to keep you in that house on the hill
by bloodletter

to keep you in that house on the hill

bloodletter

Summary

The possibility that keeps him up at night is that Meng Yao came into his service an honest man, and over time changed into what he sees before him now. That, as his ambitions rose and his world grew grander, he reshaped himself and discovered the things he was capable of, all the while looking like his familiar self, but transforming under his skin into something Nie Mingjue could hardly recognize.

Notes

This fic should be pretty spoiler-free past ep. 23.

Imported from Archive of Our Own. Original work id: 24774814.

Chapter One

The air at Nightless City is like the aftermath of a storm; the thunder and lightning have passed, but the sky remains dark and electric and more oppressive for its idleness.

The Sunshot Campaign may be over, but they are still far enough from peace for sleep to come to Nie Mingjue only scarcely. Each morning he wakes from shallow dreams to face another day of interminable conferences for the sake of steering the cultivation world into its future. He’s more exhausted by parrying social niceties at the negotiation table than spending an entire day at arms, but by nightfall his body is still tense from being readied for a fight that never comes.

Even before they took the city, he hadn’t slept well in some time. The only way to get rest in a tent pitched near a battlefield is to tire your body into oblivion. On the innumerable days spent going over scouting reports and waiting for the enemy to make their move, the sun can set while you’re worn to the bone yet wide awake.

There are other reasons, of course. It’s taken some time to stop missing the feeling of another body in his bed, even one that fled from his chambers with the dawn. Now that the war has ended, Nie Mingjue spends long hours turning over on the opulent sheets in one of Nightless City's many residences and wondering what crimes its former occupant committed before leaving these rooms empty. He’s asked around, but no one he’s spoken with has been able to tell him whose it was.

After a few days of this, he takes to swinging Baxia against practice dummies after dark in one of the many Wen training yards until his muscles scream. He goes by himself; it’s his problem, and he wouldn’t trouble any of his men to lose their own sleep over it. There’s little enough to fear from any potential ambushes here—Nie Mingjue’s not so foolish as to believe this is true, but it’s what he tells Zonghui when he asks him if he wants company. He returns to his temporary residence sometime around midnight, and it’s not until he’s slid the door closed behind him that he realizes he’s no longer alone.

Once, when he was fourteen, Nie Mingjue snuck out of the Unclean Realms to walk through the nearby forest at dusk. On a secluded part of the path far out of earshot of the fortress, he came face to face with a boar the size of a pony, with fuck-off tusks and enough muscle to break through a wall. The night rolled in thick as boy and beast sized each other up. His choice was fight or flee, and the heir to the Nie sect did not flee.

He still bears a scar from its tusk on his hip, but he hauled the thing home.

Now, Jin Guangyao gracefully materializes out of the darkness into the antechamber of Nie Mingjue’s temporary rooms, and Nie Mingjue feels rooted to the floor. He is still wearing the formal robes he'd been provided by the Jin clan, even at this hour. They’re thick and stiff, restrictive of movement: garments designed for an officiant who never has to worry about seeing battle. At Qinghe, he’d had some sense of practicality. Quiet, steady, practical Meng Yao has now been subsumed into the golden creature standing twenty paces from him in the dim candlelight.

“Clan Leader Nie—” Jin Guangyao bends from the waist into a deep bow. Nie Mingjue is halfway across the room before he has time to rise. When he sees Nie Mingjue with his fists clenched, Jin Guangyao's gaze flutters back to the floor. “My apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour.”

“Who is it?”

“I'm sorry?”

A muscle in Nie Mingjue’s jaw twitches. "If you've come here this late, I should hope someone's dying."

Jin Guangyao keeps his eyes on the ground as he takes small steps towards him. “No one I know of, Clan Leader Nie. Though the sick bays are still full of the wounded.”

“That's what war is.”

At last, Jin Guangyao lifts his eyes and offers the smallest of humble smiles. “Yes. As I'm learning.”

“What do you want?”

The gently curved line of Jin Guangyao's mouth quavers but doesn’t fall. “I've come to make an apology.”

Baxia is heavy on Nie Mingjue’s back. He can feel it humming. “You've brought me a new story of your hardships? Is this one more persuasive than the others?”

Though his eyes close in a heavy, pained wince, Jin Guangyao’s feet press on undeterred. He's almost at the border, now, between the antechambers and the inner room where he was lurking before Nie Mingjue arrived. “I had a lot of time to spend with my thoughts these past months. Wen disciples aren't very good conversationalists.”

“Get to the point.”

Jin Guangyao bows his head, accepting his overstep. There’s little satisfaction in rebuking a man who takes it so readily. When he raises his gaze once more, his face has changed; the lids of his eyes have lowered, and he places his foot inside the threshold of the antechamber. He walks without hesitation, as though he's not an intruder, as though there’s no real danger that Nie Mingjue will throw him by the collar out the door. He left his hat behind, so Nie Mingjue can see how he still wears his hair twisted into tight braids. That is surely intentional, though he can't guess as to what it’s supposed to accomplish.

“Would this be easier for you if he were here, now?” Jin Guangyao waves around the room. “He would come, if we invited him.”

“Who?” Nie Mingjue asks, just to make him say it.

Jin Guangyao takes his time in answering. First, he takes a seat at the nearby table meant for receiving guests. He doesn’t gesture for Nie Mingjue to take the chair opposite to him, but he beseeches him with his eyes. Nie Mingjue is unmoved.

After long seconds have passed, Jin Guangyao replies, “Zewu-jun.” He stares at his small hands, clasped in his lap, and the corners of his mouth curve up slightly. “We both owe him a great deal.”

“And what of it?”

Jin Guangyao looks up so quickly Nie Mingjue almost flinches. “He wants us together. Can’t you see that?”

He doesn’t need to see it; Zewu-jun has already made his feelings very plain. Lan Xichen came to him earlier that day, seeking him out in a dark hallway where they wouldn’t be overheard, to intervene on Jin Guangyao’s behalf. Lan Xichen, with his calm, dark eyes and his boyish manner that persists, sometimes, around friends, though the world thinks him so serious. If it were anyone else—but he would trust Lan Xichen with his life, and has, and—

Nie Mingjue has stepped closer without thinking anything of it; he looks down on Jin Guangyao from above and wonders what would come of it, were he to tell Jin Guangshan his newly-minted son had crawled here uninvited. No possible result that comes to mind is good. “Zewu-jun can speak for himself. You are too bold.”

Jin Guangyao shuts his eyes, his face a picture of stillness, before he shifts, lifts his heavy layers of skirts, and folds himself into a delicate kneeling posture on the floor an arm's reach away from Nie Mingjue. A hot rush envelops him. Every time Jin Guangyao kneels in supplication Nie Mingjue thinks he’s become inured to it, and every time Jin Guangyao proves him wrong. “Perhaps that is so.” A shadow of a mournful smile flits across his upturned face. “And yet... it would make him happy. And I think, over time, it would ease your own heart.”

Before Nie Mingjue has time to speak, a hand is clasping his wrist, holding him in place. Cold fire rips through his chest, and before his mind has fully caught up with his body, Nie Mingjue’s other arm has already shot out to seize Jin Guangyao’s face. He doesn't hurt him, not truly, but he doesn't want him to be able to look away. The grasp of Nie Mingjue's fingers and palm dwarfs Jin Guangyao’s small head. Jin Guangyao blinks, twice, too slowly to be truly startled, and his mouth parts silently.

“Tell me.” Nie Mingjue digs his fingers into the flesh of Jin Guangyao’s cheeks, not hard enough to bruise but enough that his fingertips create dimples of their own in the softness of Jin Guangyao’s skin. “Did you lie about everything?”

Jin Guangyao’s nostrils flare. “When have I lied to you when it was not to survive?”

Nie Mingjue can feel his back teeth grinding together. The fire he’d felt moments ago has shifted into a throbbing pain he feels running in slow currents all throughout his body, through injuries old and new, circling around the hollow place he’s felt inside his chest for a year, or something close to it. “All those times you told me—”

Meng Yao, spread out across his bed, patches of red flushed across his skin. Sated and laughing, running his fingers through the hair on Nie Mingjue’s chest: I don’t mind what the others say about me. It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t be anywhere else—

“—And then you...”

A slight glistening, like the thought of tears that haven’t yet formed, shines in Jin Guangyao’s eyes. “The Wen Clan has fallen, Clan Leader Nie. You defeated them. We can go back, don’t you see, to how it was before. Don’t you want to?”

He feels scraped raw. “You will never be what you were to me again.”

“What about something new? Could you let me be that?”

Nie Mingjue opens his mouth to respond, but no words come to him, only a low, wordless, animal sound that claws its way out of his throat. When he releases his grip on Jin Guangyao’s face, white tracks remain on his cheeks in the shape of Nie Mingjue’s fingers.

“Have you left Huaisang at Qinghe in your stead?” Lan Xichen strolled through the Gusu gardens with a fluidity and grace Nie Mingjue didn’t bother to try and emulate. He was only a visitor there, and the plants would survive his heavy tread under the care of such skilled gardeners.

He sighed. “In theory. Vice-Envoy Meng is there to deal with any real problems. Maybe he’ll be able to teach Huaisang a thing or two about responsibility. It seems as though I can't.”

“Ah, is this the famous Meng Yao I've heard so much about?”

Nie Mingjue didn't say anything to that. Out of the corner of his eye, Nie Mingjue could make out the smiling curve of Lan Xichen’s mouth. After a moment, Zewu-jun added, more softly this time, “I don't mean to tease. It's been a pleasant surprise to hear you write with so much passion. Your letters used to be so brief.”

“I thought petty gossip was against some Lan clan rule.”

“Is it gossip if you told me yourself, my friend? What was it you said in the last one; ‘Qinghe seems warmer than it used to—or perhaps I am the one who has changed—’”

Nie Mingjue growled, “I would tread carefully, if I were you.”

Lan Xichen laughed, soft and mellifluous. Not for the first time, Nie Mingjue wished Qinghe and Gusu were not so far apart.

“My apologies. But, Chifeng-zun, I’m surprised you haven’t already been honest with him. I’ve never known you to be cautious.”

Nie Mingjue walked by his side in silence for a few minutes before gritting through his teeth, “I don’t want him to think he’s only been promoted because I want him to warm my bed.”

“You are an honourable man. Surely he knows that.”

Honour in battle was one thing, and something Nie Mingjue knew well. When it came to matters such as this, his usual methods of solving problems seemed inadequate. He didn't think Meng Yao was likely to say no to him; perhaps that was the problem.

“I don't—”

Nie Mingjue cut himself off when they turned a corner in the garden. Not far from them, in a small clearing, the Second Jade of Lan was working through sword forms. Bichen gleamed in the light of the cold sun of late autumn, cutting through the air with the precision only reached by those who have come to see their swords as extensions of themselves. His posture was perfect, and his gaze didn't stray towards them as they passed him on the path. Nie Mingjue set his jaw at the wave of frustration he felt at the sight. Other people didn't have to force their younger brothers into training. He'd asked Xichen about it, once, a few years ago: How do you make him do it without having to make him do it? Lan Xichen had laughed a little sheepishly and shaken his head. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to make Wangji do anything. He appreciates routines. I think they help him feel at ease. Perhaps Huaisang needs to learn that, through cultivation, he can find restfulness. Good advice, perhaps, for someone else, but sabre cultivation was never restful, except in the way that sleep came easily to tired, aching muscles at the end of the day. In any case, Huaisang was already too restful for his own good. If he needed to learn anything, it was urgency.

By the time they left Lan Wangji's earshot, Nie Mingjue had forgotten what it was he was going to say about Meng Yao, and he made no effort to remind Lan Xichen of the subject, though when Nie Mingjue departed Gusu a few days later, Lan Xichen saw him off. Before parting, the First Jade of Lan grasped his elbow and murmured, his eyes warm and intent, “Good luck, my friend, in all your endeavours.”

Not long after, Nie Mingjue returned to Qinghe, greeted by ominous skies. From the top of the fortress’ battlements, one could see out all the way to the spines of the neighboring mountains. Nie Mingjue's ancestors had built their stronghold in the foothills, and its high walls were still dwarfed by the range behind it. A hardy place, built for function rather than form; over the centuries, little about it had changed. A dusting of snow was falling onto the peaks; Nie Mingjue could feel the wind on his face that would before long push the heavy, steel-grey clouds towards them.

“Clan Leader Nie?”

He didn't turn to look at the figure behind him; he recognized him by voice, and even before that he'd known who it was by the soft tapping of his feet on stone. Warriors didn't walk like that, and there were few men in the Unclean Realms who weren't warriors of some kind. One of these was his brother, but Huaisang rarely came up here. The other:

Nie Mingjue had of course seen him earlier, when he first arrived. A placid Meng Yao had stood next to a nervous Nie Huaisang at the head of the column of sect members that lined up to welcome Nie Mingjue back to the Unclean Realms. They'd spent most of the day in the main hall together with the captains of the guards and the rest of the head retainers as Nie Mingjue was briefed on the happenings he'd missed. A few emissaries from one of the Nie sect's small subsidiary clans had arrived in his absence to petition on behalf of their leader, who was embroiled in a dispute over night hunting grounds with an independent clan. Meng Yao had compiled a detailed agenda of their grievances, handed to Nie Mingjue along with a list of his recommendations. Wen scouts had also been seen treading into Nie territory, to the west, the day before yesterday. This happened every so often; Qinghe was the foothill to Qishan’s mountain peak. It seemed like the Wen encroachments were coming more frequently of late, though Nie Mingjue hoped that his suspicions would be proven to be paranoia and nothing more.

“Come here, Meng Yao.”

A silent moment passed, and then Vice-Envoy Meng crept forward. He greeted Nie Mingjue with his usual modesty and then took his place by Nie Mingjue’s elbow, though he remained a respectful footstep behind him.

“Did Huaisang behave himself?”

“Second Young Master Nie did his best.” That was hardly encouraging, but Meng Yao quickly added, “He sat through all the meetings and didn’t make excuses to try and leave early, which is an improvement from the last time he stood in for you. I think, with practice, he will manage well.”

Nie Mingjue scoffed. He glanced to the side to see that Meng Yao was watching his face with a level of attention that startled him. Nie Mingjue turned away and gestured into the slate-grey swirls of cloud ahead. “What do you think? Will we get buried under snow tonight, or will it pass us by?"

Meng Yao stared into the stormfront for a few moments, biting his lip, before he turned back to Nie Mingjue. “I haven't stayed in the Unclean Realms for long enough to know its climate very well, but if Clan Leader is concerned, I can make preparations for a storm without delay.”

Qinghe was prone to sudden and turbulent winter storms, but it was still early in the season to be expecting heavy snow. Even so, it was not a risk worth taking lightly. Equipment would need to be covered, horses brought indoors, and patrols called home early, but Nie Mingjue had not had the chance to be alone with Meng Yao in weeks, and he was reluctant to cut the moment short so quickly.

“We can watch it come in and then make up our minds.”

A small smile played around Meng Yao’s mouth. “As you wish.”

The quiet between them was restful, almost companionable. Meng Yao was skilled with words, but he knew the value of silence; this was one of the qualities that had warmed Nie Mingjue to him, early on. He was rarely alone, and the number of people he could spend time with without being constantly dogged by questions of state and requests for his attention was slim.

He’d made up his mind, back in Gusu, to ask for what he wanted. To see if Meng Yao felt the same. Hesitating this long, even, was unlike Nie Mingjue’s character, but he’d wanted to be sure of what he wanted. Dealing in half-measures was worse than doing nothing at all.

“Meng Yao,” he began, and paused, searching for words.

After a moment, Meng Yao prompted him gently, “Yes, Clan Leader Nie?”

Nie Mingjue glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The intensity of his gaze was at odds with the soft politesse of his speech. Something uneasy flickered within his mind, on the same level he felt instincts in battle, but he wasn’t sure what it meant.

“I think it will snow, and I don't trust this wind. The castle should be prepared for a storm by nightfall.”

“I will see to it immediately.”

“And, Meng Yao. When you've finished, report to my quarters.”

He could not mistake the slight flare of the man's eyelids, or the caught-off-guard inhale, barely audible. Before Nie Mingjue could examine his face further, Meng Yao sunk into another low bow and murmured, “Of course.”

Meng Yao turned back the way he'd come, but before he could descend to the interior of the keep, another man came up the rampart stairs in the other direction. He was one of the emissaries from the small subsidiary clan that had petitioned for aid. He bowed in greeting, first to Nie Mingjue and then another, smaller bow to Meng Yao, which Meng Yao returned before finally taking his leave.

The emissary’s eyes followed Meng Yao as he descended the rampart steps. Nie Mingjue joined him. Observing, through the eyes of a stranger, the quick but unhurried way Meng Yao made his way down the stone stairs, stirred an unnameable feeling inside Nie Mingjue’s chest. The emissary remarked, “A clever fellow you’ve got there, Clan Leader Nie.”

It was several seconds too long before Nie Mingjue cleared his throat and replied, “Yes. He is.”

“Do I disgust you? It seems like it hurts you to look at me.”

Jin Guangyao kneels before him, head bent in perfect obeisance, but that means nothing. His obeisance, like his speech, is always perfect. This has always been his way: quiet, obedient, the pinnacle of decorum, but for the suggestions here and there—furniture arrangements for the audience chamber and other matters of the house, yes, but also comments on alliances, trade disputes, the management of the Nie disciples. Always small suggestions, always logical, rarely objectionable, but over the years they came with such frequency that Nie Mingjue could not help but take note of the pattern. It used to chafe at him, not because Meng Yao's council was unsound, or that he showed him disrespect, but because there was something discomfiting in the ease with which it was given. Nie Mingjue is a man from whom others fear to hear the word “no”. Meng Yao lost that fear at some point over the years. He never crossed the line; he slowly wore away the line itself, like the vanishing of a tidemark under the waves.

This is the Jin Guangyao who faces him now, not a penitent criminal begging for a reprieve. Being on his knees makes little difference.

Nie Mingjue’s body is tired and sore, and he doesn't like standing over Jin Guangyao like this; it has too many suggestions of other things in it. Slowly, he takes the remaining seat at the table. He removes Baxia from his back to let it lie in the space between them, with one of his hands still on its hilt.

“You're lucky I didn't throw you out of the door.”

“Would it make you feel better to punish me?”

“You want me to put you over my knee like a misbehaving child?”

Jin Guangyao raises his head upright, though his gaze remains downcast. He swallows and stiffens his lip, as if ready to see through a terrible sentence. “If Clan Leader Nie needs to give one such as myself a beating, that would of course be his right.”

“Deference suits you more poorly than it used to. I can see the effort in it.”

A pale hand comes to rest on his own left knee. It’s not a caress; barely any pressure can be felt, but Nie Mingjue’s eyes are inexorably drawn to its presence, so white against dark cloth in the dim light.

Without lifting his eyes, Jin Guangyao murmurs, “I know I can’t expect your forgiveness. But, whether or not you believe it, I am yours as much as I ever was.”

“You have a new master now.”

Jin Guangyao pulls back, enough that the stuttering candlelight illuminates the wide wetness of his eyes, the plaintive tremble of his lip. “All I wanted was to be a good servant to you. If that was all I did with my life, I would have been your right hand gladly.”

Nie Mingjue grits his teeth, dredges up his courage, and fights to ignore the warmth of that pale hand, now rubbing gentle circles into the sore muscles beneath. This is familiar; the flesh memory returns him to calmer nights in the Unclean Realms, when Nie Mingjue would return to his rooms with an aching body after leading the disciples in the training ground and Meng Yao would come to him with ointment and distracting anecdotes of the day’s events. On some weak, animal level, his body still recognizes this and stirs. An old, familiar feeling, trained into him over the years by this shameless thing in front of him. Jin Guangyao looks like he can smell it on him.

Nie Mingjue's knuckles are white from the effort of keeping himself in check. If he gives him anything, Jin Guangyao will take and take and—

“My tolerance is no longer enough for you? You want my thanks for the hardships you've endured for me?”

Jin Guangyao lowers his head to rest his cheek on Nie Mingjue’s lower thigh without breaking eye contact. His eyes are wide and luminous and the hour is very late. His head is so delicate and light that Nie Mingjue can hardly feel the weight of it at all.

It’s at times like this the fear creeps up his spine: are his best years behind him? He is still a young man, unmarried, childless, and only just completed a campaign that will remain in memory for all time—and even so, sometimes he feels very old. Tiredness has seeped into him. Sleep does little for it even when it comes.

“You’ve worked so hard. Let me comfort you again.” From his place of repose on Nie Mingjue’s knee, Jin Guangyao’s gaze never strays from his face. Though he smiles, comfort is nowhere to be found, yet Nie Mingjue can’t ignore the bestial warmth of his touch. Has it always been this difficult, this dangerous, to be close to another body? Has it ever been so hard to resist?

No longer glazed over with tears, Jin Guangyao’s eyes are clear enough that Nie Mingjue ought to be able to see shapes moving within the shadows. He’s brewing something even now. Surely nothing good. The naked reality of it repulses him, but removing Jin Guangyao from his line of sight will do nothing but prevent Nie Mingjue from keeping watch for signs of danger to come. As if reading his thoughts, Jin Guangyao inclines his head, still smiling. The new angle changes the look of it. Not a year ago, an expression like that would’ve come just before Meng Yao demonstrated what else his mouth was good for besides elegant speech; now, Nie Mingjue’s thighs tighten, torn between pressing into his touch and kicking him to the floor.

Where did he learn this falseness? Has he always had it, or was it instilled in him as a boy growing up in a whorehouse, observing the way it pays to tell men what they want to hear? That’s the kind of thought Nie Mingjue would have backhanded another man for voicing in front of him only a few months ago. He has done so, more than once.

He thinks it now. He is disgusted at the both of them.

“I don’t want your comfort.”

“It will still be there, should you change your mind.”

An urge for something like violence digs its hook inside Nie Mingjue's chest and pulls. His throat is parched; the air in this place is scorched from the volcanoes nearby, and he's hardly caught his breath since he arrived.

As he has each time he's been ready to draw the line between them for good, he thinks back, against his own will, to Meng Yao taking Wen Zhuliu's blade for him, the day he was cast out of Qinghe. A pragmatic show of loyalty to save his own skin, perhaps, but a tilt of the blade a finger's width to the side and Meng Yao would have lost a lung. A hefty forfeit to be willing to pay for a cold-hearted gamble, if that was all there was to it.

Meng Yao cheated death twice that day: once to save Nie Mingjue's life, and once to save his own. One of the thoughts that had been clearest in his mind, with his temper raging and Meng Yao melting on the floor: Baxia was already ferocious, and he was disquieted by the idea of the resentment it would fester should it take the life of a lover and a friend.

He reaches out and places a hand upon Jin Guangyao’s hair, the edge of his sideways face. He imagines cracking open that delicate skull to let the light in, until all that remains is the bare and skeletal truth, if he contains such a thing.

When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice comes out almost a croak. “Show me your chest.” Jin Guangyao's nostrils flare in victory, and Nie Mingjue clarifies, in a tone that belies no tenderness: “I want to see the scar. I assume you still only have the one.”

The inner fortress of the Unclean Realms was built out of heavy stone. In summer, it kept the inhabitants cool, and in winter it retained a remarkable amount of heat. Behind it, deeper into the castle recesses, the Clan Leader’s personal quarters were similarly well-insulated, even when foul winds raged outside. Nie Mingjue’s father had slept here, and his grandfather before him. He was born in the currently empty chambers set aside for the clan leader’s main wife, and had spent his childhood in the rooms now occupied solely by Huaisang, but when he first took over the leadership of the sect following his father’s death it had been strange to move himself into these cavernous rooms.

Meng Yao entered Nie Mingjue’s quarters later that evening so quietly that it took Nie Mingjue a moment to notice his arrival. He had been cleaning Baxia’s spotless blade for something to do with his hands while he waited for Meng Yao to pay heed to his earlier summons. When Meng Yao righted himself out of his bow he said, “Baxia must be the best cared-for spiritual tool in the world, Clan Leader Nie.”

Though respectfully made, the comment made Nie Mingjue oddly self-conscious, and he set the sabre aside. “Have the preparations been made?”

“All of the disciples and servants have been accounted for. We have enough provisions to last for quite some time, even if the storm persists or the roads become impassible.” Meng Yao went on to give him an overview of conversations he’d had with the cooks, the stablemasters, and the head porter, before concluding, “We have the capacity to shelter a few hundred of the common people from the city if Qinghe is hit very badly, though of course it will cut into our food stores considerably.”

“I doubt it’ll come to that, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

Meng Yao stood before him with his hands folded and back straight, without a hair out of place, but a faint blush stained his cheeks. When he’d first come in, Nie Mingjue had assumed it was from the cold, but if anything it had deepened the longer he was inside Nie Mingjue’s well-heated rooms, rather than abated. He’d run out of notable items of business, but he seemed reluctant to end his report and leave, as if sensing that he’d been called for more than just a discussion of the weather. Nie Mingjue wondered if he should begin by offering him a drink, or if this conversation was better held solemn and sober. It would be easier to just pull him close in one decisive movement and kiss him wordlessly. He supposed that's what he would do with anyone else, communicating everything he had to say in the most straightforward way he could come up with: the push of strong-willed flesh. Meng Yao would yield to it. Nie Mingjue already knew that. It would have been much easier if simple yielding was all Nie Mingjue wanted from him.

“Meng Yao,” Nie Mingjue began, and then paused; where he stood, an arm’s length in front of him, Meng Yao was biting his lip. His brows were knit together as if in anticipation of pain. He thinks I’ve brought him here to be reprimanded, Nie Mingjue realized, but before he could reassure Meng Yao that he wasn’t summoned to be disciplined, Meng Yao sunk to his knees.

Watching Meng Yao slide out of his dignified posture to collapse in on himself was like witnessing the sudden conflagration of an ancient tree in the summer heat. His voice cracked when he said, “I’m so sorry, Clan Leader Nie.”

Nie Mingjue’s mind whirled, trying to catch hold of the conversation in which he suddenly was adrift. “What?”

Meng Yao’s hands clenched his folded thighs as if trying to steady himself, and his head hung low between his shoulders so that Nie Mingjue’s view of his face was blocked by his hair. “I have taken advantage of your generosity. I have been false with you.”

“Explain yourself.”

Meng Yao lifted his head enough to meet Nie Mingjue’s eyes. His face was puffy with tears threatening to be spilled at any moment. “Your servant has come to harbour indecent thoughts.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Nie Mingjue had completely lost hold of the situation. He blinked twice before demanding, “About whom?”

His whole face, normally so mild, contorted into a single agonized wince: up went the smoke. He replied, in a strangled whisper, “About Clan Leader Nie.”

Nie Mingjue was momentarily stunned into silence. It was as if Meng Yao had known that this was what Nie Mingjue had called him for, but how could he? Meng Yao was perceptive, and he had a knack for anticipating Nie Mingjue’s commands before they’d been given, but even so—he looked stricken, cowering on the floor. It was hard to imagine he’d come here with any kind of cool-headed plan in mind. He hadn’t even looked like this on that day years ago when Nie Mingjue had found him eating alone to avoid ridicule. Now, Meng Yao’s mouth was pressed into a firm line as if it would maintain some of his composure, but it was little compensation for the state he was in.

“I cannot continue to conceal the way I feel any longer. If you can't bear to look at me, I understand, but this lowly one wants nothing more than to remain in your service.”

“Meng Yao—”

His eyes opened, gleaming with fear and hope, and he leaned forward slightly on his knees. He was still too far back to touch Nie Mingjue, but close enough to invite the thought of Nie Mingjue touching him. Nie Mingjue held himself in check, but it took effort.

“How long?”

Nie Mingjue could see every muscle in his throat shift under the skin as Meng Yao swallowed. “Long enough I can’t bear it anymore.”

His body moved ahead of his mind: Nie Mingjue reached and turned Meng Yao's face upwards with two fingers below his chin. The skin of his neck was impossibly soft. As Meng Yao's eyes raised up from the floor, Nie Mingjue made out the glistening shimmer of unshed tears, but once their gazes met Meng Yao did not look away. There it was, again: the glint of steel underneath the softness.

Nie Mingjue’s hand slid up to cup the side of Meng Yao’s face, feeling the softness of his unweathered cheek. Nie Mingjue was an honourable man but not to the point of self-denial. Not when the list of reasons to hold back was fading further from his mind with every second they spent touching. Meng Yao's eyelids slid closed for a moment, and he let his cheek fall into Nie Mingjue's palm.

Nie Mingjue murmured, “If this is something you feel you must do because I expect it of you—”

Meng Yao shook his head vigorously enough to dislodge Nie Mingjue's fingers, which moved down to grasp his shoulder, stroking a circle into his collarbone through the thick outer robes that Nie Mingjue had given him earlier that year in preparation for the coming cold.

“I owe you everything. You’ve been so good to me. I am yours in any way it pleases you to have me.”

“Stand up, Meng Yao.”

He helped pull Meng Yao to his feet with a firm but not unkind tug to his upper arm. The look on his face, so close now to Nie Mingjue's own, was hard to place: wide-eyed but alert, like he was trying to take in every detail of the moment in case this was his only chance to experience it. It was the longest Nie Mingjue could remember him ever holding his gaze without falling back into the familiar rhythms of deference.

“Come here.”

They were already so close together—Nie Mingjue sitting, Meng Yao standing—that their knees were brushing, and confusion flickered over Meng Yao’s face. Nie Mingjue realized he was unsure as to how to come closer at all. Nie Mingjue hadn’t told him anything, yet, though he suspected nothing he could say in response to Meng Yao’s confession would be as clear as showing him. He placed a hand on the small of Meng Yao’s back. When he pulled him closer, Meng Yao went easily, and before he could give himself second thoughts Nie Mingjue tipped Meng Yao into his lap. Meng Yao squeaked, but his small hands flew up immediately to curl over Nie Mingjue's shoulders. Nie Mingjue arranged him so he sat sideways across his knees. Meng Yao's calves dangled off the end of Nie Mingjue's left thigh, and he clutched Nie Mingjue for balance before Nie Mingjue curled his right arm around his waist to keep him in place.

Up close, he could catch the scent of him, gentle but very present, something spiced and floral. Meng Yao’s eyes were very wide. The blush that stained his cheeks stole down his neck, pink splotches running past the collar of his robes. Nie Mingjue wanted to see how far down his chest it went. Nothing but his own strength of will was keeping it from him.

Nie Mingjue slid his free hand around the base of Meng Yao's neck, feeling the jump of his adam's apple. A choked-out sound broke free from deep in Meng Yao's throat.

“Please,” Meng Yao whispered.

Nie Mingjue had no choice but to give him what he wanted.

Meng Yao’s mouth was soft as it looked, but the weight of his body when he came to rest against Nie Mingjue’s chest was solid; Nie Mingjue realized that he had expected Meng Yao to feel fragile. Meng Yao's own hands were moving almost immediately, clutching Nie Mingjue's biceps over his robes, running his fingers across the swell of his muscles. It took only seconds before he moaned into Nie Mingjue’s mouth. He wriggled on his lap, trying to keep his balance, while Nie Mingjue's mouth moved down the side of his face, down his neck, resisting the urge to leave marks above the line of his collar. Perhaps another time Meng Yao would let him bite down on the nape of his neck, where his hair covered the skin.

Meng Yao's hands pushed past the collar of Nie Mingjue's own robes, pulling cloth to the side and pushing down to grab at his chest, running his hands through the hair on his chest, grabbing at the meat of his pectorals. He hadn't expected him to be so quick, so lively. He wanted every bit of him Meng Yao would let him take; wanted the bruise Nie Mingjue sucked into the pale skin beneath his collarbone to remain for days.

He pulled away from Meng Yao's chest and reached a hand up to grip the hair on the back of Meng Yao's head, not harshly, but enough to tug his face up to face him. Meng Yao's mouth parted slightly, a whispered sigh escaping his lips, and his eyes fluttered closed. Nie Mingjue moved his other hand up to cup Meng Yao's chin in his palm. He brushed the calloused pad of his thumb across the swell of Meng Yao's lips. Meng Yao's eyes slid open; they were blown-out and half-lidded, and he looked up at Nie Mingjue through his long lashes before opening his mouth slightly wider. Nie Mingjue pushed the pad of his thumb inside. He was greeted by the darting wetness of a small tongue, which demurely retreated behind Meng Yao's teeth as soon as it made contact with Nie Mingjue’s skin.

Nie Mingjue considered his options and withdrew his thumb from Meng Yao’s mouth, pulling his bottom lip down for a moment before letting his face go completely. He stood up, picking Meng Yao up by one arm—Meng Yao let out a startled squeal and threw his arms around Nie Mingjue’s neck—and carried him to the bed, where he dropped him onto the sheets, not unkindly. Meng Yao grasped the bedcovers between small, clenching fingers.

“Clan Leader Nie,” he breathed. Nie Mingjue pulled off his robes, which Meng Yao had already begun to loosen, dropping them on the floor where he stood. On the bed, Meng Yao pushed himself up onto his elbows to get a better view. His eyes didn't leave Nie Mingjue as Nie Mingjue let his inner robe fall away.

When Nie Mingjue was nude and his hair ornaments had been taken out, he reached under the bed for a jar that hadn’t seen use in some time. He tossed it onto the sheets, an arm’s length away from Meng Yao, and then kneeled on the bed. Meng Yao began shuffling backwards on his hands, making room for him, but Nie Mingjue grabbed him by the hips and pulled him towards the edge of the bed, towards himself.

“Oh—”

Nie Mingjue knelt between Meng Yao’s parted calves and surveyed him. The marks Nie Mingjue had sucked into his chest hadn’t faded by much. His hair, still up in its intricate arrangement of braids, was dishevelled. Under the weight of Nie Mingjue’s gaze, Meng Yao’s tongue darted out once more to wet his lips.

“Have you been with a man before?”

Meng Yao blinked quickly and nodded.

“What did you do with him?”

“We—we used our hands on each other. I put my mouth on him once.” Nie Mingjue couldn’t recall ever hearing Meng Yao stumble over his words. His eyes were wide, dark pools. “It was a long time ago. I haven’t at all, since—”

“Since what?”

Meng Yao swallowed. On the sheets, his fingers flexed on nothing. “Since I met you.”

Nie Mingjue pushed his skirts up his calves to rest high on his thighs.

“Has anyone fucked you?”

Meng Yao shook his head wordlessly. Nie Mingjue reached up underneath his robes to his undergarments, relieved to find his reactions hadn’t been feigned; Meng Yao was damp and half-hard inside his clothes. Nie Mingjue began to untie him with one hand; with the other, he massaged Meng Yao’s thigh through the fabric he still wore, feeling the give of the soft flesh beneath.

“Lift up your hips.”

Meng Yao obliged, and Nie Mingjue pulled off his smallclothes and threw them on the floor behind him. Meng Yao’s belt followed, and Nie Mingjue shoved the rest of his robes up and to the side, bunching them around Meng Yao’s hips. He brushed up the underside of Meng Yao’s cock with the flat of his palm.

“What do you think about, when you think about this?”

“You.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Nie Mingjue’s mouth, and he jerked his chin in the direction of the jar of oil on the bed sheets. “Hand it over.” When Meng Yao passed it to him, his fingers shook. Nie Mingjue coated his first two fingers and set it aside. “What do I do to you?”

Meng Yao laughed weakly. The sound was faint but his eyes were alive and intent, and when Nie Mingjue met his gaze he didn’t look away. “Anything you want.”

His thighs were surprisingly full compared to the rest of his slim frame, and Nie Mingjue bit down on the inside of one just hard enough to leave shallow teeth marks before soothing it with his mouth. His other hand slid further down until his thumb could travel in slow circles around Meng Yao’s hole. He breached him little by little at first, pushing with the pad of his index finger, hardly enough pressure to get inside, and then further, faster, prodding inside him, spurred on by the ease with which Meng Yao bore the intrusion. He squirmed down onto Nie Mingjue’s hand like this was his only chance to feel it and he wanted to get every bit of it he could to take with him.

His mouth had travelled up Meng Yao’s inner thighs to the base of his cock, flushed pink and wet. Nie Mingjue's tongue slid over him, up and then down, tasting the underside, as Meng Yao kicked his heels into the blankets on either side of his torso. He held him down by the hip with his free hand and took the rest of him into his mouth in one go. The noises Meng Yao made sounded almost distressed, but every time Nie Mingjue glanced up at his face all he found was a rapturous surprise. He looked like a man discovering for the first time what pleasure was. His body unfolded at the touch readily, greedily. When he’d said no one had ever had him like this, Nie Mingjue had thought he might need to open him up for a long time, teaching him how to let him in, how to like it. The reality was Meng Yao, tight but yielding around Nie Mingjue’s fingers. Whenever he’d imagined taking what he'd suspected for some time now that Meng Yao might be offering him, he'd imagined him shy, needing to be coaxed. This was better. Each time he pushed deeper Meng Yao spread a little more, panting open-mouthed, his white-knuckled hands grabbing at the sheets by Nie Mingjue's head. He was still too cautious to touch Nie Mingjue’s hair; maybe next time Nie Mingjue could show him how to run his fingers through it. For now, Meng Yao was fast approaching a level of overwhelmed where it seemed unfair to ask anything more from him but to keep taking what Nie Mingjue wanted to give.

His jaw already ached from use, a warm muscle-burning he savoured as much as the salt-musk taste. It was late enough in the evening he could feel the beginnings of tomorrow morning’s shave on his cheeks, scratching against the nearly hairless skin of Meng Yao’s inner thighs. Nie Mingjue sank his head down a little further, feeling the head of Meng Yao's cock nudge insistently at the back of his mouth. He hadn't tried that in some time and he felt an urge to test his body's limits, but as his length hit the opening of Nie Mingjue’s throat, Meng Yao clenched in ripples around Nie Mingjue's fingers so tightly that Nie Mingjue pulled off of him in case he was going to spill onto his tongue right there. He kept up the steady push-pull of his fingers as he looked up at Meng Yao's face. If Nie Mingjue didn't know better, he'd have assumed the expression on his face—eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead, eyes squeezed tight—was one of exquisite suffering. Meng Yao’s breath came heavy and audible through his parted lips. Trying to make sure he’d get something out of this, too, was no longer a concern; if Nie Mingjue kept this up for much longer he’d have a different problem on his hands. The side of Meng Yao’s wet cock brushed against Nie Mingjue's cheek when Nie Mingjue asked, his voice low and thick, “You ready?”

“Yes. Oh, please.”

He skimmed a hand across the soft flesh of Meng Yao’s stomach, across his hip, down to grip the place his upper thigh met the curve of his ass. He weighed over some possibilities before coming to a quick decision, turning Meng Yao over with a few guiding pushes before laying his chest across the length of Meng Yao’s back. Nie Mingjue pressed his face against the nape of Meng Yao’s neck, breathing in the scent of his perfume, feeling the softness of his hair. On his hands and knees beneath him, Meng Yao shifted back and forth with nervousness or anticipation. Nie Mingjue didn’t have the heart to deny him for long.

For all that he’d taken Nie Mingjue’s fingers well, it was still slow going to start, getting his cock in him. Meng Yao’s shoulder blades twisted under his skin as Nie Mingjue bore down on him, and when Nie Mingjue at last felt his hips meet his rear, Meng Yao let out a raw moan. The snug heat of him was good, but Nie Mingjue missed being able to glance up to meet Meng Yao’s eyes, like he had earlier. He wanted to see the look of delicate, agonized shock on his face when he came.

“Hold on.” He pulled out and steadied Meng Yao with a hand on the small of his back. At first, Meng Yao pushed back, as if to chase the fullness Nie Mingjue had taken away, but he gentled under the touch of Nie Mingjue’s palm. Nie Mingjue rolled onto his back and pulled Meng Yao atop his hips. Meng Yao was so small and light it took Nie Mingjue hardly any effort to maneuver his body back into place, to push back into him from below.

Straddling his waist, Meng Yao’s bare, hairless chest glistened with exertion. He was panting, blotches of red staining his skin from the places Nie Mingjue had gripped him. Nie Mingjue did most of the work, lifting and lowering him with a steady grasp on his ass, but Meng Yao dug his knees into the bedsheets and helped to steer himself with trembling thighs.

Meng Yao's hands looped around the nape of Nie Mingjue's neck. His fingers ran an exploratory course through the hair draped over Nie Mingjue's shoulders. Just one more thing he picked right out of Nie Mingjue's brain before he could say it. Their gazes were locked together, and a small smile played across his face. For all that his brow was dotted with sweat and his exposed chest was a patchwork of sucked bruises, Meng Yao looked, for the first time since they’d met, in no way subservient; he was beautiful and proud, and his eyes glinted like steel in sunlight.

The robes he wears now are a much more complex affair to remove than his previous attire had been. Jin Guangyao is a small man trying to look larger by draping himself in an excessive amount of expensive silks, but layer by layer he emerges into the low candlelight, his naked shape nearly as familiar to Nie Mingjue as his own.

He folds each of his layers briskly and lays them on the ground next to him until he kneels before Nie Mingjue clad only in his inner robe, which hangs loosely by his sides, and his hair, which he brushes behind his shoulders as not to get in the way of Nie Mingjue's line of sight.

The wound has healed over, more or less; it has been almost a year since it was given, and though Jin Guangyao's cultivation is low, he has enough of a golden core to heal well from a non-threatening injury, given time. It isn't wholly true that he has no other scars; he just has none of this kind, achieved in the midst of battle. The others are largely inobtrusive, the residue of scrapes and scratches strewn across his arms and legs, as well as a few burn marks on his right forearm which Nie Mingjue's mind has lingered over but never asked about, unsure if he would get a straight answer. This scar, however, is a pink gash down the centre of his otherwise unblemished chest. Under Nie Mingjue's gaze, Jin Guangyao is still and haughty, neither self-conscious nor preening. Nie Mingjue reaches out to run his thumb over the shiny and soft patch of scar tissue. Before he can retract his hand, Jin Guangyao clutches Nie Mingjue’s wrist.

Though he keeps his eyes respectfully downcast, he leans in close enough for Nie Mingjue to feel his breath on his face. Jin Guangyao steadies himself with his right hand on Nie Mingjue's left knee; he presses their sides together more tightly than he needs to for balance, and Nie Mingjue allows him, for now, though his patience is growing thin. The scent of Jin Guangyao's perfume surrounds him, clouding his other senses. He can hear, or perhaps feel, Jin Guangyao's small tongue dart out to wet his own lips before he murmurs into Nie Mingjue's ear, his voice pitched low and throaty: “Not a day went by I didn't think of you.”

“Should that make a difference to me?”

Against his cheek, Jin Guangyao smiles. “Perhaps not. But I want you to know. I stayed here because I needed to help you from somewhere, even if I couldn't come back to Qinghe.”

The possibility that keeps him up at night is that Meng Yao came into his service an honest man, and over time changed into what he sees before him now. That, as his ambitions rose and his world grew grander, he reshaped himself and discovered the things he was capable of, all the while looking like his familiar self, but transforming under his skin into something Nie Mingjue could hardly recognize.

A series of phantom futures pass before him. In one, he hardens his heart and brings his sabre down on Jin Guangyao's slender neck right now, an action long overdue. It would pass through cleanly, it would be over in a moment, and he would never be troubled by the man again. In another, he banishes him from his sight for good, though he can hardly avoid Jin Guangyao completely, now that he's crawled, at last, into his father's sight. But there is Zewu-Jun to think of. The thought of Lan Xichen’s kindness, the way he steps forward to shield Jin Guangyao from Nie Mingjue’s ire, sends his mind in other directions, where he takes Jin Guangyao into his arms, tells him they will leave it all behind them, and takes his fill of the soft skin of his neck—but this leaves a sourness in his mouth just to be thought of.

The candle flickers in the wind, and he shakes his head to return himself to the present. In the wan and chilly evening, there is no path around Jin Guangyao but forward: face-to-face, yet held at arm's length. And what does it matter, now, if he lets himself have this—not for Jin Guangyao’s sake, but his own, so the thought of it doesn’t torment him after he’s sent him out the door? They’ve come this far, dug this deeply into each other.

“Turn around.” His own voice sounds rough, now. He wishes it wasn’t; it gives too much away.

Something unnamable passes below the surface of Jin Guangyao’s eyes, and Nie Mingjue is possessed in equal measure with the urges to slap him and caress his cheek. Before he can do either, Jin Guangyao follows his order, turning himself around to face the table, away from Nie Mingjue. His hands, braced loosely on the tabletop, quaver.

Such a small frame, and even slimmer undressed. Nie Mingjue could crush him with his bare fists. He settles for pressing him down with the palm of his left hand. The spread of his fingers across the small of Jin Guangyao’s back crosses most of the width of his waist. It strikes Nie Mingjue for the first time that if he had been born Jin Guangyao, instead of Meng Yao, he might be bigger than he was now. A childhood spent in the practice yard, well fed on whatever it is the Jin clan nourishes their children, would have left more meat on him. That Jin Guangyao could have attended lectures at Gusu with Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen as a student, instead of a junior retainer of the Nie clan that Nie Mingjue distantly remembers having been there to help with his luggage.

“What is Clan Leader Nie thinking about?”

Nie Mingjue forgoes an answer for letting his thumb trace patterns across the bones of Jin Guangyao's spine, palpable through the thin inner robe that remains covering him. His hand travels down the curve of his back, feeling Jin Guangyao shift under him, leaning into the touch.

Jin Guangyao murmurs, “Whatever you want, you can have it.”

Nie Mingjue wishes he could say he doesn't want a thing, but he, at least, is not a liar.

When they started they were cautious, furtive; they would sometimes go weeks without it, carrying themselves through the other days on the intensity of their gazes across an open room. Meng Yao was fussier about it than Nie Mingjue, who was a clan leader and a grown man, and didn’t see where anyone else in the stronghold would get the authority to criticize him for something he had no reason to apologize for. Meng Yao almost always came and went through the servants’ entrance to the clan leader’s personal quarters. Nie Mingjue never asked whether he passed anyone on his travels.

“You're very dexterous, Clan Leader Nie.”

Nie Mingjue blinked at the back of Meng Yao's head, and then plucked another pin from between his teeth to fix Meng Yao's newest braid in place and start on the next one. Around the rest of the pins, he replies, “I've known how to braid hair since I was as high as your knee.”

Meng Yao had been at the Unclean Realms for long enough now to know his way around every corner of the fortress. He dressed in Nie colours, wore his hair in Nie braids, and every disciple in the sect knew Meng Yao by sight. For all that, he still looked like a visitor. Nie Mingjue remembered little of his mother, who died of illness when he was not quite five, but he knew she had married into the Nie family from a subsidiary clan in the far southern edges of Nie territory, where the climate was mild and the people less hardy. He wondered if she had looked the same way as Meng Yao did when he swept through the halls of the Unclean Realms: confident in his way around, but too smooth and refined to belong to the place.

“You did it yourself, even when you were small? A servant didn't do it for you?"

“Not after I got old enough to do it myself.” The sections of Meng Yao's hair that he wound through his fingers were soft and smooth; it was harder to get them to stay in place than his own. “Huaisang used to ask me to do his for him, when he was too young.” He hadn’t meant to share the memory, but it wasn’t a real secret that needed protecting; just the kind of thing he wouldn’t easily let slip in conversation. Zewu-jun was the only person with whom he spoke of such things casually. Now, he supposed, Meng Yao was the other.

Though his head stayed in place so as not to ruin Nie Mingjue's work, Meng Yao smiled; Nie Mingjue could see by the crease blossoming in his cheek, visible at three-quarter profile. “You’ve always been kind to him, though he may be too young to know it.”

“Maybe too kind.”

When Meng Yao was just another of the Nie sect’s minor retainers, he had occasionally served Nie Mingjue as a personal attendant in the mornings and evenings, helping him dress, fixing his hair into place to face the day. Once Nie Mingjue promoted him, Meng Yao was relieved of that aspect of his duties; it was unbecoming to ask his right hand to wait on him like a common servant. Over time, when nights spent in Nie Mingjue’s rooms became more frequent, they fell into the pattern of it again, for simplicity’s sake, though this time every casual touch was a reminder of the ways their bodies had met before. Quiet, steady, practical Meng Yao was not too practical to forgo drawing it out completely. On less hurried mornings, he often lingered with his hands tying the sash at Nie Mingjue’s waist, or took more care than he strictly needed to comb out the tangles in his hair. And, sometimes, when Meng Yao would let him, Nie Mingjue would return the favour.

Nie Mingjue slides the last pin into place and reaches out his hand for Meng Yao’s hair ornament, which Meng Yao passes over. As he begins looping braids through it, he comments, “Is this one new?”

“I picked it up the last time I was in the marketplace.”

“You should’ve told me you wanted more of them.”

“If you buy me any more things to wear, people will start to talk.” Meng Yao’s voice was stretched oddly thin.

Nie Mingjue frowned. “Maybe they should talk.”

“Why do you say that?” Perfectly calm, now, but Meng Yao smoothed out his robes in the way Nie Mingjue knew meant he was keeping his hands busy to prevent something from showing on his face, though he was still looking away.

Nie Mingjue’s mouth tightened into a hard line; he fixed the last of Meng Yao’s hair in place and then turned Meng Yao by the shoulders. “I value you. You deserve to be valued.”

Meng Yao glanced down at the floor. “This lowly one—”

“—Meng Yao—”

“Clan Leader Nie.” There it was again, an odd, frosty edge to his voice, though it was gone when he added, “You do me great honour.”

“But?”

Meng Yao turned his head away from him to face the other side of the room. “Forgive me for saying so, but it may not cause everyone to think of me well. Much as you may wish it.” In profile, he looked stormy. That Nie Mingjue could recognize it at all beneath the genteel mask was a testament to how deeply they had become entwined. Nie Mingjue took stock of him, trying to see past the veil of fondness to the man underneath: his soft mouth, rigid spine, and pride that never truly vanished, even when there was nothing in his words to indicate it was there. “There are things that people dare not say before your face. That does not mean they do not say them.”

“Do they not already?” Nie Mingjue wasn’t blind to the facts; there were those who ventured, in language no more polite than drunkards in a backwater inn, that Such things would come naturally to a man like Meng Yao. If he could really be called a man at all. Never mind that Meng Yao was more valuable and difficult to replace than any of them. In all the time since they’d begun this, he had been as faithful as any gentry wife. At any time of day, no matter the circumstance, if Meng Yao was called, he would turn to Nie Mingjue with a wide-open face and golden light in his eyes. In the light of that, it made little difference what allowances they paid each other when no one else was around.

He reached out to cup the side of Meng Yao's face and turn him closer. Meng Yao's eyelids slid closed. He leaned his soft cheek into Nie Mingjue's calloused palm. “They do.”

“Then let them speak the truth. You have found great favour here. I enjoy being seen with you by my side. I don’t think so little of you as to hide you in the dark.”

If he had—he couldn’t imagine Meng Yao would’ve liked that, either, being tucked away like something shameful, and Nie Mingjue would’ve liked it even less.

Meng Yao raised his small hand to place it on the back of Nie Mingjue's own. The warmth of his palm softened the chill that ran down Nie Mingjue’s spine when Meng Yao opened his eyes. They were glazed over with the distant resolve with which Nie Mingjue had seen him arm himself in front of pushy Wen envoys at the negotiation table. Nie Mingjue couldn’t recall being on the receiving end.

“Would you ever swear yourself to someone?”

“What do you mean?”

Meng Yao surveyed him coolly, searching for something in his face or his body. “Some men form sworn brotherhoods. Would you?”

Nie Mingjue felt like, at some point in the last few minutes, he’d lost hold of the thread of the conversation. “I’ve never given it much thought.”

He tried to imagine it. He’d never been one for giving eloquent speeches, but Meng Yao would be excellent at it, promising eternal loyalty and devotion in front of a group of witnesses. He placed a hand on the small of Meng Yao’s back.

Meng Yao murmured, “Perhaps you should.”

Ripples of disquiet moved through his chest, but before Nie Mingjue could tell him to spit out what exactly it was he wanted, Meng Yao rose to his feet, his eyes low and shuttered. “I regret bringing it up, Clan Leader Nie. It was not my place. Please forget I spoke so rashly. Now, if you’ll forgive me, the hour is getting late.”

Nie Mingjue is two knuckles deep into Jin Guangyao before he’s even admitted to himself he wants to be. His left hand presses Jin Guangyao down by the back of the neck, his head dangling off the edge of the table. It must be uncomfortable, keeping it held aloft enough to crane back and watch Nie Mingjue at work, but a little hard work never deters Jin Guangyao.

Jin Guangyao lays still under Nie Mingjue’s grasp for minutes at a time, only moving to slide his head to the side so he can look back and watch Nie Mingjue’s movements, though he can hardly see much. The angle causes his eye to roll up in its socket like a frightened cow being led to the butcher’s block. It does, however, put his face into profile, and Nie Mingjue has to blink away from the sight of a familiar, half-parted mouth. He fixes his gaze on his own right hand, opening Jin Guangyao up by degrees.

“Is this what you wanted?” His voice is pitched low, more from the simmering anger he never feels rid of than from arousal, but Jin Guangyao squeezes his eyes closed for long seconds before opening them back up again. When he does, his gaze looks hazy.

“I’m not the only one.”

It’s slow going with nothing but spit. Jin Guangyao isn’t making it easy for him; he keeps tensing up inside, as if he’d never learned how to relax into the feeling. The rougher he treats him the harder Jin Guangyao pushes back, daring him to do worse, trying to provoke Nie Mingjue into taking him like the wild beast some members of other sects accuse him behind his back of being whenever he refuses to go along with whatever dishonourable subterfuge is being proposed at the war table. Nie Mingjue had always liked this streak of boldness in him, the way his humble manner receded in the face of honest desire, but now Nie Mingjue's being tortured by it. Jin Guangyao is so hot inside he feels feverish. Nie Mingjue is so hard it hurts.

“Clan Leader Nie is very kind to give this one so much patience.” Jin Guangyao’s voice is strained, but not as much as it should be; no one should be able to speak this well while being fucked over a table.

He mutters, “Maybe this is all you’ll get.”

Jin Guangyao reaches behind him to grasp for Nie Mingjue's cock, still covered by his inner robes but prodding insistently through the fabric. Nie Mingjue bats his hand away, and Jin Guangyao lets out a breathless laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to find some satisfaction of your own?”

What he wants is to never be troubled by Jin Guangyao again. Fate is not on his side in this, and Nie Mingjue fumbles for the next best thing. The days for tenderness have passed, and Nie Mingjue will take what he can from what’s left.

Jin Guangyao is quiet, for now; he gasps and rocks back, fucking Nie Mingjue’s hand into himself harder, but doesn't speak. He lets his neck hang loose enough that his hair falls down around his shoulders to shield his face from Nie Mingjue’s view. They rarely did it like this, before. One of the first times they ever fucked, Meng Yao had told him, in a hushed tone too mischievous to be called shy, that he wanted to be able to see Nie Mingjue’s face. Over time he began to suspect that it was more important to Meng Yao that Nie Mingjue was able to see his face, but that wasn’t a hardship. He’s easy to look at.

One last time, then.

Nie Mingjue rolls him over with a single harsh pull. The heavy thud of Jin Guangyao's back landing on the hard wooden surface of the table makes his mouth water. It sounds like it hurt. He wants it to hurt. Jin Guangyao wheezes out a mixture of winded gasps and frantic laughter.

Jin Guangyao’s frame is so small that he has to stretch his thighs apart like he’s mounting a horse just to fit Nie Mingjue’s waist between them. He welcomes the sight of Jin Guangyao squirming under his weight, trying to find relief from the pressure bearing down on him, inside him, relief that Nie Mingjue has no desire to grant. His face is pink from exertion. A few locks of hair have come loose from his topknot and gotten stuck to his forehead with sweat. His eyes keep fluttering half-closed so all Nie Mingjue can see are the whites of his eyes, skewed rapturously upwards, and the dark cast of his lashes against his cheeks. His eyebrows are drawn, braced against discomfort; his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, which looks like a piece of bruised fruit from the work of his own teeth. Certainly the marks aren’t Nie Mingjue’s doing. The thought of kissing that mouth is nauseating.

In a vengeful moment that once would have shamed him, Nie Mingjue wonders whether Jin Guangyao came to this place ready to roll over for Wen Ruohan. Whether he did. Whether he had to strain like this, levering his left leg out of the way with one of his arms to allow Nie Mingjue better access, to fit him inside.

A whimper slips out of Jin Guangyao’s parted lips, and Nie Mingjue shoves the first two fingers of his left hand into Jin Guangyao’s mouth. Even this part of him is small; Nie Mingjue’s fingers span the width of Jin Guangyao’s tongue. It jumps at the touch. Nie Mingjue withdraws his hand as if it’d been burned.

Jin Guangyao laughs again, spit shining on his lips. It sounds genuine and very cruel. He tosses his head back, his hair fanning out on the wood surface below him, before he looks up at Nie Mingjue and murmurs, “Is this your first time since I left?” Nie Mingjue stills his thrusting for a moment, and Jin Guangyao blinks his eyes, now wide like saucers in feigned surprise. “Poor Clan Leader Nie. Were you thinking of it all the time I was gone?”

Nie Mingjue pushes forward instinctively and Jin Guangyao gasps, from the sound of it more pain than pleasure, and bites down into the corner of his generous bottom lip, still red and swollen from the rough treatment of Nie Mingjue’s fingers.

He mutters, “You came to me.”

“I came—to make amends. However you’ll accept them.” His ankles tighten their grip against Nie Mingjue’s ass, and Nie Mingjue picks up his pace.

“You can’t really think I’m that weak.”

Jin Guangyao’s thighs twitch and tremble with the effort of keeping his legs up and spread, and for his trouble Nie Mingjue shoves a hand under his left knee and hitches it higher, pulling him apart to let himself angle even deeper. Jin Guangyao makes an unearthly sound in response, squirming against him, but he’s not strong enough to shake Nie Mingjue's grip a bit. His small hands clutch at the meat of Nie Mingjue’s other forearm, where he holds him down. His face is viciously satisfied; he looks like he’s savouring a mouthful of priceless wine. “Of course not. You’re, ah, very strong.”

He still knows how Jin Guangyao likes to be fucked, though he wishes he didn’t. The look on Jin Guangyao’s face starts to go slack, and Nie Mingjue can feel him coming moments before he does, all over his own bare chest. The sight engulfs Nie Mingjue's whole body in a bloody-minded greed that is ugly and too compelling to be resisted for long.

Nie Mingjue stays inside him until he goes soft. Jin Guangyao pants for breath under him. His eyes are closed, and his expression is so peaceful he could be meditating.

When Nie Mingjue withdraws, he withdraws completely, moving to sit on the floor an arm’s length away. Jin Guangyao’s chest trembles, but he doesn’t open his eyes, seemingly content to lay back on the hard table surface with his pale legs hanging over the edge. Nie Mingjue watches his breathing slow, waiting for him to turn over and fix him with another one of those abominable stares that are almost indistinguishable from a look of love.

After a time, Jin Guangyao slides off of the table on shaky legs and begins to right himself. He hadn't taken his hair down before they'd started, and his delicate arrangement had paid the price. After checking his braids by feel, Jin Guangyao takes them out completely and starts the whole complicated process again, as though he’s about to get up and begin his morning routine, rather than slink back to whatever lair the Jin clan had given him to sleep at night. He’s quite skilled, to be able to braid his own hair so precisely without a mirror, but Nie Mingjue knew that already; he’s seen him do this many times before in the dim light of early morning. Jin Guangyao sits cross-legged and mostly naked on the floor next to the table, his inner robes rumpled and still hanging wide open, and fixes himself, plait by plait, for the eyes of any passers-by he might encounter in the darkness outside. Nie Mingjue doesn't move to help him. He can hardly stand to look at him. And, yet, he can't bear to turn away. Nie Mingjue makes a few halfhearted tugs to his clothing, trying to rectify the sorry state he’s in, and then stares at the opposite wall in silence, keeping Jin Guangyao in the edge of his sight.

After his hair has been fastened into order, Jin Guangyao produces a folded cloth from somewhere and begins wiping down his chest with neat movements. Nie Mingjue has to look away from that, and when he glances back a few seconds later Jin Guangyao has started dressing himself, opening up each meticulously folded layer of his clothing with obvious care before draping himself and smoothing them into place. He moves unhurriedly, as if it's not the middle of the night, as if needing to be well-rested the next day is a concern of lesser men. Nie Mingjue could tell him to get out already, but it’s not as though he'll be able to sleep any faster once Jin Guangyao is gone.

Jin Guangyao unfolds the last of his layers, the heavy robe given to him by the Jin patriarch, embroidered with the peony Sparks-amid-snow, and pulls his arms through the sleeves when he says, “Tomorrow Zewu-jun will approach you again. He has his heart set on sworn brotherhood. If you want to shatter his hopes, you’ll have your chance.”

“I'll say what I have to say to his face.”

“And what will that be, Clan Leader Nie?”

Nie Mingjue’s throat makes a mirthless sound that is not a laugh. His ancestors built up the Unclean Realms the way it still remains, all craggy rock faces and impassable gates, due to the omnipresent threat of the Qishan Wen so close by. Nie Mingjue knows what it's like to dwell in the shadow of your enemy; he knows that hiding from evil is less effective than bracing yourself for it and watching, wary, for its strike.

Jin Guangyao pauses in the midst of belting his waist. He studies Nie Mingjue’s face and sees something to his liking. He smiles. The worst thing about it is how it looks utterly genuine. “Zewu-jun will be so happy.”

“I'm not doing it for him,” Nie Mingjue says, unsure whether or not it's a lie.

“In any case. Someone’s accidental happiness is better than none, isn't it?” Jin Guangyao brushes his loose hair behind his shoulders. In the dim light, where the colours of his clothes are hard to make out, he looks almost exactly like he once did; only the vermillion mark between his brows gives him away. “It makes me happy, too.”

He stands, tugs his robes into order one last time, and gives Nie Mingjue a deep bow from the waist. Nie Mingjue doesn’t get up or look him in the eye. He holds himself in check with clenched fingers on his propped-up knee and stares past Jin Guangyao’s shoulder to the wall behind him. When Jin Guangyao rights himself, he has the decency not to smile, but he doesn’t need to. His voice is naked victory.

“Good night, da-ge. Sleep well.”