Inbox: Pumpkin Hollow

[xiaoxiuya]

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In which the man learns how to be human

[nowtheman]

Some time mid-fall, the man makes a decision that took a lot longer for him to come to than most would be comfortable to admit. He hadn't come back to see the one that would have been his jailer even after their vague proposal of time spent meeting up over drinks. He was more keen on spending the money that he'd been earning on drinks at the bars or on the women working at the Open Arms or the Velvet. Very little was actually reserved for actively bettering himself, but he also wasn't necessarily a laggard or a layabout. His particular skillset was terribly useful for hunting both food and monsters, and when he wasn't in the village wasting away (and occasionally picking inadvisable fights), he was out in the surrounding forest and up on the ridge hauling in his fair share of game.

In spite of all of that, the man arrives at the jail one chilly mid-morning with a box under one arm, a bow and quiver of arrows slung across his back, a new hat and duster jacket and thick-soled boots replacing the basic clothes he'd arrived in. The box is placed on the desk in front of Shen Qingqiu where he's doing something for the jail's filing, smelling vaguely of spiced pumpkin, apple, and sugar.

He waits quietly to see what the man will say, if he says anything at all.

Calligraphy Lessons

[xiaoxiuya]

The little garden behind Shen Qingqiu's townhouse is a fine place to enjoy the good weather without exposing yourself to the heat. Although he's not much of a gardener, a previous occupant built a bower and trained leafy vines to grow over it, a shady feature that's been easy enough to maintain. A wide bird bath cools the space further, while ensuring that there is always bird song nearby. As Shen Qingqiu shows Lev into the space, his Vileplume, Raffles, follows close behind, and as the two of them take their seats it plops down onto a thick cushion on the ground and lets out a contented coo, followed by a pink puff of vapor from the center of its flower which fills the small space with the scent of citrus and eucalyptus.

"Lazy thing," Shen Qingqiu chides Raffles insincerely, before turning to smile at Lev. "So what do you think? Can we study out here?"

[graphomaniac]

Lev looks up at the leafy canopy over the bower; the summer sunshine dazzles him not.

"Think so," he says, a little hesitantly. "As long as no wind rises, nu? It's like, been a long time since I had reason to study outdoors. But this should do."

His tone is measured enough, and only a little suppressed excitement shows through. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

[xiaoxiuya]

"I think it'll be fine. Mister Connors said it would be a calm, clear day, so I don't think we need to worry about wind. But if something does blow up," he smiles, gently shoulder-checking Lev's arm, "I'll make certain to protect you."

With that gentle tease, he begins to take out paper and the other 'treasures of the study:' ink, inkstone and the like. By now he's made arrangements with a merchant in town who handles art supplies to have his own custom brushes made: soft and thick, they're much more appropriate for calligraphy than normal paintbrushes. At least, they're more appropriate for his own style of calligraphy. Whether they'll work for Lev remains to be seen.

[graphomaniac]

Lev blushes and ducks his head. Then, the momentary shyness over, he leans over to quickly kiss Qingqiu's temple. A way of saying thanks, I trust thee.

He then picks up one of the brushes, studying it carefully. He notes that it is rather different to a paintbrush, and that the bristles come to a perfect point. But it feels so much more delicate than a quill. He's not quite sure he'll be any good at using it.

He's aware, of course, of the treasures of the study, though not necessarily the fine details of their use. There are wuxia authors who write about scholars, but back home, xianxia is still a relatively new genre, and one he's not had a chance to explore quite as much. And he's not yet ready to tell Qingqiu, oh yes, I know a little of this tradition of calligraphy. From the erotic adventure novels I've been reading since I was probably a little too young to read that manner of thing.

Shunting that thought aside, he picks up the inkstone, and carefully turns it over in his hands. It's a little warm, and feels almost like sandstone.

"I suppose this is like, not no iron gall ink?" he says, in the tone of an expert confronted, at long last, with something both novel and not, on its face, blatantly incorrect. "How exactly does one make use of it? Is there like ... an inkstone grater among the treasures of the study?"

[xiaoxiuya]

"The stone itself is the grater," Shen Qingqiu smiles, face still a little flushed from that surprise of a kiss (trust this fool not to realize when he's been flirting with one of his own partners) and takes Lev's hand, gently pressing it against the tilted bottom of the square concavity in the stone's surface. "Feel the grain? This is the surface against which ink is ground." Smiling genteely, he releases Lev's hand with an affection little pat and reaches for a small jug, tightly sealed with a cork, which proves to contain clear, clean water.

As Shen Qingqiu pours a measure of water into the stone's well, he muses, "As lord of Qing Jing Peak I had in my possession several precious inkstones from She Prefecture and the Tao River, as well a ceramic stone shaped and blessed by the nuns of Zhao Hua Monastery and a volcanic rock pulled from the mountains of Duan...it was very useful for making fire talismans. But now I only have this lump of shale I found in the Paradesium and carved myself with spiritual energy." He smiles at Lev out of the corner of his eye, looking a little bashful. "There's something a little poetic about that, isn't there? Using tools you made yourself to exercise your artistic inclinations. Then again," he shrugs slightly. "Maybe that just makes me sound a little pretentious..."

[graphomaniac]

Lev shakes his head, smiling.

"Not by me?" he says. "Like ... I mean, I know little about other scribal traditions. But Tatty Velvl expected me to cut mine own quills ..." he trails off, having picked up one of the brushes again. He's studying the bristles intently, one eye — the worse one — closed so he can actually see what he's trying to focus on. He's brought his reading glasses, but he's not feeling particularly bothered to fish them out.

And then, still intently studying the brush, he says, "so like, what's the ink made of? If not shale."

He smiles, faintly. He's eager to talk about his own views on art, on calligraphy especially, but despite everything, Lev is still painfully shy — and it's easier for him to talk about himself once the rhythm of conversation is established. Hence this attempt to draw Qingqiu into talking first.

After all, when someone else is rambling too, it's easier to feel less self-conscious about replying in kind.

[xiaoxiuya]

"Oh?" Shen Qingqiu raises his brows in genuine, if teasing interest. "I hope you're planning to show me how that's done at some point. Historically, there have been a few schools of art in China that used feather quills or pens carved from bamboo stalks, but I lack training in those areas."

But first, the ink. He picks up a solid cylinder, wrapped in foil, and hands it to Lev. "This is the ink. The two primary ingredients are soot and animal protein, plus a bit of incense for aesthetics. I use soot made from burning pine logs and mix it with egg whites into a kind of dough --" The Vileplume suddenly lets out a grunt, making Shen Qingqiu laugh. "-- and pollen from Raffles' flower, how could I forget? I work the dough until it begins to turn firm, and then I compress it with spiritual power until it forms this solid shape. Here..." He begins to show Lev how to grind the ink into the inkstone's well, filling the water with opaque blackness. "You can vary how long you do this and how hard you press, to make darker or lighter ink," he explains. "My Binghe used to be a master at grinding ink. He'd sit next to me for hours, grinding away without ever a word of complaint." He smiles sadly, looking nostalgic. "What a silly boy."

[graphomaniac]

Lev beams.

"I'd love to show thee!" he exclaims. "As long like. As long as thou take'st upon thyself to procure the goosefeathers, nu?"

He watches Qingqiu grind the ink; when the Vileplume requests due credit for helping make the inkstone, Lev laughs and acknowledges Raffles with a quick bow. But when Qingqiu brings up his ill-starred apprentice, Lev frowns, hiding the expression behind his hand. He's come to see the matter of Luo Binghe as a delicate topic. Or at least an upsetting one.

"How like, lightfast is the ink?" he asks, picking up a brush. "Like ... keeps it is colour over the centuries?"

He feels a little sheepish changing the subject so blatantly; but on some level, he hopes that Qingqiu does notice that it's a deliberate move on his part, and either persists or follows along. He hasn't yet figured out how to ask his boyfriend if he's up to maybe unburdening his heart.

[xiaoxiuya]

Shen Qingqiu appears not to notice anything untoward about the sudden subject change; he nods seriously and explains, "Pigmented ink made for painting tends to fade if exposed to direct sunlight, especially oranges and reds. But this black ink will likely outlast the paper we apply it to. Ink made from wood ash is usually strong alkaline, which can eat away at the organic compounds in paper whether it's made from wood or cloth." He smiles bashfully. "I'm given to understand that preserving centuries-old Chinese paintings are the biggest headaches out there for museum curators, at least in my world. But when it comes to doing traditional calligraphy, traditionally-made ink really is the best."

It's time for a demonstration. Holding the brush lightly between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, he begins to draw the first characters of 'Quiet Night Thoughts.' The fact that said poem is centered around yearning for one's home and familiar faces is, of course, a complete coincidence.

[graphomaniac]

Lev watches Qingqiu draw the characters, watches his hand more than the marks the brush makes, listens to Qingqiu discuss the ink and paper.

"Thou'lt have to tell me what it means," he says, finally, nodding at the characters his boyfriend's drawn. "We've like, got all afternoon, nu? And there's like. Not no rush."

He's grateful to have this time, out in the sunshine, sharing something he's always loved (and almost always been good at) with Qingqiu. Even here in farthest exile, there's still love and joy. And that's enough.