flight of a one-winged dove

The concerns that end up last on the agenda at a discussion conference are the kind of thing so inconsequential it doesn’t matter if half the sect leaders in attendance are thinking about going home the next day and fucking their wives. For his part, Nie Huaisang runs a fingertip around the whorls in the wood grain of his table, fans himself, and watches Lan Jingyi’s knee jiggle where he sits with the other inner Lan disciples behind the Chief Cultivator. Some tics of boredom not even Gusu Lan discipline can eradicate, though perhaps Lan Wangji is just indulgent about such things.

If Nie Huaisang is still following the thread of the proceedings, Qin Cangye is bringing to a close his winding defense of his sect’s handling of a series of hauntings. The Chief Cultivator himself is watching impassively as ever. Lan Wangji would surely rather be somewhere else; he’s always palpably miserable at these proceedings, but until a better candidate—or at least a willing one—comes forward, he will remain His Excellency instead of joining a traveling theatre troupe with Wei Wuxian, or doing any of the other things Nie Huaisang is sure Lan Wangji would rather suffer through than politics.

Lan Wangji seems to have taken the lesson that the Chief Cultivator ought to behave as differently as possible from Jin Guangyao as to avoid Another Round Of All That, and so he puts the minimum amount of effort into maintaining social graces. The thing Lan Wangji misses is that, despite his other faults, Jin Guangyao kept the cultivation world’s affairs well in hand. Lan Wangji would never take advice from Nie Huaisang—whom he has held in contempt since they were ten and steadfastly avoiding eye contact as their elder brothers exchanged a solemn and dignified version of gleeful adolescent gossip—even if Nie Huaisang were inclined to give it.

What is er-ge doing right now, in the Hanshi? No one except for, possibly, some of his family or sect members has seen him ever since he went into seclusion. It’s impossible to be certain he’s even still alive. His family could be keeping the secret quiet for as long as possible. Lying is prohibited in the Cloud Recesses, though it hasn't stopped them before.

Nie Huaisang feels certain that Lan Xichen is exactly where he’s said to be. It’s in his nature to take his self-imposed punishment exactly as promised. Perhaps Nie Huaisang should pay him a visit while he’s here.

Qin Cangye’s speech ends, and the hall fills with low mutters signalling the collective eagerness to stretch legs. Nie Huaisang can just fit his fingernail into the groove in the wood grain. He’s aware of the sound of someone getting to their feet, and doesn’t look up when he hears Jiang Cheng say, “Your Excellency, one last thing.”

No sound follows, but he must assume Lan Wangji begrudgingly nods, because Jiang Cheng adds, “I've heard reports of the Qinghe Nie sect hosting an unusual amount of guest cultivators lately. Is that true, Nie-zongzhu?”

Nie Huaisang lifts his head and blinks as if he’s just woken up from a dream.

What is it about Jiang Cheng’s face that makes him look so accusatory no matter what he’s saying? He’s been like that his whole life.

Nie Huaisang sits up a little straighter yet—he could stand up, as Jiang Cheng has, but that’s a lot of effort for so late in the day—clears his throat, and licks his bottom lip. “I’m not sure what Jiang-zongzhu is referring to.”

A vague, discontented murmur passes over the room. He’s not sure to which of them it’s directed; maybe both. Nie Huaisang keeps his eyes wide and a little dazed. It isn’t hard. He’s tired.

Jiang Cheng’s lip curls. “So you deny it?”

Oh, good grief, he makes it sound so sinister. If Nie Huaisang were to interrogate Jiang Cheng in front of the whole cultivation world on how he runs his sect, he’d be laughed out of the hall!

Not to mention—how does he know about it? He didn’t think Jiang Cheng even had spies. Is this a vestige of his Wei Wuxian-hunting days? Hasn’t he had a chance to calm down about the menace of demonic cultivators hidden in their midst? The worst outcome on that front, in Jiang Cheng’s eyes, has already happened. Nie Huaisang made sure of it.

“Oh, I really don't know. I host a lot of people. I like having guests. I had this dog breeder come by recently, he has the tiniest little puppies, they could fit in the palm of your hand…”

Lan Wangji interjects. “Jiang-zongzhu. Is this urgent?”

Jiang Cheng’s nostrils flare, and for the first time since taking to his feet, he looks away from Nie Huaisang. He might be the second unhappiest man in the world that Lan Wangji has replaced Jin Guangyao as Chief Cultivator, besides the man himself.

None of the other sect leaders seated at the table look half as concerned about these vague charges as Jiang Cheng. On the contrary, he’s being given dirty looks by most, probably for keeping them from their dinner. This is where you end up if you cry wolf too many times, Jiang-xiong; perhaps you should've thought of that. Jiang Cheng works his jaw and visibly considers how much he feels like arguing with the Chief Cultivator.

The only figure in the room who’s looking elsewhere, besides Nie Huaisang, is Jiang Cheng’s nephew. Nie Huaisang taps his fingers on the tabletop and studies Jin Ling. His gaze is fixed on the table in front of him, but his jaw is set just as firmly as his uncle’s.

Jiang Cheng backs down, and Lan Wangji releases them to go enjoy themselves as best they can at a banquet where both alcohol and talking are prohibited. The idea of the Cloud Recesses playing host to dancers and serving up platters of sweets is like the start of a bad joke, but they do serve dinner, plain though it may be, and once the tables are cleared the expectation is that the sect leaders and their disciples may take the opportunity to interact in a less formal capacity.

Nie Huaisang stays long enough for the first courses to be served and then slips out of the hall, taking with him a handful of dried plums that he scooped into his palm under the table. His disciples won’t fret; they’re used to him disappearing at inappropriate moments.

The path to the Hanshi is as immaculately kept as it ever was. Nie Huaisang takes a meandering path, eating out of his hand as he goes. Is Xichen-ge taking his evening meal, still abiding by that regular Cloud Recesses tempo even in seclusion? If Nie Huaisang knocks on the door of the Hanshi, will he disturb him?

He never gets the chance to find out; Nie Huaisang can hear someone coming down the path behind him.

“Nie-zongzhu.”

He smiles to himself. That quick, irritated stride is truly unique—who else is ever in such a perpetual hurry?

Nie Huaisang turns around and blinks, slow and wide-eyed. “Oh, Jiang-xiong. Enjoying the evening?”

“Where are you going?”

He keeps his face open and pleasant, which makes Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrow further.

“I’m taking a walk. Cloud Recesses is beautiful at night, don’t you think?”

Jiang Cheng gives him a disdainful once-over. “May I have a word?”

Nie Huaisang laughs. “Of course, of course.”

Neither moves. Jiang Cheng breaks first.

Stiffly: “I’d prefer to go somewhere more private.”

Nie Huaisang fans himself, a smile blossoming across his face. “I don’t see anyone around.”

But he indulges Jiang Cheng in his desire for privacy; they wander one of the innumerable narrow paths through the woods. Once they leave the open areas the air feels heavier, lusher. Jiang Cheng wants to walk briskly, but Nie Huaisang refuses, and he notes with satisfaction that Jiang Cheng slows his stride to accommodate him.

“What brings you away from the banquet so early, Jiang-xiong? Just wanting to catch up with me?”

In response, Jiang Cheng gives Nie Huaisang something between a grunt and a scoff. Admirable, the innovations he has made in the art of casual rudeness to old friends. That’s to be expected, but he doesn’t answer the question at all, which is unlike him; Jiang Cheng was born with the incurable need to explain himself.

It’s still early enough in the evening that the light gives a faint shine to Jiang Cheng’s hair. Nie Huaisang watches the cool shadows of leaves and branches play over the warm black, and Jiang Cheng stares ahead, heedless.

“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling,” Jiang Cheng eventually manages, once they’ve passed fully out of sight of any onlookers.

“I really don’t know about anything like that. Who am I fooling?”

“Whatever you’re doing...” Jiang Cheng’s stare hardens, and he turns to look at Nie Huaisang for the first time since they began walking; Nie Huaisang looks away in turn, but he can feel Jiang Cheng’s regard boring into Nie Huaisang’s temple. Someone needs to watch their footing; it’s darker out here, under the branches.

“Don’t think anyone owes you. You can’t carry on like he did and expect people not to notice.”

Nie Huaisang hasn’t heard the title Lianfang-zun spoken since he died, there’s a new Jin-zongzhu in the Fragrant Palace, and there are only two people alive for whom he remains san-ge.

“Is that what you think I’m doing, Jiang-xiong?” An ungainly snort comes through Nie Huaisang’s nose.

“The act doesn’t work on me anymore. I was there.”

He says it with particular intensity; but ah, there’s Jin Ling, that silly, meddling boy. Nie Huaisang dislikes being held responsible for that: Jin Rulan wasn’t even supposed to be there, but family is family. He can understand Jiang Cheng’s resentment where this is concerned.

After some less-than-companionable silence, Nie Huaisang changes the subject. “Is it strange for you, having to address your nephew as a sect leader?”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flicker around their surroundings as though looking for some hidden threat to emerge and give him an opportunity to vent his frustration. Doesn’t he get tired? “If you decide to claim further reparations from him, I expect you to declare your intentions publicly.”

He sighs. “Haven’t we finished negotiating? I don’t want to hear anything about politics until I’ve had a chance to sleep this week off.” Jiang Cheng makes a mirthless sound, and Nie Huaisang adds, “I'm surprised you aren’t taking the opportunity to spend time with Jin Ling. It must be harder to see him, these days.”

“I don’t see how that’s your business,” Jiang Cheng spits, with enough sudden vehemence that Nie Huaisang's interest is really piqued. Now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember seeing Jiang Cheng crossing the room to loom over his nephew’s shoulder and hiss into his ear even once all week. Curious!

In the early years at Carp Tower, when Jin Ling was small enough to be carried by one arm, he was surrounded by governesses and had a grandmother and an aunt besides. It would’ve been acceptable for his mother’s brother to do nothing more than send him a few token gifts a year and watch his sword practice whenever business brought him to Lanling, but Jiang Cheng ran himself ragged, taking the boy back to Lotus Pier whenever he could, as though afraid something terrible would happen to him as soon as his own back was turned. Prescient, really; Jiang Cheng was paranoid to a fault, but Carp Tower wasn’t a safe place for Jin children back then, was it? Or for anyone else.

Before Jin Ling became enough of a person for Jiang Cheng to work himself into knots criticizing him, the whole thing had been quite cute. Jiang Cheng had been skinny and pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and Nie Huaisang had known even then it couldn’t all be attributed to the demands of surrogate parenthood—the rumours of what Jiang Wanyin would do to suspected demonic cultivators were already circling—but he’d been able to overlook that, since it didn’t affect him. He’d been fond of Jiang Cheng, even after the Burial Mounds and Heavenly Nightless City, and Nie Huaisang was skilled at not letting himself think about the things done by people he’d liked, if it let him keep liking them. He enjoyed Jiang Cheng’s presence quite a lot, even then, when Jiang Cheng could hardly have been said to be fun. His state of being young and overworked was familiar—Nie Huaisang remembered what da-ge had been like just after their father died—and Jiang Cheng had never been bad-looking to start with. It could be said, then, that Jin Ling was part of why Nie Huaisang had…

“You’re forty this year, aren’t you, Jiang-xiong?”

“Not until next year. And so are you.”

“You look well.”

There it is: at first, he assumes it’s only wishful thinking, but he glimpses a flicker of bashfulness that even Jiang Cheng’s frightfully sour face can’t suppress. That’s the thing about Jiang Cheng; he can’t keep his thoughts to himself. Luckily for him, his expressions are usually variations on the same basic themes of exhaustion, irritation, and rage. But not always; not always!

Nie Huaisang remembers stumbling along these same paths in haste to escape Lan Wangji’s wrath, drunker than he’d ever been, and tripping and falling against Jiang Cheng’s back. Little more than a year later, after Wei Wuxian’s first return from the dead, Jiang Cheng had let his newly-minted sect leader’s seriousness slip for long enough to tug Nie Huaisang around the Unclean Realms by the elbow and ask him fumbling questions about banquet arrangements. Nothing life-changing, by anyone’s standards, but they’d enjoyed each other’s company, hadn’t they?

And there was that evening. The whole thing had been over in less time than it took to drink a pot of tea, but Nie Huaisang had been looking for distractions, and he was silly and inexperienced enough to think that a favour given to one’s sometime-friend meant something. Da-ge was already so sick. Nie Huaisang had been deluding himself by thinking there was any chance they could have—whatever he thought they might. Six months later, he was sobbing into his sleeves at a treaty negotiation while the other sect leaders, Jiang Wanyin among them, looked on in distaste, and they hadn’t socialized privately since.

He’d assumed that Jiang Cheng hadn’t given it a second thought, or if he had, only as retroactive proof that Nie Huaisang had never been anything but a hedonistic, irresponsible excuse for a sect heir, let alone a sect leader. He may have been an active participant at the time, but Jiang Cheng was good at making excuses for himself. Nie Huaisang looks at Jiang Cheng’s ducked gaze, a decade and a half later, and thinks, perhaps he hasn’t forgotten, and perhaps a mountain scaled once can be scaled again.

He smiles, and for the first time that evening it requires no effort. On the contrary; this one Nie Huaisang has to restrain.

Nie Huaisang grips the fabric around Jiang Cheng’s bicep for just long enough to stop him in his tracks. “Jiang-xiong, it’s getting dark. I don’t want to get lost out here. The rabbits scare me. I don’t like their red little eyes.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes, but not before Nie Huaisang catches him glancing down at the place on his arm where Nie Huaisang’s hand had been. “I know how to get back.”

Boredom makes him reckless, and life is very, very boring lately. His self-control weakens by the moment in favour of gnawing hunger, accompanied by a persistent voice that says, Why not? It’s not as if you’ve got anything to lose that wasn’t already lost a long time ago.

He leans in close, so the fabric of their sleeves brushes together, and whispers, “Will you go to His Excellency if I tell you I’ve broken a rule?”

“Just tell me,” Jiang Cheng says, his voice dripping with disgust—but Nie Huaisang is reasonably confident that Jiang Cheng would rather walk on nails than go crawling back to Lan Wangji for the second time that night to rat him out.

Nie Huaisang weighs the benefits of being coy, but Jiang Cheng isn’t a subtle man. He stands up on his tiptoes, bringing his mouth close to Jiang Cheng’s ear, and puts his hand back on Jiang Cheng’s forearm to steady himself. If he acts appalled now, all it will cost Nie Huaisang is having to endure an awkward walk back to the guest quarters, since Jiang Cheng is obliged to help him find his way.

“I brought alcohol into the Cloud Recesses. You’re welcome to have some, if you don’t mind sharing.”

In twilight’s blue gleam, Jiang Cheng’s arm is tense beneath Nie Huaisang’s fingers, but this time, Nie Huaisang doesn’t release his grip, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry, Jiang-xiong, I would’ve put more effort into the room if I thought I’d be hosting visitors.”

Jiang Cheng follows Nie Huaisang into his room, but doesn’t go much further than the threshold. He watches Nie Huaisang light candles with visible apprehension. What does he think he’s going to do? Poison him? There’s nothing that Nie Huaisang needs to get out of Jiang Cheng that would require those sort of tactics. Everything that Nie Huaisang wants out of Jiang Cheng right now is strictly a matter of wanting.

He keeps thinking, this is the point at which Jiang Cheng will curl his lip and turn on his heel, and he keeps being proven wrong. He’s almost hoping that Jiang Cheng will rebuff him. At least, then, Nie Huaisang will have a sense of the shape of things. He’ll know what is and isn’t allowed. He’s tired of everything being so unfixed, so uncertain. At least before he knew what to do with himself, and what other people were to him.

Nie Huaisang sinks into a crouch next to his luggage. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jiang Cheng’s eyes track his descent. Nie Huaisang would’ve been happier to get out of bed this morning if he’d anticipated that this was the type of evening he’d have.

His fingers touch cool ceramic, and he picks up the bottle of Emperor’s Smile he’d nostalgically picked up in Caiyi Town. He crosses the room to where Jiang Cheng still stands, hands by his sides, clearly unwilling to sit without an invitation. Nie Huaisang tucks his fan into his belt, opens the bottle, and takes a dainty sip. His eyes don’t leave Jiang Cheng’s face.

Jiang Cheng’s eyebrows twist. “Don’t you have cups?”

“I’m not sure where I put them. I didn’t think you were so fussy.” He only lit a handful of candles when he came into the room, and in the dimness it feels as though they stand outside of time. “You don’t mind sharing it this way, do you?” He murmurs, and smiles when Jiang Cheng hisses through his teeth, reaches out, and takes the offered bottle.

Jiang Cheng is careful to grasp it by the bottom half, to avoid having to brush hands, but Nie Huaisang drags his pinky finger down to touch the top of Jiang Cheng’s thumb before he lets go. He makes no attempt to hide the way his gaze fixes on Jiang Cheng’s mouth when it parts around its neck. Jiang Cheng pauses, halfway into tipping it into his mouth, before he lifts the bottle higher. The cords of his neck ripple as he swallows. The knot of his throat juts out enough to be noticeable even in the half-dark, and Nie Huaisang wants to sink his teeth into it.

Now that Jiang Cheng has sipped from the same bottle, he can’t go telling anyone what they’ve done without incriminating himself, too. And even if he did: what’s there to say about Nie Huaisang that hasn’t already been said? Nie-zongzhu is frivolous, can’t hold his liquor, and makes indiscreet advances unbecoming of a sect leader? Yes, yes, would go the rumour mill, tell us something we don’t know.

The hand with which he’d passed Jiang Cheng the bottle is still aloft, and he reaches forward just enough to run the tip of his index finger down Jiang Cheng’s chest, following the line of his lapel until he meets the leather of his belt.

He looks like a hunted animal. It’s time to commit, Jiang Cheng; hold your ground or retreat. Use that good tactician’s sense of yours.

“What are you doing.”

“Did you really forget, Jiang-xiong? I know it’s been a long time, but I thought I did a good enough job.”

Jiang Cheng’s lips are still half-parted, and he breathes in and out through his mouth as if he can’t get enough air in his lungs. He still holds the bottle, but he hasn’t taken a drink since Nie Huaisang touched him.

Up this close, Nie Huaisang has to curve his neck to meet Jiang Cheng’s eyes. He could kiss him, if he pulled him down by the shoulders enough to reach.

Nie Huaisang’s left hand joins his right, feeling along the metal ridges of Jiang Cheng’s belt for the clasps. “You had just finished working something out with da-ge. I don’t remember what. I didn’t pay attention to anything back then.” He unhooks a fastening, and then moves his hands around the circumference of Jiang Cheng’s waist to where the leather is looped together behind his back.

“After he let you go, I dragged you back to my room to catch up. You didn’t really want to socialize, but I think you didn’t want to seem rude in front of da-ge.” The tongue of the belt slides free, and Nie Huaisang releases his grasp: the whole of it falls to the floor with a thud that fails to obscure Jiang Cheng’s sharp intake of breath.

Nie Huaisang brings his hands back around to Jiang Cheng’s front, but doesn’t touch him yet; he holds his right hand close enough to the parting of Jiang Cheng’s robes that he must be able to feel its presence in the air. “We had dinner, and then drinks, and then I asked you if you’d let me blow you. And you did.”

“Nie Huaisang.” Jiang Cheng’s tone is a warning. Nie Huaisang slides his hand between the layers of fabric to caress the infuriatingly taut stomach beneath, and Jiang Cheng flinches at the contact, but it’s the flinch of being startled; he doesn’t step backwards, or lift a hand to push him away.

“Will you pass me the wine?”

Nie Huaisang slides his palm over Jiang Cheng’s fingers when he passes it over. He takes a much bigger draught than he had the first time. The mouth of the bottle is warmer now than it was, thanks to Jiang Cheng’s lips. He swallows, wipes the lingering wetness at the corner of his own mouth with the pad of his thumb, and then sinks to his knees.

He caps the bottle, of course, and sets it a safe distance to the side. No use letting it go to waste.

Jiang Cheng has, it must be said, an above-average cock in both shape and appearance. Nie Huaisang would never tell him this. He wonders if he’s already aware. Severely doubtful.

He’s quite flatteringly hard already—Nie Huaisang had not expected so warm a welcome. He experiences a moment of pleasure over how small his hand looks with Jiang Cheng’s cock cupped in his palm.

Jiang Cheng’s hand lands on top of Nie Huaisang’s head, gingerly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. It feels almost nice, but the more tentative that Jiang Cheng acts, the more that Nie Huaisang wants to give him a reason to be, so he frowns upwards. “Keep your hands on the wall, Jiang-xiong, it’s distracting.”

Jiang Cheng withdraws his hand like he’s been burned, and then slowly—does he think Nie Huaisang is going to change his mind?—takes the half-step backwards necessary for him to flatten his palms on the wall. He’s apprehensive. Isn’t that endearing of him. Nie Huaisang shuffles forward, smiles—no longer worried about making Jiang Cheng feel laughed at, he now suspects Sandu Shengshou’s stalwart erection could survive such a thing, perhaps even flourish under those conditions—and murmurs, “That’s it,” before taking him into his mouth.

He can feel Jiang Cheng’s thighs tense next to his face. Jiang Cheng makes an undignified sound, and Nie Huaisang lets himself savour the satisfaction: see, all these years he hasn’t spent his time completely in vain! He’s learned a thing or two, put the time in to study skills that come in handy more often than elaborate cultivation techniques. Jiang Cheng ought not to be so smug unless he could best Nie Huaisang in this arena, as well.

Oh, that thought is worth thinking—but perhaps another time.

Jiang Cheng makes a choked spluttering noise. He likes the sounds, most of all, but ever since Nie Huaisang closed his lips around Jiang Cheng’s cock, Jiang Cheng has been sagging back against the wall, and he likes that, too. Jiang Cheng is a mouthful, like he remembered—he hadn’t been sure if it was just the judgement of his easily-impressed younger self, but he’s not disappointed today. His right hand curls around the base of Jiang Cheng’s dick, squeezing him harder than he’d usually dare, but he’s worried Jiang Cheng will go off too early, and his first exploratory strokes led him to believe Jiang Cheng likes it on the tighter side. He’s proven right, because Nie Huaisang’s left hand grips Jiang Cheng’s leg, and he feels in his fingertips each shudder and muscle spasm as Jiang Cheng goes to pieces.

Nie Huaisang enjoys giving head for the way it leaves him with nothing to think of but sensation and the vague desire to be told how cute or pretty or dirty or whatever any given man thinks he looks. He likes to be that, for however long the encounter lasts, and to not have to be anything else. That isn’t how he feels now; he can’t forget himself with the way his mind is turning over hazy possibilities for the rest of the night. The alcohol warms his chest and slows his thoughts, and he’s surprised by how much he wants out of Jiang Cheng, now that he has him in his grasp. He wants to make the most of it, before the opportunity is gone.

He curls his tongue under the head, glances up at Jiang Cheng’s face, and even in the dimness Nie Huaisang makes out the gleam of his wide, shocked eyes. When their gazes meet, Jiang Cheng’s lips fall open, and Nie Huaisang feels a surge of giddy viciousness that takes him by surprise. He barely restrains himself from taking his mouth off of Jiang Cheng’s cock to say, Be careful; you’ll make me want to put something in there if you keep it open like that.

Nie Huaisang swallows around Jiang Cheng one more time before sitting back on his heels to catch his breath. His chin and cheeks feel sticky, and strands of his hair have become dislodged to hang around his face. He leans back in, but doesn’t take Jiang Cheng’s dick fully back into his mouth; Nie Huaisang runs his tongue over it idly, just enough to keep it hard and aching, while his free hand roams. He wants to see just how far Jiang Cheng will let him presume.

Nie Huaisang’s hand fondling Jiang Cheng’s balls produces a soft ah. He moves further back, running an inquisitive thumb over the taint before pressing a single fingertip between his cheeks to brush over Jiang Cheng’s hole. He wonders if he’ll get smacked for this, or if not, whether Jiang-zongzhu has other dramatics in store. Nie Huiasang touches it again, more boldly, but still playing with the pucker gently, like a dance meant to whet the appetite, not satisfy.

Jiang Cheng’s spine curves, and Nie Huaisang realizes that Jiang Cheng is babbling under his breath, a string of disconnected words, “No, yes, I, why, you, I—”

Nie Huaisang leans back. “Was that too much for you, Jiang-xiong? I was just teasing, I’ll stop if you like.” His voice is a little hoarse, even though Jiang Cheng has been good and hasn’t thrusted at all, besides unconscious hitches of his hips.

One long cycle of breath passes, and then another. Jiang Cheng is silent. His cock is slick in Nie Huaisang’s palm. Jiang Cheng just swallows (audibly—his poor dry throat—) and keeps his hands where Nie Huaisang ordered them. Nie Huaisang’s gaze drifts there, to where he’s holding himself in check, and can count the bones in the back of Jiang Cheng’s hands, jutting out of the skin.

“I didn’t expect you to like this. I’m impressed.” He kisses along the side of his cock a few times, idly, and then asks, “Have you been fucked before?”

“No,” Jiang Cheng replies incredulously, as if this is a shocking thing to wonder about a man who had just been moaning over a little petting around his hole.

“Do you want to?” Nie Huaisang asks brightly, because he wants to know the answer. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jiang Cheng says yes. He’s been enjoying the developments of the evening too much to ruin it by doing something that always makes him feel ugly and vaguely embarrassed.

“I don’t…”

Jiang Cheng can’t finish his answer. His jaw is clenched like he’s got a mouse in there that he’s trying not to let escape. Terror makes him look—sweet, and that isn’t a word Nie Huaisang has had reason to associate with Jiang Cheng in a very long time. Nie Huaisang feels a predatory twinge, and he pulls away to sit back on his heels, looks up to meet Jiang Cheng’s eyes—wild, open, black with desire—and breathes, “Turn around. Keep your hands on the wall.”

Will he do it? Will he really? Oh, will you look at that, Jiang Cheng’s fingers flex like he’s trying to conjure up something to strangle but he does it! He’s lucky no one but Nie Huaisang is daring enough to brave the trials of his company, because if word got out that this is what Sandu Shengshou gets like after a little head, he’d be ruined.

Nie Huaisang gets to his feet, slowly, as not to startle Jiang Cheng, though Jiang Cheng’s back is turned. He can’t restrain himself from clicking his tongue. “I’m learning so much about you tonight, Jiang-xiong.”

The long line of Jiang Cheng’s neck and throat tightens, but he doesn’t turn around in response to Nie Huaisang’s taunting. Nie Huaisang would be very surprised if Jiang Cheng gives him so much as a glance for the rest of the night, now that he’s been thoroughly embarrassed. It just makes Nie Huaisang want to embarrass him more. It’s so easy, and the rewards so great.

Nie Huaisang steps forward, one foot and then the next. He was close enough to start with that it brings him flush against Jiang Cheng’s back. The top of Nie Huaisang’s head only comes up to the top of Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. He’s inexplicably tempted to lay his cheek against Jiang Cheng’s shoulder blade. Nie Huaisang likes the warmth of Jiang Cheng’s body under his. Through their clothes, he can feel the solidity of the hard-earned physique Jiang Cheng has had since they were young.

What does Jiang Cheng think is going to happen, here? Just how much would he go along with? Nie Huaisang is making this all up as he goes along. He braces his forehead against Jiang Cheng’s back and curls his hand around his cock. This close, he feels Jiang Cheng’s shudder pass through his own body.

Jiang Cheng is hot and wet in the palm of Nie Huaisang’s hand. The harder he grips him, the faster Jiang Cheng’s barely suppressed whines tumble out of his throat. It must hurt. Surely it hurts. He doesn’t tell Nie Huaisang to stop.

Nie Huaisang is short of breath; he pants against the fabric of Jiang Cheng’s robes, feeling faint dampness gather on the cloth. He gets some stimulation off of the push of Jiang Cheng’s ass back against him, but not enough to get anywhere. Nie Huaisang’s body is vibrating at a high pitch. Nie Huaisang stands up on the tips of his toes and rests his weight against Jiang Cheng’s back as much as he can while still keeping his grip. He can’t get his mouth level with Jiang Cheng’s ear; his face presses against Jiang Cheng’s hair. In a moment of fevered impulse, Nie Huaisang reaches up with his free hand to gather a fistful of it and yank, tipping Jiang Cheng’s head back so that Nie Huaisang can whisper, “I wasn’t expecting you’d bend over like this, Jiang-xiong—”

Jiang Cheng whimpers, a fractured, pained sound, and comes all over Nie Huaisang’s hand.

Heavy rain drums on the roof overhead. The sheer loudness of it feels wrong. Excessive noise is prohibited in the Cloud Recesses.

As he has each morning of the conference, Nie Huaisang wakes up disoriented. At first, it’s the confusion of being in an unfamiliar place; after that, recognition of the physical space sets in, and he feels lost in time.

Nie Huaisang comes back to himself, to his own day, courtesy of the faint soreness in his shoulders. His current quarters are more luxurious than most in Gusu, but he’s become a pickier sleeper with the decades.

He pulls the blankets around himself a little tighter and admires the elegant dark-wood beams and tasteful furnishings. It’s almost unbelievable that the Cloud Recesses were burned down little more than twenty years ago. The Gusu Lan have rebuilt a perfect replica of what was lost. Jin Guangyao’s investments keep paying returns even after he’s dead.

Nie Huaisang’s jaw is also vaguely sore. His belongings are scattered around the room more messily than he’d normally leave them in an unfamiliar place; his gaze migrates over to the stoppered bottle sitting on the floor, and he experiences the creeping feeling up his spine that comes with remembrance of events that would have been better left forgotten.

Before Nie Huaisang had even let go of him, Jiang Cheng’s head went down to hang between his shoulders. He’d been unwilling to move away from the wall, and it took Nie Huaisang a few moments of confusion before he’d laughed softly and said, You can move your hands now, Jiang-xiong. Jiang Cheng had turned around to face him, his face flushed and eyes wide, and gazed at Nie Huaisang as though he expected to be told what to do next.

He had suddenly wanted to be alone. He’d never liked being someone people looked to for guidance, or solace.

This was a mistake, he’d realized, almost as soon as it was over. Don’t go giving anyone ideas, or getting them yourself.

Nie Huaisang had helped him dress, just in the interest of speed, and then ushered Jiang Cheng out of the door, saying, You don’t want to wake up here, do you? People will talk.

However accurately Yunmeng Jiang reconstructed the buildings, the Lotus Pier that stands now is a different one than the one that was razed. The character of the place has shifted; less carefree, more disciplined. Jiang Cheng would take it the wrong way if Nie Huaisang told him so, even though it’s something Nie Huaisang admires. He wishes for that strength of character. He’s in the position himself of trying to remake his sect, to die leaving behind something fundamentally different in nature than what he was given.

As he does every morning, Nie Huaisang sits up, shakes out the sleep-creases from his hair, and closes his eyes to silently recite his list. Fortify the tombs. Secure an heir. Find a better way to soothe the sabre spirits of the living. And then, he…

He has obligations to the ancestors, to the sect, and to da-ge. Once he’s met them, he could do anything: recede into seclusion, like Xichen-ge; wander as a rogue cultivator, like Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan; or flee to Dongying, as Jin Guangyao hoped to do. He could take his own life inside an unimportant room, like Mo Xuanyu, alone and nearly forgotten. Some of these futures are more likely than others. There’s no one who will miss him, not really.

Lately, his litany is followed by meditation. Nie Huaisang! Meditating! Voluntarily! Let it never be said people can’t change their ways.

He’s hosted a variety of rogue cultivators over the past half-year. Many of them were charlatans, of course, or aspiring Yiling Patriarchs, but some did genuinely have novel cultivation methods up their sleeves. No theory is too dubious to be pitched to the Head-Shaker. One woman from a far northern steppe purported to have learned a unique method of qi stabilization by aiming to regulate irregularities in yin energy. Be careful, she’d said; too much of this type of manipulation of yin energy can have unintended effects. A cultivator I know found that, before long, he...

Nie Huaisang has not, strictly, been careful. One could go so far as to say he has been reckless.

Ducking through the immaculately groomed corridors of the Cloud Recesses, trying not to be spotted by certain people: this is also nostalgic. His head disciple’s face is flooded with visible relief when Nie Huaisang emerges to join the rest of the Qinghe Nie retinue. They know better than to ask him too many questions about where he went last night or why, but they’ve managed fine in his absence. They’re packed and turned out in travelling clothes, sabres ready for the flight home, and it strikes him once again how much they’ve learned to get along on their own in the years since da-ge died, and how little they need him at all.

“Let’s hurry to make our goodbyes to our hosts, then. I’d like to get there before Jiang-zongzhu.”

The group laughs a little, cautious about poking fun at another sect leader but glad that their own is in a good mood, if looking a little tired. He leads the party into the same hall in which Lan Qiren has been nodding thoughtfully since the first time Nie Huaisang ever came here, and they make their bows accordingly. There’s no Meng Yao by his side, so Nie Huaisang recites all the formal politenesses himself, only forgetting a few lines, and only one of them on purpose.