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Chapter Text

Nie Huaisang was, as always, pretending to pay attention.

The clan meeting had been dragging on for hours, and he had already emptied his third cup of tea — and drawn two little ducks and a cloud in the corners of the scroll in front of him. But when he looked up casually, his eyes landed on a sight... unexpectedly devastating.

Jiang Cheng, sitting with his usual scowl, looked beautiful. Sitting formally beside his father, attending the meeting like the proper sect heir he was.

Not just handsome, not just well-featured — devastatingly, infuriatingly, unfairly beautiful. The light streaming into the hall caught on the purple embroidery of his robes like moving water, and his eyes, narrowed with impatience, held a quiet intensity that nearly made Huaisang drop his brush.

“This is absurd,” he muttered to himself, leaning back slightly, his fan half-open to cover part of his face. “Who allowed someone to have that jawline?”

He peeked again. Jiang Cheng had crossed his arms, muscles taut under the fabric, and Nie Huaisang felt offended. Offended that someone could look so… infuriatingly striking even while clearly hating every second of being there. They were close in age, Huaisang knew that — after all, they'd be attending the next Lan Clan lecture together.

“You’re leaning on that fan too much,” Nie Mingjue murmured beside him without even opening his eyes. He knew his brother well enough to know when he was distracted.

“Shhh,” Huaisang replied. “I’m in the middle of an aesthetic appreciation, gege. This is art.”

Jiang Cheng glanced over at the Nie brothers just then, as if he sensed something. Huaisang immediately smiled — that innocent, slightly clueless smile he was so good at.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze lingered half a second longer before turning away. Huaisang lowered the fan, satisfied.

“Yes… definitely art,” he whispered, going back to pretending he was taking notes — though now, his scribbles in the margins carried a bit more interest than before.

Chapter Text

Nie Huaisang liked to sit a little off to the side during the Gusu Lan lectures—not quite at the edge, but never right in the center either. From there, he could doodle in his notes if things got too dry, or sneak glances when something far more interesting than rules and cultivator etiquette caught his attention.

Namely, Jiang Cheng.

It wasn’t his fault that the boy had such impeccable posture. Or broad, firm shoulders beneath his robes, always held straight with that stiff, serious pride that seemed to radiate from every inch of him. Jiang Cheng didn’t slouch. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t even yawn. He sat perfectly still, like a statue carved out of sheer determination and constant irritation — and Nie Huaisang found that impossibly attractive.

Which was funny, really, when you thought about it. You’d expect that kind of rigidity from a Lan disciple (and they were, Nie Huaisang was fairly sure, cultivated in porcelain vases rather than cradles). But Jiang Cheng… well, he had been doing a convincing impression of one of those statues during their first few days at Gusu Lan, like he was competing with the walls. Beautiful walls, granted.

The contrast only stood out more next to Wei Wuxian, the other chief disciple of the Jiang sect, who could hardly stay still for more than five minutes. Where Jiang Cheng was contained fire, Wei Wuxian was a wildfire — all spark and motion and noise. And that contrast only made Jiang Cheng seem even more disciplined. Even more intense. Even more good-looking.

And it wasn’t just Jiang Cheng’s posture that was perfect. It was the sharp line of his jaw, the way his brows furrowed ever so slightly when he focused, the firm press of his lips whenever someone said something he clearly disagreed with. Nie Huaisang had memorized those expressions. He had watched each nuance like an art critic observing a master’s brushwork.

Maybe he was studying.

Maybe he was a little enchanted.

Or maybe — and more likely — he was getting himself into a kind of trouble that didn’t even have a name yet.

He was supposed to be listening, of course. The Lan lectures were important. Cultivation theory, spiritual balance, the hundred and one rules of Gusu Lan—very serious matters. But somehow, Nie Huaisang’s gaze kept drifting. Back to Jiang Cheng’s shoulders. Back to the slope of his neck. Back to that utterly unfair face.

Really, could anyone blame him?

 It wasn't as though he meant to get distracted.

Jiang Cheng was just... very pretty.

 And Nie Huaisang was, tragically, very observant.

Nie Huaisang was halfway through sketching a detailed drawing of a heron with a fan on its head — which, in his mind, looked nothing like Jiang Cheng — when his eyes drifted up again. Just for a second.

Jiang Cheng was still in the same position, as immaculate as always. Hands folded neatly on the table, back perfectly straight, chin tilted ever so slightly like he was daring anyone to say something stupid. But then, with the smallest of movements, his eyes shifted.

Right to Nie Huaisang.

For a moment, the two of them locked eyes.

Jiang Cheng didn’t say anything — of course he didn’t. They were far apart, and had barely spoken to each other up until now. But his expression shifted just enough to make it painfully clear that he’d noticed.

His brows drew together, visibly. His mouth tightened further. And his gaze — sharp as a silent bolt of lightning, fully prepared to strike him down — carried that barely contained irritation Jiang Cheng seemed to cultivate more diligently than any sword technique. It had to be hereditary, though Nie Huaisang preferred not to think about his classmate’s parents.

Nie Huaisang swallowed hard.

He quickly looked down at his notes, as if they had suddenly become the most riveting subject in the world. He grabbed his brush and doodled a very unconvincing lotus, trying to act natural. Casual. Innocent.

Nothing to see here, just a respectable Nie heir appreciating the elegance of Gusu Lan academia. Not staring at boys. Definitely not staring at that boy.

He dared a glance sideways.

Jiang Cheng had already turned back to the front, shoulders rigid and back straight like a blade driven into stone. But Nie Huaisang could still feel the weight of that look lingering on his skin, like a warning, or a brand.

He dropped his gaze back to his paper like the drawing required immediate, life-saving attention. His brush hand twitched slightly. Maybe the heron needed a parasol now. Or a storm cloud.

Nie Huaisang bit his lip, trying to suppress the tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He hadn’t meant to get caught.

 But… well.

 It still wasn’t his fault Jiang Cheng was so good-looking.

 And it definitely wasn’t his fault that he noticed .

As he turned the corner, Nie Huaisang nearly let out a squeak. He came face to face with Wei Wuxian, the head disciple of the Jiang sect, standing there with his arms crossed and a smile plastered on his face — a smile so fake it looked like it had been glued on with rice paste. Even Huaisang, who barely knew him, could tell it wasn’t remotely friendly.

“So, you were staring at my shidi during class, Young Master Nie,” Wei Wuxian said, his voice far too sweet to be genuinely kind.

Nie Huaisang froze. Crap. He noticed.

“Uh… I wasn’t…” he started, stammering, but fell silent when he saw Wei Wuxian’s smile vanish completely.

“Don’t even lie,” Wei Wuxian cut in, tilting his head with mock patience. “I saw you. You do it all the time. This time, he noticed too. He mentioned it to me.”

Wei Wuxian was clearly trying to be intimidating, but — let’s be honest — it was hard to take him seriously when Nie Huaisang had grown up next to Nie Mingjue, who could scare stone walls with a glance.

Even so, Huaisang took a step back, instinctively pulling his fan from his left sleeve to hide his face, as if that could erase the embarrassment. Double crap. First, he got caught staring at Jiang Cheng like he was one of the elegant vases in the Cultivation Hall, and now he was being cornered by his second-most-terrifying older brother.

“I was just… observing, that’s not a crime, right?” he mumbled, his voice muffled behind the fan.

Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow.

“‘Observing’? Is that what we’re calling silently drooling while pretending to take notes now?”

“I wasn’t drooling!” Huaisang protested, clearly offended — though still half-hidden.

Wei Wuxian let out a chuckle, the weight of his fake seriousness dissolving like mist.

“I’m just teasing, Young Master.”

Nie Huaisang shifted uncomfortably. It didn’t feel like teasing.

Wei Wuxian sighed, impatient. “Look, all I’m saying is — my shidi may be slower than a tortoise in low tide when it comes to this stuff, but he’s not blind. And if you keep looking at him like you’re starring in a three-act romantic tragedy, he’s gonna catch on — for real.”

“I’m not tragic !” Huaisang shot back, offended again, the fan now almost completely shielding his face.

“Of course you’re not,” Wei Wuxian replied, in a tone that was more sarcastic than reassuring.

Nie Huaisang turned slightly, trying to avoid his gaze. Honestly, the nerve of him. Wei Wuxian giving romance lectures like he was some sort of love sage, when he didn’t even notice the way the Second Jade of Gusu looked at him during lectures — a painfully intense mix of suppressed longing and barely-contained irritation. It was almost poetic. Almost. In practice, it was just plain uncomfortable to witness, even for a self-proclaimed romance enthusiast like Nie Huaisang. It was like watching a statue wrestle with its own feelings and suffer because the object of its affection remained clueless. Now that was tragic.

Wei Wuxian, you idiot. Mind your own romantic disaster before trying to meddle in someone else’s.

But he didn’t say anything.

Yet.

Maybe later.

Wei Wuxian suddenly stepped closer, looking far too excited, like he’d just had a brilliant idea. “You know… if you want, I can help. Give things a little nudge. Nothing drastic, just enough to get him to notice you. Like, I don’t know, accidentally push him into your arms or something.”

Nie Huaisang nearly choked on his own saliva. “No! No need! Everything’s perfectly under control, thank you very much!”

Wei Wuxian gave him a look that screamed yeah, right , but raised both hands in mock surrender.

“As you wish. But when he starts complaining that someone’s staring at him too much and you get kicked out of class, don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

“I’m not getting kicked out!”

“We’ll see. Depends — are you planning to keep looking at him like he’s a roast duck after a week of fasting?”

“WEI WUXIAN!”

Nie Huaisang had raised his voice.

Damn.

If anyone had heard him, he would probably have to copy down the sect rules, and he had promised his da-ge that he would have less punishments this year. He couldn’t fail in the first month.

Wei Wuxian burst out laughing, clearly enjoying himself far more than he should, while Nie Huaisang huffed in embarrassment, his fan now fully open and held firm like a shield.

Wei Wuxian wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye, still chuckling.

“Ah, Young Master Nie, you’re too fun. I should corner you more often.”

“Please don’t,” Huaisang muttered behind his fan, voice barely audible.

Wei Wuxian leaned casually against the wall, looking him over like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“So… you really like him, huh?” he asked provocatively.

Nie Huaisang peeked from behind the fan, eyes narrowing.

“Is this still part of the teasing or are you actually being nosy now?”

“A little bit of both,” Wei Wuxian grinned, unapologetic. “I mean, come on. You’re not exactly subtle.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Huaisang shot back before he could stop himself. That's it, leave it for later? No. Wei Wuxian was meddling too much for someone so blind to his own life, if he wanted to meddle then Huaisang would too and oh how he wanted to. “You have Lan Wangji looking at you like he’s about to write poetry with his tears, and you act like it’s a passing breeze.”

Wei Wuxian blinked.

“Lan Zhan? Tears? What—? No, he—he doesn’t even like me. He doesn't even want to be my friend.”

Nie Huaisang lowered his fan just enough to give him a flat look.

“Wei-gongzi, come on. He stares at you like you hung the moon. And then got banished from it.”

Wei Wuxian opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“...That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Huaisang said with exaggerated innocence, tilting his head. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be focusing on your admirers instead of stalking mine?”

Wei Wuxian cleared his throat loudly, face a touch redder than before.

“That’s beside the point! I’m just making sure Jiang Cheng isn’t being harassed.”

Nie Huaisang gasped, affronted.

“Harassed ? I would never—!”

“Relax, relax,” Wei Wuxian said, holding up his hands again. “I’m just kidding. Again. Mostly. I mean, you’re harmless.”

“That’s not flattering,” Huaisang said dryly.

Wei Wuxian just shrugged.

“Still. I stand by my offer. If you ever want help — wingman services, staged heroic rescue, fake love letter mishap — you know where to find me.”

“I’m not that desperate,” Huaisang said, clutching his fan like it might save him from this social catastrophe.

“No, you’re just tragic,” Wei Wuxian said sweetly.

“Ugh,” Huaisang groaned. “I’m leaving before you say something even more embarrassing.”

He turned on his heel with all the grace of someone who absolutely was not fleeing, thank you very much, and swept away down the corridor. Wei Wuxian called after him, voice cheerful:

“Just remember! Roast duck eyes aren’t a crime yet!”

Nie Huaisang didn’t respond. He was too busy tryi[ng not to trip over his own feet in his haste to escape.