Someone had just sat at the adjacent table, and Tianlang-Jun forgot how to breathe. Green and white robes, the colours of spring bamboo and fresh snow, cut from silk so fine it seemed to flow like water with every movement. The man who wore them moved with a controlled grace that made everyone else look clumsy by comparison — each gesture precise, deliberate, beautiful in its economy. He settled onto his cushion in one fluid motion and produced a folding fan from his sleeve, snapping it open with a flick of his wrist that was almost musical. He looked like a painting. He looked like a poem. He looked like the kind of beauty that started wars and ended dynasties, and he was sitting close enough that Tianlang-Jun could see the faint embroidery on his sleeves — bamboo leaves stitched in thread just slightly darker than the silk beneath. "Zhuzhi-Lang," he whispered, unable to look away. "Tell me you see him too. The beauty in green. Please tell me I'm not hallucinating." There was a sigh from his nephew, "This one sees him, Junshang." --- What if Tianlang-Jun and Head Disciple Shen Jiu met instead? A fic about falling in love, art and learning to speak without words.