Lan Qiren gazes at the worn door a few feet away from himself, mustering up enough courage to go up to it and walk in.
He looks around instead.
The front of the house is as immaculate as the rest of Cloud Recesses, with regular visits from the gardeners who maintain the short grasses and make sure that the stepping stone path remains clear of weeds and undergrowth. If Qingheng-Jun were to look outside of his window, he would see a bedrow of cheerful purple pansies and wild golden dandelions, with a smattering of daisies with egg-yolk hearts. A single cherry blossom tree stands on one side, surely an uplifting sight in spring. Lan Qiren imagines the boughs full of pink flowers easily scattering in the breeze.
But while the garden is well-kept and orderly, the same cannot be said about the residence.
Paint peels away from the wood like a scab, showing the bones of the building. The wood underneath is greying like an old man's limbs, and the door has seen better days for sure. The wind and the rain, and in winter, frost, ice and snow have taken their toll on this house, leaving it looking tired from its struggles.
The windows are fastened shut even though it is the height of summer; inside must be stiflingly hot.
Lan Qiren sighs and pushes open the door before he can talk himself out of it.
Dust particles dance in the rays of the sun as they burst forth, and for a moment, Lan Qiren must wait until his eyes adjust to the dim light.
The furniture is sparse, just a hard wooden bed, a small table pushed to the side and chamberpot in the corner. There's a man sitting in the centre of the room, feet resting on his own lap in a lotus position. Slowly, he opens his dark honey-coloured eyes and stares back unflinchingly at the intrusion.
"What is the meaning of this?"
His voice is hoarse from disuse, rough and grating. But far, far worse is his appearance.
Qingheng-Jun has not bothered with any kind of personal grooming. His hair is loose and left in a knotty, tangled puddle on the floor behind him, and it's impossible to guess how long it might be. Similarly, his beard and moustache have grown in length to reach his waist, with shaggy, deep brows hanging over his eyes. His cheeks have sunk in, leaving him gaunt and emaciated. His frame is thin, a body sucked dry of muscle and fat, just a bag of bones now. His shoulders are pointed, his collarbones sharp and the hollows are deep around his clavicle.
Lan Qiren stifles his own gasp and puts the tray down on the table at the side, and then brings it in front of his brother. He refrains from bowing yet, not wishing to give him back that power of being respected for his age. This uneven footing is precisely what he needs to push this momentum and destroy whatever reality his brother has falsely created around himself like an enchantment.
Then, he strides to the windows and throws them open, ignoring his brother's strangled, wounded noises, too shocked at this treatment to say anything to oppose him.
"Let us eat first, and then I will clean, and you will listen to what I have to say," he says, returning to sit down on the dusty floor, opposite his brother.
Qingheng-Jun is too startled to say anything, and before he can gather his wits to protest at this behaviour, Lan Qiren puts a bowl of longevity noodles in front of him.
"Happy birthday, Xiongzhang."
It is widely known that one cannot refuse to eat auspicious food, and especially not on one's birthday. Point one for Lan Qiren, he thinks, as his older brother reluctantly picks up the chopsticks to eat.
Lan Qiren wonders if his brother is hungry and then his stomach answers for him. Lan Qiren concentrates on chewing, biting the inside of his cheek so he won't laugh out loud. Another point for him, then.
