, like this; this is okay, this is nice...
Da-ge did get it right, in the end; the keeping it quiet part. He pulled the emotionally exhausted disasterpiece of a kid he found hiding in his not-yet-aviary into a hug without so much as a scolding. Although Huaisang distinctly remembers his face getting squished against the lunch left on Da-ge’s clothes, he figured that was probably some kind of justice.
Mostly quiet. After Huaisang calmed down, Da-ge presented him with a present; his first—and forever loudest—pet bird.
“His name is Lei; do you want to paint him with me?”
They set up an enclosure for the chatty canary, and spent the afternoon watching him, painting in silence. Huaisang wonders sometimes what Da-ge had said to Lan Qiren, that he was able to spend so much time with his acting-out didi while there were still guests of importance in the house. He doesn't remember it ever coming up again.
That’s how they marked each of Huaisang’s years after that; a nice lunch (although never so stately as that first time) of noodles, and an afternoon painting Huaisang’s birds. It’s the only time he remembers seeing Da-ge pick up a brush for anything that wasn’t business. Even with apparent lack of practice, Da-ge was a fair artist; he painted Huaisang’s favorite fan, one of those years, a lovely spring scene decorated with some of Lei’s descendants.
Huaisang wishes he still had it. It had either burned or slipped away with his other priorities over the last decade or so.
Nie Huaisang wakes up for the second time on his thirty-something-th birthday of his own accord. His hangover’s vanished, which he suspects is due more to his husband’s interference than the extra sleep. The same husband who is currently reading pointedly in bed, even while dutifully cuddling him. It is not that late: from the quality of the light streaming in, it is certainly long enough before midday to be a respectable waking hour.
Not that it matters: Huaisang married a Lan, and as such was aware of what he was getting into from the start. He must take certain judgemental habits as part of the deal, right along with the ethereal beauty, the ribbon, and the fact that that his husband is a sex-crazed maniac.
In fact, it’s that last Lan reflex of thought Huan-ge generally defaults to when a day is notable enough to be marked. It’s odd he cut his trip short to sit reading, fully clothed, in bed, without so much as a suggestive smirk. Huaisang finds himself grateful for Lan Huan’s keen understanding of place and time, always seeming to know in advance what behavior is right for a situation.
Lan Huan joins Huaisang in rising to dress, placing a careful kiss on Huaisang’s collar-bone before shrugging on his own outer layers. “When would you like to visit the tomb?”
Huaisang’s eyes narrow. “Have you been interrogating my staff?”
Now Huan-ge’s attitude has a heaviness that wasn’t there before, his face arranging itself into one of his soft, private smiles kept for family. That one shows the smallest bit of pain. “I know my husband, and I remember Da-ge would always drop whatever he was doing to be with you on your birthday.”
“Ah.” Huaisang pulls Lan Huan to sit where he can reach better, and begins running a comb through his hair. He thinks he’d like extra braids on his husband today; they will appeal to Lan Huan’s vanity, and Da-ge would get a kick out of his best friend in Nie fashion. Huaisang eyes the fruit he had set aside for his hangover as his fingers work. “Pomegranates here for breakfast, then we burn some incense for Da-ge before lunch.”
Huan-ge, too self-possessed to nod while being groomed, smiles agreement into the bronze mirror. Huaisang affectionately hates him a little for all of the easy dignity the man oozes as naturally as breathing.
Huaisang’s birthdays after Da-ge’s death (murder) were generally not dignified affairs. He couldn’t be too bothered to mark the years he spent alone, working towards setting up the sect and his revenge so he could just stop and rest. But it felt wrong to entirely cease a tradition Da-ge had started for him, so Huaisang did his best. He picked a day in the late spring, when the pomegranates were in bloom, visited Da-ge with some wine and incense, had lunch alone, and got uproariously drunk in his chambers. Sometimes he woke up to wild, angry, ink-splattered paintings of crows and falcons littered across his desk.
He burned those.
Huaisang sets Lan Huan’s forehead ribbon back in place, pinning securely. He still gets a tiny thrill from being allowed to touch the thing; it can be nice, not really having a sense of how long ago a thing occurred. The exciting stuff, things like friendships and love, always feel a bit new when he remembers to think about them; touching his Lan’s ribbon will always be something he forgets to get bored with.
It’s the difference between feeling and knowing. Huaisang knows Da-ge has been dead for years, but it feels like he was just there, surely not too long ago, laughing and telling Huaisang how, on his tenth-or-eleventh birthday, he threw food like a spoiled toddler in front of his future husband’s entire family. Not everyone gets to have that. Wei Ying and Jiang Wanyin have each spoken about it, about how even the living fade and feel far away, how time erodes memory and friendships just by passing. That sounds horrible; Huaisang would rather be cursed with lateness and remember the important things.
Visiting Da-ge’s tomb with Lan Huan is better. Having someone to remember him with makes his presence more real to Huaisang.
Thirty-some-odd year old Huaisang does cry on his birthday. A little bit. Quietly, with the two people he loves the most in the world. It’s a good thing.
Birthday lunch stays off of clothes, although Lan Huan does tease his husband. It turns out the noodle incident is his first real memory of Huaisang. Horrifying. Da-ge would love that, the bastard.
Lan Huan takes Huaisang to a place by the horse pastures he thought was quite pretty, and produces painting supplies from his sleeve. They kiss, and talk, and paint horses until the sun sets. It’s, overall, a pretty good day. If Xichen-ge wants to pick up marking time for Huaisang, he’s fine with that. Huaisang will remember the important things for them.