The Nightless City falls, and Nie Mingjue is Qinghe Nie’s lone survivor.

The venerable bulwark; the insurmountable blade; Sunshot’s berserker of burden.

Nie Mingjue is alive, and it takes until Nie Huaisang’s retinue arrives for anyone to see just how horrifically he has been burdened by it.

His facade is above reproach, from the outside looking in. There is no flaw and no fault and no fragility to be found; not in the way Nie Mingjue strides into the hall, spearheading their sect’s formation alongside Nie Huaisang. Not in the way he spits his suffocated fury at Lanling Jin’s insult that he has little choice but to stand. Not in the way he sits through the proceedings that follow, and endures, loud when it is needed and quiet when it is allowed.

Qinghe Nie is only as strong as its weakest disciple, but that has never meant that only the strong form their ranks.

Instead, it has always meant this: to outsiders, you show a front that is unified; unopposable and unbreakable. You give them your respect when it is required, when it is right or reasonable, and you never give them your reverence. The gates do not fall; the formation does not break.

To your sect: you bare your back. There is power in nurture, strength in compassion. You fight hardest for those who have made themselves vulnerable to you; you die hardest in the service of those you care for.

And so, Nie Huaisang sees it, as all of their people do, that night, in that hall: the cracks in the porcelain, the splintering of the wood. The way with which Nie Mingjue carries himself, as though he is a wounded animal that has just fought itself free from a trap, clutched around his wounds and all too aware of his own blood scenting the air.

Nie Mingjue has survived with blood enough left in him, not slicking the floors of Wen Ruohan’s throne room, to rise above the bodies of the less fortunate. But every body at Nie Mingjue’s feet was a brother, a life forfeit for his in exchange. A tragic price that Nie Huaisang has no doubt all of them were only too glad to pay; a terrible penitence now bought for Nie Mingjue to carry. How could that not bend him back, and back, and bring him so brutally close to the brink of breaking?

Nie Huaisang leaves as soon as propriety allows him to, which is hours sooner than Nie Mingjue. There is little to do, in that time, but wander.

For all Qishan Wen’s self-importance, the monument to their agony and arrogance was only ever meant to house one dynasty, not four. And so, even swept clean of all the bodies — dead pulled from the floors, living corralled — there is little room for them all to breathe, and even less for them to fit. Through soap and scented smoke, Nie Huaisang can still smell the stains beneath, throughout every sprawling hall and staggering room: rancid blood and rent flesh. It clings to Nie Huaisang’s nostrils and unseats what little food he’s swallowed to settle in his stomach, acrid enough to taste, to burn the back of his throat.

Rot and ruin are not unfamiliar smells to him, but the edge they take in the Nightless City is dissimilar.

It is not difficult to find Nie Mingjue, when it is time for him to do so. There are only so many places a living man can be, after a war is newly won, if he is not revelling or ransacking. Nie Huaisang knows Nie Mingjue well enough to seek him out in the in-between, where victory begins to give way to veneration. And while Nie Huaisang may not know what to expect when he knocks on the door to Nie Mingjue’s room, he knows what to do when he is permitted to open it.

Nie Mingjue is already stripped down to his inner robe, the ties half unwound between his fingers, and Nie Huaisang is able to hide the way his breath shakes out of him behind the pretence of turning away to slide the screen door back into place. It is impossible to miss, even with the way Nie Mingjue shrouds himself, between the curve of his shoulders and the sheeting silk, the stained bandages that smother the skin beneath. With his cultivation, even the most grievous of all his wounds should be healed enough now not to tear back open and dye light gauze dark red.

There is something wrong with the injuries, or something wrong with Nie Mingjue. Perhaps, most worryingly, it is both at once, one aberrancy bleeding through to another, muddying the waters. But— the root can be found, later, and dug from the soil. For now, the growth is far more important.

Nie Huaisang steadies himself, turns around, and crosses the floor, hurrying without harrying, hands fisted in his skirts. “Da-ge,” he says, only when he’s drawn close, though he has waited for hours, now, already, with it on the tip of his tongue, “let me see.”

Nie Mingjue does, letting his hands fall to his sides and his inner robe to fall from his shoulders in pursuit, and Nie Huaisang lets the hiss of sympathy slip past his teeth now it is the time and place for it. He can feel the warmth rising from them, even through the bandages, without needing to confirm it with the flat of his hand: something clammy, feverish and sick. An infection, just waiting to set in, as the gauges slide from grave to gauche, from something that could have and should have killed Nie Mingjue to something that still very well might.

Nie Huaisang knows how their argument will go, should he push for Nie Mingjue to be seen to by a doctor, and if it was any other night he would entertain it regardless. It’s an enjoyable predictability, the back and forth of biteless bickering, the retreading of paths they’ve set off down innumerable times before. Tonight— he’s not sure why, and does not think he could put a name to it even if he were to try, but he looks at Nie Mingjue and finds he has no patience for it.

Nie Mingjue mustn’t, either; when he seems to have decided Nie Huaisang has seen enough of him in this way, he turns. Nie Huaisang can do nothing but follow him as he moves to sit on the edge of his bed, pulling his inner robe from where the sleeves have caught in the crooks of his elbows. With this shift, Nie Huaisang can comfortably reach the ornate guan, and all the other silver clasps that clip his braids into the fall of his hair. He sets his fingers to the task of removing them, one by one; to taking them and setting them aside, away, before drifting back. It’s mindless, monotonous; minutes pass, just like that.

When the last is gone, Nie Huaisang lets the fan of his fingers roost in the braids still set on the crown of his brother’s head, gently furling them inward, threading them through the twisted strands. Nie Mingjue leans forward, frame slipping after the shuddering sigh that leaves him, and his forehead sinks against Nie Huaisang’s chest, coming to rest.

He cries, like that, as Nie Huaisang tenderly untangles his hair. Not a ruinous roar, raging and raw, but quiet as kept; near-silent as all their dead they are yet to properly bury. Every blow resounds; each new loss prevails. Nie Huaisang yearns to cry, too, feels his eyes burn and his chest clench with it, but there will be time for him and time for that later. If he does it here, and does it now, Nie Mingjue will pull himself together for the sake of Nie Huaisang’s own unmaking, no matter how sorely he needs these precious moments to remain fallen apart, held open and hollowed out.

Nie Huaisang can do this much, at least, for Nie Mingjue. He may very well be one of the sparing few left in this world that can. It’s a grim thought, in its own right: Nie Mingjue protects him, but how is he meant to preserve Nie Mingjue?

Perhaps he will never have to think on it. The war is done, now; surely that is all that will be asked of them. The nightmare is over, and it is their turn to wake up.

When Nie Huaisang is finished, and all of Nie Mingjue’s hair has been combed from its braids by his fingers to flit down his shoulders and back, curling, Nie Mingjue lifts his face. His expression is shuttered, but only just; not enough to close Nie Huaisang out, and never enough to push him back. Nie Huaisang smiles down at him, soft, and wipes the tears that have not dripped onto his robes away with his sleeve. Nie Mingjue closes his eyes to it, and though his shoulders are stiff, his breathing is steady. It is as close enough to serene as he can become, anymore, and Nie Huaisang slopes his back, swooping low enough to press a kiss to his brother’s brow, as Nie Mingjue has done for him countless times before, because it feels right to.

It comforts him, after all, when he is at his thinnest and most threadbare, so why would it not be the same for Nie Mingjue?

“Let me,” says Nie Huaisang, already reaching for the corner of the gauze wrapped around Nie Mingjue’s chest. He’s not expecting anything but acquiescence, and so he’s ill-prepared for when Nie Mingjue’s hand circles his wrist.

“Huaisang,” he replies, reservedly reproachful, “it’s fine.”

Which, of course, only serves as proof, as far as Nie Huaisang is concerned, that it is not.

Nie Huaisang has gladly conceded to the argument, before it has been given water to bloom, that Nie Mingjue needn’t see a doctor. He will not bow to the assertion that Nie Mingjue needn’t be seen to at all. He twists his wrist within Nie Mingjue’s fingers, but not to slip free of it; only to test its give, to find where it restrains and when it refrains.

Once he is more certain of his limits and his leeways, Nie Huaisang takes the hand held in Nie Mingjue’s grasp and sets it on his brother’s shoulder. “Da-ge,” he says, firmer, pointed, “let me.”

It’s still a gamble, this gambit. If Nie Huaisang is honest with himself, he is still unsure, entirely, just what he has been given, and just how he is to use it. But he knows how to tell when it has worked: when Nie Mingjue has accepted what it is that Nie Huaisang is offering, when Nie Huaisang insists and he capitulates instead of countering. There is always the deniability when it starts that it is only a question; always the surety that it can be stepped back from instead of undertaken.

Nie Mingjue lowers his chin, just so, his brow furrowing in the slight and small way Nie Huaisang is still learning how to read. He releases him, returning his hand to his lap, where Nie Huaisang can see it furl over the loose cup of his palm on his thigh. His fingers tense when Nie Huaisang squeezes down, in a way he knows is gentle but can only hope is gentling.

Nie Huaisang reaches for his chest again, and is not stopped. Not when the gauze unravels; not when dried blood tugs at linen and skin and threads a harsh grunt out from between Nie Mingjue’s teeth. Nie Huaisang does his best, but it is impossible not to hurt Nie Mingjue in some way, when he is already so wounded, both skin-shallow and deeper in.

It is the trying that is what matters, here. For as long as Nie Huaisang can remember, Nie Mingjue has led; it has been his place, even before it was his position. And while Nie Huaisang may not always do what he is told, or go where he is guided, he appreciates the comfort in it. The relief of not having to think, the trust in not having to choose, if he cannot or does not want to, because Nie Mingjue will do it for him. There is a release in the knowledge that there is someone there for you, somewhere, with an outstretched hand, waiting for you to take; waiting to catch you when you fall.

Nie Mingjue has sheltered him for a lifetime, and has lit his way; if he thinks this is more than fair in exchange, to put himself in Nie Huaisang’s hands for once, and to have Nie Huaisang take this place and this burden for him when he needs it, well. He’s a more generous man than most.

Nie Huaisang is right about the infection. It’s no comfort: Nie Mingjue is so strong a cultivator that such a thing should pose no concern to him. And yet, the skin around every tear not yet closed over is swollen, flushed a sickly pink. There is a gash that bites deep into Nie Mingjue’s waist that begins to leak watery blood and pus when Nie Huaisang has to put his shoulder into pulling the bandages away, the gauze scabbed over. It sits in such a way that every movement Nie Mingjue makes must irritate it, must rend it open anew.

His shen zhu has almost certainly been compromised, but if Nie Mingjue would only sit still with it, the worst of it might just heal, and take with it the jagged edge of worry that sinks between the rungs of Nie Huaisang’s ribs. But Nie Mingjue’s unease and his unwellness, Nie Huaisang can see, now, does not belong solely to his battered body. It is not something that can be cleansed with tears, or pried free by consolation. Every time Nie Huaisang goes toward him, to touch him, he sees it; how Nie Mingjue tenses and trembles in turns. How unsettled he is within himself. How unsure he is of Nie Huaisang.

Nie Huaisang tries to narrow his focus, to quell the quiver in his hands as he gently dabs away the fresh blood that has dripped down his brother’s hip and abdomen, turning the gauze over in his hands to find the cleanest stretches of it. He does not ask the dangerous questions that have come to sit, heavy, on his tongue, knowing he will struggle to bear any answer Nie Mingjue may be able to give.

“Da-ge,” he calls out, soft. When Nie Mingjue meets his eyes, Nie Huaisang moves, everything charted and catalogued, from the sweet curve of his smile to the slow sweep of his hands as he holds them out between them. He lets them sit, upturned, the curl of his fingers loose and lax, leading. Nie Mingjue unclasps his hands from his lap and lifts them, his calloused fingers tracing down the dip into the basin of Nie Huaisang’s cupped palms.

Nie Huaisang breathes out, closes his eyes, and reaches inward to push outward, letting his spiritual energy slip through the streams of his meridians to splash over the cusp of him and into Nie Mingjue. It’s not much; it’s never much, for Nie Huaisang lacks much to give, but it is something. And so it will do, and so it is enough.

Nie Mingjue’s qi is honest in ways the rest of him can’t be, and speaks the truths he rarely dares to try and tell. Nie Huaisang can feel the agitation within the flare of it, the anxiety, how it all runs him through, adrift and astray. Nie Huaisang knows the map of Nie Mingjue’s meridians nearly as well as his own, perhaps even better, for how little he cares about his core beyond its service, and for how much he cares for Nie Mingjue’s instead. It’s not enough to merely send energy through a conduit, to pour water into the ocean when it is churning within the grip of a storm. Nie Mingjue has all the spiritual energy he needs, even like this, beaten down and bruised up; he only needs to be shown where it can be found, when it has been unseated from its rightful place.

Nie Huaisang feels the build of his exhaustion, the break of his reserves, how each draining ebb begins to take his breath, makes his limbs feel too light and his eyes blur with each blink. He knows the moment he reaches his upper limit, and he overextends, anyway, to spite it. He stops in the same moment that Nie Mingjue stops him, when he stumbles into Nie Mingjue's lap, as Nie Mingjue snags him behind his thigh, steadying his weight across the broad sprawl of his palm.

“Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue warns, voice hoarse and heavy with something unsung, and Nie Huaisang sinks into the support of him, shivering, in answer.

He’s not sure what he’s doing, but he’s sure that he wants— wants the thread of tension that has tied itself around both of their throats to snap or slacken, maybe, one or the other as long as it’s something. Impulse staggers into instinct, and Nie Huaisang follows after it, catching himself just as Nie Mingjue catches him, bounding over the barricade in the breath Nie Huaisang manages to bring himself to heel at it to press their mouths together.

The pressure is gone in an instant, ripped free before Nie Huaisang can truly appreciate it, like a dream that begins an hour before waking, an idle fancy that passes once and never returns again, satisfied in the seduction and the leaving behind of an endless wanting. Nie Mingjue recoils back, and Nie Huaisang reaches forward, matching his brother for violence, his hands grasping Nie Mingjue’s face a little too forcefully and far too frightenedly.

“Da-ge,” he says, because it’s the same as stop, the same as wait. Nie Mingjue obeys, though it seems to sunder him in the process: he stops, but does not still, his shudders strained, his expression subdued.

There are no halves, not with Nie Mingjue. No almosts, no hesitations, no uncertainties. He may regret the paths he traverses, after, but he is only a man, and the regret is only ever for the outcomes, not for the acts themselves. And so, Nie Huaisang knows, with great certainty, that Nie Mingjue has meant it. That he has meant to kiss Nie Huaisang, that he has meant every illicit intimacy such a thing could ever impress.

Nie Huaisang considers this, it and them and all in-between, for a moment he knows is eternally longer for Nie Mingjue than it is for him. He decides it is unimportant well before he can draw any conclusions, and discards it, instead, for the immediacy of burying his fingers in his brother’s hair, of shyly thumbing his cheekbones. He may have never foreseen this, when he first put a hand to Nie Mingjue’s shoulder countless nights ago and began this unnameable thing between them, but now that it has come, how could it be anything else but foreordained?

They have always had the best intentions for one another in mind and at heart. No matter the turns their bond takes, this remains their constant. Why waste time and thought on tonight further, when this is already known between them?

“Let me,” Nie Huaisang whispers. He leans in, and Nie Mingjue lets him; unprotesting of every inch of Nie Huaisang’s advance, yielding to the touch of Nie Huaisang’s lips.

He isn’t inexperienced: a young master is practically encouraged to play around, after all. It is one of the few expectations of him that Nie Huaisang has ever ended up at least meeting, if not even exceeding. But there is discreet, in the likes of a fumbling discretion, and then there is this. The utterly discrete and unrivalled press of Nie Mingjue’s mouth to his, the relentless hunger in the slide of his tongue as it pries past his teeth, the baneful brand of his hand on Nie Huaisang’s thigh as it brings him down that last damning distance to rest in Nie Mingjue’s lap. His body is afire at every place where they’re joined and yet joining still together; his blood is coming to boil beneath the surface of his skin; his pulse is pounding in his throat and his wrists so painfully he feels like the next beat will break through bone. Nie Mingjue’s grip tightens down on his thigh, one of his fingers curving into the crease where it meets the swell of his ass beneath the skirts of his robes, splayed over their knees.

Nie Huaisang turns his face away and takes in a shuddering breath, which shakes back out of his mouth before it can settle in his lungs when Nie Mingjue mouths at his cheek, his own inhale shallow, stuttering. Nie Huaisang’s fingers comb through his hair, tangling in the strands, the heels of his palms tucking up against the rises of his shoulders, and Nie Mingjue’s other hand slips beneath the curtain of his hair to collar his nape. Nie Huaisang wants— he wants, and so many things at once, the opportunities so endless and enticing that he’s lost for what to have and where to start.

There’s no rush, he realises, when he’s regained enough of his sense to reorient; regrounded by Nie Mingjue’s steady hands and steadier kisses, close-mouthed and certain, caressing his jaw. It’s an intoxicating thought, and it’s enough for him to remember just why he is here, who this is for. Anything Nie Mingjue wants will be everything Nie Huaisang needs, right now, if not always, and that’s— it makes his breath catch, harsh enough for Nie Mingjue’s thumbs to circle against him, his flank and his throat, in soft, soothing strokes.

“Da-ge.” He shivers at the sound of his own voice, winding his fingers further into Nie Mingjue’s hair to stifle the pang of shame and heat that wells up from somewhere sunk too deep within him to reach back into. “Show me,” he says, after he’s swallowed, hard, to try and wet his dry throat, to smooth down where his words scrape up, “how to take care of you.”

It doesn’t quite fit in his mouth, doesn’t quite carry the authority he thinks it may need, here, but when Nie Mingjue tips his face back and coaxes Nie Huaisang to meet his eyes, the furrow in his brow is back, the one Nie Huaisang can place but can’t define.

“Huaisang.” It trails off, and then suspends; something that is neither yes or no, merely there, simply waiting.

“I want you to,” Nie Huaisang tells him, because how could he not, with Nie Mingjue’s hands on him and Nie Mingjue’s cock nudging against the inside of his thigh, perilously close to the hinge of his hip? He wants to show Nie Mingjue how good he can be for him in this, too, as he has been every time Nie Mingjue has taken the leap of entrusting a part of a desire or a duty to Nie Huaisang’s keeping. “Please?”

It’s unfair to beg, most of all for something Nie Mingjue longs so terribly to give him. Nie Huaisang wields it against him anyway, the wicked little weapon that presses in and down on the part where Nie Mingjue’s need to protect Nie Huaisang begins to blur into his want to please him. It draws blood, as it always does; Nie Mingjue’s breath reaves out of him, ragged, and Nie Huaisang lets his fingers flit across the hills of Nie Mingjue’s shoulders as he is urged back into another kiss, the edge of it savage and starved. He moans against Nie Mingjue’s tongue, sharp, as he’s lifted; whines out, pitiful, when he’s set down on his feet and Nie Mingjue stands over him. Close, still, but too far for anything he wants that crosses his mind.

“Careful,” Nie Huaisang mumbles, giving himself something to say so he won’t beg, won’t send them back off-course with some errant come back or kiss me. He lets his hands drift down until they have set themselves on Nie Mingjue’s hips, something more within reach, something his arms don’t need to tremble for just to touch. He doesn’t need to caution Nie Mingjue, not in the ways he’s torn open, inside and out, but maybe he needs to caution himself, to be mindful of it, to keep his own greed in check.

Nie Mingjue’s answering laugh is raw, soft and breathy and stunned in a way that slaps heat between his shoulder blades, and he takes Nie Huaisang’s hands from his hips and holds them between his own. He turns them, his gaze drifting between Nie Huaisang’s throat and the tangle of their fingers, an aimlessness edged with intent, then he bows his head, drawing Nie Huaisang’s wrist up to meet his mouth as he presses a kiss to the delicate bone, the tender skin, lips curling when Nie Huaisang’s pulse slams beneath the scrape of his teeth. It’s nothing like what Nie Huaisang is used to, a blind venture in search of a reaction, a reward. Nie Mingjue seems as certain of it, this insensate and insignificant gesture, as he seems aware of how Nie Huaisang will respond to it, how he’ll tremble in his grip and pant out, awed.

“Da-ge,” he rasps, before he can stop it and stop himself. It almost can’t even be called his fault; Nie Mingjue is moving with a glacial graduality that can only be born of hesitation, and Nie Huaisang is out of patience.

“I know,” Nie Mingjue answers, and it hangs in a way between them that nothing else spoken aloud or otherwise has, at least yet. He kisses the divot where his bones join, between his wrist and thumb, in parting and permittance both, and Nie Huaisang feels himself twitch beneath the press of pressure, the precarious breath in his lungs slipping back out between his teeth.

Then, Nie Mingjue is moving, and for all Nie Huaisang asked for it, he’s ill-prepared for just how sudden it comes; how Nie Mingjue changes between the seconds from slow to fast, unhurried to urgent. He’s stripped himself of his pants and gone to his knees at Nie Huaisang’s feet before he can even breathe, before he can do anything but rest his shaking hand on Nie Mingjue’s cheek, needing to steady himself from the way his whole body shudders out of the bounds of his frame at the sight of Nie Mingjue, below and beneath.

“Oh,” Nie Huaisang gasps. Nie Mingjue looks away, but only for the moment it takes for Nie Huaisang to stroke his cheek, to lead him back with shaking fingers. It’s still salvageable; a road not yet travelled, a line not yet crossed. They can still come back from it.

Nie Huaisang looks at him, all of him, from the white-knuckled fist of his hands against his knees to his cock, flushed red and swollen thick between his thighs, as heavy and huge as all of the rest of Nie Mingjue. Nie Huaisang looks, and keeps looking, even as he bows his back, bends to press another kiss to his brother’s brow, a mutual assurance, a promise shared. He pares him down underneath his own trembling hand on his face until he is only Nie Mingjue, his brother, the man who is here, now, with Nie Huaisang. Until he is only safe. For no matter what Nie Mingjue wants, no matter what he needs, Nie Huaisang will be here to meet him wherever he deigns is halfway. He will not be chased; he will not flee.

However could he run from Nie Mingjue, after all, when it is always and only ever will be Nie Mingjue that he runs to?

Give in; Nie Mingjue leans into his hand. Let go; Nie Mingjue leans into the rest of him. Let me; Nie Mingjue rests his forehead against Nie Huaisang’s hip, his cheek pressing into his thigh, his breath grazing his cock, hot even through the layers of his skirts, and the sound that Nie Huaisang makes is inhuman, broken-off and bitten ragged-raw.

“Yes,” Nie Huaisang chokes, “yes, yes, please—” and then he’s scrabbling for his skirts, trying to yank the pleated fabric up over his knees and his waist with one hand, the other cradling Nie Mingjue’s face, reluctant to part with him for even a moment, as if he might disappear if not held down by either Nie Huaisang’s touch or his gaze. He feeds the hems between his teeth and bites down, muting his own strangled grunt as he struggles to get his pants down to his knees, the head of his cock nudging up the seam of his hip with every squirm.

Nie Mingjue watches him, eyes dark, and his observation is so heavy that Nie Huaisang thinks he may buckle to the floor underneath it. He doesn’t move, not until Nie Huaisang feels scraped open and flayed out by the knife of his attention, until he’s whining into the gag of his robe. “Please,” he finally manages, and only then does Nie Mingjue act; one hand rising from his lap to hook behind his knee, the other palming his hip.

Permission, Nie Huaisang realises with a fraying whimper, before every thought flies out of his head, struck free by the lave of Nie Mingjue’s breath against his skin, the brush of his nose and lips along his shaft. His blood roars in his ears and his pulse thunders in his throat, drowned out only by the slick sound of Nie Mingjue’s mouth as he closes his lips over his tip, tongue lapping over his slit. Nie Huaisang finds a shard of his own sense, submerged within the sounds and sensations, and it’s enough for him to muster a gladness that he’s muffled his own voice. So loud. He’s been told as much more than once, in ways that leapt between casual to complaining, he’s just never realised before how deeply it had cut through, that it had even struck something vulnerable at all, let alone sunk treacherously low to the floor of him. Not until now, when he actually wants to please more than be pleased, when there is something to lose if he’s found lacking.

It is not as if Nie Huaisang can do anything about it, anyway. Not about the desperate little sounds that stream out through the grit of his teeth, high and frantic and unending, and not about the rest of him, either. Nie Mingjue knows Nie Huaisang well enough to predict what he is like in the ways he is unaware. Nie Mingjue would never look down on him or think anything of him in a way that would break skin. Neither truth is incompatible with the other. And still, and yet, he can’t help but feel it tear at him, tumult threading itself down the ladder of his spine and drawing it taut as his hips stagger forward, shoving his cock impossibly further into the tight, wet heat of Nie Mingjue’s mouth, the slick glide slapping a shrill keen loose from his chest. He flinches as he feels the tip of his cock snub against the back of his throat, but Nie Mingjue doesn’t even choke; makes some guttural sound instead that rumbles around his shaft, rakes down the backs of his thighs.

Nie Huaisang chokes instead, on his own spit and his robes and his tongue, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and he sags in the brace of Nie Mingjue’s hold, eyes sliding shut. He’s shaking, he can’t stop shaking, fingernails scratching at Nie Mingjue’s cheeks, his jaw, his neck, any scrap of sweat-damp skin Nie Huaisang can reach while he unravels. He feels too hot, too light, too close, and his shame scalds him, all over, soaking through. He feels a tug at the robes in his mouth and his jaw falls slack on instinct, eyes snapping open to see the wind of Nie Mingjue’s fingers in it as he gathers it to pin against Nie Huaisang’s waist, the gesture dragging a bare groan out of his freed mouth alongside it.

“Please,” he pants, “Da-ge, please,” pleading for— for— he’s going to come, he’s going to come so soon, and he doesn’t know what to do. He pushes at Nie Mingjue’s face, thumbs skating his cheekbones, fingertips curling around the jut of his jaw, and a wretched whimper is wrung out of him when he feels Nie Mingjue’s cheeks hollow beneath his palms. Nie Mingjue takes the warning only to press forward with it rather than pull back, sucking him down until his nose is pressed flush into his groin, lips wrapping around the root of his cock. Nie Huaisang snaps his hips, one hand slipping back from Nie Mingjue’s face to fist in his hair, his clutch desperate and unbecoming as he sobs through his shattering orgasm. He feels Nie Mingjue’s throat clench around him as he swallows, kneading his cock, and it’s enough to wring a wrecked whine out of him as another pulse of come leaks from his slit.

Nie Mingjue keeps him still, in place, held up by his hand on his waist and behind his thigh, his tongue curling against his shaft, his mouth gently working his cock until the pleasure topples from the precipice into pain and his whines grow jagged with discomfort. The sound of Nie Mingjue’s mouth as it slides off his softening cock is filthy, and the sight of him, his mouth wet and red, blush mottling his throat, is the most obscene thing Nie Huaisang has ever seen, on paper and in person. He sways, and Nie Mingjue surges, rising up on his knees, steadying Nie Huaisang at the hips, his crumpled and creased skirts disentangling from the wind of Nie Mingjue’s fingers to drape back between his thighs.

Nie Huaisang clutches his face, his hair, moaning weakly when Nie Mingjue presses a kiss to his quivering belly, mouth shaping around a croon, something syllabic and soft and soothing. He takes a breath, and then another, and another still, allowed the avarice by Nie Mingjue, even though Nie Huaisang can feel the hot, heady press of his cock against his leg, can see it between the knot of their bodies, precome dripping steadily from the slit, smearing his shaft and streaking his hip.

He moves idly, boot scuffing along the floor, the motion rocking his knee against his brother’s bare cock, and Nie Mingjue hisses, sharp, the sound clotted with need. He grapples Nie Huaisang’s hips hard enough to stripe his skin with bruises, and that’s— his mind blanks, washed out by the overwhelming power, almost, that floods his senses. Nie Huaisang doesn’t need to think about it, not when his hand is already combing through Nie Mingjue’s hair, gathering a fistful of it in a grip he tugs like a leash. Not hard enough to hurt him, just hard enough to impress that it’s a command, one that that Nie Mingjue immediately obeys, his chin tipping up as he meets Nie Huaisang’s gaze.

Nie Huaisang gasps, lost in the actuality of it for a damning breath, and he’s half undone when he tests it again. He wraps his fingers tight and tugs, harder for the insistence if not the strength, and Nie Mingjue’s eyes fly wide as his hips rut up, instinctive, maybe, to relieve the ache along the crown of his head, his cock juddering up Nie Huaisang’s thigh eagerly.

“Like that,” Nie Huaisang blurts out, “come like that,” and for a terrible moment he thinks it must be too much, for how Nie Mingjue tenses against him, his whole body going terrifyingly taut. The moment passes, breaks in two. Nie Mingjue rises higher, until he’s shaking with it, the strain of pooling his weight into the slopes of his knees as his thighs splay wide, bracketing Nie Huaisang’s boot. Nie Huaisang doesn’t breathe, can’t breathe, not until Nie Mingjue’s broad palm is braced against the small of his back, the other clamped around his thigh, until his lungs are screaming and aflame and he feels the very first deliberate, desperate thrust of Nie Mingjue’s hips.

“Yes,” Nie Huaisang croaks, crying out when Nie Mingjue takes the demand of it and severs the last of his restraint, his teeth nipping at the fan of Nie Huaisang’s ribs through his robes as he fucks up against his thigh, each slam of his hips unfettered and feral and utterly fracturing. Nie Huaisang can do nothing but gasp, brokenly, and hold on, all too aware that it is by Nie Mingjue’s strength alone that he can even still stand, that he can even survive between the brutal bludgeon of his cock and the bracing brand of his hands. Nie Mingjue is so big and so broad and his cock so blunt against him that Nie Huaisang thinks it might break through him, and it’s not even inside him, and that’s— once that thought is in his head he’s helpless to do anything but imagine it, being speared open and spread out, stuffed full, his brother’s hips slotting against his ass as he sinks in to the root.

Nie Huaisang’s knees buckle, and Nie Mingjue barely even reacts, just holds the dead weight of him aloft like he’s less than nothing, his thrusts unfaltering and unabating. He can feel precome on his bare skin, through layers of silk and cotton, can feel how Nie Mingjue’s cock swells impossibly thicker and throbs, each jab of it punching ugly, hiccuping sobs out of his shredded throat, stoking a dizzying heat back to burn in the pit of his gut.

“Please,” Nie Huaisang begs, babbling, “ah, you’re almost...” It flits off his tongue, is flung from his head, and he flails, fraught, mouth ajar and mind blank. Nie Mingjue groans against his sternum, teeth scraping along the silk, and Nie Huaisang feels the heat of his breath spark up his chest to unlatch his voice from the back of his throat.

“Come,” he manages, “please, come for me, please, now, now—” again and again, pleading and praying until his voice stalls out, until he can only mouth it, soundless save for the shake of his breath and the scrape of his splintered sobs. Nie Mingjue growls against him, wild, and does, the claw of his hands arching the lithe line of Nie Huaisang’s frame into the grind of his throbbing cock, as the inexorable shove of his hips finally stutter-stalls, slows to a stop. Nie Huaisang heaves, and then slumps, shuddering, the give in Nie Mingjue’s grip allowing him to stoop against his brother’s chest, his mouth pressed to his throat, arms strung limply around his shoulders. He can feel come soaking his hip, his thigh, and he grimaces as his own cock twitches in spite of him and how he’s long been spent.

The room spins as he’s lifted, but his reflexive fear is quickly subdued by the security of Nie Mingjue’s hold. He blinks, sighs out, then startles faintly as his back is pressed to the mattress, sheets rucking up beneath him as Nie Mingjue eases him into place. Something sparks in him; a stubbornness, maybe, or a shame, as Nie Mingjue’s fingers wrap around his ankles, pulling his boots free, one after the other, but Nie Huaisang swallows it. Sucks in a breath, instead, and another, letting his eyes slide shut until he feels the mattress sink beneath his hips and Nie Mingjue’s fingers in his hair, coaxing his guan free and loosening his braids.

“Huaisang.” A whisper, raw, and a hand on his face. Nie Huaisang nuzzles into it as he opens his eyes, blinks away the blur and the faint echoing sting of shed tears until he can see Nie Mingjue properly, from the mussed mane of his hair to the snake of his other arm around his side.

Nie Huaisang surges up, shakily, onto his elbows, when he sees Nie Mingjue’s hand, clasped against his waist, as if to catch the blood that’s trickling sluggishly from the aggravated wound, to stop it from dripping onto Nie Huaisang’s robes. He wants to laugh, and so he does, a breathless snap of surprised sound as he lunges out, tangling his fingers with Nie Mingjue’s before he can be stopped, feeding into the join of their hands the last of the energy he doesn’t have to spare.

“Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue hisses, his concern overthrowing his intended chastisement as he catches Nie Huaisang by the nape, lowers him back to the bed.

“You can have another tailored for me,” Nie Huaisang rasps out, wincing, as if that’s what it is about, robes already stained with sweat and spit and come, and not everything else, tonight and all the nights before, strung together, smoothed down, swept over.

“Didi,” Nie Mingjue says, gentler, “up.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes slide shut again, but he tries to make it as easy for Nie Mingjue as he can, following the prompt of his hands as Nie Mingjue undresses him, with too due a care and too great a reverence. If he wasn’t so exhausted, Nie Huaisang would— he’s not sure. As he is and as it all stands, for now, he doesn’t have to do anything with it at all. Small favours; smaller mercies.

“Da-ge.” Nie Huaisang reaches out, blind, and Nie Mingjue slides beneath his hand, leads it to rest against his neck. “I missed you,” he says, stupidly, then, “we all missed you.”

Nie Mingjue doesn’t answer him. Not at first, and then not with words, his hair trailing against Nie Huaisang’s cheek as he bows low to press a kiss to his brow, another to his temples, one last to his lips. Slow, soft, subtle; as if he thinks he may not yet be allowed it.

“Don’t go,” Nie Huaisang says, stupider still, voice cracking. He feels his breath snag in his chest, touches the back of his wrist to his lips, fingers stroking over Nie Mingjue’s face, just in time to catch his own sob as it shudders out of him.

Finally, at last, he cries, though he feels so very foolish for it. They’re not only the tears he’s saved over the last hours, but every one he’s spared himself from for months, since the Qishan Wens first breached the Unclean Realm, since Nie Mingjue first left to hold the line across Hejian. So many; too many, even for him, but not enough, perhaps, for all that has happened and all that is now gone.

“Oh, Didi,” Nie Mingjue murmurs, and Nie Huaisang wails as his hand is pulled from his face, as he’s gathered up into Nie Mingjue’s arms and settled into his lap.

He was supposed to make this better, and he’s only served to make it worse— he must speak it aloud, must admit it against the crook of Nie Mingjue’s neck, because Nie Mingjue hushes him, stroking a hand down his shivering back, tenderly kissing his hair.

“You did so well,” Nie Mingjue soothes, as sure as the rise of the sun from the east. “I have you, now. Da-ge’s here.”

The lines have long since been blurred, where one thing bleeds from one brother and through to another, and so it comes full circle. Nie Mingjue, whole enough again to endure, holds Nie Huaisang to him, and takes on the burden of his bereftness and bereavement; cradles, within the cup of his hands, cracked porcelain and splintering wood.