Nie Huaisang can be quite patient, when he has been given a meaningful enough motivator.

If there was ever a reward worthwhile enough to forsake both immediate gratification and confirmation for, it would be Nie Mingjue. He knows his brother well; not as he desires to, but incomparably, to anyone else, even to Nie Mingjue himself. A qingtong jing that bares both ways; just as Nie Huaisang sees past the shallows of Nie Mingjue, so, too, does Nie Mingjue see past the shrouds pulled over him.

Hope sinks into the earth of him, the seed plucked from the absence of an answer from Nie Mingjue, for who he blooms for, and, perhaps foolishly, Nie Huaisang lets it take root. Longing makes the world bright and the yearner blind, he knows, but even without his want soaking through and staining it, he thinks— he would be sure. What else has Nie Mingjue ever treasured so dearly in his life, that he would guard it with a secret quiet as kept even from his own brother?

There is time, now, for Nie Huaisang to watch, and to wait. The days pass, the seasons drift, and he keeps his gaze turned on Nie Mingjue, anticipating anything and everything that will finally make the scales within him tip from assured to absolute. That will set in his outstretched palm the proof he needs to take his final steps off the precipice.

He’s furtive, but not flawless. Nie Mingjue has long been keenly aware of how and when he is being watched, and there are, as the months go on, moments of weakness and willfulness where Nie Huaisang springs the snare of Nie Mingjue’s scrutiny. And yet, for all Nie Mingjue must feel the dagger-point of Nie Huaisang’s suspect stare, the weals the scrape of it must leave up his skin—

It tells him too much, and it says nothing at all, that Nie Mingjue regards him no differently.

There is time, now, he reminds himself. He needn’t rush Nie Mingjue into a corner that he’ll inevitably lash back out from. He needn’t grow complacent with the branches of his own path, and find himself wound too far down a road that puts his back to the wall, either.

Do not act with impulsivity, he thinks, with a sour tang of wryness. Of all the things to retain, from his time at the Cloud Recesses, it is this: a tenet that is so incompatible with Qinghe Nie. Where does impulse end, and instinct begin? They are intertwined, inseparable; there is no balance without both.

The following winter in the Unclean Realm is harsh, but the promise of the spring to come warms Nie Huaisang for more reasons than one.

With spring comes the sun, the stirred scald of it sweeping the snows from the swards and sierras of Qinghe. There’s a chill that yet clings to the air, a set of lethargy to his shoulders, but they are dull things, washed out by the colour slowly sprawling back through the Unclean Realm and the renewal of his vigil.

Nie Mingjue’s throat will begin to itch, soon, as the budding growth in his lungs starts to unspool. If Nie Huaisang chooses to spend his mornings in the training yard, in leisurely repose on the steps, while the senior disciples pace through drills, well, is that not his prerogative, as Nie-er-gongzi? In the peacetime, what responsibilities does he have, but to take pleasure in the hours of his days?

To spend these early hours in bed would be a waste of good weather, after all. He can paint in his rooms later, when the sun is high and Nie Mingjue is back within the halls, navigating his duties in a way that makes it all the harder for Nie Huaisang to spy any signs of burgeoning discomfort.

Nie Zonghui joins him once Nie Mingjue has dismissed them all, skin still flushed with exertion and temples flecked with sweat. He wipes his palm dry on his thigh before he extends it, upturned and passively indulgent, for Nie Huaisang to brace his weight into as he climbs back onto his feet.

“Er-gongzi has become very diligent,” he remarks, voice still rough with the catch of his breath, a smile hemming his lips. There’s no edge to it, no implication. Nie Zonghui has always been observant, deft at the delicate pry of details, but wise to the power of them, too, and where they can or even should be shared. Nie Huaisang is glad for it, that his brother can have someone like that again at his side, who will watch the world for him at a perspective he can’t himself turn to, but can be trusted to take due care with what he finds.

“Have I?” he replies, appropriately bright, and frees his fingers from Nie Zonghui’s wrist to tuck his arm back against the small of his spine. He tips the leaf of his fan surreptitiously outward from his chest as they begin to walk together, so that each gust of cool air from his idle wafting lilts towards Nie Zonghui.

“Very,” says Nie Zonghui. “If only in attendance.” Then, quieter, he adds, with no small amusement, “Perhaps you are ready to progress on to carrying your sabre with you, as well?”

“Small steps, Zonghui,” Nie Huaisang replies, waggling the point of his fan’s monture at him. “These things take time.”

“Next spring, then,” Nie Zonghui says, and Nie Huaisang’s laugh rips out of him so hard that he chokes on it.

And chokes on it, and chokes on it—

His legs buckle, but he hits the grapple of Nie Zonghui’s arms well before he hits the ground. They wind around his waist and draw tight, the dead weight of his frame tipped back against Nie Zonghui’s chest and into the cradle of his lap as he goes to his knees to steady them both.

“I’m okay,” Nie Huaisang wheezes, his breath rattling in his lungs, clotted and wet. His fingers shake open around his fan and it clatters down, somewhere, past the blur-tear of his sight.

Nie Zonghui pins the heel of his palm to his sternum, arches the slump of his frame back upright, and keeps his chest held wide open until he can gulp down enough breath to steady himself. It’s fortunate it’s him, really— Nie Huaisang only has to feel mildly mortified.

He is okay, is the thing. Winter always lances ice through his lungs in a way he still feels the sting of for weeks after, even as it melts away and mutes to a damp ache. It’s been a rougher recovery, this year, the dregs latching in between the rungs of his ribs, the flame in the pit of him stifled to a simmer, but for how careless he’s been, he knows it could be so much worse.

Nie Zonghui helps him up and holds him there, one hand to his hip, the other wrapped around his fan. Nie Huaisang dabs his eyes dry with the corner of his sleeve, blinks the unshed tears back from the brink of them, and sniffs, audible.

“Ugh,” he whinges, thready, once he can work his tongue around a sound that isn’t the desperate claw-drag for air that won’t come. He shakes his hands out, rolls his shoulders, and plucks his fan from the furl of Nie Zonghui’s fingers, the leaf skimming his chest shakily. The breeze is cold on the sweat that has slicked his throat, and he can feel it beginning to soak through the collar of his robes and under his arms, silk sticking to skin.

They pick up where they left off, both step and word, seamless, but Nie Huaisang is not surprised by the knock at his door, some hours after, or the familiar voice of the physician as he announces himself. By the time he has stepped over the thresholds into his innermost room, doors pulled shut behind him and gauze curtains weaved around, as needed, Nie Huaisang has already followed the familiar motions of stripping his robes down to bare his chest, nose crinkling in anticipation of the concoctions he knows he’s going to have to swallow down.

That he should have already been swallowing down before this point, true, but, well. In fairness to him, they are disgusting.

“I’m not going to chastise you, xiao Sang,” the man says, though the chide is deep-set in his tone as he puts a gnarled thumb to his lips. Nie Huaisang opens his mouth obediently, glancing towards the ceiling as it presses down on his bottom teeth, his other fingers tilting his head back so he can better see his tongue. Fingers press to his pulse, next, where it thrums sluggishly beneath the thin, pale skin of his wrist.

He closes his eyes, tired, and lets himself sink into the predictability of it, as his thoughts stretch out, idle. It doesn’t seem as though this flare is so bad, he muses, as he feels the first prick of a needle sinking in, where the underside of his wrist peaks before it slopes around the curve of his arm. Lie que. He gu, closest to the junction where the bone of his thumb meets the forefinger. Then, tian tu, a nip of pressure in the dip of his collarbone, shying from the column of his throat.

The physician has to move around him on the bed, for the rest; gathering his hair up to toss it over his shoulder. Ding chuan, fei shu. The strands are parted at his nape for tian zhu, then further up his scalp, above the rise of the crown of his head, for bai hui. He’s going to have to sit like this, for— he sighs out, and deserves the harsh tsk he gets in response for putting his whole body into it.

There has been a spate of it in the Unclean Realm, he’s told, enough so that the riversides have been picked clean of the herbs the physician needs for zhi sou san. No amount of protest from Nie Huaisang changes the fact that there is nothing else that can be done for it. He must rest, and hope it clears from the coming weeks of having his xuewei treated, or that the fresh growths sprout swiftly from the shoreline to ground down for the necessary powder.

“Shushu,” Nie Huaisang complains, as the physician makes to rise, needles plucked free and stowed back away, “didn’t you say you weren’t going to chastise me?”

The physician presses his hand to his bare chest and gives it a pat, firm, against the soft swell of his sternum. His fingers fan, touch lingering, as Nie Huaisang, unprompted, sucks in a breath. In; out.

His brow furrows, just slight, making the deep wrinkles of his skin stark, severe, in turn. Then, he hums, and takes his hand away. “xiao Sang, if this one was to chastise you, he would say: Er-gongzi has brought this upon himself.”

“Shushu.” Nie Huaisang pouts. It’s not unjustified, but it does feel a little bit unfair.

“Rest,” the physician insists, in lieu of farewell. “I will come again tomorrow.”

Nie Huaisang enjoys idleness unless and until it is an imposition. Incumbent idleness is an infuriating itch that sits just out of reach of his nails, riling the restless fray of his senses.

There are, admittedly, few things that make Nie Huaisang so indignant as being forced to do something he would independently choose to do. He’s all but room bound for the foreseeable weeks, the season, and displeasure seethes beneath his skin.

He can be patient, yes, but he had plans, and he can hardly ask his brother to come while the hours away in his company as a pretence for catching him spitting up petals, can he? Nie Mingjue has a sect to run, and he can’t run it at Nie Huaisang’s bedside.

Or— well. Perhaps he can. Indeed he would, were he asked by Nie Huaisang and no other.

Nie Huaisang can be patient, yes. He does not want to be. And his brother has never truly made him ever do what he has not wanted to, has he?

Nie Huaisang thinks of rivers and lakes; of the first season that tore the air from his lungs and then, almost, the life. Nie Huaisang thinks of the blooms kept pressed together between pages, like confessions; his convictions.

Nie Huaisang thinks of the salted gardenbed bereft dead behind his ribcage. He thinks of waiting. Of wanting. How hollowed out cold they both leave a body.

His reach throughout the Unclean Realm is as wide as Nie Mingjue’s. And so, it is not so difficult, in the end, to see to it — even bedridden — that an illustrative tome or two is left in his brother’s rooms.

The bankside herb needed for zhi sou san blooms beautifully, but must be pulled free whole of the muck, given over as sacrifice for cure. Nie Huaisang would know its bud and blossom now by smell and touch alone, for all the quiet moments he has pressed his nose between parchment and willed himself to know its colour, its perfume.

Nie Huaisang can be quite patient, but no means or manner of motivator has ever made him ascetic. Nie Mingjue has come closest; has bent Nie Huaisang into the shape of trying. But. But— it would be folly to rebuke the Heavens-perfected silver limning of opportunity to have and to take without the durance he’s so sublimated himself to. The sufferance they’ve both tamed crooked to.

Nie Mingjue has always given him everything. He will give Nie Huaisang this, too, however much it will unmake him to be seen, to admit how absolutely he is known. So long as the seeds fall to earth, though, it is no matter what becomes of the root: in its ruin, new life will always grow.

Within the week, the physician has the ground powder needed for Nie Huaisang’s decoctions. He drinks deep from what he’s been given and understands its transcendent proof.

It will be the last flower Nie Mingjue ever blooms. Nie Huaisang does not know this yet, but he will learn it soon.