Work Text:
Shen Qingqiu touches his fan to the scroll before him, tapping its bamboo edge against the dried ink.
“—following along this brushstroke here,” he motions foward the character he’s using as an example, “before you move on to the next stroke. Doing this stroke after will result in the entire character becoming nearly illegible, because you will have far less control over the stroke’s placement in the character.”
He lowers his fan, crossing his arms loosely as he surveys the classroom before him. His students are nodding in understanding, respectfully silent, some of them scrawling out some notes in the margins of their class work scrolls.
It’s a heady thing, this sort of attention. In his past life, Shen Yuan had never once imagined himself being in any sort of teaching role, much less actually enjoying it; and truth be told, if he was still in the modern world he’s pretty sure he’d actually hate it. But there’s just something about the kids here, in this time period of magical China, all of them raised with a sense of propriety and grace and respect toward their elders and people in the role of mentors that the kids back home just… lacked.
And that’s what makes the difference, he thinks. Shen Qingqiu does not have to fight for the attention or respect of his students. He is freely given it. His students give him every ounce of their focus, so eagerly soaking up any word he has to say that he rarely, if ever, has to repeat himself. It’s supremely gratifying, especially for someone like Shen Yuan who was once so accustomed to being spoken over, never asked for his opinion on anything even (especially) if it had to do with his own health.
Making certain that there are not students who look confused at what he’s just explained, he asks, “Are there any questions?”
Almost as one, his students all shake their heads, but one in the back hesitantly raises her hand. Shen Qingqiu nods at her.
“Lin Xiaoli, speak.”
“Shizun, this disciple is wondering at the reasoning for the order of brushstrokes. Would the character not look the same no matter what way it is written?”
A few of her classmates cast Lin Xiaoli incredulous looks, an array of ‘how can she question the teacher?’ to ‘how can she not know this already?’ But Lin Xiaoli has only been on Qing Jing for a few months, and before that she came from a tiny fishing village on the banks of the Taozhang. Things that are second nature, mindfulness taken for granted by her higher born peers, does not yet come as easily to her, and so Shen Qingqiu answers without a single beat, hoping to circumvent the uncomfortable and embarrassed flush that is now crawling up his students neck as she notices the stares.
“Hanzi has some basic principles that must always be kept in mind when performing calligraphy. Mainly, that the writing must be economical.” Shen Qingqiu points back at the character on the wall scroll (it’s basically a white board. It’s paper and quick-drying ink, but it erases just like a whiteboard would back home thanks to some handy talisman and array invention courtesy of Chang-shidi, after Shen Qingqiu had shared his idea with the man), and traces the character strokes in the order they’re supposed to be executed. “To write the most strokes possible with the fewest hand movements. This promotes speed, accuracy, and legibility. This principle must be learned in the beginning of one’s education, because as a student progresses in their studies, the characters grow more complex, containing more strokes with a higher level of difficulty.”
Looking a little helpless, and knowing the sheer number of characters that the written form of their language possesses, Lin Xiaoli says, “They are all written differently, Shizun….”
Some of the disciples who hail from rich families and graciously had access to education from a very young age make faces — he’ll have to train that bigotry right out of them, huh — but Shen Qingqiu understands where she’s coming from. He smiles reassuringly, and watches as the expression causes not only Lin Xiaoli to relax, but several other students as well.
After all, she isn’t the only one here who’s trying to catch up with her more fortunate peers.
“The other reason for the stroke order is that it promotes an easier time in memorizing how to write the characters,” he explains succinctly. “Disciple should not worry about that. If she does encounter trouble, this teacher is always willing to explain it again.”
Relieved smiles break out across the room, even from the better-educated disciples. They’re always like this whenever Shen Qingqiu verbally confirms his willingness to teach them, treating it like it’s some precious gift when actually it should be a given. It should be expected.
There are many things regarding the original goods that Shen Yuan has beef with, and his shitty teaching skills was very high on that list.
“Thanking Shizun for his advice,” Lin Xiaoli whispers gratefully, full on beaming, and Shen Yuan flips his fan open in front of his face to cover the besotted smile that he can feel curling the corner of his mouth.
These kids, he swears….
Turning back to the whiteboard scroll, he folds the fan again and taps it against the paper to activate the erasing mechanism of it’s array. The character he’d written earlier vanishes, and Shen Qingqiu reaches out for the brush he set to the side to write another one of a more complex structure.
“Moving on, the character xie. As you know, characters should be written from top to bottom, horizontal strokes from left to right. If you have more than one horizontal stroke, start with the one at the top. Characters such as xie have more than one component, and for those you will begin with the stroke furthest to the left, then the middle —”
He writes out the strokes himself on the whiteboard as he speaks. He’s halfway through with the character when his explanation is interrupted by the classroom door sliding open with a bang.
The disciples all jump, twisting around in their seats to stare with wide eyes at whosoever has dared interrupt their lesson. A few flinch, and one or two inkwells tip over onto the floor. Horrified expressions envelope the faces of the students who accidentally bumped into them and caused them to fall.
Shen Qingqiu turns, unimpressed. “Shidi—”
“Hide. Me.” Shang Qinghua hisses.
He slides the door shut behind him and hurries across the classroom, slipping around Shen Qingqiu to stand in his shadow. Shen Qingqiu watches him with a flat, exasperated expression.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Yue-shixiong is hunting me down for sport,” the An Ding peak lord complains quietly, peeking out from his huddle to peer suspiciously at the door, completely ignoring the dozens of wide-eyed children currently staring at them both.
“He wouldn’t do that.” Shen Qingqiu lifts his eyes heavenward, praying for patience.
“It’s the annual audits, Shen-ge,” Shang Qinghua replies, sounding harried. “Half the peak lords haven’t turned in their reports — not you, of course, you’re perfect and Qing Jing’s already all taken care of and I love you for that —” Several of his disciples choke, quietly, and Shen Qingqiu fights the urge to sigh. “But half the peaks have barely started and the deadline is in a week and Yue-shixiong thinks it’s my job to make everyone get their paperwork in on time, and don’t get me wrong I certainly could manage that, if it were only one or two peaks, but it’s like seven and I haven’t slept in five days, I’m so tired, so—”
Shen Qingqiu pivots sharply, pinning his shidi with a narrow-eyed stare. Shang Qinghua squeaks and cuts himself off abruptly, standing still while She Qingqiu examines him fully.
The man does look exhausted. He’s paler than usual, the smudges under his eyes are darker than khol, and his hair is in a slight disarray when normally it’s kept rather tidy even on days where Shang Qinghua’s office is swamped. His eyes are bloodshot.
Shen Qingqiu feels the corners of his lips turn downward.
Leaning in closer, Shang Qinghua looks up at him from underneath his lashes — lashes that are long enough to tangle together in places — and hisses, “Bro, I’m so tired I could dieee.”
Shen Qingqiu turns away from him. Snapping his fan open, he uses his foot to carefully nudge his desk an inch or two closer to the front wall, and then gestures toward it.
“Under there.” He says.
“In the next life, I will worship you like a god.” Shang Qinghua swears fealty. He instantly falls to his knees and crawls forward to curl up beneath the desk, closing his eyes.
“Why not this life?”
“Bro, we’re way too close for that. Gods need distance, you know?”
“You would know.” Shen Qingqiu retorts, quietly amused.
He lowers himself down to one knee to adjust the silk bolt of cloth that normally sits, folds in half, as a sort of tablecloth on his desk. He carefully pulls it loose, unfolding it so that one side of the cloth hands over the edge of the desk and flutters down to hide his bro from the view of the rest of the room.
“Now, stay and be quiet.” He commands.
Shang Qinghua responds with a sleepy mumble, already mostly asleep.
Standing up again, Shen Qingqiu flips his fan open and presses it to his lips, surveying his silent students who are collectively staring at him with huge eyes. A few of them glance from the desk, to him, and back, as if they expect Shang Qinghua to suddenly jump out and cause some other sort of dramatic scene.
He slides his fan closed with a sharp snap, jolting the disciples to attention, and points it at them.
“Not a single word of this to anyone,” he says calmly, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “This shizun trusts that his disciples can keep their silence. Let’s let your shibo have the rest that he needs.”
“Yes, Shizun!” Immediately, his cute students bob their heads up and down in furious agreement as they whisper their acknowledgment — mindful of their slumbering shibo in the room, his students are so considerate! He’s raising them right — and many of them are still staring at his desk like they’re waiting for something else to happen. But Shang Qinghua remains still, asleep, and so Shen Qingqiu turns back around, lifts his brush, and completes the xie character. He then goes on to quickly write out another two characters beside it.
“When vertical and horizontal strokes intersect, such as in the di character in ‘little brother’, the horizontal strokes come first. Vertical strokes are often the finishing stroke. Now, for enclosures, you write the enclosure first from left to right, and then the contents. If the enclosure has a bottom stroke, like in the guo character, it’s written after the contents. Copy these three characters down in your notes for practice. Advanced students, you will be doing a different set with more complex strokes.”
He inks out three other characters underneath the first three, and then steps back so that his students can all have a better look at them. Once he’s made sure they’ve all copied the characters down, he erases them and moves onto the next lesson segment.
The class continues in this way. His students are a little more distracted than is normal, there gazed occasionally roaming back to stare at his desk in wonder or confusion, but since it doesn’t seem to be affecting their ability to concentrate on their work, Shen Qingqiu continues to pretend the scene from before hasn’t even happened. Instead, he goes about the lesson as usual, and slowly but surely his disciples all imitate him in this regard.
Ah, they’re all so filial and cute. Truly the best students, even the ones that can be admittedly bratty sometimes.
He’s about ready to wrap the lesson up and send his ducklings on their way, when once again they’re interrupted by the door sliding open. His students do their best to hide their disgruntled expressions, but not many of them are very good at it and Shen Qingqiu has to lift his fan up to hide a grin.
His amusement disappears however when he sees who it is this time.
“Zhangmen-shixiong,” he greets flatly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
If the last of their transmigrator trio is surprised to hear the accusation in his voice, he doesn’t show it. Yue Qingyuan slips the door shut behind himself and steps incongruently to the side of the door, casting him a pleasant if distant smile.
“This shixiong was only wondering if Qingqiu-shidi has seen Shang-shidi at all. There are a few points of sect business we need to speak about, but he has been rather unavailable.”
Shen Qingqiu’s lips turn downward, and he narrows his eyes. His mood seems reflected back at him in the faces of his students, and he notices how many of them glance pointedly away from his desk with subtly displeased expressions. He feels warm at their choice to leave their poor exhausted shibo be.
“This shidi has not seen him since yesterday.” He says, blandly. “Apologies to shixiong.”
If Yue Qingyuan is suspicious, it’s not apparent on his face, but he does frown slightly at Shen Qingqiu’s choice of address.
He tips his head down in acquiescence. “If shidi does see him, then would he please let Shang-shidi know this shixiong was looking for him?”
“Perhaps.” Shen-Qingqiu doesn’t promise. “If this teacher may continue his lesson, now?”
Yue Qingyuan nods once, and turns back to the door.
“This one takes his leave,” he says.
“Another thing, shixiong.” Shen Qingqiu opens his mouth, and the sect leader glances over his shoulder at him. Shen Qingqiu smiles sharply. “If shixiong wants to play at being the CEO of a black company, do it with some other shidi, hm?”
The disciples that sit between them exchange confused glances at the strange terms he’s used, but Yue-ge’s face drains of color, and the man seems to freeze in place. He opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out, and so he closes it. He does this a few times, before giving it up as a bad job and looking back toward the door.
Shen Qingqiu feels a little bad about it. He knows how his shixiong died to get here, and it was a little low of him to use it as a comparison.
But nobody is allowed to pick on their trio, least of all the members of the trio themselves.
“Apologies,” he says, this time a little softer, but no less steely. “Though, this one hopes that shixiong understands his meaning.”
“This shixiong does understand,” Yue Qingyuan finally says, rather woodenly. He turns back from the door to face Shen Qingqiu and lowers his head in a bow. “Thanking Qingqiu-shidi for his warning.”
“As long as Yue-shixiong is aware of his actions and does not overstep,” Shen Qingqiu says firmly.
“Shidi is wise.” Yue Qingyuan dips his head once more before straightening up. There’s a faintly upset expression on his face, and Shen Qingqiu feels bad about putting it there, but needs must.
“Please give Shang-shidi my greetings.”
“Shixiong can do so himself, after Shang-shidi returns from his break.” Shen Qingqiu doesn’t bend.
Yue Qingyuan nods, and then slips back out the door he came in from.
It shuts behind him with a quiet tap, and the classroom is blanketed by a layer of thick silence. His students’ attention is split, some staring at the door their sect leader had just left through, others staring questioningly at his desk, and some staring in examination at Shen Qingqiu himself.
Closing his fan with a snap, he says, “Class is dismissed.”
As curious as they all are, his kids know when an order is given, and they stand as one to pack up their stuff and leave.
Shen Qingqiu kneels himself on the cushion behind his desk and glances down past his knees to find his best friend’s sleeping face. He relaxes a bit now that he knows that little confrontation hadn’t woken the man, and he sets himself to task as sorting through the piles of essays that the students had turned in at the beginning of the class.
The room is finally emptied, and he’s preparing for his next class, when a gentle touch against his knee startles Shen Qingqiu out of his focus.
He glances down to find Shang Qinghua’s hand on his leg, the other peak lord peering drowsily up at him.
“Thanks,” Shang Qinghua murmurs, rubbing at his eyes with his other hand.
Smiling, Shen Qingqiu reaches down and places his hand over the one on his knee.
“Anytime, bro,” he replies, and savors the sleepy smile that overtakes his friend’s face.
Of course, anytime.