Nie Mingjue's mustache deserves to be classed as a spiritual tool. Or 5+1 times someone appreciated Nie Mingjue's facial hair for Reasons.

Rumor had already made the entire cultivation world aware that Jiang Fengmian had found the orphaned son of Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze, and that he had taken him into his home as his ward, allowing him to become a Jiang sect disciple – treating him almost as one of the family, even. That much was known, so it didn’t come as much of a surprise when Jiang Fengmian proudly introduced him or even more proudly showed him off, praising him to the high heavens. What did come as a surprise was how little he praised his own son standing beside him, despite them being only a few days apart in age. It was as if Jiang Fengmian had simply forgotten that such a creature existed, much less that he had himself contributed to its spawning, and the constant looks of hope – invariably crushed – the child sent him made it clear that the present situation had been going on for some time. Fuck you, Nie Mingjue thought, seeing red, seeing instead Nie Huaisang in his failed saber classes, struggling so desperately to keep up with the rest even though his body wouldn’t allow for it, being told he was useless and a good-for-nothing and fit for nothing but marriage. Fuck you, Jiang Fengmian.

Thursdays are for boxing. Thursdays are for Nie Mingjue. He pretends, sometimes, that they’re peers, even though they’re in different weight classes and always will be. He likes spitting and snarling at Nie Mingjue just to see what he’ll do, to push and shove at the boundaries. Nie Mingjue, it feels like sometimes, has self control the way that ponds have ice in the late fall- delicately and temporarily and easily disturbed.

It feels, sometimes, like Jiang Cheng's waiting to have a bad day so he has an excuse. It’s a Tuesday and Jiang Cheng finds himself huddled under the portico in front of Nie Mingjue’s impressive double-doors, wondering what the fuck he’s doing with his life. He’s drenched to the bone, all of his formal clothes sticking to all of his skin, waiting for someone to answer the door before he freezes to death. Or maybe he’ll just freeze to death! Maybe that’s the option at play here. Considering how the rest of his night is going, he doesn’t think it’d actually be all that surprising.