[ 19. ] sender brings hot tea and medication to a [ hungover / ill ] receiver. (Hua Lian&Fu Yao)
a yellow sunrise | @divinity-shackled
If he didn't spend the better part of his mortal years under the arguably indirect servitude of a man who would later turn out to be misfortune incarnate, Hua Lian would believe himself to be the unluckiest god to ever be one.
Somehow, he'd managed to become important enough. Which is supposedly exactly what he wanted. If only it ever came with all the privileges and admiration he'd always wanted, and the independence that those elements granted. In a distant future, or in a different world all-together perhaps, he had something entirely of his own.
No longer an extension of someone, no longer important by proxy, no longer an amalgamation of associations.
But rather alone. Where he could finally breathe.
But that world is either too foreign to access or doesn't exist at all, because Hua Lian is hunching over scrolls he's wanted to stop reading through two hours, sporting a nasty hangover that has him continuously pinching his nose and holding back curses simply and solely because he's an extension, by proxy, and associated.
As reasonable as Ling Wen likes to make herself out to be, especially when forced to constantly combat the ridiculous demands of the martial gods they technically - if one looked at the matter and removed all their godly titles from civil gods - serve, she certainly knew how to drop all pretenses of untouchable, victimised grandiosity when it came to her own allegiances.
Festivities arranged by the three tumours for them, were preferably aided in arrangement by anyone but them. There's a part of him that understands the logic behind it, why would Ling Wen want to be stuck in the depths of organising the few moments of leisure with the few people she actually likes herself.
And somehow, purely from a factual standpoint, he also understands why exactly Shi Wudu and Pei Ming presume that just because he is who he is, they can simply request his services, his presence, his servitude, and expect him to not refuse. Because he's an extension of Ling Wen, important by proxy to her, and primarily associated to her.
Even if his associations had once ranked higher, to Him too he'd only been an extension. Hardly an advisor, if he was always between figuring out if he'd be better off either agreeing with Mei Nianqing or Xie Lian himself.
What he could not understand... is why he's supposed to sit around and let Pei Ming pour him cups. The greatest struggle is always finding a way to excuse himself from their 'fun' to not end up either half a foot into an early grave, or stuck with cleaning the place up the day after.
This time he'd only managed to avert the latter, and barely made it through the former.
Rubbing the spot between his eyebrows, just there above the bridge of his nose, Hua Lian only notices the presence of another belatedly. By the time he'd processed someone was there at all, he could already see their torso... and their hands.
Hua Lian's gaze travels upward slowly. He delights in not being a martial god more often than he admits. And surprisingly enough, one of the reasons for it is this. Or rather, him. And the likes of him. He knows a lot of civil gods operate in the middle court, there can't be a court without the likes of them bleeding to keep it all in one somewhat efficient piece.
He's glad that he's an extension, by proxy, associated to Ling Wen and her palace, though, and can always happily reclaim that association to never, ever have to worry about deputy officials.
He leans back in his seat, resting his hand back on the scroll spread out before him. Dried and for reading only, its characters blur together whenever he tries to go back to staring at them, psychological mostly, annoyance born. But the look he seems to glare into the steam rising from the cup suddenly sitting to his left seems born from an even darker place.
Then he looks into his face. Fu Yao. Once upon a time, he'd have firmly declared - in the privacy of his mind - that if Mu Qing were to ever indeed take on younger officials into his palace, then it would be for protocol and pretense only. He can't really imagine someone like Mu Qing to want to baby someone far too willing to suck up to him to climb ranks and ascend properly themselves.
Or in other words, he'd have figured whomever served Mu Qing would be quiet, capable, reliable. People who do their job efficiently without talking much. Like Mu Qing himself, once upon a time.
This guy here... With his easy eye-rolls, the stiff facial dispositions, how quick he is to bite and rebuke and argue. He certainly looks his age. Young. Too young. Too tense, like there's something always bothering him.
Hua Lian would have made a terrible nobleman's daughter: he doesn't want to raise children.
Or perhaps he's projecting.
"Does your General even know you're always here?" Hua Lian asks, lifting his eyebrows. His voice loses in concentration, starts to fade, as the second object lands on his desk, and he ends up following its travel from Fu Yao's hand to the wooden surface with his features slowly falling from pained irritation, to an otherwise unreadable frown.
"Listen, Fu Yao," he says. Then he falters. He should probably be grateful someone would seemingly care enough to show this kind of initiative. He also loathes the idea that a young no one seems keen on garnering either a good impression from him... or much more likely from Ling Wen.
"The Palace of Ling Wen will tend to any issue you require it to," he explains. He eyes the tea and medication like he can't decide whether it's personally offended him, or if part of him is simply poisoned by the belief no one would actively care in a way that made it easier for him to accept it.
"I don't know if your General implied our..."
History? Our past? The wrongful idea that he'd found someone he could lean against and find understanding within, in spite of their sharp jagged edges and how difficult it is to hold either of their souls tight, before they start biting? He'd had soft lips. He'd always been prettier than even Xie Lian, with his refined kind of beauty. If handed different cards, what could they have been?
Hua Lian swallows. He rubs at his eyes, then rest his elbow on his desk to curl his forefinger over his mouth, staring at Fu Yao like he might have personally offended him. No. Mu Qing had not implied anything at all. Unlikely. If he even thought of him at all. He would not think likely to, though, to try and use their former... something to get preferential treatment.
Whatever that former something might have been.
"If you got in some sort of trouble, you're better off making sure it doesn't reflect poorly on General Xuan Zhen. If you need something, just ask."
