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The Unclean Realm is a fortress through and through. Rocky paths, steep cliffs, and unwelcoming forests are enough to intimidate even the most courageous of men. Dry summers and harsh winters alienate this land from the gentle cold of Yunmeng, or the summer breeze of Gusu. Despite it all, though, people have made a home here, accustomed to the world they’re born into, adapting to the coarseness by making it their own.
People in Qinghe don’t chew their words, they never try to embellish flowers in them, whoever their conversation partner might be, but they also never diminish their joy. Celebrations are rambunctious, laughter is sure to be heard when there is a reason for it to echo. Nobody here hides behind fans or sleeves and that is perhaps the scariest thing of all.
In the pit of snakes that is Lanling, Meng Yao was just a more venomous one than the rest. The ones who paid him any mind could never shift their complete focus on him, lest they find a knife in their back from someone they considered harmless. There, he blended in seamlessly, which has left him naked in his new home, exposed to the piercing stare of one particular man.
Mingjue looks at him, looks through him in every conversation. He knows when he’s talking to Meng Yao, when Jin Guangyao has taken the reins. He knows how to make him smile, and sometimes forget his plans, the murderous intent simmering under his skin. And, sometimes, when that particular intent is pointed towards him, Mingjue knows to not touch him, to not even come close, until he has listed the merits of Mingjue’s death and has realised it would do more harm than good. The point is, Mingjue knows , and Meng Yao despises it.
The night is a cold one, rain attacking the ground outside, accompanied by howling wind. Everyone has retreated to their rooms early, unable to do much work in this weather. Not Meng Yao, though; paperwork waits for nothing. He likes it, it keeps his mind here, buried into numbers, missives, letters, instead of leaving it to roam out there.
Mingjue does not share the sentiment, if his pleas to abandon work for the night are any indication. He all but drags Meng Yao away, pushing him to change into his night robes, sparing no mind to his objections. As his hands undo his belt, an especially loud crack of thunder seems to shake the room, and, oh, Meng Yao’s hands are trembling now. It makes it quite harder to dress up, but he is used to shaking hands and laboured breaths.
As he makes his way back to the main room, he hides his hands in his sleeves and drags his everyday mask back on. Mingjue, already lying down, shoots him a wary look; he wasn’t successful, then. Despite it, he makes room for Meng Yao to lie down, shaping his body perfectly around him, in a way Meng Yao never thought he could have. He’d only ever heard it in stories the women in the brothel shared, hopeful that their saviour, their true love was just around the corner. As far as he knows, almost all of them never found one, and yet Meng Yao has. At least he thinks so. He’s promised not to question it unless there is a reason.
Mingjue flicks a wrist, taking out the candles easily, and they’re plunged into darkness. Any calm that Meng Yao might have managed flees at the sight of darkness, and he’s plunged to the depths of memories he wanted to get away from.
It’s not really the dark, Meng Yao doesn’t mind that, but the absolute darkness, the lack of any light from other rooms when he looks outside, lends itself as a blank canvas for the sound to overwhelm him. The echo of raindrops hitting the stone is deafening, a wretched choir in his ears.
The darkness serves to augment his hearing. It looms over him, swallowing him whole, taking him way back. If he focuses on the sounds, he can almost hear his mother’s shuddering breaths, lungs straining to do their due, failing more and more. A cold hand wraps around his wrist and Meng Yao takes it in his to keep it warm. His efforts are futile. This room already smells like death. He’s not sure if his mother can smell it, but neither of them dare mention it. Both know how this night is going to end, loathe as Meng Yao is to admit it. Thunder rolling every couple seconds covers the words faintly leaving his mother, but Meng Yao makes them out anyway.
She tells him to find greatness, wishes him a life of prosperity, urges him to find his father for it. Even now, after everything, she still believes in that man. Or, more likely, knows he’s her son’s best chance at success. Whichever it may be, she smiles at him with a certainty she’s never before shown. It sits like a stone on his neck.
As is natural, he begs her to hold on, promises he’ll find the medicine she needs, but it makes no difference. Medicine is expensive, and Meng Yao would need time to work for them. Stealing them would also need a plan, which there is no time for. His mother knows as much, and she tells him she doesn’t blame him. It’s only a partial relief.
The night goes on, the storm gets worse. The candle on the bedside table eventually melts completely, taking the golden glow with it, but Meng Yao can’t bring himself to leave his mother’s hand insearch of another. Her breath gets fainter as the rain grows harder, thunder completing a requiem no one else would bother to write.
A couple of hours later, after only a handful of words, the hand squeezes his own. Meng Yao brings it to his lips. When the storm clears up, Meng Shi is gone.
“-Yao? A-Yao?” The darkness gives way to the one of the present, Mingjue’s gruff voice breaking through. Meng Yao grabs onto it just as he does to Mingjue’s arm, comforting himself in its warmth. Warmth is good, warmth means alive .
“Are you alright? You’re shaking.” Perhaps Mingjue is simply dense, or he’s just too good. He doesn’t pressure for an answer. He makes no moves to get away, there’s also no disdain in his voice. As much as Meng Yao tries to convince himself that if he simply hides in the man’s arms, the images will fade away, even he knows it’s a lie.
“Can you… Can you leave a light on? Just one candle.” The answer pains his teeth. Weak! , his brain screams at him, trust is terrifying, but he’s just so tired. He’ll do just about anything to avoid his past, even if it means losing leverage from his future. He’s also quite certain Mingjue wouldn’t hold some weakness against him. Quite the contrary, weakness can be useful, if he plays his cards right.
It turns out he has no reason to try to convince that part of himself, since Mingjue takes only seconds to do as asked. A candle softly illuminates the room, and Meng Yao can breathe again. The darkness is lifted off like a tangible weight, and Meng Yao looks around, reminding the deepest parts of his soul where he is.
The man beside him has his brows furrowed in worry, but makes no move to ask. He knows not to. Just like Meng Yao himself knows not to ask these days when Mingjue is especially irritable or simply quiet. All he does is open his arms, and, as Meng Yao moves into them, he hopes his mother is proud wherever she is.
That morning, when the storm gives way to a sunny but cold morning, Meng Yao wakes up surrounded by warmth, by life.