Archive of Our Own ^beta

The courtyard was alive with sound. The rhythmic clang of swords striking, the rustle of robes, laughter that rang like chimes on a clear spring day. Disciples moved like threads in a tapestry. Weaving, crossing, bright with youth.

And among them, inevitably, was Mo Ran.

Chu Wanning stood at the edge of the training grounds, hands clasped behind his back. He was pretending to inspect the formation the juniors were using that morning, but in truth, his gaze had wandered.

It was nearly impossible not to notice him. Mo Ran had that kind of presence.

He was sparring with Xue Meng, and as always, he was making a spectacle of it. His footwork was far too casual for someone taking a match seriously, and yet he moved with such natural grace that even his carelessness seemed deliberate. His grin flashed like sunlight on a blade.

“Heh. Too slow, Mengmeng!" He shouted, loud enough for Chu Wanning's eavesdropping ears to catch from across the courtyard.

“Shut it, dog!" Xue Meng clipped back, and swung again.

Chu Wanning’s lips pressed together. Not in disapproval, though it might have looked that way to anyone else. It was the sort of thing he did automatically, to keep himself from smiling.

Because it wasn’t proper. Because it wasn’t dignified. Because if he let his amusement show every time those insolent disciples of his bickered, he feared the whole world would see.

Mo Ran lunged, feinted, ducked, hair flying loose from its tie. A few strands clung to his sweaty cheek. His robes, too big and a little worn, flared around him as he spun, the pale fabric blurring with the wind.

He missed his footing, stumbled, and still laughed.

A reckless, beautiful sound that cracked open the stillness in Chu Wanning’s chest.

He tried forcing himself to look away. To focus on the others. To correct a disciple’s stance, to remind them of balance or form. But his gaze, traitorous thing, only followed Mo Ran.

It always did.

⸻

By evening, the sun had softened to a honeyed glow, spreading warmth across the mountain peak. The disciples drifted off to eat, chatter filling the air, footsteps fading down the stone paths.

And Mo Ran, as predictable as the sunrise, wandered off to the same secluded spot under a tree further down the peak as he tended to these days. He plopped down onto the grass with an unceremonious sigh, head falling back.

Chu Wanning followed at a distance, silent as a shadow.

He didn’t mean to intrude, not truly. He only… found himself near that spot more often than he should. The excuse was easy enough to conjure: it was quiet there, good for meditation. But he never meditated. Not when Mo Ran was there.

He stood beneath the shade of another tree, observing.

Mo Ran tilted his face toward the sun, lashes brushing his cheeks. His skin glowed a warm gold, the curve of his jaw soft in the evening light. The seemingly boundless energy he carried all morning began to melt away, leaving something vulnerable, almost tender.

He lay back fully now, one arm draped over his eyes. His breathing slowed. A few blades of grass bent under his fingers as his hand twitched faintly. Even asleep, Mo Ran could not quite keep still.

A gust of wind stirred the leaves, and a few haitang petals landed on top of him.

He didn’t wake.

Chu Wanning stood there, feeling his heartbeat echo in the stillness. Something inside him ached. A warmth too fierce to name, yet too gentle to fear.

This was what the world looked like when it loved someone, he thought absently. When the sun lingered a little longer. When even the wind softened its blow, careful not to disturb the sleeping.

He could feel his own expression soften. The edges of his restraint blur.

Mo Ran shifted slightly, rolling onto his side. His hair fell across his face, his mouth parted just barely. He looked so young like this. Not like the troublemaker who drove his shizun to the edge of patience every other day, not the prodigy who could easily outshine his peers when he actually tried, but just a boy, or perhaps something more akin to a puppy.

A puppy tired from running, barking, being too full of sweetness for his own good.

Chu Wanning exhaled.

He wanted, absurdly, to brush that stray lock of hair away. To feel the warmth of that sunlit cheek. To allow himself to reach, just once, towards the person he always observed from afar.

But he didn’t move. He wouldn’t.

Instead, he let the moment live as it was, fragile, perfect.

After getting his fill, he turned to leave. As he walked away, he thought, if Mo Ran ever looked his way just once in a moment like that, if those dark eyes dangerously met his, he would have no defense left.

But Mo Ran slept on, unknowing. The sunlight stayed with him, as if it too could not bear to let him go.

And somewhere on the mountain path, a man who’d once never believed in love found himself smiling faintly, the warmth still caught in his chest.