At seven, or perhaps eight, Nie Huaisang performed one of his most infamous disappearing acts. A nearby sect leader had visited with his family and Huaisang was supposed to keep his younger sons entertained, but they were getting on well with the other Nie disciples his age, and he doubted he’d be missed. He had been occupied with important business before his home was invaded by strangers; he’d taken recently to finding interesting stones to take home and polish, and his collection wasn’t going to expand by itself. He was usually careful to mark his way when he snuck out of the fortress, to avoid getting lost, but he had been too caught up in the euphoria of acquisition to remember to tie his strips of cloth to bushes.

By sundown he had eaten through his bundle of snacks, and soon his terror of being alone in the dark surpassed the desire not to be caught playing truant. He settled in the forked bough of a tree, so passing animals couldn’t eat him, and cried, and thought that maybe now their father would marry again and get a better second son, who would do what he was told and make his family proud. Huaisang could feel bearing down on him the shame of all of the Nies that had been, who were now presumably despairing of how they could’ve produced such a pathetic descendant, and that just made him cry even more.

As the last of the sunlight faded, he heard barking dogs and distant but familiar voices calling his name—his birth name; no one called him by his courtesy name until his father died and it became important that he grow up. Huaisang blubbered, “Da-ge?”, and immediately lost his balance. Nothing broke when he fell, but his arms and legs were blotchy purple for a week, and he sprained his right hand, so da-ge carried Huaisang on his back. His grip was steady enough that by the time they neared home, Huaisang was nodding in and out of sleep, but even in his half-conscious state, he remembers thinking that he was lucky to have, out of every boy in the world, the strongest and best of all brothers. Da-ge had later told Huaisang, in a chilling tone, never to do something like that again, and it was one of the first times Huaisang understood that it scared him when Huaisang misbehaved, but even then, da-ge waited to scold him until Huaisang’s bruises and dignity had healed.

Did da-ge already know his own fate, back then? How long had he been carrying Huaisang’s innocence? If Huaisang had known, he wouldn’t have made such a nuisance of himself, always giving da-ge new things to worry about. Or maybe he would have. He was a spoiled child.

✥

Jiang Wanyin,

I apologize for startling you with the contents of my last letter! Needless to say, you have my express permission to burn any of my correspondence after reading, if it makes you feel more at ease. But on that previous topic of discussion: you’re in luck that the pursuit of one’s erotic fulfillment is the rare topic on which I am qualified to give counsel. My personal library is not limited to smutty trash, and I have some philosophically oriented works on pain and pleasure which you may find worthy of your time. I admit I’m too delicate to enjoy being subjected to such things myself; you impress me, really, you do, so take that to heart! I’ve sent a few texts along—labelled as bridge safety audits, don’t worry, no one will be tempted to look. Needless to say if those readings prompt any fancies of yours, I, your diligent advisor in these matters, am eager to hear them.

Since we’ve renewed our friendship, allow me to gently remind you that my birthday is not far off, and as I’m too busy to entertain at the moment I would accept gifts delivered to me on your behalf. You know my taste.

Will you be present at Carp Tower for your nephew’s gathering? If you’re worried about uncomfortable social situations, I understand, but I’d be happy to keep you company. Or, if you’d rather, I’m sure Yao-zongzhu would jump at the chance to tell you about the bad luck he had recently with a ditch-digging contractor; the last time I had to meet with him, he quite courteously spared me from effort by taking so long to explain this anecdote I hardly had to think of anything to say myself.

By the way, I appreciate the prompt replies; my desk has been much livelier than usual. It makes me more inclined to sit down and do my work, so really the whole sect ought to thank you. Enjoy the warm weather, and my sympathies about that bit of flooding; hopefully you’ve seen the last of it.

Your thoughtful friend,

Nie Huaisang

✥

The juniors gather around the archery range and huddle in whispery cliques. Wei Wuxian stretches and tests the draw of his bow for no apparent reason beyond demonstrating the limber grace he brings even to a second-hand body. Its original occupant had none, so Nie Huaisang can be sure it’s a quality of Wei Wuxian’s essential enough to be brought back with the rest of his soul.

Wei Wuxian loves to show off, and doubly so around adolescents who are easily impressed and don’t have memories of his first life. To them he’s just charming, wicked Wei-qianbei, who is only dangerous in a way that makes them feel daring for coming near him. Though, in fairness, he’s not that much older than some of them, by the numbers. Nie Huaisang is forty in a few weeks, so Wei Wuxian is what, twenty-four? Bracing.

When he’d written to Wei Wuxian, he’d done so with a level of impassive formality he’d hoped would pique the man’s curiosity enough to bring him out to Qinghe, and he was right. Nie Huaisang had received Wei Wuxian in the main hall with, for once, the appropriate ceremonial gravity. He had enough of dishabille in Yunping. He’s glad that he did so, seeing as Lan Wangji came along, too, uninvited and luminous, as if actively trying to make everyone else look shabby. He had hoped Wei Wuxian would come alone, but could hardly say so. Whatever. It’s not as though it really matters. Wei Wuxian would tell Lan Wangji everything upon his return, anyway, and it’s nothing Lan Wangji doesn’t already know. However, Nie Huaisang is still a sect leader, thank you very much, Your Excellency, and he will not be made self-conscious in his own court! As such, he’d settled himself on the dais like a hen ruffling her feathers as she makes herself comfortable in the straw, and waited to be saluted—Wei Wuxian did so with a bemused twist to his eyebrows, as if surprised to see Nie Huaisang behaving like someone respectable—before Nie Huaisang laughed and invited him to discuss their orders of business over lunch. It would just feel too odd to try and keep that act up with him for long. There are other sorts of acts which are more appropriate.

That was earlier, and now Wei Wuxian decided to pass the rest of the afternoon by going up against some of the seniors at archery. Because Nie Huaisang knows what his disciples want, whether or not he shares their passions, he keeps the training grounds in good condition, and he’d had the range refurbished and expanded the previous summer. The area is near the back of the fortress, up against the hills, and the high walls cast long shadows over the competition field.

He knows the compound looks grey and foreboding to unfamiliar eyes. When he was little, it was a sprawling playground, with each cranny ready to be exploited. (This came back to bite him in his adolescent years, since when he was small he had occasionally been able to cajole da-ge into hide-and-seek—which was always one-sided, because da-ge only liked to do the finding—and as a result, da-ge knew all of his hiding spots. Nie Huaisang had to employ more resourceful means to disappear for a little while to read, or do his scribblings, or avoid being made to sweat.) Even the high walls felt friendly, when growing up inside them. They were there to keep his family safe, so how could they not be? He used to sit up top on clear days, looking out at the vanishing point and feeling comfortably insignificant.

Now that he knows the expense that goes into the upkeep of a place like this, he can’t help but wonder whether it’s still necessary. Qinghe is at the foot of Qishan in no sense except geography. There are no more border skirmishes to test their defense for weaknesses, or tense meetings between sect leaders who may as well have laid their blades out on the table in front of them. It’s a bit of a farce to keep up the maintenance of a fortress no one plans to storm. When something is built in response to an adversary, what’s left of it when the threat is gone?

(During that lunchtime conversation, Nie Huaisang picked at his food and kept his tone earnest and apologetic as he explained his proposition. Wei Wuxian rubbed his chin and leaned back in his chair with his legs splayed in artful carelessness.

“Seems to me I’ve done you a lot of favours lately, Nie-zongzhu.”

It seemed to Nie Huaisang that Wei Wuxian was alive because of him. “I promise I won’t be mad if you’re too busy. I just thought—well, I guess I thought I was doing you a favour, in a way. I know you like projects.”)

A pair of juniors scamper onto the range every so often between rounds to fetch the used arrows. Nie Huaisang watches their little legs go, taps his closed fan on the point of his chin, and asks, “Are you going to Jin-zongzhu’s party?”

“I’d never dare jilt shijie’s son.”

“It’s been ages since anyone held a good banquet.” Nie Huaisang glances over at Lan Wangji, standing like a pillar of stone on Wei Wuxian’s other side. “No offense meant, Your Excellency.” Lan Wangji doesn’t grace Nie Huaisang with a response.

He knows he shouldn’t say the next thing even before he does, but he can’t help himself. It rolls out of his mouth of its own accord. “Say, Wei-xiong. You wouldn’t happen to know if anything happened between him and Jiang-zongzhu lately? It seems like they’ve had a spat over something, but no one will tell me what.”

Over the course of the match, Wei Wuxian has been steadily eliminating his competition. He notches and draws his next arrow with deliberation. Nie Huaisang is beginning to think Wei Wuxian simply didn’t hear him when Wei Wuxian finally shoots—hitting the target dead on the mark; he must’ve been waiting for the wind to blow just the right way—and replies, “I’m not sure it’s my business to say.”

Nie Huaisang presses on, voice gently wheedling: “I did ask Jiang-zongzhu about it himself first, but he refused.”

Wei Wuxian takes his time selecting another arrow, checking them all over for the quality of the fletching. His voice is flat, but not cold, as such. Just... removed. “That’s just Jiang Cheng. He’s always been like that. Don’t expect him to change.”

He’s wrong, though, and Nie Huaisang feels as irritated by it as he does by Wei Wuxian reacting as though Nie Huaisang has ulterior motives in asking. Jiang Cheng is still young enough. He just needs someone to show him how to act like it. Wei Wuxian wasn’t around, anyway, for all those long years; he doesn’t know better than any other young person what time can and can’t do.

He’s tempted to tell Wei Wuxian, I’ll take Jiang Cheng if you won’t. He’s fun in bed and his letters make me laugh. Nie Huaisang has enough wits left to know that sounding smug about such a thing is mortifying, so he refrains. In any case, Jiang Cheng would go apoplectic if he knew.

✥

On the second day, Wei Wuxian persuades Lan Wangji to go take care of some business he apparently has in the area on his own while Wei Wuxian stays behind at the Unclean Realms. Lan Wangji departs reluctantly. Once he’s gone, they begin to discuss Nie Huaisang’s delicate matter in earnest.

“To be honest, I don’t know if it’s the kind of problem you can fix while keeping up the sabre technique. Resentful energy needs to go somewhere, and I don’t know how you can keep it suppressed when the style relies on cultivating it.”

“Well, we can’t switch to swords. None of the disciples would go along with it.”

“Not even if you told them the truth? About all of it?”

Slowly, grudgingly: “Some of them already know.”

They can’t afford complete honesty. If the true costs of sabre cultivation got out to the other sects, Qinghe Nie’s reputation would be finished. Nie Huaisang has done enough damage to his ancestors’ names already.

Wei Wuxian is the world’s foremost resentful energy expert; though sabre cultivation isn’t demonic, Nie Huaisang has reached the limits of his own ingenuity. “You could take my sabre back to Gusu with you to experiment with, if you like. I never use it.”

“Don’t these things become connected to their owners’ spirits? Giving yours up is a big risk.”

“It’s not doing me any good here. If you could learn something from it, then we might as well try, right?”

Nie Huaisang isn’t even entirely sure what this could accomplish, if anything. He doesn’t think they’ll discover some way to continue cultivating just as they have been and escape all consequences—though life may sometimes work that way, cultivation does not—but there are surely some things his ancestors never thought of. Some newer methods of mitigating the damage to the living and managing the restlessness of the dead.

If not—if this is just another dead end—he’ll set down his hopes, Nie Huaisang supposes. No one said, Nie Huaisang, the trouble with the sabre spirits is your duty to resolve; never mind all your forebears who put the problem into place. If he’s to be a reluctant custodian of his ancestors’ worst legacies, so be it. He just hates to feel ashamed of his family, and he doesn’t, for anything except this, and time is running short.

In the end, Wei Wuxian sighs. “I’ll see what I can do. But as a… consultant, you understand.”

“As opposed to what?”

“I’ll tinker around as a favour, but I don’t work for you. No offense meant, Nie-zongzhu.”

“A friend helping a friend, then?”

Wei Wuxian’s only answer is a wry twitch of the mouth.

Later that evening, Lan Wangji returns, and the two fly home before dark. Nie Huaisang’s long-neglected sabre is in a qiankun pouch on Wei Wuxian’s hip. The parting is quick and impersonal; Nie Huaisang is eager to see them off. He got what he needed, if not what he wanted.

He gets no pleasure from being distrusted. He brought this about himself, of course, but he doesn’t like it.

Ah, well. There’s no one to pick him up and carry him home anymore when he gets himself into trouble. Time to dust himself off.

✥

Carp Tower under Jin Guangyao was a well-trafficked place, both because he had regular discussion conference obligations as Chief Cultivator and because he had a gift for organizing events for any occasion. Nie Huaisang attended them all, and often invited himself to Carp Tower even when there was no good excuse. The collective uncertainty about Jin Ling’s fitness as a family head and suspicion of persistent corruption within Lanling Jin aside, cultivation society at large is glad for the opportunity to have a real party again, or at least drink and stay up past nine.

The agenda is standard: an initial lavish banquet designed to showcase the recent renovations, followed by three days of night hunting in the forests outside Lanling, and then another banquet upon return to Carp Tower, with some performances and contests alongside it. Nie Huaisang will stay behind for the night hunt; he never joins in, and he’d rather not go camping if he can avoid it. He’s confident his senior disciples will have things in hand.

Carp Tower had welcomed him with dreams of a familiar face. Last night, Jin Guangyao hadn’t given him any of his usual indulgent smiles or worried lip-purses; he had looked up at Nie Huaisang from a desk full of blank papers, brush in hand, and with skin-crawling, heartbreaking pity, said, Don’t make me do this, Huaisang. You won’t like what happens. When Nie Huaisang woke, he couldn’t remember what it was that had constituted the threat, though in his dream it had been clear to him, and terrible.

In the daylight, it’s strange to look at the changes around them and know, I did this, though Nie Huaisang’s hand never lifted any of the tools. He feels muddled about the knowledge that, in order to take Jin Guangyao’s murals down, the panel containing da-ge and er-ge at the sworn brotherhood had to have been removed as well. He wonders what happened to the marble: whether that image of his brother has been carved into something else, perhaps repurposed to grace some nobleman’s home, or if it’s been rendered to dust.

The whole palace is full of the lingering presence of people who served their purpose for him. There are entrance rooms Qin Su once presided over with magisterial charm, ponds Lan Xichen would meditate beside on his visits, and courtyard nooks Mo Xuanyu had shown him, where discreet meetings could be held.

Qinghe Nie arrives a half-day early, before most of the other sects have reached Lanling. Nie Huaisang brings a present for Jin Rulan: a young stallion of the Qinghe mould, sturdy and not easily spooked, but slender and lighter on his feet than most. He delivers it with minimal pomp or fuss, simply taking Jin Ling down to the stables to get horse and boy acquainted. If Nie Huaisang were Jin Guangyao, he would have delivered the gift with an eloquent message—“In hopes of prosperity for generations to come, or simply pleasant riding,” something like that—but he’s wary of his neutral statements being misinterpreted as containing hidden implications, so he just says, “It’s too bad there aren’t any horses with spiritual power, Jin-zonghzu, or I would’ve brought you one of those.”

Nie Huaisang inherited da-ge’s childhood pony when he outgrew it, which didn’t take long, and Huaisang was able to ride it until he was almost an adult, since it took him a long time to outgrow anything. He enjoys most animals well enough, though the less demanding they are, the better. As a rule horses are not only demanding but cold and vengeful, but Jin Ling is a spry young man with enough money to afford good horse-keepers, so he should get along alright.

“How is Fairy these days?”

Jin Ling had left her behind so as not to scare the horses. He looks surprised by the question. “She’s good. ”

“How old is she, again? You were so little when you got her.” Fairy was another present from Jin Guangyao, who gave so extravagantly to all of the young ones under his wing. Jin Ling is thinking of this, too, by the look on his face. It’s not lost on Nie Huaisang that he’s doing the same thing, now, giving a pet as a gesture of goodwill, but he can’t fault san-ge his methods in this respect.

“She’s twelve. Spiritual dogs live longer than other dogs, so she’s not getting old yet.”

“That’s right.”

Nie Huaisang lets the horse snuffle against his palm. Jin Ling watches him with open curiosity.

For a long time, it didn’t matter what anyone would think of the things he’s done once his debts were settled, because he didn’t have a future, or at least not one that felt as though it would ever really arrive. If Jin Ling were to burst into a room one day when Nie Huaisang least expects it and tell him he was there to take vengeance for his shushu, Nie Huaisang imagines he’d feel resigned. If Jin Ling keeps that wound salted and open, like Nie Huaisang once did, it doesn’t seem worth it to fight the outcome Nie Huaisang admits he may have earned. He has reason to be grateful, then, that despite the strength of physical resemblance, Jin Rulan resembles Jin Guangyao in personality very little. It’s preferable that he should favour Jiang Cheng so strongly, in his moments of awkward, surly sweetness. If Jiang Cheng were harbouring a grudge, you would know it.

Jin Ling runs his hand across the horse’s withers. He has a gentle, steady manner, and doesn’t seem afraid of its size. “How old is he?”

“He’s three.”

“Oh, you’re just a baby,” Jin Ling murmurs, and pets the horse’s neck again, this time more affectionate than assessing. He doesn’t look self-conscious about it at all, not the way that Jiang Cheng would, like he thinks that it makes him weak to take joy in another living thing.

Nie Huaisang was wrong, he realizes: it’s not his jiujiu that Jin Ling takes after the most. It’s his parents. The horse stamps a hoof and huffs in protest of a fly buzzing around its eye. Nie Huaisang mutters nonsense to soothe it.

He thinks of his own mother, thrown from the saddle. He thinks, too, of how Jin Ling surely cannot remember Jiang Yanli’s face, and then he doesn’t think of it any longer.

✥

The delegation from Yunmeng Jiang arrives on the far edge of acceptably late. Before then, Nie Huaisang drifts through the proceedings with a vacant expression and absent, irritable spirit. Few of these people outside of his own sect like him, and the feeling is largely mutual; where disdain is absent, his attachments are usually incidental. He could spend most of his time surrounded by the buffer of his own sect members, but then what would be the point of coming to the party? He may as well have begged off, and gotten to sleep in his own bed. If this were five years ago, Nie Huaisang would have puttered around, lapsing in and out of conversations, and drunk too much. Depending on the occasion and the others in attendance, he might’ve taken advantage of the opportunity for snooping around rooms, or verbal information-gathering, or perhaps just finding some beautiful nobody with whom to while away an hour or two where nobody was watching. Possibly all of the above.

He won’t deny he’s been waiting for Jiang Cheng to arrive. It’s funny; no one would describe Jiang Cheng as a great literary talent, but Nie Huaisang thinks letters may be his ideal medium. His skill at political negotiation is at its best at a remove, where he can let his reputation do the menacing without giving way to one of his fits of temper. He even manages to affect indifference in response to Nie Huaisang’s reports of tawdry gossip, though his replies are lined with scathing glee, if you know him well enough to see through his turns of phrase. Within a few weeks, Jiang Cheng’s missives became increasingly prolix; he has many things to say about other people’s business, and Nie Huaisang imagines his social calendar is not especially full.

Jiang Cheng arrives just before the banquet begins; he takes his seat, his disciples trailing behind him, and sets his jaw in agitation. To someone else, it might not look any different than his usual irritability, but Nie Huaisang senses legitimate unease. They exchange glances throughout—not too many, not enough to be noticeable by anyone else—and it’s gratifying, how Jiang Cheng sits up straighter when he knows Nie Huaisang is watching him. He’s dressed well—to his credit, Jiang Cheng always dresses well—so Nie Huaisang takes in the cut and patterns of his robes, and has a little laugh under his breath about the image of how Jiang Cheng must look when he puts his outfits together: as severe as he does doing anything else, Nie Huaisang would guess.

He’s not much more relaxed himself; every time his eyes stray toward the Gusu Lan party, he pointedly doesn’t look at Wei Wuxian, but his gaze is drawn to Lan Xichen’s absence instead. Even when his focus is elsewhere, he feels Lan Wangji’s cold stare crawling over his skin, judging him and finding him wanting—as if someone like Hanguang-jun, someone feared and respected by people who haven’t even met him, whose skill with a sword is legendary and who, Nie Huaisang is sure, has never had to resort to low cunning, has the right. He’ll never make someone like Lan Wangji understand the kind of life he’s led, or the choices he’s made. It’s fruitless to even try to justify himself.

It becomes even harder to get through with Jiang Cheng here on the other side of the hall, because there’s now something else he’d rather be doing, and only the endless toasts and speeches are keeping him from it. As soon as the last courses are cleared away and the guests begin to mingle, Nie Huaisang makes his way to Jiang Cheng as quickly as he can without drawing attention to himself. He fans himself lazily and examines some artwork on a nearby wall. It’s one of Xichen-ge’s old ones, from back when he did such things. There’s a similar one back home. This one used to be displayed in Jin Guangyao’s study; Jin Ling must have moved it out into one of the main areas, perhaps to remove it from its original context. It is, in fairness, a beautiful piece; it would be a shame to lock it away. A sliver of Jiang Cheng is visible out of the corner of his eye, and he casually remarks, as if speaking to the painting, “I was getting worried you wouldn’t come.”

Before each recent meeting of theirs, Nie Huaisang has told himself that he will be aloof, this time. After all, it’s only Jiang Cheng; not exactly someone with a strong grasp on the art of seduction. Somewhere between being kissed out of a window and beginning an exchange of racy letters, Nie Huaisang let go of the pretense. He’s only able to practice abstinence of any kind when it has a clear object, and in this case it doesn’t seem worth the effort of self-delusion. He’s just relieved to see—not a friendly face, as such, but someone to whom he can be reasonably candid. If Jiang Cheng maintains fear and suspicion of Nie Huaisang, it’s not to a degree that hampers this nascent and tentative thing they have established.

The slice of Jiang Cheng in his vision takes Nie Huaisang in from tip to toe. Nie Huaisang’s spine prickles as if the look were a physical touch. “Half of the pier is still flooded. I couldn’t just leave it unaddressed for a week.”

“No, no, of course not. You’re too diligent for that.” He means it to be teasing, but it sounds like an earnest compliment, and he lifts his fan a little higher up his face. This was simpler when it was only letters. On paper, everything can be presented as half-jokes and flippant flirtation.

He hadn’t anticipated that he’d feel so—shy. Maybe he should have. They’ve been in such frequent correspondence, and it’s been so easy, that the reality of Jiang Cheng standing at arm’s reach from him has brought the memory of the last time they met out of Nie Huaisang’s mind and into his body.

Nie Huaisang wishes there weren’t so many people around. Granted, it provides them with some cover—most people in attendance are busy in their own clusters of conversation, and those in closest proximity to the two of them are senior Jiang disciples Nie Huaisang recognizes by sight, who aren’t likely to think much of their sect leader speaking with one of his peers. At least, that’s his hope.

Perhaps Jiang Cheng feels the same way, because after a quiet moment, he says, “It’s too stuffy in here. And unless Yang-zongzhu steps in, his disciples are going to make a scene.”

The disciples in question are a handful of cultivators from a minor sect who appear to be engaged in some kind of arm-wrestling contest that’s attracted a small crowd, though by the degree of disdain in Jiang Cheng’s voice, they might as well be drunkenly brawling.

Nie Huaisang hums consideringly, tilts his head, and then looks at Jiang Cheng sidelong through his lashes. “We could take some air. If it’s not too rude of us to leave such a nice party.” If anything, most of the attendees will feel more at ease, consciously or not, with the two of them out of sight. Your average cultivator of today is hardly desperate to drink and joke with Jiang-zongzhu or Nie-zongzhu. “Anyway, sect leader business never leaves off, does it?’”

Jiang Cheng visibly relaxes when they leave the crowded pavilions for the cool night air. They wind their way through lantern-lit twilight, further and further from the sounds of revelry until Nie Huaisang can hear small noises, like the soft plop that comes from the disturbed surface of a nearby pond. He wishes he could hold Jiang Cheng’s hand as they walk through the garden, as if to show whatever remains of Jin Guangyao’s shade, See how much has changed? How far life has gone on without you? You would never have predicted this; even your mind has limits.

This is the silly, errant heart of a silly, spoiled child who runs away from events he isn’t enjoying, not an adult who could have grown children of his own by now, had he lived his life differently. Nie Huaisang retains all of his childhood vices, though he’s added to them, as time and necessity have frayed the edges of what he will permit himself to do and feel. He’s still flighty, wilful, and acquisitive, the type that lives to collect things and store them away for his own admiration, or his own brooding.

“Where are we going?”

“I know a few good spots. Maybe I’ll give you a tour.”

Now that they’re out of earshot, Nie Huaisang fills Jiang Cheng in on what he missed earlier in the day. It’s nothing much to report, for people who’ve attended countless gatherings like this before, as they have. He doesn’t mention the stables. Nie Huaisang wants to ask Jiang Cheng about Jin Ling again, but he doesn’t think this is the right time; Jiang Cheng still looks so miserable, he’d probably think Nie Huaisang was picking on him for sport. It isn’t his place to meddle. They’ll sort it out themselves, or they won’t.

It’ll be hard not to keep thinking about him, when he’s gone. Worrying about him. Nie Huaisang wants him to be well, though he’s not sure what that would entail. Jiang Cheng isn’t someone who comes by happiness naturally. He doesn’t know what’s good for him, and without a nephew to fuss over, he’s more adrift than ever. He’ll go grey if he keeps up his constant restless worry, prodigious golden core or no. Though it would suit him.

Talking about family trouble isn’t what they came out here for, in any case. Nie Huaisang needs a distraction, and Jiang Cheng has proven himself very convenient. Of Nie Huaisang’s skills, one of the foremost is the ability to make other people useful.

Luckily for Jiang Cheng, Nie Huaisang has a strong working knowledge of which parts of the Carp Tower grounds are difficult to see from a distance. They’ve made their way to well past where the light of the lanterns can reach. It’s late spring. The air is sweet and they are trespassers, in spirit if not reality. There’s no one in sight but the faraway silhouettes of servants going to and from pavilions, back the way they came.

They reach a secluded corner of one of the older, less impressive gardens, where a tree in full bloom blocks the view for any passers-by who wander along even in the daytime, nevermind after dark. There’s nowhere to sit, so he turns to the side, so he can watch Jiang Cheng from one eye and keep a lookout with the other.

“This is what you usually do at Carp Tower? Hide behind trees?”

“Oh, like you’ve never wanted to yourself.”

“When I want to be alone, I usually go to my own rooms.”

Spoken like someone who’s never had informants! At least not of the kind Nie Huaisang has planted in the past.

“Variety can make some things more exciting. If you’re daring.”

“You—in a garden?” It’s hard to make out details of his expression in the dark, but the hollows of Jiang Cheng’s eyes are fixed on him intently.

The motion of the fan in Nie Huaisang’s hand slows to just the suggestion of a breeze. His voice is a low drawl. “I’m a fallen woman, you see. What does the location matter, if I let another man take what he wants?”

When they were walking, he’d imagined they would draw the flirtation out longer. He has no doubt that Jiang Cheng came out here expecting something along these lines, his scandalized pretenses aside, so there isn’t much reason for Nie Huaisang to delay, really, if Jiang Cheng is willing to play along. The sooner he’s too occupied to think, the better.

After a moment he hears the slick, quiet rasp of Jiang Cheng’s tongue wetting a dry lip, and Jiang Cheng murmurs in a cracked, gravelly tone, “What’s there to be taken?”

Nie Huaisang’s heartbeat kicks up; he feels pleased and oddly nervous. “I don’t know. Anything you like. This young master presumed to kiss me before, so I suppose I can allow another.”

Jiang Cheng snorts. “‘Young master’?”

Nie Huaisang flicks an imaginary speck of dust off of Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “Does Jiang-gongzi wish to be introduced to worldly ways?”

He feels the hot press of Jiang Cheng’s gaze against his skin. It shouldn’t surprise him that Jiang Cheng is game; he tends to be. Jiang Cheng will act long-suffering, but he hates to back down or concede.

Just as predicted, Jiang Cheng clears his throat, and replies, brittle, anticipatory, “Come on, then. Don’t waste my time dallying.”

“How bold! In that case…” Nie Huaisang flicks his fan closed and tucks it away. He places a hand on Jiang Cheng’s lapel; against the indigo shade of Jiang Cheng’s robes, it looks like a tiny, grasping, ghost-white paw. He curls his fingers before closing his eyes and whispering against Jiang Cheng’s lips, “And people say you’re no fun.”

Nie Huaisang wasn’t going to be taken by surprise—it would happen on his own terms—yet when their mouths meet, he still sways on his feet. Jiang Cheng kisses him slowly and carefully, making up for finesse with thoroughness, and in lieu of any part of Nie Huaisang’s body, Jiang Cheng clutches at the hanging fabric of his sleeves. Nie Huaisang’s mouth parts of its own accord, and he sighs a thick, sweet sound that rolls up from the soles of his feet.

When he leans back, Nie Huaisang drops his hands to his sides and curls his fingers in his own sleeves to contain the impulse to touch Jiang Cheng again. He shouldn’t be too eager; it wouldn’t fit the character he’s playing, although he’s only feeling her out by the moment.

“You may kiss my neck,” Nie Huaisang says, attempting to line his voice with the coy imperiousness of a haughty young wife straying from her husband. “But only my neck.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth is hot wax in the cool night. His lips make small, wet noises against Nie Huaisang’s throat. Nie Huaisang tips his head back to expose more of his skin and murmurs, “What else do you want from this lowly one?”

“Anything,” Jiang Cheng mutters against his skin.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Huaisang.” His name is a distressed gust of breath. That’s right, Nie Huaisang should take pity on him; Jiang Cheng would rather be commanded to do something perverse than to admit he wants something mundane.

Everything they’re doing is very nice, and all, but Nie Huaisang still feels frantic, as if there are eyes out there watching him in the dark. His heartbeat buzzes under his skin like a trapped wasp. Though he speaks softly, the lightness has left his voice. “What would you do, if I asked? If I told you to kneel, would you kneel?”

He can feel Jiang Cheng’s frame tense up, but he sounds heady: “Here?” Something about it catches in Nie Huaisang’s chest and snags.

He wanted distraction, and yes, Jiang Cheng is doing a good job of entertaining him, but Nie Huaisang finds he doesn’t want to be reminded of the way Jiang Cheng looked at him, the last time they fucked. He liked it then, when it came as a surprise—to think, Jiang Cheng staring at Nie Huaisang in a manner that could only be called worshipful—but at the moment Nie Huaisang has had enough of being made aware of himself. It’s not because he’s disinterested in what Jiang Cheng has to offer him; it’s the opposite problem. He wants so much from Jiang Cheng that the intensity of desire frightens him.

Jiang Cheng likely won’t notice where Nie Huaisang mood drifts, as long as he gets what he came for. They’ve sought each other out to spend some idle time with pleasant company. Nie Huaisang can just stick to the script.

“I think we’ll hear anyone coming. Though I’ll keep an eye open, for the sake of your reputation. So go on.”

Jiang Cheng goes to his knees, his perfectly-styled robes pressed against the well-raked gravel. The sight licks through Nie Huaisang’s stomach in a hot curl. He places one splay-fingered hand on his hip, looks down at Jiang Cheng, and continues: “Even if someone did walk in, you only have to stand up before they see you. They might think we’re plotting, but you have no patience for crookedness, so there’s really no harm. They’d say, ‘Nevermind the Headshaker, that Jiang Wanyin is an upright man.’ Isn’t that right?”

Jiang Cheng makes a tetchy sound, embarrassment in the guise of irritation, and Nie Huaisang doesn’t obscure the smile it puts on his face. Perhaps that smile lends Jiang Cheng some bravery: he grasps at the fabric of Nie Huaisang’s skirts. Not pulling. Just holding, and watching Nie Huaisang’s face as though anticipating being kicked away.

When it becomes clear he will not be, his hand slowly reaches under the hem and pushes the fabric up before cupping Nie Huaisang’s ankle in a loose, breakable grip. This is the boldest Jiang Cheng has yet been with Nie Huaisang’s body, and he’s still not confident in what’s welcome, and only knows that some things are, and others are not. Nie Huaisang experiences a fleeting, delighted urge to slap him across the face for the presumption, though this feeling is not accompanied by a desire for Jiang Cheng to let go.

Carefully, Nie Huaisang holds his foot aloft. Jiang Cheng slides his palm over the swell of his calf. He’s not sure he will be able to see lanterns at night again without being returned to the sumptuous dangerousness of this moment.

“They don’t know, do they? What you’re really like.”

Nie Huaisang strokes Jiang Cheng’s hair back from his face. It’s the first reciprocal touch he’s given since the kiss. He has been rationing them, though toward what end he doesn’t know. He lowers his leg out of Jiang Cheng’s weak hold to knock Jiang Cheng’s knees wider apart with his foot until Jiang Cheng is sitting, legs spread, on his own heels. Throughout this, Jiang Cheng is obliging, and that is why Nie Huaisang presses the toe of his shoe down between his open thighs.

“Aren’t you being pretty lewd? Do you want me that badly, or would you just let anyone do this?”

Defensively, Jiang Cheng mutters, “No.”

Even through sock and sole Nie Huaisang can feel him getting hard. “What do you mean, no?”

“I wouldn’t do it with anyone else.”

That’s worse. How can he not realize that’s worse?

A feeling settles over Nie Huaisang’s shoulders, and he recognizes it as the grey chill that comes over him before he writes to Lan Xichen, like he’s a child about to pull the wings off a fly.

“Poor choice, I’m afraid. I’m very selfish and mean.”

“I know you are.”

Nie Huaisang’s voice is incapable of sounding threatening, but he speaks each word with soft deliberation. “Do you think I wouldn’t hurt you?”

It’s too dark to make out the look in his eyes, but Jiang Cheng’s voice is equal parts raspy and sulky. “I’ll take my chances.”

“What do you think it is about you that makes you enjoy this? Is it because you think you deserve it, or do you just like to grovel?”

Jiang Cheng makes an utterance, possibly unconsciously, that sounds like it got stuck in a drainpipe somewhere. Nie Huaisang digs in his heel, hard enough it can’t be pleasurable beyond whatever erotic thrill Jiang Cheng seems to get from pain.

This compulsion to hurt is nowhere to be found in memories of the first half of his life. It’s one thing when he wants to watch Jiang Cheng suffer for its own sake—they both like it, and they’re hardly the inventors of such things—but right now Nie Huaisang is full of bilious resentment and looking for any victim nearby, and the fact Jiang Cheng enjoys it is incidental. He’s so different from the Nie Huaisang that found it easy to be kind and couldn’t have imagined speaking to anyone like this, let alone the closest friend Nie Huaisang still has in the world. That’s what Jiang Cheng is, after all. Certainly the only person Nie Huaisang daydreams about taking care of.

How cruel can he be before Jiang Cheng balks? Nie Huaisang has been trying to learn this for months, but he needs to find the limit; he needs to know that there is an edge, and that Jiang Cheng will push him away before Nie Huaisang tips him over.

He thinks of conversations they’ve had, and things he’s said that have seemed to affect Jiang Cheng more deeply than provoking reflexive irritation.

“What would your parents say, if they saw you like this?”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. To be cursed out or slapped, maybe. What happens is that Jiang Cheng makes a sound like he’s been punched in the stomach, and his mouth drops in a look of swooning despair.

Nie Huaisang rolls his heel in slow circles and softly adds, “Tell me to stop.”

Insanely, Jiang Cheng shakes his head.

Nie Huaisang shakes his own mind, hoping that what he wants instead of this will fall out. Preferably something straightforwardly acquirable. Does he wish their positions were reversed, and he were feeling Jiang Cheng’s cock in the back of his throat? Does he want to shout at him? He felt such relief when Jiang Cheng arrived; why? What did he think he was going to get? When will he have had his fill?

“What, you want to hear more? It’s not enough for you?”

His voice rough, desolate, and eager, Jiang Cheng replies, “Do you think I can’t stomach it?”

Jiang Cheng is still so hard. He hasn’t made the slightest motion to get up. Nie Huaisang feels as though he must be dreaming, and realizes that he himself is blindingly angry and on the edge of tears.

He sets his foot down on the earth. His fists are clenched within his sleeves. “Jiang Wanyin, you are a fool.”

Whenever they’ve done this kind of thing before, there’s never been any real grievance between them. The scolding and mockery was all pretense, like the exposition to set the scene in a spring book. There still isn’t any actual transgression; Jiang Cheng hasn’t done anything to him tonight but provide an opportunity for Nie Huaisang to indulge his worst habits, but he’s angry with him for that, and afraid—afraid of the generosity being extended to him. He’s untrustworthy with the welfare of others. He can’t name a single living person whose life was improved by knowing him, besides Wei Wuxian, and a boy had to die for that.

The stars above them twinkle merrily as they watch this petty human drama play out. A breeze lazily ruffles the leaves of nearby trees, as if it keeps waking from slumber and remembering it’s on duty. Jiang Cheng’s expression is lost, a little dazed.

Nie Huaisang swallows. “Don’t look at me like that. Please.”

“You’re telling me to leave?” Not in this state, surely, Jiang Cheng means, and well should he. He’s still on his knees, still hard from Nie Huaisang’s ridicule, and he didn’t even get off.

“No,” Nie Huaisang replies with a suddenness that surprises even himself. He has exhausted his resources for being cruel. The laughter from the other party guests is too distant to be heard, so he supplies his own. If he doesn’t, he’ll cry, or scream. The sound blows through his body like wind through hanging sheets. He wants to hide somewhere in the trees in earnest now; he helplessly says, “Don’t go. I’m just—I’m tired, and I really hate these gardens.”

Nie Huaisang reaches down, hand open, palm-up. Jiang Cheng doesn’t need the help, but he lets himself be tugged to his feet; his grip is warm, strong, and damp with sweat. When they face one another, Nie Huaisang’s chin tips up slightly to meet Jiang Cheng’s eyes, as if he’s fishing for another kiss, after all that. Maybe he is. Kiss me or carry me away or tell me we’re through, just let me know what kind of a mess we’ve found ourselves in. Once I knew, and now I don’t.

“We’re not going back to the banquet.”

“I don’t care where we go. Just not here and not there.”

Jiang Cheng frowns. “Are you sick, or something?”

“What?”

“You’re shivering.”

“Oh. I guess I am.”

Closer together, as they are now, it’s easier to read Jiang Cheng’s face, and Nie Huaisang sees him reach a decision: he lets go of Nie Huaisang’s hand and goes for his own belt. Nie Huaisang stares, dumbfounded, as Jiang Cheng unloops the leather, pulls his arms free of his sleeves—didn’t Nie Huaisang make it clear they weren’t going to do anything else tonight?—and drapes his outer robe roughly around Nie Huaisang’s shoulders.

When he steps back, his belt re-fastened and clothes straightened, Jiang Cheng looks reduced without the bulk of his sleeves, and equally surprised, as if his body acted without his permission. He takes a few fortifying breaths, grabs Nie Huaisang by the wrist, and tugs. “Come on.”

Nie Huaisang follows, holding Jiang Cheng’s robe in place with his free hand. After a few steps, Jiang Cheng’s grip loosens, and Nie Huaisang catches his fingers before they can slide away. Jiang Cheng continues pulling him by the arm, a stride ahead of him, and Nie Huaisang follows at a brisk little trot. He has no idea where Jiang Cheng is taking him, and doesn’t care. Under the pitter-patter of their feet, he keeps letting out hysterical half-laughs. Look, san-ge. I said you wouldn’t believe it.

✥

Dark shapes flit about, like holes cut out of the night: bats, enjoying their own modest feast. Nie Huaisang leans against the wall inside of a small, empty pavilion. Jiang Cheng had intended to take him back to Nie Huaisang’s rooms to be put to bed, but at one point Nie Huaisang complained that his feet were hurting, and so he persuaded Jiang Cheng to stop and rest. They’re closer to the festivities, and can hear faint strains of music, but they’re secluded enough they can speak freely.

If he goes to sleep, then he’ll be alone, and that sounds unbearable. Even feeling that way is humiliating. He can keep his own company. He doesn’t need people.

Jiang Cheng stands, arms folded, and Nie Huaisang pulls his borrowed robe around himself more tightly. He didn’t think he was cold, but now that he has the extra layer, he’s glad for the warmth. It’s always evening when they spend time with one another—with the exception of that morning, last time, when the fresh light that suffused the room could be blamed for the things Nie Huaisang had said and done, since it made everything seem unreal.

“Remember when your sister got married here?”

Nie Huaisang likes going to weddings, even if he’s always had trouble imagining his own. He likes parties, and good food, and he was a romantic once, did you know? He believed in the kind of love people write about in poems. What a privilege it is, to have only felt the extremities of emotion through verse, and to be a tourist of the heart.

“I didn’t know you were there.”

“Of course I was there! It was my brother’s sworn brother’s brother’s wedding! But don’t worry, I wouldn’t have expected you to remember, with everything else going on.” That was back when Nie Huaisang could fade into the background of any scene as a charmingly-dressed bit player who would be dead before the end of the second act.

“Stop trying to embarrass me.”

“I’m really not. You always had your sect leader face on. I was glad to see you relax a little.” He doesn’t think anyone begrudged the young Jiang-zongzhu some exuberantly drunken tears on his sister’s wedding day. Maybe things would’ve been different if Wei Wuxian was carousing by his side, but his conspicuous absence had at least provided some social leniency. But he’s sure Jiang Cheng remembers that side of things well enough without Nie Huaisang reminding him.

Jiang Cheng is quiet for a while, and then he murmurs, “I guess that was everyone’s mistake. Overlooking you.”

Nie Huaisang has lived two lives; there’s a bifurcation separating a naive and good-natured boyhood from an adulthood of duplicity, sorrow, and malice. The former died with da-ge on the Carp Tower stairs, and what’s left may as well be a snake taken residence in the shed skin of another. He’s made peace with the fact that he will never recover what he’s lost, and he’s content enough to continue playing out, around others, the same superficial imitation of his old self that he’s been performing for many years. He’s not too bitter about having to put up an act; if he were anyone else, he’d rather know the soggy, spineless Nie Huaisang than the other one, who is fit for no company but his own. This is what unnerves him, you see, about the way Jiang Cheng looks at him. There are times when Nie Huaisang has given him glimpses of the person he is in empty rooms, and Jiang Cheng has stared back as if saying, Open the door, and I’ll let you lock us in.

“Oh, I don’t mind. I miss being inconspicuous.”

If Jiang Cheng asked him in so many words what Nie Huaisang has to say for himself and the things he’s done, how would he answer? I don’t regret any of it is certainly not right—or is it? What does regret mean, anyway? It shouldn’t have happened, or I would do things differently, were I back there again? The former is true, but not the latter.

Though they’ve written of many things, both lurid and mundane, neither has broached the subjects they discussed the last time they spoke face to face: brothers, nephews, guilt, reconciliation, the future, or the question of where Nie Huaisang is going, and why, and who he’ll be when he gets there. Admittedly, Nie Huaisang would very much like to never speak of such things again, but now that the wind has shifted and the mood has changed, he feels their breath on the back of his neck, and so he's not surprised when Jiang Cheng says, “I couldn’t understand how you could be so carefree. I knew you admired your brother.”

“Yes, I probably disgusted you. But I was always angry.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“I didn’t used to be.”

Nie Huaisang can’t ever come here without thinking about the night he died. He saw it, but he doesn’t know if da-ge recognized him. He’s not sure, if it were him in da-ge’s place, which option he’d prefer.

He’s older now than da-ge ever got by a good ten years. Nie Huaisang would’ve shaved off his lifespan and given it to him, if he could; da-ge would’ve put the time to better use. But that’s a thought he's been having for years to no effect.

“I didn’t know your sister very well, but I bet she was happy to see you loosen up a bit, too.”

Quietly, Jiang Cheng replies, “I know I’m not… easy. To be around.”

Jiang Cheng looks so small and fragile in this partly-dressed state. Nie Huaisang feels a flash of indignant sadness that there’s no one who will comfort him; it surely wouldn’t take much. “Oh, stop being stupid. I find it easy. I wouldn’t do it otherwise.”

His face burns—thank heaven for the dark—when Nie Huaisang realizes just how much of an idiot he is. He cups Jiang Cheng’s cheek in his palm, and tries to communicate without words, as keenly as he can, just how little obligation he feels in doing this. The touch warms him all the way through, and it’s so much easier to hold someone when he can tell himself it’s for their sake rather than his own, so he reaches up and hooks his arms around Jiang Cheng’s neck and pulls him close, so Nie Huaisang can muffle his voice against Jiang Cheng’s hair.

“Will you… When you get back from the night hunt, come find me, if you can spare the time. I won’t make you go sneaking around outside again. We can just sit and play weiqi, it’ll be very civilized.” Jiang Cheng’s right hand lands, very tentatively, on the small of his back; after this is met by no resistance, it’s followed by his left, placed on Nie Huaisang’s waist. Nie Huaisang closes his eyes and tries to empty his mind of all thought. For the first time that evening, he manages it. He adds, “You should let yourself have fun, and then you’ll see."