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Family legend says that the Nie were cultivators once, in the old days. Nie Huaisang had daydreamed about that nearly all his life—about being a beautiful immortal on a mountaintop, above all the day-to-day work of real life.
“Hard work is how you make a good life,” Nie Mingjue tells him whenever he brings it up. “Not some fantasy.”
It had just been a fantasy, but the more Nie Mingjue derides it, the more he guarantees Nie Huaisang won’t stop searching. That’s hard work itself, not that Nie Huaisang will ever admit it, and eventually, it pays off. First he finds records, hints that his family’s cultivation was unusual, somehow. Which is okay! Normal cultivation, all that meditation and martial arts training, sounds extremely tedious.
He doesn't find the sabers, but he finds cautionary tales, maps included, which are confirmation enough.
And then, at last, he finds the book.
It's been sitting on his desk, untouched, for a week now, ever since the first time he opened it, got a papercut, dripped blood on the first page of a priceless artifact—and watched the blood swirl on the page, form characters, and speak to him.
This is a surprise indeed, Nie Huaisang.
He’d slammed the covers shut and hadn’t touched it since, but he’d looked at it, oh, he’d looked at it. Since when is paper that old sharp enough to cut skin? How did it know his name? Is the book watching him, right now, the whole time it sits there?
Now, after a week of gearing himself up, he's going to open it again.
The pages are still covered in symbols he doesn’t understand, all but for one blank page at the end. He doesn’t know why he expected it to look different. He tries speaking. “Hello?”
Nothing.
Next, he writes hello in a deep red ink that, he thinks, looks very much like blood.
Still nothing.
“Well then,” Nie Huaisang murmurs, “blood it is.” He pricks his finger with a sharp needle and presses the droplet onto the page.
You’re back, it says, as the blood swirls and shifts.
“I—” Nie Huaisang pauses. Does he have to write his words in blood, too?
Speak, says the book. I’ll hear you until the blood dries.
And that doesn’t give him very long. Very well, he’ll be direct. “Is this a cultivation manual? Is that what you are? Can you make me immortal?”
What an interesting series of questions. The characters shift again. Yes, Nie-gongzi, I certainly can.
The book isn't really a talking book, isn't a cultivation manual, that much he learns quickly. Some sort of spirit is bound to the pages, and his name is Meng Yao.
Whatever Meng Yao is or is not, he has plenty to teach Nie Huaisang. They talk about cultivation, yes, but they also talk about nearly everything else. Meng Yao is as curious about the modern world as Nie Huaisang is about the past, and it takes barely a week for Nie Huaisang to feel like he's known Meng Yao for years.
Not that he ever loses track of the fact that he's using blood to talk to something that isn't human. Nie Huaisang went so far as to buy one of those finger-sticks for blood tests, just to streamline the process. “I read that in ancient times, our sect’s sabers fed on blood too, is this like that?” he asks. He has the book alone in his room, a single lamp illuminating the pages. A single lamp, and the light of the moon through the open window. The night is warm but windy; gusts play at the curtains. If the lamp were a candle it would dramatically extinguish itself right...about...now.
Nie Huaisang lets another drop of blood fall to the page. The lamp, of course, stays lit. Truly, says Meng Yao, you’ve forgotten so much. But it’s a good look for you, Huaisang, it’s very cute.
“...just what do you mean by that?”
Oh, you know...thirsty for knowledge, eager to ascend to new heights, no matter that you have no idea what’s in store. But your brother calls you lazy, doesn’t he?
Nie Huaisang frowns. He's barely said a word about Nie Mingjue, certainly not enough for Meng Yao to invoke this way.
He clearly hasn’t seen you like this.
Nie Huaisang reaches inside himself for the spiritual power he’s only just learned to feel. The sticky summer night air dissolves around him, leaving only the pleasant breeze. The lingering soreness in his finger, the one he keeps drawing blood from, fades away too. Meng Yao still hasn't answered his question, so he asks a different one. “I don’t suppose there’s any way for you to be, you know, not words in a book?”
Huaisang. His name flows across the page like an invitation. I thought you’d never ask. The words swirl away, the blood turns brown, dry. Nie Huaisang gives him more. Your core is strong enough now, Meng Yao continues. I’m lucky you found me. I need someone with spiritual power to free me, or I’d be stuck in there for good.
It’s the first time he’s referred to himself as trapped, but all Nie Huaisang says, agreeing, is “Most people these days don’t believe in cultivation.”
You know better.
I do know better, Nie Huaisang thinks to himself, but he doesn’t stop. “Show me what to do.”
An array, written in blood, because of course it needs more blood. Then, spiritual energy, applied. The blood rises from the page, spiraling, growing, till it forms a cloud above the pages. Red tendrils too precise to be a product of the wind reach out and brush Nie Huaisang’s skin just so, seeming to draw even more from him, and he wants to pull away but he’s too enthralled. This is really happening. And then the apparition condenses and settles into—a man. A beautiful man. His long, unkempt hair and torn simple robe—burial clothes?—might make him look feral, were it not for the sharp, refined smile he makes as he greets him. “Huaisang,” he says, and oh, his voice is marvelous too. “You really did it.”
His eyes scan the room like a predator, and Nie Huaisang reminds himself that Meng Yao is not human. “So this is the modern world...”
“This is the modern world and you need modern clothing!” Fortunately, they're nearly identical in build and height, and Nie Huaisang has clothing to spare. He finds Meng Yao something loose, maybe a little old-fashioned, though of course it won't be old-fashioned to him. “After you’re dressed, I’ll show you everything.”
Meng Yao laughs. “Aren’t I your teacher? Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”
“No no no, I’m your host, you’re my guest, that’s how it is now.”
They walk through the city, crowded despite the late hour. Huaisang shows him cars, shows him skyscrapers, shows him his favorite quiet corner of his favorite park. Buys fresh fruit from a street vendor, which Meng Yao does not eat. “I’d take you to a club, but I don’t think you’re ready for that yet,” he says. “Besides, what sort of student takes his teacher to a club?”
“So you intend to take me back to your room instead?”
“You—” Huaisang shoves Meng Yao playfully away. “You didn’t talk like that when you were pages in a book!”
“Of course not, I—” Meng Yao breaks off as he stumbles. Nie Huaisang catches him, and he’s shivering.
“Shit, you’re not doing well, what happened? When was the last time you ate?”
“The blood you fed the array,” says Meng Yao. He clearly means for Nie Huaisang to take it as a joke, but Nie Huaisang has had his eyes open the whole time.
“Shit, why’d you let me take you out?” He thinks of the crowded, anonymous clubs he didn’t let Meng Yao go into. “Alright, let’s get you home.”
Nie Huaisang opens his front door and finds his brother waiting. “Dage,” he begins, and is drowned out by Meng Yao’s breathless gasp of “Nie Mingjue!”
“Meng...Yao...?” Nie Mingjue blinks. Shakes his head, confusion visible. How had he recognized Meng Yao?
“He’s with me,” Nie Huaisang says quickly. Nie Mingjue has never objected to any of his guests before. “Sorry! I should have told you I was going out!”
“At least you know that much,” says Nie Mingjue.
Meng Yao, recovered from his surprise at seeing Nie Mingjue, says “See you around!” with a smile as Nie Huaisang leads him back to his room.”
“No, you won’t,” Huaisang says, sharply.
“Oh? Huaisang, are you jeal—”
Nie Huaisang cuts him off with “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“Huaisang—”
“You need blood.” Meng Yao falls silent, and Nie Huaisang adds a completely unnecessary “Don’t you?” to his statement. He picks up the book. “Meng Yao, my ancestors were butchers who fed creatures like you to their sabers. If one of them locked you away in here, it wasn’t as a teacher.”
“You still let me out.”
Nie Huaisang shrugs. “I just—I really liked talking to you, Meng Yao,” he says. “I really liked you. I wanted more. And besides, it’s the twenty-first century, you don’t have to kill people to get blood.” He sets the book down, clasps Meng Yao’s hands. “But if you need living blood,” he says, “don’t go to strangers in the streets, and stay away from my brother.” He turns over his hands, one, two, exposing the soft bare skin of his wrists. “Take mine.”
Eyes wide, Meng Yao says, “In your past life, I decimated your sect, and that was the least of my crimes.”
So it was a past life. That explains Meng Yao’s initial recognition, it explains so many of his comments. And Nie Mingjue must have been there in that past life too, must have been even more involved, if he still remembers Meng Yao.
Nie Huaisang doesn't remember any of it. He felt that draw from the very start—but he prefers to believe his feelings are his own.
“This isn’t that life,” Nie Huaisang says. “This is my life now. And I haven’t forgotten your promise to make me immortal.”
Meng Yao traces fingers along the veins in Nie Huaisang’s arm. His touch is cold, but that’s not what makes Nie Huaisang shiver. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Show me,” says Nie Huaisang, and finally, finally Meng Yao seems to accept that he means it. He lifts Nie Huaisang’s wrist to his lips, kisses it ever so softly—then moves his mouth a little up the arm and bites.
Fuck, it hurts—but only for an instant. Nie Huaisang gasps at the thrill flowing through him as surely as the blood flowing from his veins to Meng Yao’s lips. “A-Yao!” And Meng Yao almost pulls away, but Nie Huaisang reaches around with his free hand, grabs his hair behind the neck, and holds him tight.
“I should have known you’d faint.”
Nie Huaisang blinks. Meng Yao must have laid him on his bed, and there’s a pillow beneath his feet to elevate them. Sunlight drips through cracks in the curtains, but Meng Yao keeps to the shadows. How long has he been out?
“Here.” Meng Yao hands Nie Huaisang a juice box. He sits up to take it, or tries to, but his vision swims and he’s forced to let Meng Yao lay him down again.
He looks at the juice box. “Yesterday you didn’t know what a refrigerator was.”
“I’m a quick learner.”
“Did you get what you needed?” His arm aches, but it’s bandaged and there’s no sign of blood anywhere. “You didn’t go out and murder anyone while I was out, did you?” He keeps his tone light, and his instinct says he can trust Meng Yao. But something that might be a memory tells him not to trust that instinct.
“How could I?” asks Meng Yao. “You made it so I couldn’t leave your side.”
“That’s good.” Nie Huaisang sighs. “Don’t leave my side. I don’t remember my past life, but I think I must have missed you.”
Meng Yao’s eyes widen slightly, then with a slight chuckle, he shakes his head. “You’re still a little out of it, Huaisang,” he says. “We’ll talk when you’re fully awake.”
“Just tell me,” says Nie Huaisang. “Was it Dage who locked you away in there?” Away from him?
“No, Huaisang,” says Meng Yao, “no. It was you.”