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Yue Qingyuan had been awkwardly fiddling with his hands for the better part of an hour when Shen Qingqiu had finally had enough.
Honestly, it would have been bad enough if the sect leader had allowed himself to behave like this in any other circumstances- which he most certainly did, as Shen Qingqiu unfortunately knew from the bumbling way he carried himself each time he attempted to drop in on Qing Jing- but to act this way before outsiders? It was unthinkable.
Shen Qingqiu himself certainly held no great regard for the Old Palace Master- he didn’t try to hide it- but the haughty disdain that he allowed to sharpen his features was a far cry from the pure weakness that radiated from every dropping line of Yue Qingyuan’s body. It was almost humorous how such a large man could paint such a pathetic picture. Almost.
Sitting in the room occupied by the masters of a number of the Great Sects, Shen Qingqiu did not allow himself to linger on the surge of bitterness that rose within him in that moment. He did not scorn Yue Qingyuan for taking his assets for granted, even when Shen Qingqiu’s own height and bulk had been stolen by too many years of lacking meals (years that passed while Yue Qi was already sitting pretty as the respected head disciple of a respect sect). He did not tremble ever-so-slightly from rage at the way Yue Qingyuan tossed away his claims to respect, the very same thing which Shen Jiu had fought tooth and nail to obtain and then to hold onto.
No, Shen Qingqiu did not feel any of these things. A dull spark of anger, an undercurrent of disgust- that he allowed himself. Because, in spite of what his martial sibling might claim, Shen Qingqiu acted in the interests of his sect. What he felt as he beheld Yue Qingyuan in that moment could be wholly attributed to a bad showing on the part of the man whose face was that of the sect. What he felt was appropriate for an immortal master, his anger refined and righteous.
Shen Qingqiu extended an arm towards his seated sect leader in a movement that was perfectly fluid and just subdued enough as to not be outwardly demeaning (to the other sect masters present as, apparently, Yue Qingyuan himself had no care for things like face). His fingertips, where they found themselves digging into Yue Qingyuan’s shoulder, were more comparable to talons than anything human. The arch of his fingers was just concealed by the now-scrunching fabric of the sect leader’s formal dress, leaving Shen Qingqiu free to finally dismiss the poise he eternally forced onto even his farthest extremities. Even with the long years that had passed since they roamed the streets, Yue Qingyuan had never come to expect of him the refined silhouettes and faint touches that had become the very basis of his identity in the eyes of many (Shen Qingqiu would contemplate how exactly this made him feel at another time- because, unlike a certain sect master, he understood that there was a time and a place). Whether it was because he thought Shen Qingqiu was simply incapable of change or because somehow the trait had become so firmly cemented in his reality, the fact remained that Yue Qingyuan knew that Shen Qingqiu was, and could only ever be, as gentle as shattered porcelain. In the present, this meant that Shen Qingqiu did not feel reluctant in the least to force Yue Qingyuan from his haze if that was what was needed of him.
The force with which his fingers sunk into the older man’s shoulders was, unfortunately, all it took to shake the man from whatever state he had found himself in. Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t have minded having a free pass to respectfully pester his sect leader, but he did suppose it was better that they maintained whatever dignity they had held onto after the descent this meeting had become.
Having been roused, the sect leader’s hands (large and scarred and hopelessly expressive hands), finally, stilled. Yue Qingyuan looked up at him with slightly widened brown eyes, full brows furrowing for a moment before he forced them to slacken. Perhaps at another time Shen Jiu would find humor in the fact that, though it was apparently impossible for him to hide himself in front of a room filled with the masters of the great sects, Yue Qingyuan could shut himself off with a speed that only came from instinct when faced with Shen Jiu (he wouldn’t, but he would do an extraordinary job of convincing himself of it). Now, however, Shen Qingqiu had undertaken a task, and he himself had never been a man of empty promises.
“What a sight it makes, the Leader of Cang Qiong fidgeting in his seat like a youth on the eve of his first battle,” Shen Qingqiu sneered, his hushed volume only furthering the image of lazy superiority he fought to present. He didn’t know when he had raised his fan, but appreciated the way it allowed him to exaggerate his height over the seated man by peering over its fine edge.
Yue Qingyuan stilled for a fractional moment before melting into his usual script, “Apologies, Shen-shidi. I meant no offense.” He kept the same low volume as Shen Qingqiu but still managed to carry that same effortlessly lofty aura that he always did. The warmly apologetic tone was light as it always was, for who had any choice but to forgive the perfectly righteous man for any slight one might perceive?
“Oh, is that so?” Shen Qingqiu paired the slight tilt to his head with an elegantly arched brow, “Then Zhangmen-shixiong would say belittling his own sect is not an offense? This one will certainly keep this in mind.” He scoffed then, a sound perfectly molded in his throat before he released it. “Though, it's quite curious that someone could put all of the effort that goes into making it to the top only to be ashamed of what he then holds in his hand.”
Yue Qingyuan’s tepid smile did not falter, though his brows fell by an infinitesimal amount. Shen Qingqiu would consider this a victory.
He felt some degree of vindication at the way a more conscious sort of stiffness entered Yue Qingyuan’s shoulders, the mask of the Sect Leader finally dropping into place.
Shen Qingqiu was quite good at what he did (this was demonstrated clearly, he would claim, by his willingness to shepherd the sect leader when he deemed it necessary). He was the sect strategist, the peak lord who would forever guard the well-being of his martial siblings even as he cursed their idiocy past the moon. He was one who had long learned the importance of duty. Of sinking venomous claws into the role that would never again tolerate anyone but him.
On his better days, Shen Qingqiu might admit that Yue Qingyuan was one of few who could be considered worthy of the mantle of sect leader. He was a fool- Shen Qingqiu could attest, this truth having been further solidified by every event that followed this morning's departure from the sect- but there were worse breeds of fool to be. He was a fool, one that hesitated to properly discipline his own disciples and made pleading eyes at the Qing Jing Peak Lord in full view of their martial siblings (he was a bastard that couldn’t be trusted, a broken boy’s voice hissed from somewhere inside his head). What he was not, however, was a man who would flounder under the scrutiny of the pompous dolts that surrounded them. Yue Qingyuan knew as well as he did that venomous gazes were nothing compared to grimy whips.
Yue Qingyuan’s flaws, while prolific and deep-seated, could not negate his strengths. Even this, Shen Qingqiu could admit, pushing past the bitter taste it left on his tongue.
The sect leader finally directed a greater part of his attention towards the meeting that was already well underway, and Shen Qingqiu accomplished his goal. The way his fingers resisted when he moved to untangle them from Yue Qingyuan’s robes was the result of nothing more than old wounds.