dumbshow | highly new, slightly improved open post

[—Oh right, the drawing. Huaisang makes a face like he forgot, which he did not, but each time he thought to bring it up he remembered that stupid, stupid thing he said on the boat and went to look through more forbidden books.

But if Jiang Cheng is just going to ask, that's different! He perks up, going from sitting there looking haggard (from the perils of copying) to enthused in about a second.]

You want to? Then come here, come here—

[He scoots to the side, making room at his table for Jiang Cheng to come and sit beside him. He has some fresh paper and ink and brushes all ready to go right here, you know, from pretending to copy lines... He'll live with the brotherly disapproval circle bearing down on him, surely.

He passes Jiang Cheng a brush as soon as he's settled. Hi, it's time.]

Draw a lotus for me first.

[Hm. He knows what a lotus looks like, obviously, but it's one thing to know it and another to draw it. He hesitates for a few seconds; then, holding his sleeve back, he draws . . . ehhh, it's okay. It's a rudimentary lotus. It's recognizable, kind of.]

. . . shut up.

[At least huffing over that means he doesn't obsesses over, hm, the way Huaisang is right there, all lithe limbs and delicate fingers, his eyes far too bright as he glances over at him. How is Jiang Cheng meant to draw when Huaisang looks at him like that? God.]

[Oh, it's cute... Jiang Cheng being bad at art shouldn't be something that makes him more attractive, and yet? Here they are. Huaisang stifles a laugh hastily--]

I didn't say anything! —Wait here.

[And there he goes, off to the Shelves not to retrieve a nasty book but to go past to the obscured window, where a purely decorative branch of plum blossoms was probably supposed to stay on the windowsill there? The Lans can deal with Huaisang moving the decor around later. This, he places on the table in front of them.]

It's not a lotus, but... [But watch him draw this with his own brush, on his side of the paper; quick strokes and longer, smoother ones; a light touch for the delicate blossoms; curves and shapes that come together into the whole picture of a blooming branch before long. He gets a little lost in it, honestly, and the few ink smudges he winds up with on his face from not paying attention to his other hand are definitely not as ridiculous as when he literally taps the inky brush against his tongue to keep it moist. Like, just don't judge him for that, alright. It's art.

He has a point to make as he puts the finishing touches on this stick related to Jiang Cheng's ugly lotus, which is this:] You're just drawing what you think a lotus looks like. To make it look right, you have to look past what you think it should be.

[Ta-daaa... Draw this stick, honey.]

[It's honestly much more interesting when he's not the one drawing. Huaisang has talent, all right, and much like watching a sect leader is always more interesting than watching a rookie stumble through exercises, so too is watching Huaisang. Jiang Cheng watches him closely, fascinated by the process.

Or, well. He means to, anyway. But then he notices the bits of ink vivid against his skin, and it's suddenly very hard to focus on anything else. The brush-on-tongue thing sort of jars the giddy fantasy, true, but he's too addled by their proximity to care.]

Uh-- right.

[Hm. Does he want to paint? Honestly, not really. So, instead:]

You've got ink all over your face.

[Obviously that's the most important thing here. He reaches over, two fingers catching against Huaisang's jaw, tipping his head over to face Jiang Cheng. It's an automatic movement, and it won't mean anything unless he makes it mean something, which means stopping, which means he's just got to keep going and pretend he isn't internally shrieking at himself.

So. Wiping his face. Right. Yeah. Friends do this all the time for each other, it's nothing.]

[Huaisang very nearly reaches up to wipe his face with his sleeve, which would be another fun thing everyone could point at to call him a clueless cultivator, probably— so on the one hand it's lucky that Jiang Cheng interrupts by turning his face. Lucky indeed.

But Huaisang drops the brush in surprise, which splatters ink across the spot that was supposed to be for Jiang Cheng's stick drawing. Touching his face like this is so, ah, bold? So forward, or it would be in the very specific scenarios Huaisang has daydreamed once or twice, not like this. He can feel his face heating up slowly but surely, and he's certain the look on his face is less than flattering... definitely not up close like this, good god-]

You, ah— You don't have to...

[Well, the easy confidence he had for painting is gone now, replace by complete buffoon hours.]

[He's flushing. Why is he--? Well, there's one reason he can think of, but it's assuredly not that, so. Heat, maybe. It is warm in here, he thinks, utterly unbiased.

But he's started this. Attempt the impossible and all that, surely he can get through it without making a fool of himself.]

It's fine.

[Gruff, but he's gentle as he runs a cloth over the curve of his cheek, slowly swiping the ink off his face. Huaisang's skin is soft, he notes absently. He's still got his fingers against his jaw, guiding him to tip his head this way or that. He hates himself a little for how he's enjoying this, but not enough to stop.]

Just keep still.

[It's good to have it confirmed, the fact that he's somehow fallen for the absolute dumbest boy on the planet. That's nice. Huaisang is at a loss, part of him shouting that he should have pulled away thirty seconds ago and another part of him declaring it's too late now to do that! He screwed up!

So he keeps still, in that he sits there with his mouth shut tight in a thin line, red to his ears. Underneath the mortification he has to admit - it's not unpleasant to have Jiang Cheng touch him this gently, not at all. Still, it's someone else wiping his face for him, and that's... appropriately embarrassing.]

I could do it myself, [is his eventually murmured protest, but there's no force behind it. Just... just let the record show he's a big boy who knows how to clean his own face, thanks.]

And get ink on your sleeves, and then you'd be back here tomorrow, and I'd have to put up with your complaining.

[So shut up and let him finish. He's almost done, anyway; what bits remain will have to be scrubbed off. And that's . . . it's a good thing. Huaisang doesn't need him pawing at his face, he scolds himself, and drops his hands.]

Say thank you.

[Oh, whoop, not that sorry.]

[this guy????]

After you complained about me like that just now? I don't want to.

[He reaches up to rub his own hands over his face the moment Jiang Cheng lets him go, like perhaps he can aggressively force himself to stop blushing— it's no use, but at least he isn't getting more ink on himself since he dropped the brush. Little victories!]

You're so harsh, Jiang-xiong...

[Kinda feelin' it... don't @ him.]

Someone has to be.

[In their little trio, he means, but it comes out tart and dry. Still, he's smirking, utterly pleased with himself now that he seems to have gotten away with it.]

Give me the brush.

[How dare he smirk at a time like this. Huaisang huffs, indignant but not too indignant to retrieve the brush and hand it over. Draw a really good stick, smug prick!!]

Are you going to try again?

[He doesn't bother to answer; instead, he takes the brush, settling in with a haughty air. How had Huaisang done it? Not just the memory, but the picture in front of him . . . his smile fades as he starts.

It's . . . an attempt. Better than his failure of a lotus, but not anywhere near what Huaisang was. It's a stick with a few petals, stiff against the fluidity of Huaisang's drawing. But it's recognizable, so there, he did it, he is amazing, thank you.]

There.

[Ah, well, Huaisang watches him work, admittedly more interested in the way his hands move than the drawing. It's an interesting contrast, he thinks - Jiang Cheng holding a paintbrush so clumsily, the complete opposite of the way he holds a sword. There's... absolutely no grace to this, but it doesn't change the fact that Jiang Cheng has nice hands.

He blinks and darts his gaze to the picture, a crooked smile spreading across his face when he really takes it in. Aw, it's still kind of bad... He loves it.]

Ah, better, better... You didn't smudge it at all!

[Sooo impressive.]

You don't have to patronize me, you know, I know it's not . . .

[It's not good at all, and something in the pit of his stomach drops. Did he really think making a fool of himself was the way to go? Showing off his incompetence, that's really impressive, boy . . . with a little huff he offers the brush.]

Just-- here. Show me again, or-- or draw something.

Jiang-xiong, it's a compliment! It's better than the first one!

[Also a compliment? Kind of? Listen, he's a snob. He can't exactly put into words why Jiang Cheng being kind of bad at art is actually so, so endearing for a whole host of reasons, so he waves his hands a little placatingly and reaches to take the brush back. And if their fingers brush, that's an accident, and he definitely does not linger.

(He only lingers a little.)]

Ah- what should I draw?

Er--

[Honestly, he's still a little worked up over the brush, the ink, touching Huaisang, and now their fingers brushing together-- he can't think, is the point.]

Me? Or-- I don't know, a plant, or something.

[I just made fun of "can you draw me" and yet that's what's going to happen here... Huaisang draws plants all the time, plants and birds, and he could probably use some practice drawing actual people.

That and hey, it's an excuse to look at Jiang Cheng for however long it takes without it being weird, so. So! He raises an eyebrow, then turns back to the table to move the stick collection out of the way and get a fresh new paper. Here we go.]

I'm going to make you hold still, so get comfortable.

This is fine.

[Sitting not too far from him, legs crossed more casually beneath him. This way, he can watch Huaisang paint without being creepy, so, fantastic, everyone's doing great. He focuses down on Huaisang's hands, his mouth tight in self-consciousness.]

Right?

Ah, well, you could relax... All you have to do is sit there!

[Easy! Stop making that face before he immortalizes it in ink! Huaisang reaches up absentmindedly, like he might touch Jiang Cheng's face and adjust this pose he's chosen, but ah- ah, no, he loses his nerve and just flicks some of his hair out of the way, instead. Haha...

Time to get to it! Casually! It takes him longer than the stick did, of course, and he winds up focusing on Jiang Cheng's head and shoulders. He's no professional at drawing people, so there's definitely some stylistic liberties taken here, but the face that he puts to paper is recognizably Jiang Cheng, at least. Huaisang has put enough time into looking at him on his own time to know the slope of his jaw and the shape of his mouth, and the rest follows easily enough. No one needs to point out that he starts mouth-first, no one needs to even notice that, shut up.

He takes only one liberty and that is in the expression, softening the line of his mouth so he looks, well, less insecure. It's fine, this is totally accurate. Please rate and review?]

What do you think? You can move now.

[Okay, see: it was worth it. It was worth getting to sit here for a time and have every excuse in the world to watch Huaisang, his eyes going from his face to his hands and back again. He really does look good when he's doing something he enjoys; it's a far cry from the pinched-face look he gets during class.

He's a little sorry when it's done with, but the result is . . .

Oh, and thank god he doesn't blush. It's the first bit of luck he's had all day.]

Oh.

[Oh, that sounds stupid.]

You're-- wow.

[Total speechlessness is unexpected, but not entirely unappreciated. There's this much: it makes Huaisang laugh, and he's the one who blushes, despite himself. Like, yeah, he sure is wow at this art thing, he knows that— it's sweet of Jiang Cheng to have no idea what to say, though.]

You're a pretty good model, Jiang-xiong.

[All the stern staring he does usually finally came in handy, who knew.]

You're good at it.

[Oh! A straightforward compliment! That happens about once a year, savor it. He glances away a moment later, exhaling sharply, his ears reddened.]

You should throw it out before we leave. Just--

[It'd be weird for him to keep a fan with his face on it, right?]

[It would be weird for Huaisang to keep it, yes, but—]

You can have it!

[—actually that's kind of weird too, on second thought. But he blurts it out without thinking, so now it's out there in the world. Keep it... Jiang Cheng... ahem.]

[Is he gonna obsess over this and keep it for the next twenty years until they finally hook up? Yep! He sure is! He kept that comb, he's keeping this fan.]

Oh. I--

[What's the normal response here? What does someone who doesn't have a massive crush on Huaisang say? Briefly he tries to think of what Wei Wuxian would say, then promptly realizes how stupid of a thought that is. So--]

Okay.

[He does want to keep it, after all. He reaches for it, moving carefully just in case the ink hasn't dried--

--and then there's footsteps outside, and Jiang Cheng hisses sharply, snapping it shut and shoving it in his robes. Does he make it back to his table before the door opens? He does not, and that's another day in detention, so fantastic.

Maybe stories would have it that he confessed his feelings soon, but Jiang Cheng doesn't. Of course he doesn't; he'd rather die before revealing such a weakness. Spring turns into summer; by fall's end, Lotus Pier has burned to the ground and nothing is as it once was.

There's no time for grief; rage propels him through those first few months, though for the life of him, he can barely remember one day from the next. His life becomes framed around an exhausting pattern of small attacks and frequent retreats, but at least that's better than fleeing was.

That rage is why he doesn't really think about what's going to happen when he rides into the Unclean Realm. He's not stupid, he knows Huaisang must be around, but he's really mostly just thinking about what's left to do, what he's forgotten, on and on and on, and he's not watching where he's going, which is why he nearly runs right into the man before stopping short just in time.]

Hey--!

[He grips the man's shoulders, focusing down on--

Oh.

Hm.]

[The peaceful days at Cloud Recesses can't last forever; Huaisang knows, but he would have liked them to end because of something normal like the passage of time and not because the Wen clan has seen to it to kill anyone who opposes them. He's swept home to Qinghe with alarming speed, credit to Mingjue that he will keep his little brother safe come hell or high water. It's where Huaisang spends most of the war, in the end; he hears about the sacking of Cloud Recesses and the burning of Lotus Pier secondhand, and it breaks his heart the same way it drives his brother into a frenzy of militaristic might. Things are not terrible in Qinghe, despite their proximity to Wen land. Things... things could be worse.

And so it passes like that; Huaisang stays home, too incompetent with cultivation or a sword to be of use in his brother's army, and it's all he can do to wander around the grounds and wonder when his brother will come home, each time he leaves. Mingjue is home right now, waiting for other cultivators to gather, to discuss their resistance and what it means for all the sects. Huaisang doesn't get in the way; he minds his own business, which here means some new arrival to the Unclean Realm nearly crashes into him and then grabs at him like that was his fault, unreal—

Oh.

Huaisang blinks, brow furrowed. Jiang Cheng looks, ah, let's say... rough? Huaisang knows he's been looking more tired these days himself, but he's fresh as the morning dew compared to the circles under Jiang Cheng's eyes and the careless severity of his grip. Ow, bud—]

Ah— welcome to Qinghe.

[He'd be the polite second young master he's expected to be for these many guests and bow, but well, here they are. How do you tell a boy that the news was incredibly mixed on whether or not he was dead, and it's good to see him alive... He's got nothing.]

My brother is in the main hall, if... [if he would like. An escort? Ah.]

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