[Nie Mingjue dies for two months. Huaisang can't process it any other way: something is wrong with his brother, something that the other disciples of their clan have hidden from him but cannot be hidden any longer, and while Mingjue's mind slowly abandons him and his episodes worsen, Huaisang tries to pinpoint the moment it started. The moment his brother actually dies, because— because when he hangs Baxia in Huaisang's face, when his eyes are wild and his skin sallow, a corpse in the shape of Huaisang's beloved da ge—
Huaisang can't think. That's what it comes down to: he cannot think, which ostensibly is one of the few things he's actually good for, when he can. He traces the lines back from Mingjue's physical death, trying to find the origin of it, the locus from which Mingjue's qi deviation burst forth and went from manageable (manageable— Huaisang has never wanted to slap a disciple before hearing that one) to not.
And he can't. The lines tangle, the ink smears, and the weight of Mingjue's decline drags Huaisang down for two months until he wanders the house and grounds listless and despondent, a ghost haunting the halls in his own right. The others leave him well enough alone, out of respect and, he suspects, some discomfort; they all must grieve in their own way, and if anyone is impatient for Huaisang to take up the mantle Mingjue leaves behind, they stay out of his way about it. What little part of Huaisang is still willing to feel is thankful for that.
So it's two months that Mingjue takes to die and another after that that Huaisang haunts his own home on his brother's heels. He traces the paths that Mingjue would have walked, lingers in the doorways of rooms he should be in, waits in his room to hear his voice from down the hall and know he's in trouble again, for what, for something petty, something so, so gloriously petty and small and not so vast as his grief— but of course, Mingjue doesn't come. It's Jin Guangyao who dogs Huaisang's heels towards the end of that month, tiptoeing after him to gently imply he should come into his new responsibilities, at least have a talk about them, they could write to Lan Xichen as well...
Huaisang ignores him. He ignores Guangyao and it is easy, so much easier than it is to claw his way out of his own grief to listen to him, to hear Guangyao's gentle patience finally expire as he demands without raising his voice that Huaisang restrain his grief.
It's one week later that Huaisang arrives in Yunmeng, and frankly, he doesn't remember most of the journey. It's not important; he brings only Nie Zonghui with him and doesn't tell Guangyao where he's going, and one week later he's at the gates of Lotus Pier— the new one, and maybe improved? He never saw the original, so maybe he should table that particular obligatory compliment.
He's loitering in the meeting room he was brought to, opening and closing his fan over and over as Zonghui stoically waits against the wall, when the man of the house finally has a moment to greet his guest. Huaisang gives Jiang Cheng a glance up and down because it's been a while, with all these personal complications of theirs that don't intersect, and - well. He likes to look at him. He manages a smile that immediately threatens to quiver and turn watery, so—]
Jiang-xiong— I thought I wouldn't see you until tomorrow. Your disciples said you were busy... Ah, I was admiring this carving!
[He points his fan at it. At the decor. He's here to admire the decor, babe. He hasn't said this many words in a month.]
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power couple edition
Huaisang can't think. That's what it comes down to: he cannot think, which ostensibly is one of the few things he's actually good for, when he can. He traces the lines back from Mingjue's physical death, trying to find the origin of it, the locus from which Mingjue's qi deviation burst forth and went from manageable (manageable— Huaisang has never wanted to slap a disciple before hearing that one) to not.
And he can't. The lines tangle, the ink smears, and the weight of Mingjue's decline drags Huaisang down for two months until he wanders the house and grounds listless and despondent, a ghost haunting the halls in his own right. The others leave him well enough alone, out of respect and, he suspects, some discomfort; they all must grieve in their own way, and if anyone is impatient for Huaisang to take up the mantle Mingjue leaves behind, they stay out of his way about it. What little part of Huaisang is still willing to feel is thankful for that.
So it's two months that Mingjue takes to die and another after that that Huaisang haunts his own home on his brother's heels. He traces the paths that Mingjue would have walked, lingers in the doorways of rooms he should be in, waits in his room to hear his voice from down the hall and know he's in trouble again, for what, for something petty, something so, so gloriously petty and small and not so vast as his grief— but of course, Mingjue doesn't come. It's Jin Guangyao who dogs Huaisang's heels towards the end of that month, tiptoeing after him to gently imply he should come into his new responsibilities, at least have a talk about them, they could write to Lan Xichen as well...
Huaisang ignores him. He ignores Guangyao and it is easy, so much easier than it is to claw his way out of his own grief to listen to him, to hear Guangyao's gentle patience finally expire as he demands without raising his voice that Huaisang restrain his grief.
It's one week later that Huaisang arrives in Yunmeng, and frankly, he doesn't remember most of the journey. It's not important; he brings only Nie Zonghui with him and doesn't tell Guangyao where he's going, and one week later he's at the gates of Lotus Pier— the new one, and maybe improved? He never saw the original, so maybe he should table that particular obligatory compliment.
He's loitering in the meeting room he was brought to, opening and closing his fan over and over as Zonghui stoically waits against the wall, when the man of the house finally has a moment to greet his guest. Huaisang gives Jiang Cheng a glance up and down because it's been a while, with all these personal complications of theirs that don't intersect, and - well. He likes to look at him. He manages a smile that immediately threatens to quiver and turn watery, so—]
Jiang-xiong— I thought I wouldn't see you until tomorrow. Your disciples said you were busy... Ah, I was admiring this carving!
[He points his fan at it. At the decor. He's here to admire the decor, babe. He hasn't said this many words in a month.]