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ashayatreldai · 3 years

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His Face - Fic

Find this on AO3 or read it here.

Among Su She’s effects is found a bundle of sketches of Hanguang Jun, which inspires a lifetime of exchanges between Wei Wuxian and his husband.

***

Wei Wuxian yawned, barely remembering to cover his mouth with the back of his hand. It wasn’t as though Lan Wangji minded; he still marveled at his husband’s calm acceptance of his less than perfect behavior. And it wasn’t as if he were really tired. They’d been back in Cloud Recesses only a handful of days and most of that time Wei Wuxian had been able to rest, to wander the back hill, to play with the rabbits, to tease Sizhui and Jingyi, to play Chenqing to the birds and the rainbows the sun cast in the light mists of Gusu’s waterfalls. No, he supposed. He yawned because he was warm, well-fed, secure and safe, and in the best company a person could desire, let alone have all to himself.

Lan Wangji sat on the other side of the desk, and in spite of the hour was still working through the backlog of mail which had accumulated in his absence.

“What’s this?” A bundle of papers caught Wei Wuxian’s eye, and on impulse he reached and drew them out of the stack.

Lan Wangji looked up. “After the events at Gyanyin Temple, members of the Lan Clan disposed of the bodies, sealed the coffin in which Red Blade Master and Jin Guangyao are buried, and otherwise put the site in order. Among these activities, Su She’s body was searched and his personal effects catalogued. A quiankun pouch was found, containing an assortment of items. This bundle of papers was also in the pouch. I assume it was forwarded to me because I am the subject.”

Wei Wuxian leafed through the pages. It was a collection of sketches in a variety of media, all of Hanguang Jun’s face, mostly sketches of his eyes. They weren’t half bad: the artist had captured the micro-expressions which concealed everything but hid nothing of Hanguang Jun’s thoughts. But as he examined the pile, he experienced an increasing sensation of wrongness.

“I wonder what he was trying to capture. I mean, here’s ice, here’s anger. I think this one is arrogance or being haughty; and this one has to be indifference. And this,” he huffed out with a half smile, “has got to be ‘you are the scum beneath my shoe’.” That was a micro-expression Wei Wuxian had seen often on Lan Wangji’s face when they were young, as he kept poking and prodding until the carefully cultivated mask his friend wore finally slipped. He spread out the pictures, his eyes searching for the clues he knew he’d find. “Why would he want to draw these things and exclude others? I know a lot of people are afraid of you, Lan Zhan, because you look cold and imperturbable. But anyone who knows you and watches closely can see that there’s so much more to you than that.”

“Su She was cast out of the Lan Clan because he betrayed our secrets to Wen Xu. He was known for being desirous of imitating me – poorly. We can only speculate as to his motivations otherwise,” Lan Wangji commented quietly.

“Mmmm,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “He hated you, but he also idolized you. Who’s to say what came first? Whatever,” he said, shaking his head. “The fact he captured your eyes with these strong antagonistic expressions suggests he hated himself, and perhaps wanted to make you the one who hated him in his own mind. It’s easier to hate someone than to live with the pain of feeling rejected or not even noticed.”

“I never hated Su She.”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever known you to hate anyone, Hanguang Jun.” Wei Wuxian felt a surge of protective affection for this dear man. “Not even those who deserve it. Su She unfairly judged you and didn’t know you at all. Still, when you think about what people say about me, the scary deranged Yiling Patriarch, anything’s possible in terms of what people do to themselves to justify hatred. Blargh!” He made claws with his hands and pulled a terrifying crazy Yiling Laozu face.

“Wei Ying.” There was amusement dancing in Lan Wangji’s eyes. “You do not scare me.”

Sometimes Lan Wangji could abruptly light a fuse in Wei Wuxian and leave him smoking. He laughed and crawled around to Lan Wangji’s side of the table, climbing into his lap to sit with one leg either side of Lan Wangji’s waist. His husband’s hands came up to support his lower back. He put both hands loosely around Lan Wangji’s neck.

Lan Wangi had removed his silver coronet and tendrils of hair that usually were wound up to hold the headpiece in place trailed either side of his face, making him look softer and younger and so much more vulnerable.

For some time they sat simply looking at each other. Wei Wuxian took in the flawless face, reaching one hand to trace Lan Wangi’s eyebrow, feeling the soft hairs brush beneath his fingerpads. He gently followed the line of an eyelash, delighting in the butterfly kiss as his husband blinked. Out over the swell of zygomatic bone, cupping around his perfectly shaped ear – he really was like exquisitely carved jade, warm, living, and here. He cupped Lan Wangji’s cheek, his thumb finding the hollow between nose and lip and the soft breath of life it held. And those lips, now quirked in a loving bow.

He pulled himself up to kiss the forehead ribbon, to plant gentle brushes of his lips over all the places he’d touched. When he came to Lan Wangji’s mouth, he finally let go, giving all his worship as they joined tongues, teeth, desire, losing themselves in each other.

They released the kiss, and held each other, Wei Wuxian’s head on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. Between them energy sizzled – it would be sated later, but it was sufficient for now to enjoy the beatitude of the moment, the closeness, words unnecessary to communicate the depth of heart each held for the other.

***

Wei Wuxian was traveling. His absence itched acutely just under Lan Wangji’s skin, a constant worry. He rued the duty which pinned him in his current dual roles: Chief Cultivator and Acting Sect Leader, keeping him grounded at Cloud Recesses instead of off night hunting with his husband.

It was necessary, he knew, for Wei Wuxian to move; the whole man was a study in movement, in ceaseless energy. He knew the staid and stable pattern of life at Cloud Recesses felt like a box to Wei Ying, and while he could endure for a season, he needed more than what life in Gusu offered, even with rabbits and a back hill to wander for hours.

But oh, he missed him. And he worried too: who would defend him when he had so little sense of self-preservation?

This journey, Wei Wuxian had set off to attempt to mend things with Jiang Cheng before making his way up to Lanling to see Jin Ling. One of the highest values for the Lan was family, and Lan Wangji understood the deep need his husband had for those connections – had encouraged it.

It was just as well Wei Wuxian had mastered the butterfly talisman (and enhanced it). Morning and night he would wait for the silvery wings to alight with Wei Wuxian’s messages of love and thought to whisper through his qi. Sometimes they were profound, poetry. Sometimes playful; sometimes just a kiss. Lan Wangji came to depend on those messages, and on being able to send some back himself: I love you, I miss you, come home soon.

He sighed. This morning had grown tedious. Today was the end of the accounting period for Clan matters, and while there was staff to manage the minutiae of bookkeeping, as Acting Clan Leader LanWangji was examining the records before tomorrow’s visit from the auditor. Not for the first time he lamented his brother’s seclusion, necessary though it was. Dealing with finances was the part of the role that least appealed to Lan Wangji; he felt a headache brewing and was contemplating taking a break when there was a knock on the door.

“Hanguang Jun, mail has arrived,” the disciple said, handing him a bundle.

“Thank you. Please ask the kitchen to send me some lunch,” he requested, taking the pile.

The disciple departed, and he began to sort the items: those about Clan matters, those for the Chief Cultivator. One letter stood out, a simple scroll tied with a red thread. Putting all the other mail aside he carefully opened the scroll and took a breath.

It was an ink painting of his eyes, creased ever so slightly in an expression of amusement. On his brow the forehead ribbon glinted silver, his hair loosely framing his cheeks. He instantly recognized the artist, tracing a finger over the brush strokes as if that touch could unite him with the hand that had made them.

“Wei Ying,” he said, infinite fondness filling him.

Throughout the rest of the day he kept the picture on his desk, glancing at it from time to time. And when it was time to turn his attention to other things, he gently placed the picture in his sleeve to take back to the jingshi.

Every couple of days another picture would arrive. This too became something Lan Wangji expected, an important and significant marker in his day, each picture a symbol that he was one day closer to seeing, holding, touching, tasting Wei Wuxian again.

***

300 years later

Clan Leader Lan Shuoxiao had come to the Forbidden Room in the Library Pavilion seeking a book she’d known had been here years earlier. Back then she’d been a mischievous girl seeking a way to prank Shufu, and she vividly remembered the green cover. Lan filing methods hadn’t changed in hundreds of years, so that wretched book had to be here somewhere.

She moved a pile of dusty scrolls, cursing under her breath when she knocked a stack of bamboo books which went tumbling over the floor. Patience, she told herself strictly. Breathe and control.

Feeling a little more composed, she bent to restore the mess to order. A red cover caught her eye on one of the lower shelves. She’d not seen that before, and she was sure she’d have recognized it if she had. It was quite distinct, a deep red, tied shut with of all things a Clan ribbon.

Intrigued, she opened the volume, carefully untying the ribbon and leafing through the pages. Page after page were pictures of a handsome man’s eyes: crinkled in delight, weeping with sorrow, dancing with affection, on and on they went. Sometimes the whole of the man’s lovely face was shown: in some he wore the elaborate silver coronet her ancestors had favored, in others his long tresses floated around his face, and the artist had clearly captured a treasured, private, and vulnerable moment.

Around half way through the volume the pictures changed: a spritely young man in black, his underrobe a vivid red (the same colour as the cover of the book, as it happened – and she wondered whether it was indeed cut from the same cloth), a red ribbon in his hair, holding a black dizi. This array of pictures had a different hand, a more understated eye which captured the young man’s energetic aura, as well as pensive moments – the youth had clearly been to hell and back, and Lan Shuoxiao could almost feel the immense love with which the person who’d drawn these pictures had made each stroke.

There were so many! Page sized varied: a compendium gathered together of odd scraps. The last page bore an inscription:

In loving memory of my parents, Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang Jun, and Wei Ying, Wei Wuxian, Yiling Laozu. The true faces of both, in their own hands. Love letters sent to dearest him who was, alas, away. Lan Yuan, Lan Sizhui, Chief Cultivator.

Clan Leader Lan Shuoxiao’s heart thumped wildly in her chest. Clan records declared Hanguang Jun’s partner’s name to have been Lan Ying, Lan Wuxian. How had they never made the connection before that “Lan Wuxian” was in fact the infamous Yiling Patriarch? Given that the two had Lan Yuan, Lan Sizhui’s name inscribed under theirs as offspring, Lan Shuoxiao and many others had assumed Lan Wuxian to be female.

She looked closely again at one of the pictures of the young man in black and red. He didn’t look like the evil dictator of legend. He looked mischievous and full of life, an impression caught in the laughing smile, and so… youthful.

Not that demonic cultivation was these days the issue it had been for her ancestors; these days cultivation was emphasized to be about harnessing the yin of negative energy and the yang of positive energy, holding them in balance and using each appropriately. She doubted the people who had so feared and hated the Yiling Patriarch would be able to recognize as righteous the way all cultivators now practiced as a matter of course.

As for Hanguang Jun… She flicked back to a picture in which his whole upper body had been captured as he played guqin, a study of someone completely caught up and focused on the music, almost in ecstasy. Another private moment revealing something about the essence of the man. He was so beautiful, captivating. And such a contrast from all the other images she’d ever seen of him. Hanguang Jun had a reputation even now, 150 years after he had Ascended, for being cold, somewhat forbidding, distant, just, merciful and benevolent, untouchable, unrivalled in almost all fields. That was how he appeared at the Gate of Gusu, carved of jade, opposite his brother, Zewu Jun, the famous Twin Jades of Gusu Lan now its guardians, their representations inscribed and infused with talismans and ward tethers. Rumor was that no evil could come to Cloud Recesses as long as the Twin Jades stood at the gates. How was anyone to reconcile that formidable image with this? This picture of a very human, vulnerable, gentle man, who was clearly so very much loved by the artist who drew him.

Lan Shuoxiao found herself on the edge of tears. It felt like an injustice, looking at these intimate sketches, that history had forgotten Wei Wuxian as little more than a footnote. And that the righteous Hanguang Jun had been immortalized as a stiff, cold and distant deity rather than someone’s beloved whose heart beat wildly in his chest in longing, and whose blood was warm and red and thrummed with reciprocated affection. She wondered how they had found one another, wondered about the history in which they must have been caught up: how did it affect them? What trials had they passed through before they finally found their way to each other’s arms?

She reverently closed the volume, her original mission in coming here put aside. Thoughtfully, she collected up the scrolls and bamboo books and reordered them, and then closed the Forbidden Room.

***

Several months later a new scene was depicted on the climbing path around the residences of Gusu: a beautiful, crowned Lan sat cross-legged in the back hill meadow, covered in a blanket of rabbits. His loving gaze was fixed on the figure opposite him under a peach tree in full bloom, who was standing and playing a dizi. The legend beneath read: Hanguang Jun and his cultivation partner Yiling Laozu, Lan Wuxian.

FIN

#the untamed #ao3 #mdzs #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #lan sizhui #myfic

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md3artjournal · 5 years

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Feeling sad right now. Worthless and hopeless, more like it.

This morning I got out of bed and the first thing I did was draw. It all ended up bad. Well, actually, the 4th drawing turned out pretty well. And it was a re-draw of a sketch I did a few days ago, and in comparison, it was an improvement. In fact, after all these days of failing to draw everyday and being so out of practice, those original sketches I did a few days ago were already a triumph. Just doodles and not my best work, but the fact that they’re proof that I finally got myself back to moving pen on paper, back to drawing practice, was significant. So that fact that I was tackling scale drawings and returning to practicing sketching from models of human figures, was also a step of significant progress. Heck, the fact that I attempted to go for accuracy and get back into drawing scale humans, vs copping-out to chibi, was all important.

But I still feel like a failure. Nothing I did turned out pretty. Objectively, the 4th drawing today turned out a *little* pretty, but I just can’t see that right now. I’m too sad. ;_;

Maybe I made a mistake listening to a bunch of “artist motivation” YouTube vids. I have a vetted playlist for “creative motivation”, but today, I just used the autoplay function and let YouTube’s algorithms choose the vids. Sure, ti was mostly helpful stuff, but the more I dwell on them, the more that ambient things like tone and side messages, jab into me. And I have untreated depression, so I’m going to dwell and turn neutral memories into poison. So with all their talk of drawings looking bad without first mastering the fundamentals and how even someone who has drawn for years but not mastered the fundamentals will still suck (in comparison to a newbie who’s studying consciously), I can’t stop thinking about how I am the exemplary “bad art major” used as comparison. No, that’s not my big problem right now. Right now, I can’t stop thinking about how after all these years, I just can’t get myself to study “the fundamentals”. I’ve never been good at perspective, anatomy, and all that. And every time I sit myself down and force myself to practice it all, I just end up so frustrated, that I ended up with nothing pretty and wasted so much time, that I end up acting nasty to someone, then I have to regret _that_ for all time. I hate studying. I just want to get my stories down, and manifest the images in my head. Even when they’re not technically good, they’ve always made me happy. I was storyboarding comics before I ever became an art major or studied “fundamentals”. But I do often feel bad that my drawing aren’t good. But studying fundamentals makes me so miserable. So I never study them, and my drawings continue to be bad. …Though secretly, they make me happy, just capturing some feeling from the image in my head. Still, technically bad though.

I always end up in these pessimistic spirals when my depression come around. Maybe I’ll just crawl into bed and give up on getting any of my other projects done today. I thought that maybe I could make up for how bad I feel about how terrible I am at illustration, by working on sculpting. Surely, that would end up better and give me a much needed self-esteem boost. And I really do need to sculpt. There are so many things to get done for artist alley in 1.5 months, and gods know I don’t make my money from illustration. But I just feel so spiritually tired right now, maybe I’ll just go to bed for the rest of the day, or a few hours. I tried binge-eating chocolate junk food to make myself feel better. It didn’t work. That’s why I’m writing. Writing always makes me feel better. That’s why it saddens me to know I neglected it for so long, that I haven’t written a story (I could be proud of) in years, after Writing used to be a major part of my identity. ;___; I gotta stop finding more stuff to feel sad about. Maybe that’s why I need to go to bed; to shut off my brain. Being alive is an endless nightmare; I don’t know how people do it.

Maybe I need to go back to drawing tigers, or at least animals. Something that looks prettier than humans—even when I make sketching mistakes. That’s always been an esteem boost before. Then when my hands gets re-accustomed to drawing, I’ll go back to that staircase up, drawing humans. And more importantly, back to drawing fan-art of characters I love.

There are so many jewelry charms I’ve wanted to sculpt for artist alley, but after last year discovering that past customers have broken the things they’ve bought from me, I’m reluctant to make anything. They’ll just say my products are bad some more. I keep screaming to myself that they’re unreasonable for thinking polymer clay, designed as jewelry pendants, could stand up to the thick, jagged metal of keys. And how am I more culpable for customers who break my ornaments, than customers of illustration artists, who crumple their posters and somehow think that’s the artist’s fault. I do durability checks on my products, but I also don’t expect them to have the same resilience of industrial plastics and acrylic charms. Since last year, I’ve been posting “handle with care” warnings at my artist alley table, and I’ve discovered that other polymer clay artists include “care instructions” with each of their products, which is a practice I’d like to try. But I still feel so stunted with fear to make anything, because I’m afraid people will buy charms from me, crush the on keys, or just throw them into a tote bag to swing around the rest of the convention, to come back and make me feel bad that my sculptures are at fault for not being as durable as the industrial plastics they get from Wal-mart. I’ve been too afraid to make anything. For a long time now. This time last year, I was frantically producing pendants. Now I’m too afraid to make anything, and I’ve got an ENORMOUS backlog of projects and designs I’ve been itching to get done in time for my yearly, biggest convention. I’ve been thinking more and more that I’m not cut out for making a living as an artist or in artist alley. I’ve been thinking of quitting next year, since it’s the end of the decade, and possibly making this year or next year, my last year. I kept telling myself that my social anxiety would be best served by opening an online shop, but I’m so afraid of all the hellish customer stories I’ve heard about online from people who take commissions or have to deal with customers who complain about shipping problems. I’m afraid of the problems I’ve heard with PayPal. I haven’t even gotten the guts to get a free Square credit card reader, after all these YEARS—and it was the reason I got my first smartphone a few years ago! I’m too afraid to do this artist thing. A comedian once noted that VanGogh failed during his lifetime, because he was too mentally ill to do the networking, required of a successful art career. Maybe it’s time I accept that. But I’ve been there before, in non-art office jobs. I just goof off, writing and wishing I could use my time/energy to make things instead. Had money though. I could use money again. …But I also tried before to use Consumerism as a means to make me happy, since the cubicle job took away all my time/energy for anything else for fulfillment. And that failed before too. All my paths and possibilities look like failures and I feel trapped. I don’t’ know if that’s reality or just my depression. I really can’t tell the difference anymore.

#depression #artist problems #venting #please ignore my idiocy #quitting art

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milkhakyeon · 7 years

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my heart is still remembering [7kpp day 2; sacrifice]

title: my heart is still remembering

pairing: jasper-centric, kade/jasper

rating: g

summary: it starts to dawn on him that maybe he’s been sacrificing the wrong thing.

a/n: apologies for the super late post! real life has been a pain lately ;-; anyway here's my first 7kpp fic! i only started playing the game three weeks ago so i apologise if they're ooc (i'm taking artistic license with their teenage selves though bc pRECIOUS CHILDREN ;A;)

one of the good things about being a butler, jasper thinks, is that he gets to observe.

he has always liked watching from the sidelines, catching the uncertain waver at the tail end of a sentence or the nervous quiver of a finger. the split second of vulnerability in someone’s eyes. things that no one but him sees.

it is what he is supposed to do, after all. it is his duty, his path, his purpose.

but there are…times. times he wonders why he does the things he does.

times like today.

he gazes at the necklace, lying forgotten at the far end of his drawer.

no, perhaps forgotten isn’t the right word to use. after all, he’d hadn’t been able to truly forget about it. he hates to admit it, but he’d been pushing it as far away from him as he could. but as hard as he’d tried, it hadn’t worked, not really. not when his heart isn’t so easily deceived.

tentatively, he picks the necklace up, fingers brushing over the glass locket. save for the dust that’s settled in a thin film, it’s exactly as he remembers.

maybe that’s the thing. he can try his hardest to block his mind, to force himself not to recall the memories by force of sheer willpower. he’s trained his self-discipline enough that he doesn’t think of him anymore, not unless absolutely necessary. but he can’t control his heart. can’t stop it from twisting painfully when he sees things that used to be special to them. can’t stop it from being drawn to him like a moth to a flame, even as it knows the dangers of playing with fire.

even now, his heart is still remembering.

“found you, kae!”

at six years old, his lips are still unable to enunciate his best friend’s name properly, the word tapering off in a triumphant lilt instead. he’s always been better at hiding than seeking, so victory as a seeker is always extra sweet.

kade shushes him, eye still glued to the tiny crack in between wood panels. jasper pouts, and crouches down next to his best friend.

“what are you looking at?”

kade motions for him to come closer, moving away from the peephole so jasper can see what he’s been staring at.

“do you see it?” kade whispers, voice quick and eager.

jasper’s about to shake his head when a tall, slender girl steps out of a room, dressed in a off-shoulder chiffon gown and heels so high jasper has no idea how anyone can balance in them, much less walk a few steps.

jasper turns to face kade, blinking quizzically. “who is she?”

“doesn’t matter. look behind her.”

jasper peers through the hole again, and this time he sees the man, dressed in formal attire, broad shoulders filling out his blazer nicely.

“see him? that’s my uncle,” kade says smugly, puffing up. “he says i’m gonna become a butler like him when i grow up.”

jasper tilts his head curiously. “you want to become a butler?”

“yeah,” kade nods, leaning against the wooden fence and looking up at the clear sky. “uncle says it’s one of the better, if not the best, jobs on the isle.”

jasper scoots closer, imitating kade and leaning against the fence, though he looks at kade instead. kade turns, and smiles.

“say, jas, how about we become butlers together?”

jasper’s eyes light up, and he nods enthusiastically. kade grins.

“it’s a deal, then.”

before they know it, years have passed, slipping past them like sand through their fingers.

the library is silent, save for the scratching of pen nibs and the rustling of endless sheets of parchment scattered across varnished wood. jasper’s used to silence, especially since it somehow always manages to find him in every conversation he has, so he doesn’t attempt to break it.

kade, however, has never been one for staying still.

so it’s not really a surprise when kade speaks up, baritone voice slicing through the thick silence that had settled over them, though jasper does allow himself to raise an eyebrow at the decidedly unique question.

“jas, do you ever wonder why we're even doing this? why we have to sit for a test that evaluates us on criteria some old hag probably created decades ago?"

for all his incisive remarks, kade has never asked him this before. neither has jasper ever thought about it, for that matter. he has always bought fully into his job, his supposed duty.

“why do you believe so readily in what they tell you? why are we trying to hard to ace a test created to evaluate our worth based on terms they set?”

jasper wants to correct him, wants to defend the values he’s always believed in. but that wouldn’t answer the question, not really. what his friend seeks are reasons. reasons he can’t formulate, reasons he can’t provide. reasons he doesn’t even know.

he knows he has to explain himself, but he doesn’t know how it’s possible to explain something he doesn’t understand.

his mind is a whirl as he tries to piece together his fragmented thoughts into coherent explanations, eyes staring unseeingly at the far end of the table. his pen lies forgotten in his hand, a dark stain slowly spreading where the tip meets parchment.

it takes him a while to organise his thoughts, but he knows kade is used to him and his slow pace by now. after a few long moments, jasper sets his pen down and turns to face kade. looking up to meet his gaze, when—

when kade swipes across his face with ink-stained fingers, laughter bubbling past his lips.

jasper freezes, the sudden streaks of cold moistness on his cheek enough for him to realise what has happened. kade’s eyes have already disappeared behind crescent curves, his laughter a resounding staccato.

he must have stayed silent for very long, because kade slowly sobers up, regarding jasper warily, cautiously, as he leans in closer, raucous laughter subsiding to an awkward chuckle.

“wait, jas, are you mad? i—“

jasper doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence before he reaches into the ink pot and smears the contents on kade’s nose with more speed than he’d thought he was capable of, his lips betraying a small smile.

kade’s lips curl into a cheshire grin, and jasper has about half a second of a head start to leap out of his chair before kade is chasing him around the room, ink on both his hands, ready to be transferred onto pale unmarked skin.

jasper is still no match for kade, only getting a few smudges in for every five or so marks kade leaves on him, but he finds that he doesn’t mind when it ends with kade pinning him to the table, drawing silly patterns on his face as they laugh, clear and uninhibited and blissful.

later, when they’ve calmed down and realised the mess they’ve made, jasper takes kade’s hands in his, gently rubbing the ink stains off with a handkerchief.

“i can do it myself, you know,” kade sulks, eyes looking everywhere but at jasper.

jasper smiles, breath escaping his lips in a soft chuckle. “yeah, and you’ll only rub off the edges of a few stains before you lose your patience and resign yourself to a woeful fate of spending the rest of the day with ink-stained hands.”

kade scowls, but it doesn’t last long, his lips quirking up in a tiny smile by the end of it.

jasper never does manage to tell kade his answer, but he thinks it doesn’t matter anyway, not when they’re happy and content in this moment and that’s really all that matters.

(isn’t it?)

one day during self-study time after breakfast, kade charms his way through a hallway of servants and sneaks into jasper’s room.

jasper’s always had a tendency to unconsciously block out everything when he works, so he doesn’t notice kade until a flash of silver enters his vision and there are hands fastening a chain at the back of his neck.

he looks down to see a clear glass disc hanging on a woven cord, its thin silver rim encircling bits of dried purple and white flower petals.

“sweet pea and white carnations,” kade mumbles, hovering behind jasper even after he finishes fastening the necklace. “wanted to give you some luck before the test.”

jasper smiles. “they’re our birth month flowers, right?”

“yeah.” kade fidgets awkwardly, eventually shoving his hands into his pockets. “yours mean thank you, as well as blissful pleasure. and mine... when white, they represent good luck.” kade pauses. “well, there’s another meaning, but that one isn’t important."

jasper’s known kade long enough to know he won’t be able to get anything more than what he wants to share out of him, so for all his curiosity, he doesn’t say anything, just runs a finger over the glass almost tenderly. “thank you, kae. it’s beautiful."

“yeah, well, it’s nothing much,” kade says, dismissively, even as a light pink dusts his cheeks. “i’m going back to my room. gotta study to beat you."

jasper laughs, calling out “keep trying!” as kade makes a hasty exit, almost crashing into a servant on his way out.

once he’s alone, he tries to go back to studying, but he soon finds the margins of his notes filled with sketches of flowers.

(kade would've thought that on a place like the isle, with all its concealed nooks and crannies, people would find better hiding spots to discuss their secrets. but no, apparently people like to talk in places that aren’t exactly that obscure.

like the small library.

he’s there searching for books on the isle's rules of conduct, because jasper had complained about needing to find and memorise every single one of them, and between the dark circles under his eyes and his appalling tendency to forget to eat kade decides it's a better idea for him to help him out. though he does have a backlog of work from all the times he skipped self-study time to explore the isle, but well. he'll figure something out later.

he's found the fourth book and eliminated the thirty-seventh when he hears muffled voices carrying over, filtering through the gaps between crisp pages on shelves. he can't quite make out the words, so he edges closer, curiosity piqued.

"...this year's trials will be interesting, don't you think?"

"yes, certainly, though i still can't quite understand why ren decided to sign up for the chef trials instead. he'd make a fine butler, if i do say so myself."

gossip, then. kade's about to turn and leave, disinterested in such inane small talk, only to be stopped in his tracks by something a lot more relevant.

"say, talking about butlers, jasper's practically a shoo-in, isn't he? given that he's our leader's descendant and all."

"yeah, of course. how could we possibly not select our isle's golden boy? even if he were to flunk the test, we'd probably still accept him anyway."

the books fall from kade's arms, tumbling to the ground before he even realises he's let them go. then he's striding out of the library, gaze steeled into a hard glare, tension pulsating in his veins.)

seventeen minutes before the test, jasper finds himself allowing kade to lead him to the small pier, a strong hand wrapped firmly around his wrist.

“i need to talk to you,” kade had said, and jasper had allowed himself to be pulled along, like he always had.

they’re back at their usual hideout, a secluded spot on the far end of the beach, where the wind’s rustling both drowns out the surrounding noise and masks their voices from any eavesdroppers. it’s a mystical place, magical even. jasper would question it if not for the fact that the rest of the isle is equally mystical, and he’d end up having to question the entire basis of his existence.

regardless, he likes this place. whenever they’re here, it feels like they’re the only ones who exist, like they’re the only ones who matter.

but they’re not here for that today.

“i’m leaving the isle,” kade blurts, blunt as always. “come with me.”

jasper pauses, looking up at kade. any other person would either have laughed it off as a joke, but he knows kade, knows him well enough to recognise the look in his eyes. the steely determination burning bright behind violet irises.

“why?”

kade laughs, hollow and haunting.

“i'm sick of this isle, jasper. why not? why do you even want to take the test? why do you want to live under someone else’s terms?”

jasper stares, stunned, before replying disbelievingly, “because it’s our duty. you told me that yourself when we were kids, remember? it’s passed down from generation to generation. it’s more than just culture, or tradition, or beliefs. it’s who we are. who we’re supposed to be.”

kade rolls his eyes. “and who gets to decide that? who has the right to dictate how we should lead our lives?”

“this isn’t dictating! it’s what we were born to do. if we don’t do it, who will?” jasper pleads.

“i don’t know. i don’t care. i don’t want to be a part of it.”

jasper lets out a short, exasperated noise. “kade, what’s gotten into you? why are you needlessly rebelling against our beliefs?”

kade scoffs. “and why are you blindly following in your ancestor’s footsteps? acting like some pet pathetically tagging along wherever its master goes.”

“it’s not called blindly following if i know where i’m going,” jasper says, his face darkening. “what are you trying to do, play around? i don’t know who gave you these ideas, kade, but you need to grow up."

the next thing he knows, kade’s punched him, knuckles connecting hard with bone.

the finger jasper raises to his lip comes away bloody.

“you don’t understand me at all, do you,” kade snarls, voice low and caustic.

jasper doesn’t respond, just looks at kade, gaze laced with hurt and disbelief.

this isn’t the kade he knows.

kade laughs scathingly. “well, i’m leaving,” he says, eyes cold and cruel, "since clearly i’m not good enough for you, mr. golden boy.”

then he stalks off without so much as a second glance back, shoulders set in an angry line.

and jasper’s left alone, wind whipping loud in his ears. too loud.

kade doesn’t show up for the test, because he’s kade. jasper aces it, because he’s jasper.

even after the exam ends, the other candidates are still gossiping about the bloody cut on the corner of his lip, about kade’s absence, about how visibly shaken and distracted jasper had been throughout the test. mostly it's about how they must have fought and what must have happened. whose fault it must have been.

all the candidates get a long break as a reward for studying so hard. jasper doesn’t have the energy to deal with other people, so he retreats to his room and proceeds to spend the rest of his time locked in it.

the days pass by in a daze, sunrises blending into sunsets until he can’t tell the days apart anymore. the servants learn to ignore him when they bring him food or take his laundry or clean his room. he doesn’t notice them anyway, his mind far too focused on something else entirely.

then one day kade walks into his room. he doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway, so jasper tries to comfort him. tells him that he can still study and pass the test next year. instead, kade scoffs. tells him that he doesn’t even want to become a butler anymore, and leaves without saying anything else.

the memory is so fuzzy that jasper can’t remember whether it actually happened or not, so he tells himself it was a dream, as if that would somehow make it sting less.

he buries himself in endless silence and endless thoughts, and it’s only weeks later when the head butler personally comes to drag him out to begin his butler duties that jasper finally forces himself to leave the safety of his room.

after years of preparation, he’s gotten the position he’s always wanted. but he feels emptier than he’s ever had, eyes blank and heart numb, a walking shell of his former self.

and now, it’s been years since he became a butler.

it’s been years, and the system is starting to crack and collapse around them all.

the worst part is that jasper, bound by duty, can only watch as it happens.

he's powerless to stop it. he shouldn't be interfering, he should only watch and record as is. it is not his place to do anything.

and yet he desperately wants to. wants to help delegates who deserve it, wants to expose the corruption rooted within the isle staff. wants to ask the reasons why the isle is what it is.

but he doesn’t, because these were the exact things kade had been questioning before he shut him down so harshly, and he’d be a hypocrite to bring it up now.

but it’s been years, and jasper thinks all that time has taught him a little about courage.

the walk to kade’s room is longer than he remembers, but he steels himself to continue. he’s delayed this for far too long. he can't keep hiding anymore.

the locket hangs heavy on his chest as he knocks on the door, tentatively at first, then determinedly. swallows his pride because between the two, it’s the thing he’d rather lose.

kade opens the door, and regards him with an icy, doubtful look.

jasper swallows the fear and hurt and regret bubbling up in his throat. reminds himself to breathe.

“kae. can we talk?"

#7kppweek #7kpp #jasper #kade/jasper #fic #protectjasper2k17 #btw white carnations also mean pure love #which is rly cute???#kade & jasper pls just kiss and make up already #i mean what

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