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The day's lectures were over, the light was perfect, and Nie Huaisang was just settling in with his inks to paint one of the pocket gardens—an ornamental tree tucked into a corner with a little pond—when he saw Meng Yao emerge from the Yashi. He was looking particularly thoughtful, in contrast to the glow of quiet satisfaction he'd acquired since his delightfully scandalous runaway marriage. Nie Huaisang hadn't realised how tense and closed-down he'd been in the Impure Realm. All right, you still couldn't exactly call him open, but he wasn't quite so mouse-ish anymore. He'd even look you in the eye now.
"Yao-ge!" Nie Huaisang waved.
Meng Yao closed his eyes in a visible plea for patience, but came over to the railing above where Nie Huaisang had disposed himself. Meng Yao's expression looking down at him was the usual resigned one.
"Come here." Nie Huaisang patted the white gravel next to him. "Tell Huaisang what's on your mind."
Meng Yao eyed him a while longer, then, to his surprise, walked around to the steps. Nie Huaisang stared at him in shock as he knelt, arranging his pristine white hanfu meticulously. Unperturbed, Meng Yao smiled.
Refusing to be distracted, Nie Huaisang exclaimed, "Oh! Do you actually need my help with something?"
"Perhaps," Meng Yao answered cautiously. "You know the conclave is coming up soon."
"Da-ge hasn't been pestering you to make all the arrangements for him by messenger, has he?" Back when they'd left the Impure Realm, Meng Yao had already been consumed with the preparations for it. Nie Huaisang thought it was probably half the reason he hadn't asked Nie Mingjue if he couldn't be spared to attend the lectures himself. Although he tended not to ask for things, in the usual way, and especially not favours.
"No, but we will be attending."
Meng Yao was back to giving him measuring looks. Nie Huaisang made an attempt to appear trustworthy.
Finally, Meng Yao said, "Zewu-jun asked if I wanted a courtesy name before we went. He asked if there was one I would prefer."
Nie Huaisang sat up at attention. "Ooh! I've given this a lot of thought."
"...you have?" Meng Yao blinked, non-plussed.
"You know Da-ge would have given you one, right? He talked about adopting you into the clan, but he knew you were still fixated on the Jin, so I guess he never brought it up."
Meng Yao looked like he'd just walked face-first into an invisible ward. "Oh."
"Do you still want to keep the yáo?" Nie Huaisang asked. "You know, like Mèng Línyáo? Or maybe something more poetic? I was thinking Mèng Xiùzàn for a while, but that was back in the Impure Realm."
"Zewu-jun suggested Lánxīn—using the character for mist," Meng Yao offered, cheeks slightly pink.
"Yao-ge, please tell me you at least use his name when you two are alone," Nie Huaisang said, because honestly.
"That would be private," Meng Yao replied primly. So, the answer was probably embarrassing.
Shaking his head, Nie Huaisang said, "I'll admit, it could be worse. You could be going around calling him fujun in soppy tones of voice."
"Hmph," sniffed Meng Yao, all up on his dignity.
"Well, if that's how you're going to be, you could always try Mèng Àiyáo."
"Ǎiyáo," Meng Yao murmured.
Nie Huaisang tapped his fan against his lips. "Can I ask about the mist theme?"
"...it's related to the circumstances of our marriage," answered Meng Yao grudgingly.
Nie Huaisang gaped at him. "Yao-ge! Were you actually married in a heavenly mountain mist?"
If Meng Yao's face got any redder, he'd spontaneously combust.
"That is the most unbelievably romantic thing I have ever heard in my entire life! You have been holding out on me," Nie Huaisang accused.
"There is often fog in these mountains; that's why they call it Cloud Recesses."
"Mèng Ǎixīn," suggested Nie Huaisang gleefully.
Meng Yao scowled. "It's supposed to be a courtesy name, not a pet name."
"Mèng Àilán."
"I don't know why I put up with you."
"Mèng Lányáo." Oh, but this was too much fun.
"I was thinking more along the lines of Qiángyáo," said Meng Yao, repressively.
"How about Mèng Yǎtíng?"
Meng Yao heaved a sigh.
All at once, Nie Huaisang had a brilliant idea. "How obnoxious do you want to be?" he asked wickedly. "Because: Meng Zīyáo. And by zī I mean the character for baring your teeth."
"Stop trying to stir up trouble," Meng Yao scolded, predictably, but there was a gleam of appreciation in his eye.
"Or maybe it should be the zī for a downpour."
By his expression, Meng Yao was fantasising about the zì for stab. "Can we please be serious?"
"Mèng Shūyáo. Just think of them all having to say it," Nie Huaisang added with relish.
"Next time, I'm asking Lan Wangji," Meng Yao grumbled, but there was that glimmer of, dare he say it, mischief again.
"Oh, what a good idea!" agreed Nie Huaisang, catching sight of a distinctive white icicle gliding like a frozen swan along the walkways. He snapped his fan open and waved it in the air. "Lan-er-gongzi! We're in desperate need of your assistance, Lan-er-gongzi!"
Stopping, Lan Wangji turned to level a flat glare at him before turning his attention to Meng Yao, who was now pinching the bridge of his nose. The look he gave Meng Yao could almost have been described as a facial expression.
"Your brother thinks I need a courtesy name before the conclave," Meng Yao explained.
"Mn," was, predictably, Lan Wangji's terribly helpful contribution.
"We could always go with Xiàoyáo," Nie Huaisang suggested brightly.
The look Meng Yao gave him was politely lethal; he cringed. "I was just joking, Yao-ge."
"Xiùzhì," said Lan Wangji.
Nie Huaisang's mouth dropped open. "...was that a joke?" He whipped around to verify that Meng Yao had heard that, too. "Can he joke? Is he allowed to do that?" Then, narrowing his eyes at Lan Wangji: "Zhìyáo."
As per usual, no one but Wei Wuxian could get so much as a blink out of him. After a long moment apparently meditating on the proposal, he finally asked, "Which?"
"Will," Nie Huaisang said promptly.
"Wisdom," Lan Wangji countered.
Eyebrows twitching up, Nie Huaisang snuck a look aside behind the screen of his fan to see Meng Yao looking shyly pleased. Well, his terminally good manners did seem like the sort of thing to win over a stickler like Lan Wangji. Not that Nie Huaisang didn't admire the reckless enthusiasm of Wei Wuxian's approach (from a safe distance, anyhow).
"Hm, not bad," he mused. "What does Yao-ge think?"
Meng Yao's glance bounced between him and—with considerably less suspicion, hurtful—Lan Wangji. Once he'd decided he'd milked the suspense sufficiently, he pronounced, "It will do."
"See? My judgement in these matters is unsurpassed," Nie Huaisang asserted. "It's all down to my artistic temperament."
"Of course, I'm sure that explains everything," Meng Yao said, his tone dry.
Pouting behind his fan, Nie Huaisang was struck by a sudden idea. "Tell you what! I'll make you a deal."
Instantly wary, Meng Yao asked, "What sort of a deal?"
"I'll call you by your courtesy name, if," Nie Huaisang continued, "you call me by mine."
Pleased with himself, he watched Meng Yao weigh his options, eyes shrewd behind his usual polite expression. "All right."
"Yao-ge! Really?"
Meng Yao raised an eyebrow.
"Zhiyao," he corrected himself hurriedly.
Smiling cheerfully, Meng Yao said, "As a matter of fact, that was the other thing I wanted to ask you about. If I'm to address your brother more familiarly—"
"Since when?"
"We've been corresponding with him in advance of the conclave; it's important to establish the correct tone. Seeing that you've brought up the matter before, I hoped you wouldn't find the request too presumptuous."
Nie Huaisang gaped at him. Had, he had been had. "Ah! The betrayal of a friend is so cruel."
Meng Yao patted him on the shoulder consolingly. "I really must thank you for your invaluable assistance today, Huaisang."
"Some people should be careful their excessively complimentary new courtesy names don't go to their heads," Nie Huaisang grumbled.
"A salutary reminder. Your brother will be glad to hear of you embracing the Lan precepts so whole-heartedly. But we should let you get back to your painting while you still have the light," Meng Yao said benignly. "Lan-xiong, shall we go see if Zewu-jun will be free to spar with us today?"
"I hope he keeps his sword sharp," Nie Huaisang muttered to the flowering tree as the pair of them wafted back down along the walkways. Laying out his ink and brushes, he settled in to paint, and to plot his revenge.