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1.
He catches Zhao Meilin's attention as soon as he enters, flashing a charming smile at the innkeeper before coming to sit at the empty table across from hers. How could he not? He is beautiful, after all. He moves with the sort of effortless grace that she has always attributed to her older sister, but the sword at his waist tells her that he is most likely a cultivator. Most cultivators are beautiful, she has been told. She had not believed it before— thinking it to be yet another exaggeration that could be attributed to the image of cultivators as unattainable and unassailable— but now she thinks to herself that there must be a grain of truth to it.
A waiter comes over to his table, but he stands in a way that does not obscure her view of the man, and for that, she is grateful. She works a hard, thankless job, and the sight of a handsome stranger does well to tide her over for a little while. She nearly frowns when another waiter comes over to her own table, to serve the tea she had ordered for, but catches herself right in time. It is not his fault that he is obscuring her view. He likely has no idea what he is doing.
A cheerful laugh sounds as the waiter at her table walks away and Zhao Meilin looks over once again to see the beautiful man, his head thrown back in laughter, eyes crinkling slightly, unrestrained joy painted on his face. He says a few more words to the waiter, who bows and leaves, but the smile stays on his face.
It is a beautiful smile, one that could outshine the moon.
The man pulls out a sheaf of papers and places them on the table ahead of them, and begins to read diligently. On occasion, his lips pull up in another smile, his amusement just as beautiful every time, and once or twice, he laughs quietly to himself. Another time or two, his brow furrows the slightest as he tilts his head, or he bites his lip, seemingly deep in thought. Every expression he wears only adds to his allure.
The waiter brings over a jar of wine, and he smiles as he thanks him. She continues to watch as he doesn’t care to pour the wine out for himself, simply tilting his head back and drinking the wine straight out of the jar. Absently placing the jar back on the table, he goes back to reading through his papers, either unaware or uncaring of the fact that one drop of wine had escaped his lips, running down his throat, guiding her eyes downwards as it slipped lower and lower, until it met the neck of his robes, which were far lower than was completely proper.
She snaps her eyes away.
She takes another sip of her tea, wondering if it would be highly improper for her to go and introduce herself. After all, travelling cultivators are always looking for information from the locals. What did she have to lose? She was observant enough to surely have some important information, and this was the most beautiful man she has ever seen! It would be remiss of her to ignore an opportunity.
Her vision is obscured again, this time by flowing white robes, as another man, another cultivator she infers from the sword at his waist and the ribbon across his forehead that is supposed to be the trademark of one of the great sects— she can't quite remember which one at the moment. He is handsome too, but the expression on his face is almost stern, in a way that intimidates her too much.
He sits, opposite to the beautiful man, who immediately lights up as soon as he catches sight of his new companion. If she had thought the smile he had given the waiter was brilliant, this smile was incandescent. He drops the paper he was reading to focus completely on his companion, and while she cannot hear the words they exchange, she can see his smile as it grows more and more fond and happy.
He leans over and takes his companion’s hand, and… oh.
Oh.
His companion lifts his hand, and presses the long fingers to his lips, prompting another laugh.
Oh.
Irrationally, she feels a twisting envy, bitter and unpleasant. She had never stood a chance, of course, but now she knows she never stood a chance. Of course, she thinks. Of course, I should have known. Who can be that beautiful and not attract a suitor? It was foolish of her to even feel envious of what she should have known she could never have.
2.
Yan Qiaolian is interrupted by a man dressed in dark blue robes walking towards the fire she has finally managed to make. She hadn’t heard him approach, and that sets her on guard, but he keeps a good distance from her, and seems to make a conscious effort to move as non-threateningly as possible.
“Would you mind if we made use of your fire for a little while?” he asks, gesturing to his companion behind him, dressed in white. Before she can even consider that, he continues on. “Of course, I understand completely if you’re not comfortable with the idea of two strange men sharing your space. You’re well within your rights to tell us to get lost.”
Yan Qiaolian hesitates. It should make her uncomfortable, but strangely, she doesn’t feel like these men are dangerous. Rather, she doesn’t think they are dangerous to her. Of course, her instincts could be wrong, but her mother had always told her to help people when she could.
Besides, she thinks as she fingers the inside of her sleeve, she does have those talismans a friend of hers had given her. It was created by the Yiling Laozu, or so she had heard, and her friend had used it once on a man who got a little too familiar with her, and had attested to its effectiveness.
She agrees to his request.
Yan Qiaolian watches as the man guides his companion to sit on one of the flatter rocks, before kneeling in front of him. She averts her eyes as he begins to pull aside his companion’s robes and makes tutting noises as he assesses whatever he sees.
She looks back when he stands and comes over, pulling a pouch out of his robes and studying the contents in the firelight before selecting a certain herb, making a triumphant noise as he does so. He walks back over to his companion and begins tending to his wound, and her eyes follow him, unable to look away.
“It is merely a scratch,” the man in white says, speaking in her presence for the first time.
“Mmm, I’ll remember those words for when I injure myself next,” the man in blue replies, cleaning the wound gently.
She continues to watch as he crushes the herbs and applies them to the wound, all while gently berating his companion.
“I would have dodged, you know?” he says, frowning, as his companion remains expressionless, even as he allows himself to be scolded. “I don’t like it when you get hurt, I’ve told you so many times! You always tell me to be careful, but maybe you should be the one taking that advice!”
As he begins to wrap a bandage that he had procured from one of his sleeves around his companion’s leg, he shakes his head. “If you wanted me to fuss over you, you could just ask! You don’t need to get hurt for that!”
The one in white reaches down, places his palm against the cheek of the other man, who continues to work, though he does tilt his head into the touch. “My husband worries too much,” the man in white says, his voice low and solemn.
Oh.
Not merely friends then.
The man in blue snorts. “You give your husband good reason to worry,” he replies.
He finishes wrapping up the bandage and pats his husband on the knee. “There, now I’ve tended to both of your legs, er-gege,” he says. “Did I do a good job?”
The man in white ducks his head. “You always do,” he says.
The man in blue beams at his husband. Then, he wags a finger in his direction. “You stay there until you heal, you hear me? Let me do all the work. Focus on healing.”
“It is inconsequential,” the man in white says as his husband stands and prepares to walk away, presumably to do whatever ‘work’ they were discussing.
The man in blue makes a displeased noise, before pouting. “Would you deprive your poor husband of the right to care for you?” he asks in a mournful tone. “Are you forsaking me? Have you gotten so tired of this one’s presence that you would aggravate an injury just to escape it? Does my touch no longer please you? Do you—?”
He is interrupted by his husband pulling him down onto his lap— careful to avoid his injured leg and grabs his chin firmly. “Do not speak nonsense,” he says firmly.
The man in blue laughs brightly, the pitiful, put-upon expression he had put on disappearing immediately. “Does that mean you’ll listen to me?” he asks.
“Mn.”
The man in blue smiles even wider, somehow, and kisses his husband on the forehead. “Good boy,” he says before getting up and walking away into the darkness.
The man in white turns towards her, and immediately, Yan Qiaolian casts her eyes away, not wanting to be caught staring. It was obvious the men had forgotten her presence, and she did not want to embarrass either of them by letting them know she had heard— and watched— their entire interaction.
“Thank you for allowing us to stay,” the man in white says. “I apologize for inconveniencing you.”
She waves it away. “I’m glad to help,” she says. “Should I… should I find a doctor?” she asks, because it feels like the right thing to ask.
The man in white shakes his head. “My husband has learnt to heal,” he says, and despite his even tone, despite his expressionless face, there is an undercurrent of affection strong in his voice when he says ‘my husband’.
He seems like a polite, well-educated, well-mannered man, and she cannot help but feel a sharp spike of jealousy when she looks at him. To be loved so thoroughly, to have someone that concerned for his well-being… Yan Qiaolian cannot help but envy it, covet it.
She knows very well that her husband would not care for her as this man’s husband cared for him. She remembers that one day when she had developed a fever so bad that she had collapsed, unable to even get to the town physician, and when her husband had returned from work, he had taken one look at her prone form and indignantly demanded why dinner hadn’t been prepared yet.
It aches, to see the way this man is cared for by his husband, to see the way his every need is tended to, the way his husband worries about him, the way he is taken care of. She hates herself for it, but she feels the bitterness of envy choking her. It is unbecoming, she knows, but she cannot help but desperately want what he has.
She looks back into the fire and watches the logs crumble to ash.
3.
It may sound a little foolish, but Ren Shirong has always been jealous of Hanguang-jun.
Foolish, because the man in question never thinks himself above anyone else or exerts his superiority— by birth or by talent— over anyone. He doesn’t flaunt his skills either, nor does he seek glory, always simply content to help those he can. The few times Ren Shirong has come across him, Hanguang-jun has always been courteous and respectful, far more than any member of any cultivation sect has been to a rogue cultivator like him. So, admittedly, it feels petty and childish to be jealous of him. Every time they encounter each other on a night hunt, Ren Shirong feels ashamed of his envy, especially when Hanguang-jun treats him with such esteem.
But Ren Shirong cannot help it. Hanguang-jun has been blessed with an abundance of good qualities. He is an incredibly beautiful man— truly bearing an appearance so fine that it could have been carved out of jade— and the dignified air he has around him only serves to make him even more attractive. He is skilled beyond measure— the greatest swordsman in the cultivation world, the most talented musical cultivator in the Lan sect, sharply intelligent and observant, and with wisdom beyond his years. While he is known to be stoic, he is also known to be kind and fair, righteous and ever-willing to help those in need. Even in regions where people speak of the cultivation sects with disdain, Hanguang-jun is spoken of with awe, for living up to his title, for always going where the chaos is. He is widely admired, and for good reason.
Ren Shirong knows it is foolish to compare himself to such an accomplished man, but he cannot help it. And when he does, he cannot help but feel as though he falls short.
So when he learns that Hanguang-jun has married a man, he has mixed feelings. On one hand, it gives him hope that a prominent cultivator such as Hanguang-jun continues to be considered respectable and virtuous and morally upstanding after he is known to be a cut-sleeve. In most places, cut-sleeves are spoken of with derision at best and disgust at worst, but no one ever speaks of Hanguang-jun with anything but respect. On the other hand, the fact that his own dabblings in romance have been lackluster at best makes the news of this marriage yet another thing he is jealous about. It is yet another way in which Hanguang-jun has surpassed him.
He should have known then, that it would only be a matter of time before they encountered one another on a night hunt once again, this time with Hanguang-jun’s husband in tow.
Ren Shirong has heard many rumours about the Yiling Laozu, over the years. None of them mention how utterly enchanting the man is.
In all honesty, he has never seen a more captivating man than Wei Wuxian. There is something about him that makes everyone want to look at him and never look away. He speaks with a lilting tone that is teasing and lively, he gestures so beautifully as he speaks, his clever hands moving through air, and he is a skilled teacher with undeniable expertise. He is strong too— both with traditional cultivation and his own unorthodox cultivation method— and incredibly capable. It is truly a thing of beauty to see him work.
Of course, it does not hurt that his physical appearance too, is more than pleasing. He is tall— though not as much as he used to be, if the rumours are to be believed. His silky black hair is always pulled back in a youthful manner, and it does not hide any part of his face— his sparkling grey eyes, his smooth, unblemished skin, the perfect arch of his eyebrows, the slope of his nose, his full, ever-smiling lips. He is lean and strong— the muscles of his arms and shoulders clearly toned— but his waist is slim, cinched by the belt he wears. He is, perhaps, the most beautiful man Ren Shirong has ever seen.
He is charming and friendly too, willing to make pleasant conversation with anyone, and there is a warmth in his gaze that makes Ren Shirong instantly feel comfortable in his presence. Despite having spent his entire life being vilified by the cultivation world in what has now been revealed to be an unjust manner, he is cheerful, his spirit unhampered by the suffering he has no doubt undergone. It appears to have solely given him an aura of mature wisdom, which is undercut by the lightness of his bearing and his mischievous smile.
Is it any surprise that Ren Shirong finds his heart instantly taken by such a person? If Hanguang-jun himself could not resist Wei Wuxian’s charms, what chance did he have?
But of course, no matter how quickly he has fallen, Wei Wuxian is unattainable. He is happily married— gloriously, incandescently happy— and so utterly in love with his husband, that as far as romantic prospects go, he does not so much as spare a glance for anyone but Hanguang-jun.
What pricks at Ren Shirong’s heart the most is that Wei Wuxian is most beautiful when he is gazing upon his husband, love and adoration clearly shining in his eyes. His smiles are softer, gentler, when he looks at Hanguang-jun, and his voice and gestures ease in a way that suggest comfort and familiarity. When he teases and flirts with his husband, it is clearly different from when he does so with anyone else. He blushes beautifully when Hanguang-jun says something appreciative.
It pains Ren Shirong to watch, yet he cannot stop watching either.
Ren Shirong knows that he is jealous of what Hanguang-jun has, yes, but he does not know what it is exactly he is jealous of. Does he want a husband as beautiful and talented and lively as Wei Wuxian? Or does he want to be married to someone who loves him the way Wei Wuxian loves his husband? Is it the man he wishes he had, or what he represents? Does it even matter? Ren Shirong does not know.
What he does know is that it is unsurprising that Hanguang-jun’s husband is so lovely. Hanguang-jun has been blessed with the best in all things, after all. Why would he not have the best husband as well?
+1.
The cultivator who had come to help with the ghosts haunting their town’s well was a solemn, reserved man who spoke little and dressed austerely. Yet, there was a beauty and elegance about him that drew Zhu Jingfei’s eye to him immediately. She had often heard that cultivators looked like immortals descended from the heavens, but she had hardly believed it until she had seen him. They had a few rogue cultivators pass through their little town in the past, but none so mesmerizing. She cannot help but peek from around the corner as her father speaks to him, extensively of their town's difficulties taking in his refined features, the neatly tied white ribbon across his forehead, the guqin strung across his broad shoulders.
She welcomes the chance to bring out the tea for the conversing men herself, dismissing A-Mei by telling her that it was only fitting if she served such an important man herself. The handsome cultivator meets her eyes as she pours his tea, offering her a gentle thank you that makes colour rush to her cheeks. she bows quickly and retreats to her hiding place before she can make even more of a fool of herself— but it had been worth it! The cultivator is even more handsome up close! Truly, there can be no mortal man who equals him in beauty!
She hurriedly runs off to tell her friends of the encounter as soon as the cultivator leaves to handle the ghosts. They are, as expected, incredibly jealous of her. Her dearest friend, A-Ling, tells her that he must be a Lan cultivator, judging by his forehead ribbon, and tells her what she has heard of the Lan clan's ancestral home, Cloud Recesses. Its beauty is known to be beyond compare, according to her friend, and Zhu Jingfei slyly remarks, "How fitting, that such a beautiful place should produce such a beautiful cultivator!"
Two days later, Zhu Jingfei once again finds herself standing wide-eyed and peeking through the doorway as her father profusely thanks the cultivator— Hanguang-jun, she has learnt from a traveller in their local inn— for his timely intervention. He refuses the money her father offers, and Zhu Jingfei finds her heart fluttering further at that. How righteous, she thinks, to refuse money he would be well within his rights to accept. Her father insists that at the very least, Hanguang-jun should accept their hospitality for another day, and he accepts. However, as he is to be joined by some of his juniors that evening, he insists on staying in the inn and not in their home.
When Zhu Jingfei relays this to her friends, A-Ling immediately gets a scheming look on her face, a look that years of friendship have taught Zhu Jingfei to be wary of.
"We should sneak out to watch them arrive!" A-Ling declares, before turning a wheedling look towards Zhu Jingfei. "Come on, those juniors must be around our age, and if they're even as half as handsome as their senior..."
The rest of their friends chime in with their agreement, and Zhu Jingfei resigns herself to her fate. She would prefer not to get in trouble with her parents, but she can't deny that she would enjoy another sight of Hanguang-jun. Reluctantly, she agrees.
Evening arrives, and Zhu Jingfei and her friends are tucked into the trees by the borders of their town. They had heard from several reliable sources that it was where Hanguang-jun had first appeared from. Before long, Hanguang-jun himself arrives, and Zhu Jingfei has to stop herself from sighing dreamily at the sight he makes under a flowering tree, like something out of a romantic story. She hears a few giggles from her friends and sternly shushes them. If they're caught, her father would be thoroughly displeased with her! Thankfully, they heed her warning and quiet down.
Zhu Jingfei is not accustomed to staying in a position like this for long, and she has just started to feel pins and needles in her feet when they hear the sound of wind whooshing. She looks up to see a group of cultivators flying low on their swords as they appear to be landing. These must be the Lan cultivators then, but it is quite confusing to see a man dressed in a much darker colour, with a bright red ribbon in his hair and no forehead ribbon at the head of their group. The rest of them though, are dressed just as Hanguang-jun is, and have forehead ribbons of their own. The first man also appears to be a bit older than the rest of them, though it is always hard to tell age with cultivators.
They set down even as Zhu Jingfei contemplates this, and the white-robed cultivators all bow to their senior, with a uniform chorus of, "Hanguang-jun."
The man dressed in darker colours though, does not bow. Instead, he flings himself at Hanguang-jun— an action that makes Zhu Jingfei have to stifle a shocked gasp— who, even more surprisingly, catches him around the waist. Catches him, and doesn't let go.
"Er-gege, I've missed you so much!" the man declares, looking up at Hanguang-jun, the odd angle of his body and his position of being half-cradled by Hanguang-jun adding to their slight difference in height. "Did you miss your Wei Ying too?"
"Mn, terribly," Hanguang-jun replies, as his eyes trail over the other man—Wei Ying?—'s face.
The man throws his head back and laughs brightly, before looping his arms around Hanguang-jun's neck. "Hanguang-jun, you know I can never sleep well without you. I've been suffering! It's your duty to make sure I sleep well tonight!"
Zhu Jingfei swallows. She has to be imagining this right? There's no way... there's no way he said what she thought he said, right?
"Although..." the man adds with a wicked smirk, "I'm still full of energy, so I need Lan Zhan to tire me out, hmm?"
Oh.
Oh.
So she hadn't misheard after all.
Really? That kind of thing was... allowed for cultivators?
She feels as though she has been pricked by something sharp. It's an utterly ridiculous feeling, honestly. It's not like she ever entertained the illusion that she had a chance with him! Hanguang-jun was a prodigious cultivator, and probably many years her senior, besides! But... to know someone would never be interested in you is one thing, and to see them act affectionately with a lover is something else. Foolishly, childishly, she feels hurt, even though she had no expectations.
She finds herself blinking as Hanguang-jun begins making his way back towards the inn, this time with his— cultivation partner?— attached to his arm and talking a mile a minute as the other Lan cultivators followed behind in an orderly fashion.
"Why do we have to subjected to this every time Wei-qianbei and Hanguang-jun reunite?", one of them complains as he passes the tree Zhu Jingfei is hiding in.
"Oh shush, I think it's cute!" another one exclaims. "Even after being married for five years, they still love each other as much as they did when they when they first got married!"
"But I don't need to be reminded that I am yet to find someone I love!" the first one grumbles in response, but there's still a small smile on his face.
Oh, Zhu Jingfei thinks. That sort of thing really is allowed for cultivators.
She watches as their figures disappear into the distance, Hanguang-jun listening intently as his husband chatters away, pushing an escaped lock of hair behind his ear at one point, lifting him slightly at another point, when a pebble appears in his path. Every gesture is tender and speaks of warmth and familiarity. Zhu Jingfei keeps her eyes on them until she can no longer see them.
By the time the cultivators are far away enough that they can get out of their trees, Zhu Jingfei realizes two things. One, that the pain in her heart has been overpowered by the pain in her feet as blood rushes back to them. And two, she wants a love like that one day.