Truly, Huaisang is a great beauty; Jin Guangyao had always thought so. He may not have the martial might that his clan is so famous for, but that has never been of particular importance to him. His rosebud mouth is quick to curve into delighted smiles, crinkling the corners of his sparkling eyes, and the fluttering of whatever exquisite fan he has in hand serves to perfume the air around him with the scent of his favorite hair oil. His hands are fine-boned and made for art, for creative endeavors, and Jin Guangyao would love him no less were they never to be callused by the heft of a saber, the hilt of a sword.
Those hands had been the first to touch him kindly when he’d joined the Nie, had been the first to braid his hair, had fluttered like the birds he so dearly loved as he’d shown Jin Guangyao his aviary—perhaps he’d been expecting a reprimand, a disapproval of his frivolousnesses, but such remarks were nowhere to be found: instead, Jin Guangyao (Meng Yao, then) had smiled as widely as he’d dared and told Huaisang that he was fascinated by the second young master’s vast knowledge of bird husbandry. Whatever fears Huaisang may have had evaporated like mist in the transition from dawn to mid-morning and he began to chatter animatedly once more, blind to the way Meng Yao’s hungry gaze traced his captivating countenance.
Those hands had also been the last in Qinghe to touch him kindly, clenched tight in the collar of his robes as he’d pleaded with Meng Yao not to leave. He can still recall the look on Huaisang’s face as he carefully peeled his hands away and told him not to anger Nie Mingjue anymore, because Meng Yao would no longer be there to take care of him.
Yes, Jin Guangyao had always seen Huaisang as a peerless beauty.
