The building is drab; it was designed to be inconspicuous from the outside, like a warehouse. Even if an intrepid thief were able to bypass the reinforced gates around the courtyard, it’s nearly impossible to navigate inside unless you know the correct route. A labyrinthine structure has been built around what used to be the centre of the temple, where the Guanyin’s feet used to stand. That centre is now a stone-lined pit built to fit the shape of one coffin in particular.

In the tomb, they carry torches. There are, of course, no windows. He finds himself, as he often does these days, the most senior member of the group, and this is not a matter on which he could reasonably defer to anyone else, so Nie Huaisang leads the way through the winding maze of corridors and hidden doors. Even the air is preternaturally cold. Nie Huaisang had dressed warmly that morning in anticipation, but it’s not enough to overcome the chill. The closer they get to the coffin, the more the hair on his arms begins to prickle beneath his sleeves.

In some ways, it’s like any other suppression ritual he’s witnessed; when he looks back on it he remembers the smell of incense, the patterns of arrays laid out in cinnabar, and flashes of talismans in the dim light. The majority of senior disciples of both the Jin and Nie are present, in case of an emergency, but intervention isn’t necessary; the layers of wards they’ve been laying for months hold, and when the last slab of stone is pulled over the vault, Nie Huaisang experiences a jolt of terror that he’s forgotten something important. He runs through the list of steps in his mind, but they performed every element of the ritual perfectly. It wasn’t for nothing that they spent months in preparation. Once again, Nie Huaisang is reminded that the more planning a thing requires before being undertaken, the more frantic the speed at which it flies past you once it’s begun.

✥

No one knows what to do when it’s over. Both sects vacate the grounds of the temple, the gate is locked, and solemnity becomes unease.

Nie Huaisang’s eyes are dry. He is holding himself on a tight leash. Jin Ling looks a bit more stricken, but he’s not crying the way Nie Huaisang would’ve expected him to a few years ago. He must have learned since then how the immediate relatives of the deceased are always held under scrutiny, whether they’re sect leaders or not. This is especially true at funerals, or anything vaguely like them. Other people watch you and judge the quality and veracity of your grief, until you’re doing the work of mourning for the living, with the dead as an afterthought.

Jin Ling turns in his direction and clears his throat before asking, with all the self-serious dignity he can muster, “Nie-zongzhu. May I have a word?”

Now that they’re closer to one another, Nie Huaisang can see that Jin Ling’s eyelashes are caught with the glistening residue of suppressed tears.

“Ah, of course, of course.”

Nie Zhuoyue, his current head disciple, steps up to Nie Huaisang. “Sect leader, would you like us to wait up for you?”

Nie Huaisang feels a flash of uncharitable irritation. He’s nurtured his disciples’ concern for him over the years by casting himself as the whole sect’s didi to be fussed over. It’s an easy transfer of sentiment left over from da-ge’s day, since Nie Huaisang was hardly the only disciple to refer to Nie Mingjue that way, even if he was Nie Huaisang’s da-ge first, and most. But it’s too much, when he’s already sick of being looked at, to endure their mother-henning.

“Oh no, no, you can take yourselves back. I’ll be along.”

After they’re out of earshot of any of the disciples, Jin Ling clears his throat again. “Did the ceremony meet Nie-zongzhu’s expectations?”

Jin Ling has, like his uncle, a face designed for unhappiness, and like his uncle’s, the gnarled lines of his brow give him the effect of always either expecting a scolding or being poised to give one. At the moment, he looks guarded, a little nervous.

“Oh, absolutely. Jin-zongzhu has been very diligent.” There are people all around, but most are too busy to pay them much mind except as a pair of rich sight-seers and prospective customers. Yunping proper is full of barking dogs, squealing children, and market stalls displaying goods of every shade. “By the way, do you know where your uncle might be? I thought I’d see him at the ceremony.”

The mausoleum is the culmination of their joint work for the past several years—Nie Huaisang had put forward a variety of plans and work orders, while Jin Ling had financed them and provided the labour power—but the most important element of the tomb’s defenses is a system of signal flare talismans set up to alert the closest cultivation sect in case of forced entry. As it happens, the closest cultivation sect is Yunmeng Jiang, who agreed to this part of the deal back when it was first being conceptualized, so Nie Huaisang had expected Jiang Cheng to attend on the basis of that practical consideration, whether or not he had any desire to see Nie Huaisang privately.

Back at the inn, the early morning had bled into midday without any sign of him, and Nie Huaisang’s senior disciples began to hover, politely inquiring with their expressions as to whether Nie Huaisang would like them to begin preparing to leave for the temple. Eventually, he’d had to accept that Jiang Cheng would not be taking Nie Huaisang up on his invitation. It had been an impulsive idea to start with, and he doesn’t know why he expected Jiang Cheng to be able to forgive such a blow to his pride. It wasn’t so terrible a disappointment; Nie Huaisang would’ve spent the morning queasy with anticipation in any case. He hadn’t been able to eat since he’d gotten up, and fuming over Jiang Cheng was a welcome distraction.

Jin Ling looks wary, though how much of that is to do with Nie Huaisang’s presence as opposed to the pall that still hangs over them from the tomb, it’s impossible to say. “He’s away.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Jin Ling sets his jaw, and for a moment looks just like the subject at hand. “No, I don’t think so.”

Did Jiang Cheng ever tell Jin Ling unflattering anecdotes of Nie Huaisang from their youth, as a way of instructing him on the political world that lay ahead of him? Likely. Did they revisit the subject after the temple came down? They must have. He can only imagine what was said. Nie Huaisang has known Jin Ling since he was careening toothlessly around the Carp Tower gardens; he’s perfectly polite, but these days he speaks to Nie Huaisang as though he’s feeling out a muddy road for sinkholes. Ever since that night, Jin Ling has viewed Nie Huaisang with a palpable suspicion that refuses to fade, however many lovingly-crafted, personally commissioned little jackets Nie Huaisang has sent him on his birthdays to be given to his silly dog.

Jin Ling’s hair glitters even under the overcast sky, and Nie Huaisang realizes that the gleam is coming off of the beaded hair ornaments that Jin Guangyao gifted his nephew. San-ge was always generous with the various lost lambs with which he enjoyed surrounding himself. Nie Huaisang wonders whether Jin Ling chose them this morning on purpose.

“Do you remember my brother at all, Jin-zongzhu?”

Jin Ling shakes his head. “I was too young, when he… was killed.”

It’s what Nie Huaisang expected to hear; it’s not da-ge that Jin Ling mourns for. If Nie Huaisang steps to the left of his own mind, he can realize it’s an unfair thing to hold against him. Even so, hearing the confirmation of it stings.

Da-ge insisted on taking a beating for Nie Huaisang, once, when they were young. Nie Huaisang had done something stupid or wilful enough to earn himself real punishment—he’s forgotten the specifics of what—but da-ge always hated to see him cry, which was a fact Huaisang exploited thoroughly enough that he’s ashamed to remember it now. He’d cried to see it happen, in any case. Da-ge was always hurting in Huaisang’s stead, even when Huaisang deserved it.

Down in the lower chambers of the sabre catacombs, before he’d found the way out, Nie Huaisang had felt quietly resigned. He hadn’t wanted to die, but dying with his brother in the same place as their ancestors was as good an end as any. Even after they made it out, Nie Huaisang continued with stubborn dedication to distract himself from acknowledging the inevitable, that da-ge was doomed to die before him. He just couldn’t imagine the kind of life he was expected to live without da-ge looming large enough to make up for his own shortcomings. Nie Huaisang is missing something that in everyone around him seems to be innate, and it isn’t anything to do with golden cores. The stubborn, shirking evasiveness he’s had his whole life goes beyond a lack of martial spirit. There’s something in him that chafes at his surroundings, whatever they may be, and pushes him to take flight at any opportunity. But he and his brother were such opposites that it gave Huaisang room to be all the things da-ge wasn’t; he was the slight, pale moon to da-ge’s bright, blistering sun.

The corner of Jin Ling’s mouth twists in thought. “Actually, there was one time… but I was so little, I don’t know if it counts.”

“Oh?”

“We were visiting somewhere. I was hitting a toy sword against a tree trunk, and then this huge man stopped me. I thought he was going to get me in trouble with…” Jin Ling swallows. “He just told me to stop, because blades don’t like to be treated like axes.” He adds, in a self-conscious tone, “I don’t know if it actually happened or if I just made it up.”

“He was always lecturing me about things like that. I was just terrible, though. You were probably better with a sword at three than I was at ten.”

Da-ge expected the best from everyone, but only because he believed they were capable of it. Nie Huaisang was scolded for his many failures and mistakes more times than he could hope to count, but da-ge never once laughed at him. Mockery was a thing for lesser men. He was fierce and brave and good with a blade, utterly worthy of the title of Chifeng-zun, et cetera; it doesn’t make up for the fact that vanishingly few people besides Nie Huaisang still remember who he was before he earned such a name, when he was a surly boy with a wispy moustache, gangly and shy, trying for the thousandth time to correct his brother’s blade forms, as if this time the instruction would stick.

Nie Huaisang doesn’t know why he asked, or what he thought he could accomplish with such a question. He begins fanning himself out of habit, though it makes him colder than is comfortable.

“What’s next for you? You’ll have some extra time now that this is settled, I expect.”

Jin Ling stands up a little straighter—he’s been taller than Nie Huaisang for a few years now, but it doesn’t always feel so palpable as when they’re standing in close proximity. “I’m renovating.”

“Ah, what a good idea!” Nie Huaisang has only been to Carp Tower very briefly since Jin Ling took ownership, but he remembers the murals in Jin Guangyao’s image visitors must pass through to enter; he can’t imagine those are long for this world. Nie Huaisang is finished with monuments and mausoleums for the time being, but Jin Ling inherited a home covered in memorials to a dead man, which he now has the task of covering up. “I can’t wait to see what you do with the place.”

Jin Ling accepts the compliment uncomfortably. He wonders what Jin Ling hoped to get out of this conversation: Nie Huaisang’s approval for the way things worked out, or just permission to consider himself absolved of further responsibility, having seen the whole gloomy task through? He’s not very good at giving reassurance, even if Jin Ling were inclined to take it from him.

“I shouldn’t keep you any longer, Jin-zongzhu, but thank you for all of your help.” Nie Huaisang hesitates. “Don’t be a stranger. Qinghe isn’t so far away.”

Judging by the look on Jin Ling’s face, that may have come across as more of a threat than intended, but Jin Ling nods and makes his farewells. Nie Huaisang stays where he is and watches him weave through the market until he’s swallowed by the crowd, the gold blotted out among the other colours.

With Jin Ling gone and Nie Huaisang absolved of further responsibilities, he ought to make his way back to the inn, but the thought of drinking alone and stewing over how Jiang Cheng hates him so much he chose not to attend his own nephew’s diplomatic event sounds grim, so Nie Huaisang lets his feet take him on a winding path through the city streets, in which his conscious mind plays no part.

When Nie Huaisang was young and occasionally got permission to go into town, he was always fascinated by the way ordinary people lived. Their world seemed so full of life compared to home, with its discipline and muted colours. He’s familiar enough now with Yunping, having spent more than a little time here over the past few years, but it’s always been in the service of tasks that didn’t put him in the mood to enjoy the city. The temple was built atop the ashes of the brothel where Meng Yao was born. He must have known every corner to hide in, which shopkeepers could be sweet-talked into deals, which alleys were dangerous and to be avoided by defenseless children.

None of the other people browsing at shopfronts or chatting in groups in the square recognize him, not the way they might Jiang Cheng, as a local authority. That’s pleasant, in its way. Nie Huaisang misses being of no consequence. San-ge did terrible things to make himself a name, so it must have been a less attractive prospect for him to leave his life behind for foreign shores than the idea is to Nie Huaisang when he contemplates it. He’s not one of the great cultivators, like Zewu-jun, who can mope in closed-door meditation until he ascends to immortality or rots. Nie Huaisang likes to do things, to see people and be seen. It used to be his very idea of a good time to wander namelessly through unfamiliar cities, buy more artisanal paper than he’ll ever use, and make conversation with friendly strangers. The simple pleasures he’s spent much of his life pursuing have for some time felt either pointless or inaccessible, but right then he feels sick, physically, with nostalgia: not for his hobbies, just to exist as something more than a figure hidden behind a curtain and casting shadow plays on the wall.

Nie Huaisang feels a drop of rain on his cheek, and looks overhead to see that the clouds have darkened. The people of Yunping are scurrying for cover: merchants pull their goods inside of storefronts and mothers tug their children by their hands. Nie Huaisang is buffeted along in this current of activity—why hadn’t he thought to stow an umbrella in his qiankun pouch?—until he realizes that he’s left behind the district he recognizes and is now lost in a city far from home, in the rain, as if he were every bit as stupid as he’s always played at being.

He slips into the first alley he can find, leans back against one of the buildings and lets his legs give way until he’s sliding down the wall to sit on the ground in a puddle of skirts and sleeves. There may be an actual puddle forming, but it’s too late to regret that now.

Nie Huaisang tucks his face against his knees to smother the choking hitches of his breath. He’s not afraid of strangers seeing him cry. There’s no reason he should give in to embarrassment now. But if someone reached out to him in sympathy he thinks he would melt like a wet sheet of paper, or vomit, though that might still happen anyway; his body feels like it’s trying to turn itself inside out.

Death may not always be final, but it will be for Nie Mingjue. The unfairness of it had chewed away at Nie Huaisang throughout all the time he spent trying to think of a way to contain the hate seeping out of that coffin. He got as much justice for da-ge as he could, and now da-ge’s remains are locked away in a prison with him for eternity—though, of all the things Nie Huaisang has done in his name, da-ge might have been the most tolerant of this. For a Nie, it’s a fitting fate. Now that Nie Huaisang is without an adversary, he understands this more than ever.

He would do it all again, and it would hurt just as much. It’s a dull, aching pain, like a wound in the sole of a child’s bare foot, worsening with every step. He’s said goodbye to da-ge so many times, but he once again fell into the trap of thinking there would be just one more thing to take care of; it’s been done, but nothing has really changed. He’s still poisoned with bitterness. Nie Huaisang has lived half his life as a series of interludes between moments where things are supposed to come to an end, and after the dust settles he’s still here with his greedy little heart.

The rain falls so thick he can’t tell if there are tears on his face or if his chest is just seizing up dry. It’s drenching his robes, and the fabric clings to his skin in a way that makes him feel sticky and trapped. The ground is cold. The water on his skin is cold. His fingers are cold, though they may have been numb since before he left the ceremony from the force with which he'd gripped the torch.

Nie Huaisang wishes he could have spoken to him one last time when they were in the tomb, though he doesn’t know what he has left to say to da-ge’s body. It had taken a whole night to sew him back together, and Nie Huaisang had filled the silence. He’s unsatisfied; he still wants to hear things back. When he was little, he would bombard da-ge with questions: Do you like my painting? Can’t I come with you to the Cloud Recesses? If we had another brother, would I still be your favourite? He still craves the brusque answers, even when they weren’t the ones he wanted. He wants to whine, in the petulant tone that da-ge was sometimes soft to, a series of questions that all distill to Can you forgive me?

By the time the stone in his throat has lessened and his crying has slowed to ragged breathing, the darkest of the clouds have begun to drift away on the wind. They’re followed by patchy whitish ones which are of a loose enough weave that occasional flashes of sun leak through, though the sky has the golden quality of near-dusk. If he got lost in the daylight, he’ll certainly stay lost in the dark. He is less than moved by this fact.

His contentment with his sorry state can't last indefinitely, however, and when, an indeterminate stretch of time later, he arrives back at the inn, Nie Huaisang is shivering, ravenously hungry, and lighter by the weight of one fan, which he kindly allowed to be pickpocketed off of him at the end of the walk back by his eventual rescuer: a conspicuously helpful street urchin who, it must be acknowledged, did lead him to where he needed to go without luring him into any back-alley muggings or other situations of that nature, the possibility of which Nie Huaisang was morosely resigned to.

As soon as he enters the inn, the mother-henning ensues. Nie Huaisang blinks and dithers and pouts his way through an abbreviated version of the truth, that he was unexpectedly caught in the rainstorm after parting with Jin-zongzhu. He comes and goes frequently without telling his disciples where he’s gone or when he’ll return, but they’ve been particularly attentive to him these past few days in anticipation of what was to come. Even so, some well-chosen complaints about the day’s petty trials quickly reassure them that he’s had an unremarkable afternoon following the ceremony and not been, say, crying in any alleyways. Nie Huaisang is beginning to feel some semblance of calm when Zhuoyue pulls him aside to let him know that Jiang-zongzhu did come by after all, about an hour ago, and he’s waiting upstairs, just as Nie Huaisang had requested.

Nie Huaisang sighs and nods, eyes shut in beleaguered acceptance, feeling nothing more than the vague irritation of being given more work at the end of a day, before his mind really wraps itself around the news.

“Oh. I see. Thank you.” When he opens his eyes, Zhuoyue is still there, still placidly gruff, and clearly not thinking much more of this than an oddly timed meeting between sect leaders. Nie Huaisang blinks a few times and absently tugs his robes into some kind of order. “Well, I shouldn’t keep Jiang-zongzhu waiting.”

On the way up the stairs that lead to the private rooms, he contemplates whether it’s worth fainting his way out of this. A tumble down the stairs would be suitably dramatic to stall for a few hours if he makes enough of a fuss, no? However, his legs traitorously carry him to the top of the staircase and down the hall, compelled by the thought of getting to sit down in a warm room among his own things, and it’s this vision of comfort that puts some steel into Nie Huaisang’s spine when he turns the corner of the hall.

Nie Huaisang widens his eyes in his best look of vapid astonishment. “Ah, Jiang-zongzhu. No breakfast?”

“You don’t mind being kept waiting, do you?” Jiang Cheng leans, arms folded, against the wall across from Nie Huaisang’s rooms. He gives Nie Huaisang a long, withering once-over. “What happened?”

Nie Huaisang doesn’t know why he expected that, after the way they left things, speaking with Jiang Cheng would be any different than it was with Wei Wuxian, or Jin Ling, or any of the other people who used to like him well enough and now don’t let him out of their sight if they’re in the same room. It’s not a thought of self-pity, just dull acknowledgement.

“It’s raining. I forgot to bring an umbrella. I also buried my brother.”

Whatever retort Jiang Cheng had in mind dies on his lips. It was a cheap thing to do, to bring up da-ge as an admonishment, but Nie Huaisang makes an effort not to regret things he can’t take back, so he turns away from Jiang Cheng to open the door.

“I’d like to dry off, if that’s acceptable. You’re welcome to come along.”

Nie Huaisang doesn’t close the door behind him, and sure enough, a few moments later he hears footfalls and the rasping slide of wood as the door is pulled closed. He doesn’t pay Jiang Cheng much attention; Nie Huaisang is so dishevelled and wet that he doesn’t know where to start pulling himself back into civilization, so for a while he just stands in the middle of the room, struggling to come up with an order in which to do the things that need doing. Does he look like he’s been crying? The rain must have taken care of that. If it didn’t, it’s not as though Jiang Cheng’s never seen him in tears before, though those instances were usually less physically gruelling than the genuine article. Eventually, Nie Huaisang kicks his boots off in an untidy pile next to the door, peels off his outermost robe and hangs it over a folding screen to dry, and then sits at the dining table in the centre of the room. The rest of his clothes are still uncomfortably damp, if not sopping, and Nie Huaisang feels like a wet dog.

He eyes Jiang Cheng, who looks somewhat cowed but still venomous. Jiang Cheng stands on the other side of the room with his back against the wall, as though protecting himself from attack.

“I was surprised you didn’t come to the ceremony. Your nephew said you were out of town, but here you are.”

“If you wanted my attendance, you could’ve asked. I know how you hate assumptions to be made about when you desire someone’s presence.”

“I invited you to meet me here this morning, didn’t I? I’m not sure what else I could’ve done to make you feel more welcome.”

“There’s such an elaborate set of rules for interacting with Nie-zongzhu that you’ll have to forgive my lack of confidence. He’s not been particularly forthcoming with the details.”

Is Jiang Cheng capable of handling conflict in any way other than assuming the role of one who has been horribly aggrieved? Must everything be met with this level of intensity? You’d think Nie Huaisang had gone out of his way to insult him. He really is just like his nephew: sour, serious children grown up into boyish, insecure men.

Nie Huaisang studies his hands in his lap. “Can I get you anything? A drink? Are you hungry?”

“I’m quite fine.”

“What would you like from me, then?”

“An apology, to start.”

Oh, that’s very funny. Nie Huaisang may have written to Jiang Cheng while he was feeling sorry for himself, but he’s not so pathetic that he’ll grovel for Jiang Cheng’s forgiveness just out of a desire for there to be someone in the world who would be happy to see him. Nie Huaisang has made too many apologies he didn’t mean, aided by that guilelessness people have always seen in him, to consider them valuable. Jiang Cheng wouldn’t believe how sincere Nie Huaisang had been the last time they saw one another even if Nie Huaisang tried to tell him.

“What would you like me to apologize for? I’m still not sure what I did to upset you.”

A muscle at the corner of Jiang Cheng’s mouth twitches, and when he pushes himself off the wall, Nie Huaisang’s heartbeat quickens. Jiang Cheng crosses the room to a few paces from where Nie Huaisang sits, but he doesn’t come any closer than that. Under his stare, Nie Huaisang feels very small, but not in a way that he thinks is likely to help him—rather than endearing him to Jiang Cheng, the state of things has Nie Huaisang feeling like an animal on its back. He can’t resist the impulse to cross his arms over his chest in an instinct of feeble self-protection.

Jiang Cheng is easy to disdain if you’ve known him for long enough, or have seen him at his weakest—running wild-eyed around his own pier brandishing his brother’s sword, or being taken apart on a temple floor by Jin Guangyao—but Jiang Cheng hasn’t earned a reputation as a dangerous man through bluster, and as Nie Huaisang finds himself held in place by Jiang Cheng’s fury, he’s unable to call up a compelling reason why it matters to resist letting it sweep him away.

Eventually, Jiang Cheng grits out, “You made a mockery of me.”

This hostility isn’t entirely unwelcome. If he thought Jiang Cheng would beg for Nie Huaisang to take him back, Nie Huaisang wouldn’t have written to him. Jiang Cheng’s anger is scouring, like alcohol applied to clean a wound. Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian weighed their words, in their respective ways, and let Nie Huaisang infer the intended threats; Jiang Cheng spares him that task by laying his accusations out in the open. Nie Huaisang would go so far as to say he appreciates it. If there was anything motivating him to write to Jiang Cheng, it was a yearning to be spoken to in the way that no one but Jiang Cheng dares to speak to Nie Huaisang any longer. It’s not unlike the occasional temptation to pass his hand through a candle flame to see if he’s quick enough not to get burned. However, these were not the conditions he had in mind. When he imagined this conversation, Nie Huaisang thought it would be easier to hold onto his own scorn.

Nie Huaisang closes his eyes and lifts his right hand to squeeze some water out of the section of his hair hanging over his shoulder, to buy himself some time. It would be easy to reply with nothing but more questions. He could continue like that for ages, spinning Jiang Cheng around in circles until the sun has fully set and they’ve said nothing of import to each other, but Nie Huaisang is so tired. It’s no longer his clothes that have become water-logged, but his body; he feels heavy, slow-moving, and chilled to the bone.

After a deep, slow breath, Nie Huaisang lets his fingers fall from his hair and lifts his head to look Jiang Cheng in the eye. He doesn’t think his face could be said to have an expression. That might be for the best. He doesn’t want Jiang Cheng to accuse him of acting.

“I didn’t set out to mock you. I thought we had an understanding, but I had misjudged the situation.”

His desire for Jiang Cheng to look away from him is second only to his desperation for Jiang Cheng to hold his gaze. Jiang Cheng’s face flickers, but he continues to stare down at Nie Huaisang with a bright intensity that scares him more than any of Jiang Cheng’s simple, bull-headed anger could.

Nie Huaisang looks back down to the table surface and lifts his hands to his head once more, feeling around for the pins fastening his braids in place. His hair is never going to dry if it stays up, but he can’t see his own reflection and his fingers still have twinges of numbness, so it’s clumsy work.

In a few strides, Jiang Cheng crosses the rest of the space between them. Nie Huaisang is too surprised to back away from his approach, or even to flinch. He supposes that Jiang Cheng is going to hit him, or shake him by the shoulders like a doll, or maybe kiss him, hard, as a punishment. The thought fails to communicate much urgency, or transform into any action on Nie Huaisang’s part. He’ll survive this, whatever it is. He always does.

Jiang Cheng kneels so that he’s level with Nie Huaisang, and then knocks Nie Huaisang’s wrists out of the way with the backs of Jiang Cheng’s own hands. Following this, he slides his fingers into the wet mass of Nie Huaisang's hair, feeling for the pins. By way of explanation, he mutters, “It was painful to watch.” Nie Huaisang is so taken aback that he continues to hold his forearms aloft, touching nothing, before remembering to bring them down. He feels like he’s taken a sudden blow to the head.

On top of being snarled from the wind, the moisture is causing Nie Huaisang’s hair to cling together more than it would if it was dry, but Jiang Cheng is surprisingly deft, and he’s able to withdraw the guan and pins with minimal pinching. Nie Huaisang expects him to back away, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t stop there; he uncoils Nie Huaisang’s braids and sets about unweaving them with his fingers. He’s quick, and doesn’t linger. Nie Huaisang imagines him taking care of his nephew like this when Jin Ling was small. Though Nie Huaisang wouldn’t go so far as to call him gentle, Jiang Cheng’s hands are careful not to tug any of Nie Huaisang’s hair in uncomfortable ways, though Nie Huaisang occasionally feels the there-and-then-gone scrape of fingernails.

When Nie Huaisang finally finds his voice, it comes out as a low undertone. “When you’re done, could you go downstairs to get a tub of hot water sent up?”

“Am I your manservant?”

“You could bring up dinner, while you’re at it. I have a tab.”

Jiang Cheng has been so thorough about avoiding skin-to-skin contact that when Jiang Cheng’s finger brushes the side of Nie Huaisang’s neck, Nie Huaisang flinches from surprise, and Jiang Cheng hastily pulls his hand back.

Neither of them moves or says anything, and then Jiang Cheng gets back to his feet. The bulk of Nie Huaisang’s hair now hangs loose around his shoulders and face, and it makes him feel more naked than he ever has around Jiang Cheng, even discounting the fact he’s only half-dressed. Nie Huaisang has been embarrassing himself for so long; why does he feel precious about it now?

Jiang Cheng scowls, his eyes somewhere on the floor. “Don’t take too long in the bath. I’ve waited around for you enough already.”

✥

The water was brought up too hot for his taste, so Nie Huaisang sits on the edge of the bed and listens to the steady, purring downpour on the roof. The rain must have resumed while his attention was elsewhere. Without Jiang Cheng, the room feels very small and quiet. While the steam rises off the surface of the tub, Nie Huaisang loosely ties his hair up and out of the way with a ribbon, so it won’t get wet again. He doesn’t need Jiang Cheng to scold him for putting his hard work to waste.

He told Jiang Cheng to take his time downstairs, but Jiang Cheng is not a particularly patient man. Nie Huaisang ought to get through this as quickly as possible, but once he’s tucked himself inside the small tub, the chill that had plagued him since the rain had begun dissolves into the water, and he thinks he might have to be dragged back out again. While he washes himself methodically, he tries to think about anything other than the feeling of Jiang Cheng’s fingers on his skin. It’s a struggle; with all of his hair up, every draught of air runs over his neck like a phantom touch.

With significant regret, he eventually steps out, dries off, and puts on the fresh robes he had planned to sleep in. It’s getting late, he doesn’t want to have to change again, and he and Jiang Cheng are past propriety with one another.

He takes his place at the table again, so he can try and look casual. To pass the time, Nie Huaisang lets his hair down and starts finger-combing his damp hair into sections. Even without a mirror, his hands know the motions of braiding his hair the way his tongue knows speech. Yet, his eyes linger on the neat pile of silver fastenings Jiang Cheng left on the table, and he lets his fingers trail through his loose hair and drop into his lap. Past propriety indeed.