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His older brother used to say that Nie Huaisang came into the world so early to try to get out of seeing snow. He knows he was supposed to be born in the middle of winter, when the Unclean Realm gets shut up entirely and all the fireplaces run at all hours, but he was early. Born at the beginning of autumn, closer to summer than anyone was comfortable with; he came into the world too small, too weak. His birth was his mother's death – Nie Rushi was a strong woman in her own right, a warrior who could take down a raging yao with her bare hands if necessary (and did at least once, in defense of Nie Mingjue on what was supposed to be a routine night hunt gone sideways) but she lost the fight with the gods in wrestling him out of their grip. She held on as long as she could, he was told, insisted on holding him right up until her lungs filled up with fluid.
Nie Mingjue would hold him in his arms and whisper about how much she loved him, loved them both, even though she wasn't Nie Mingjue's mother at all. In the winter, when the winds battered against the walls and snow flung itself down the chimneys and against the doors, when the chill would creep up Nie Huaisang's bones until every breath was frost and he'd shake and shake, he would be safe in his older brother's arms, wrapped in his pelts and blankets. And he would listen to stories about his mother, about Nie Mingjue's mother, and even about their sister who should have been in between them in ages, but died in the birthing bed.
He's hated snow his whole life, really, but usually it never bothered him because he could crawl into his older brother's bed at night and cocoon himself in layers during the day. When he was really little, he spent most of his days in winter held by his older brother, who tucked him into his winter robes and went about his business. When he started to get older, his days were spent in his rooms wrapped in robes upon pelts upon robes to try to keep the chill out and he would almost always get sick anyway.
And now here he is, in the Cloud Recesses, and it's winter. The snow is softer here in Gusu, the wind less screaming and brutal than it is in Qinghe, and even though he's wearing all the allowable robes and the winter pelt provided to the guest disciples he's still freezing. Jiang Wanyin had even given over one of his robes, because he's a beautiful man and Nie Huaisang kinda wants to kiss him and maybe cuddle with him until the snow goes away, but even with that – he's still so cold. He wants his older brother and wants to go home – or, considering his grades, he might actually want to run away to Lotus Pier and spend some time with Wei Wuxian. Lotus Pier doesn't even get snow! The most they get is ice!
He sneezes. Again. And with that comes a chill that he feels in his chest and in his knees, like he's some old woman! It's unfair. He unfurls his winter fan to hold it in front of his face as he wipes at his nose.
“Young Master Nie?” One of the healers asks as they come back into the room holding a bowl of what is no doubt a disgusting medical soup. At least it's hot.
“Is that for me?” He asks, pointing his fan at the bowl. The healer smiles at him, in that Gusu Lan way that somehow makes it look like their lips and cheeks are smiling but their eyes are utterly blank. He wonders if his older brother had to teach Lan Xichen how to properly smile or if he's just so great he didn't need it? He certainly didn't learn it from his fellow Lans.
“Please sip it slowly so as not to upset your stomach. We would prefer it if you manage to drink it all, but if not, we can try again later.” The healer says as they hand over the bowl, which is warm and the steam billowing up from it at least doesn't smell overwhelmingly bad.
He misses Qinghe.
-0-0-
Years later, he stands outside in a snow storm, his bare feet buried in snow, dressed in the Sect Leader robes (his brother's robes, his brother's pelts, his brother's) and screams mindlessly into the air. The wind rips at his face, the snow batters against his eyes, and he screams and screams and screams.
His older brother's head, placed in a place of honor, in a treasure room like it was a particularly difficult hunt – a trophy to remember a great beast by. A trophy to show a hunter's skill.
The snow batters his shoulders, weighs down his robes, bites into his skin; the wind yanks his hair away from his face, slaps against his eyelashes, and the cold clings to his tears.
His brother's head.
He screams as loud as he can, as if that will somehow make it not true, as if it'll make everything better, turn back time to when he didn't know anything -
His brother's head
His throat burns as ice and snow rip down, pulling the ugly things out of him, pull the rage and pain to the skin, to the outside. He cries and coughs and there is no one here to hold him, no one here to rock him until he calms down, no one's arms he can hide in.
His brother's head.
The storm screams and he screams with it and there's nothing but the pain, but the rage, but the grief. Nie Mingjue is dead, is in pieces, he is lost, he is -
he is
Nie Huaisang screams and screams and screams and wishes it was him. Their sister should have lived, he should have died in the birthing bed, he should have died, Nie Mingjue should be alive
why isn't he alive?
Nie Mingjue would hold him in his arms and whisper about how much she loved him, loved them both, even though she wasn't Nie Mingjue's mother at all. In the winter, when the winds battered against the walls and snow flung itself down the chimneys and against the doors, when the chill would creep up Nie Huaisang's bones until every breath was frost and he'd shake and shake, he would be safe in his older brother's arms, wrapped in his pelts and blankets. And he would listen to stories about his mother, about Nie Mingjue's mother, and even about their sister who should have been in between them in ages, but died in the birthing bed.
He's hated snow his whole life, really, but usually it never bothered him because he could crawl into his older brother's bed at night and cocoon himself in layers during the day. When he was really little, he spent most of his days in winter held by his older brother, who tucked him into his winter robes and went about his business. When he started to get older, his days were spent in his rooms wrapped in robes upon pelts upon robes to try to keep the chill out and he would almost always get sick anyway.
And now here he is, in the Cloud Recesses, and it's winter. The snow is softer here in Gusu, the wind less screaming and brutal than it is in Qinghe, and even though he's wearing all the allowable robes and the winter pelt provided to the guest disciples he's still freezing. Jiang Wanyin had even given over one of his robes, because he's a beautiful man and Nie Huaisang kinda wants to kiss him and maybe cuddle with him until the snow goes away, but even with that – he's still so cold. He wants his older brother and wants to go home – or, considering his grades, he might actually want to run away to Lotus Pier and spend some time with Wei Wuxian. Lotus Pier doesn't even get snow! The most they get is ice!
He sneezes. Again. And with that comes a chill that he feels in his chest and in his knees, like he's some old woman! It's unfair. He unfurls his winter fan to hold it in front of his face as he wipes at his nose.
“Young Master Nie?” One of the healers asks as they come back into the room holding a bowl of what is no doubt a disgusting medical soup. At least it's hot.
“Is that for me?” He asks, pointing his fan at the bowl. The healer smiles at him, in that Gusu Lan way that somehow makes it look like their lips and cheeks are smiling but their eyes are utterly blank. He wonders if his older brother had to teach Lan Xichen how to properly smile or if he's just so great he didn't need it? He certainly didn't learn it from his fellow Lans.
“Please sip it slowly so as not to upset your stomach. We would prefer it if you manage to drink it all, but if not, we can try again later.” The healer says as they hand over the bowl, which is warm and the steam billowing up from it at least doesn't smell overwhelmingly bad.
He misses Qinghe.
-0-0-
Years later, he stands outside in a snow storm, his bare feet buried in snow, dressed in the Sect Leader robes (his brother's robes, his brother's pelts, his brother's) and screams mindlessly into the air. The wind rips at his face, the snow batters against his eyes, and he screams and screams and screams.
His older brother's head, placed in a place of honor, in a treasure room like it was a particularly difficult hunt – a trophy to remember a great beast by. A trophy to show a hunter's skill.
The snow batters his shoulders, weighs down his robes, bites into his skin; the wind yanks his hair away from his face, slaps against his eyelashes, and the cold clings to his tears.
His brother's head.
He screams as loud as he can, as if that will somehow make it not true, as if it'll make everything better, turn back time to when he didn't know anything -
His brother's head
His throat burns as ice and snow rip down, pulling the ugly things out of him, pull the rage and pain to the skin, to the outside. He cries and coughs and there is no one here to hold him, no one here to rock him until he calms down, no one's arms he can hide in.
His brother's head.
The storm screams and he screams with it and there's nothing but the pain, but the rage, but the grief. Nie Mingjue is dead, is in pieces, he is lost, he is -
he is
Nie Huaisang screams and screams and screams and wishes it was him. Their sister should have lived, he should have died in the birthing bed, he should have died, Nie Mingjue should be alive
why isn't he alive?
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