Once upon a time, in the far heavens, there lived a dragon spirit.

He was as white as snow, with eyes as bright and fresh as a ripe lime. He rivalled all of the other dragons for beauty and yet he was unsatisfied. He could not decide what he wished to be, what he wished to preside over. He specialised in no elements like the mighty earth dragon or the gentle water dragon. Instead he spent many a day staring despondently down at the surface world, that he might understand what it is he should do or if he would forever be a dragon left undecided.

One day, the thunder dragon, a wise and respected master dragon spirit, approached him and said: "You look very glum, Quan. Have you not decided what it is you wish to preside over?"

"I really don't know," replied the white dragon in a small voice. "I don't think there's anything I could do."

The thunder dragon thought, called council with the other dragons, and returned to the white dragon many days later, saying to him, "Will you not come with me? Disguise yourself as a member of my entourage and perhaps interacting with those on the surface will give you some idea of what you wish to be."

The white dragon knew not if this would solve his troubles. However, he could not refuse the kindness of the thunder dragon. Therefore he assumed a human form and, together with the thunder dragon and his servants, descended to the world below to attend to his work...

A young man walked down a beaten path. The path lead from the gate that opened onto his family's farm, winding its way up to the front door of the small home next to the barn. His short black hair swayed in the breeze and he was engrossed in a book, frowning down at it as he flicked between two pages, as though trying to pinpoint a problem. Eventually he gave up, sighing and closing the book with a snap and squinting against the sunlight as he rested his weight against the closed gate.

It was a clear, cloudless day but he was overrun with the strangest sense of melancholy.

It was more boredom than melancholy, but Wu personally liked the sound of melancholy better. It had a certain artistic flair to it that, while not suiting the situation, fit him just fine.

His father and grandmother often said that he should take his head out of the clouds for more than five minutes and think about what actual melancholy or whatever-it-was actually constituted. But, as is the way with any good son of an age where he thinks he knows everything, he ignored their reasonable advice, did his chores, and went on about his days dreaming and fantasizing.

Today's fantasies included a handsome young man on a white horse, making his way up to the gate Wu leaned on. He was joined with a small entourage of people, heads bowed and faces covered by cloth masks that were tied high on their foreheads and hung past their chins.

"Good afternoon," said the handsome young man.

Wu blinked. He squinted, rubbed his eyes and then looked again.

No. His fantasies didn't talk. And he wouldn't have gone with yellow garments, no matter how much the part of the noble it made the young man look.

"It should be blue or something instead," he said critically.

The young man blinked, looked to his entourage (they shook their heads) and then back at Wu. Wu thought he heard something stifled in the group, a snort, but he couldn't see the source, and another member of the entourage hissed a warning he couldn't hear.

"Good afternoon," he said again, pointedly. "Wu, son of Yin."

Wu frowned and straightened up, tucking his book into the front folds of his clothing. He took two steps back, to better assess the situation. All right. So, perhaps, this young man wasn't a part of his imagination. To be certain, he pinched the inside of his forearm until he muttered "ow" quietly and missed the way the young man astride the horse put his hand against his face.

"Hi," Wu said awkwardly. "Do you need—I mean. Can I help you with anything?"

The young man on the horse (was it a horse? a few things about it seemed off) visibly relaxed and nodded, as though things were proceeding as they ought to. "Wu, son of Yin, we're tired and in need of rest. Will you take us to your father's home, so that we may rest there?"

Weird.

"Sure. Um. I'll get the gate." He fumbled the latch and watched the young man dismount elegantly from his horse. His garments trailed on the ground and Wu winced instinctively. But he avoided the young man's eyes when they looked toward him, unnervingly bright yellow as they were. Wu stepped back out of the way and the young man, his horse and his entourage entered their land, with Wu quickly latching the gate and scampering ahead to lead the way.

It put him just ahead of the young man in the finery, who was clearly the most important of the whole group, and Wu kept looking back with a skeptical frown.

"Is something the matter?" the young man asked, lifting up his chin.

"No, nothing," Wu muttered. Everything's the matter. Putting some odd things about you aside, there's the trouble of you knowing my father's name.

However, if he was dealing with spirits, best to keep his mouth shut and his eyes fixed straight ahead. Play the quiet son that his father Yin had always dreamed of but had never truly achieved.

Like his father always said, the moment he opened his mouth, things got weird. It wasn't his fault people couldn't understand him. Or beauty. Or fashion. Or art. Or writing or anything.

People were fools, that was all.

"Father, we have guests," Wu called as they reached his family's humble home. He slid open the doors, bade the young man and his entourage to wait and sprinted full-speed into the house, stumbling past his grandmother who was peacefully drinking her medicinal tea (as per usual). "They know your name—and my name, and just so you know, I didn't tell them."

Wu's father, Yin, blinked and looked at his son in a way he had many times before.

It was the 'are you daydreaming again' look.

"Uh, they're right there, I am not imagining them," Wu hissed, indicating with one hand, answering the unspoken accusation.

The young man was peeking into their humble home with interest, by no means a fabrication or an illusion. Yin said "oh" and went about preparing food, drink and sitting places for them, making Wu run this way and that way getting everything ready. All the while he eyed the young man's robes and thought that yellow really didn't suit him, he'd be better off with black but he couldn't say that—his father was looking at him like a hawk whenever he re-entered the room so Yin was definitely onto him.

It wasn't his fault he wanted to correct their clothing. It was aesthetics, and aesthetics were important.

Words itching on his tongue, Wu stifled them and poured tea and cleaned dishes, watching the young man eat and his entourage follow suit only when he had finished something. One in particular in the entourage dipped his fabric mask into his soup bowl, fumbling it, and Wu fixed his attention on that person curiously. He was shorter than the other entourage members, and when he noticed his mask was dripping he made a tiny little sound of alarm, looking frantically around.

Wu picked up a handkerchief and approached the person (he couldn't tell if they were male or female, by their clothing, hair or masks), offering the cloth wordlessly.

"Oh, thank you," a small voice said, the figure turning toward him. The hands reaching for the handkerchief froze though as they were about to take it, and Wu thought he was being stared at with terror or—skepticism? Or maybe they hadn't expected him?

Was I really being that sneaky?

Wu impatiently moved his hands, the cloth flapping, and the figure muttered an apology this time, taking it with hands marked around the knuckles with white scales.

"Huhhh," he murmured. "I think silver would be better."

With just that, he returned to his post (his father was glaring at him), leaving the figure looking after him with bewilderment, holding the handkerchief. Then he turned away, carefully patting the mask and getting a scolding swat to the head when someone noticed that he'd made a mess of himself.

They talked about things late into the night, the young man and his father. After the first hour, Wu began to tune it out, his head nodding down toward his chest as he fought to stay awake. What were they talking about, anyway? Something about politics or the capital or something, he didn't care.

"Excuuuuse me," a voice whispered close to him. Wu opened one eye and looked accusingly at whoever was interrupting his half-hearted rest.

The smallest member of the entourage had moved over, sitting next to him. In their hands was gripped the handkerchief from just a little earlier. Strangely, it was completely clean, free of soup stains. Wu tried to pretend like it was no big deal when he reached out to take it back with one hand.

"Thanks," he said carelessly. He eyed the fabric mask, reaching out his free hand toward it to tug at the end. The person squeaked and tried to jerk away. "Oh, I won't take it off. I'm just looking at it. It's nice fabric, but it's a waste to keep it so plain, don't you think? Some embroidery wouldn't kill you lot, perhaps around the edges, especially around the bottom. Something to symbolise—hm—I don't know, what do you think?"

The figure was completely silent, as though it didn't know how to take Wu's sudden burst of words.

"What's the matter? I know you can talk. Besides, you should agree with me." Wu huffed and went for one of the sleeves next, pinching the sagging fabric, shaking it lightly. "Look at what you're wearing, yellow was out of fashion last year, at least. I'm of the opinion yellow and golds should only be used for designs. If you use it for the entirety of your clothing, especially with how bright that shade is, it's just eye-searing, you understand?"

"Ummmm," the person said, unsure.

"If you want an effective mysterious appeal, you ought to go with blues. Deep blues. Like that of a night sky, what's more mysterious than that dark night filled with wonder?" Wu moved his hand away, sliding his palm through the air in a gesture that made it seem like he was gesturing at the sky.

The problem was the ceiling in the way, but putting that aside—

"You could even use yellows as stars. That would be far more appealing," Wu finished, nodding once.

"You're—really into colours," the figure said at last. It was the most words they had spoken all in a row, and Wu thought it was a masculine voice, enough that he could call this person a man or a boy.

"It's not simply colours," Wu scoffed. "It's presentation. It's appeal, aesthetics, everything. You lot are spirits so I understand you're probably out of touch with fashion, but—"

"What? How did you know?" the boy hissed.

Wu looked at him so long and with such a weighted silence that the boy started to fidget, picking at his sleeves.

"... Sorry, never mind. I know it isn't very subtle," he apologised. Wu could see his hands again, and saw the scales on his knuckles went all the way into his sleeves. Doubtlessly they probably covered plenty of his body. A dragon, then. He didn't know if all of the others were dragons, but the fanciest one was probably the strongest dragon.

"Subtlety is an art form," Wu told him seriously. "Art, in general, is all about thought, execution, none of which comes easily. Every creature, supernatural or not, thinks that they're the most magnificent artist or creator when they make one thing or come up with an idea, but only fools think that way. Art is work, a job, one has to pour every bit of themselves into it—and even people who do that can't do it right. Honestly. The book I was reading earlier, do you have any idea—"

"Wu," a pained voice called him and Wu turned his head, staring at his father. "Our esteemed guests are getting ready to leave. If you would see them off? Quietly."

"Right," Wu grumbled and put his palms on his knees, pushing himself to his feet. He offered a hand to the still-seated boy, who flustered and flapped his sleeves before taking Wu's hand. Wu tugged him up and watched the other members of the entourage and the young man sigh or cover a smile, respectively. "This way."

He led them from the house, down the path they had come out, the young man astride his magnificent horse.

"Thank you for your hospitality. We shall meet again," he said to Wu gracefully. Wu nodded absentmindedly, his thoughts on white scales and bare fingernails that would really do better with a splash of colour on them. "In addition, my thanks for your kindness to Quan."

Wu looked at him blankly. "Who?" Then he saw the tiny figure was fidgeting, ducking his head down low as though to escape the looks of the others. The young man smiled in satisfaction and nodded his head once when he realised Wu understood who he was referring to. "Oh, right. Of course."

He paused for a long moment, circling the group to get to the gate to open it. He fiddled with the latch longer than necessary and opened up the gate wide for them. Narrowing his eyes, he found Quan in the group.

Quietly, his father had said. Bah.

The entourage filed out one by one with Quan at the back, and Wu reached out to stay his steps a moment.

"Thank you," he told him. "You probably didn't care a bit to hear about colours and clothing and art, but you didn't run off. By the way, you should paint your nails. You might want to choose a light red, nothing too garish. Don't do that if you're wearing the yellow, though. Go with white if you have to wear these awful robes."

Quan made a sound low in his throat, a sound that soon crept out. A giggle, then a laugh, and he ducked his head down. When he looked up, Wu startled to look at green eyes as pale and bright as the flesh of a lime, his pupils startlingly black slits.

"I don't like the yellow robes either," he whispered to him, smiling in a way it showed pointed canine teeth, a sharp deviation from human.

Wu found nothing to say, his cheeks reddening and his hand lifting in wordless farewell as Quan bowed his body and hurried after the entourage. Wu watched them as they rose up into the sky, watched the umbrella held upside-down over the youth's head and thought of nothing at all, utterly blanked out by what he'd been privy to catch a glimpse of.

When Wu returned to the house, he answered "Nothing. Bed. Night. Bye," to his father's wordless questions, laid face down on his futon and stared into the dark until his body gave up on him and plunged him into sleep.

The discussion of their impromptu guests as spirits came the day after. Wu sat through the questions with a long-suffering look on his face, honestly stunned when his grandmother pitched in to solemnly agree they had been very fortunate indeed, for the yellow robes told them it was a thunder dragon and, with the addition of that upside-down umbrella, they might be spared whatever storm it was brewing.

Wu still thought the yellow was stupid but, if it was a thunder dragon, it made sense.

In that case, what kind of dragon had white scales and green eyes? Grandmother pursed her lips for a long time in thought but was unable to provide him with an answer. Perhaps it was a lesser dragon, not grown into its colour yet, was her suggestion.

Quan. White and green. In that case, violet would be lovely, overlapping shades of it with white designs of leaves, flowers, vines and flowering bushes and trees all down the sleeves. He wanted to try different shades of purple, he wanted to write poetry about purple flowers and dragons and daydreamed all through his chores and his work.

Until the sky shook, rumbling with thunder.

Wu glared up at the gathering storm clouds, offended they interrupted a particularly luscious daydream, and grumbled his way straight back to the barn where he had to assure the animals were safe and calm.

When he went to exit and go to his house, wind slapped him in the face, rain screamed down from above, and Wu quickly shut the barn door.

Well, this was fantastic.

He put his back against the now-closed door and frowned into the barn as he slid down the wall. He folded his hands together atop his knees as the gale began outside. Through the few thin windows that allowed light into the barn he could see nothing but clouds and a flash of lightning.

The thunder sounded like a dragon's roar, which it likely was.

Did they make thunderstorms when they were grumpy? Or did they just do it just because? Wu tapped his cheek with his forefinger.

Outside, the gale roared but it sounded oddly distant. He turned around, carefully opening up the door a little bit. To his great surprise, the wind had stopped completely—kind of. When he slipped out of the barn, he looked around. As far as he could see, the farm was completely untouched aside from lingering wetness on the grass and buildings. As though encased in a bubble, the land inside the gate was unharmed, but outside it trees were torn from the ground and the river not very far from their land flooded over.

"Huh," Wu said and walked down toward the gate to better observe.

"You shouldn't get too close," an anxious voice said behind him. He recognised that voice and turned around eagerly. There was Quan—but missing his cloth mask. His hair, pale and white but with one streak of pale green, was pulled back at the base of his neck, and his green eyes anxiously surveyed the landscape behind Wu as wind, rain and fingers of lightning tore it to shreds.

He was in yellow again, though. Eugh. It clashed with Wu's mental image of him in violet, and he frowned.

Quan looked at him, blinked, and brought his hands anxiously together. "What's the matter?"

"I don't like yellow on you," Wu muttered and approached him. Overhead, the enormous yellow dragon that coiled over their land in a circle went unnoticed in favour of Wu circling around Quan, tutting as he tugged the fabric this way and that. "Come on. You can come into my place and wait if you've got to stay here 'til your master's done making the storm anyway."

"Huh? I—okay?" Quan spluttered but followed Wu all the way up to his house.

"Wu," Yin groaned as he saw him leading the dragon boy inside, "I hope you are going to be—"

"Yes, yes, quiet and not weird, I get it. He already knows what I'm like, though," Wu grumbled. "So it's fine, right? We're going to my bedroom."

His grandmother chortled away in the corner as Wu did just that, forcing Quan to sit as he flitted off to the cabinetry in his room, eagerly pulling things he had been working on. Quan sat there, patient but looking anxiously around with his cheeks tinged oddly pink.

"Here," Wu said excitedly and began to hold up things—swatches, collection of different fabric colours. "This has been driving me crazy. I think a sedate violet would suit you, but perhaps with a portion done in a darker shade." He began to hold them up next to Quan's head, much to Quan's bemusement and nodded to himself as he did so, or clucked his tongue when certain ones didn't appeal to him.

Quan was remarkably patient, however. Though, after several minutes of Wu muttering to himself, he asked: "When did you become interested in such things?"

"Huh? Mother was interested in these things," Wu replied distractedly. "She would always allow me to play in her garments when she was still alive. She had all kinds, you know. Father used to buy her all kinds. Same with artwork or with writing. She had marvellous collections, though we had to sell them when she passed. Since then, it's been annoying. I've had to scrape together whatever I could, but I haven't come close to her collection yet."

Quan thought his collection fine indeed, however, upon a glimpse toward Wu's cabinetry. There were many books there, carefully organised and stored.

"I like paints," Quan told him shyly. "I especially like those for nails, though I have never used all of the ones that I have. When with a master dragon, we must align with what he wishes to show. As a thunder dragon..."

"Yellow," Wu said scathingly. "Well, no matter, I imagine you shall be a master dragon or what have you one day. When that comes, I will design your clothing and help paint your nails or—talons, whichever. I assume you turn into a dragon like your master."

Quan nodded again, a subtle light in his green eyes. "Smaller," he said bashfully.

"Easier to design things for, then," Wu said in a triumphant tone.

Quan just laughed, the pink tinge to his cheeks deepening. Wu finished with his swatches of fabric, tucking the ones he liked away for reference. Satisfied, he sat in front of Quan, studying him all over again, the pale white scales that flecked his cheeks, covered the entire sides of his neck before his body was swallowed up by his clothing.

"Do you like poetry?" Wu asked, he himself feeling the question abrupt. But when Quan's eyes lit up, he was satisfied.

And, as he noted to himself later, he truly did feel inspired whenever Quan was with him.

The nearby village was devastated by the storm. Wu could see them even from here, squinting against the bright sunlight that cruelly followed on the heels of the storm. Quan stood just to his left as they exited the house, his eyes open up wide, looking to the left and right for his master.

The young man appeared, astride his horse once again and this time he did not come up toward the residence, forcing boy and dragon both down to meet him. Quan dipped into a deep, respectful bow and stayed there while the thunder dragon yawned and looked at the devastation with a calm face.

Work was work, Wu supposed.

"I again thank you for your kindness to Quan," said the thunder dragon. "I have returned the kindness paid me, as well, and I have a gift for you before I go."

Wu blinked and raised his eyebrows uncertainly. "Gift? Uhm."

The thunder dragon plucked something from his horse's neck and held it out to him. When Wu looked at it, he realised it was a scale, pearly in colour, oddly shining.

"What will that do when I touch it," Wu asked monotonously, pointing at it.

The thunder dragon's eyes widened—and then he snorted with laughter. "You need not treat it with such caution," he said brightly. "It will bestow upon you a great future."

Wu compressed his lips, staring at the scale without moving to take it.

"You do not wish for it?" the thunder dragon asked, inclining his head mildly to one side.

"Not really. If I had to have anything, I'd much rather have my mother's collection back with me," Wu said frankly, eyeing the scale. Then, before he knew it, Quan had moved quickly, taking the scale and depositing it into Wu's hand. He forced Wu's fingers closed around it and gripped that hand between both of his.

"It'll help," Quan told him with a smile that showed his canine teeth.

"You're forceful when you're not being shy," Wu said. Quan blinked and yanked his hands away, going pink as the thunder dragon laughed once more.

"With that, we bid you farewell," the thunder dragon said, curving his hand to his chest and half-bowing where he sat astride his horse. "Quan?" Quan nodded quickly, scampering to join his master as Wu hung back and eyed the scale within his fingers.

"Before you go," Wu called as they both turned to leave, "I expect you dragons will have an idea of what's going on down here, but I'll call for you in a month or so. Make certain you come, okay?"

"You presume to order dragon spirits?" the thunder dragon asked with amusement.

"You'll like it," Wu replied, lifting his chin arrogantly.

The thunder dragon laughed some more, saying, "I like humans like you. You're quite interesting. Right, Quan? Very well, we shall wait for your call and come to visit you again."

Wu grinned, satisfied, and, when Quan looked back at him, he daringly blew him a kiss.

Flushing, Quan hastily followed his master as they headed upward into the clouds.

Not long after the dragons had departed, people came to Wu, son of Yin's, home.

It was as they had known of the existence of the magnificent scale the thunder dragon had gifted to him. They bade him come to the palace of the emperor, and there he went.

Some were disappointed, however, when he said a flat "Magic? A magician? Me? No way," to the emperor's announcement that he should be made the court magician. Instead, since he had so kindly been given this rare chance, Wu readily whipped out an example of some of his other work...

"You've called—oh, my." The thunder dragon paused mid-word, looking about the room where he stood. He had appeared in a flicker of light and, by his side, was a timid Quan, who wasn't so timid once he realised where they were. The room was enormous—and an enormous mess. Clothing and fabric were everywhere, canvases leant against the wall to dry or ink splotches on the floor surrounding long sheets of parchment.

"Yeah, yeah," a voice came from behind a stack of fabric. "Hang on a second. I'm just getting them."

Wu emerged and he was the same as when the dragon spirits had left one month prior. Except, he was even more mussed than he had ever been back on the farm. His clothing should have been befitting of his new station, but he had discarded the top half of it and rolled up his sleeves for ease of motion and carried in his arms two wrapped bundles.

"Here you go, thunder dragon," Wu said, placing one paper-wrapped bundle on the floor tenderly before offering the other to the dragon garbed in yellow.

Curiously, the young man took it, peeling back the wrapping.

"Well," he murmured, impressed. He gripped the fabric inside and pulled it free—it was dark, a deep grey-blue like thunderclouds, but covering the entire back of the robe were designs. Rain, lightning bolts, each carefully stitched, following a pattern so that they formed a serpentine shape all the way up to the collar, the other half of the pattern looping around the waist to the chest of the garment.

"Now," Wu said triumphantly, "that I'm court clothier, I've got all the material to work that I could ever want. Hence, we can actually make you something decent. I know, I know, spirit clothing or magic or something, but trust me when I say this will make you look even grander. I've no doubt it's the right size, but if it doesn't fit, come back here and I'll make the proper adjustments."

The thunder dragon carefully folded the robe, laying it over his arm and baring his (just as fanged as Quan's) teeth in a grin. "Very well, Wu, son of Yin. I gratefully accept your offering."

"It's not really an offering," Wu muttered to himself, thinking that it was so the thunder dragon didn't embarrass himself any more than he (unknowingly) had.

"Um," Quan said tentatively, shuffling his feet.

"Ah, right, and for you—"

"I shall step out for a while," the thunder dragon smoothly interjected, still holding the robe. "It's been quite some time since I visited with the emperor, so I think I shall go remind him of his mortality. Please take your time, Quan."

"Huh? Master—"

The thunder dragon grandly swept out of the messy room, leaving Wu and Quan alone.

"Now, like I was saying," Wu said, scooping the other package off the floor, "I've finished it. Take off your clothes."

"Pardon?" Quan squeaked.

Wu narrowed his dark eyes and frowned at him. "Clothes. Off. I'm sick to death of seeing that thing on you."

"You never asked the thunder dragon to take his clothes off," Quan said, narrowing his pale eyes as though he were trying to seem intimidating.

Several moments of silence.

Wu casually looked away, shifting the package in his grip. "At this time you're just supposed to do what I say," he mumbled, thrown off, his carefully crafted (?) plans thrown into disarray. "I don't know what to do when you start questioning it. Anyway, I don't want to see thunder dragon without his clothes, I'd much rather that be you."

Quan went red right to the tips of his ears, speechless.

"Understand?" Wu said, peering back toward him.

"I'm not taking them off," Quan muttered, "though I understand."

Wu frowned.

Quan just expectantly stretched out his hands, reaching for the package. With a sigh, Wu deposited it in his hands, standing back and letting the dragon spirit unwrap it—it was just as grand as the robe made for the thunder dragon, if not more so. Wu had decided on the palette of purples he wanted, making such a garment that Quan looked like he were loath to touch it and damage it somehow. All along the sleeves, over the chest and upper back of the garment were flowers, from bud to bloom, each stitched very carefully in a light purple, standing out against the darker shades.

"It's beautiful," Quan murmured, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Thanks." Wu scratched his cheek with a finger, shuffling his foot against the floor and, for once, out of things to say. "You inspired me. I, um. Made a matching one. For me. To wear with yours. You know. Um."

He coughed and Quan started to smile, a smile that changed into a fanged grin as laughter bubbled out of him.

"You talk so much but you don't know what to say now?" he laughed.

"You're cheekier than I thought," Wu huffed, red blooming in his cheeks.

"It's because I've gotten used to you, Wu," Quan replied, his grin growing but his eyes pretty and soft, filled with something as he looked at Wu. There was bashfulness in his voice still, but he spoke in a straightforward and clear manner. "...I'd like for us to wear them together."

"Mmmm."

"Alone together?" Quan continued hopefully. Wu looked at him... and then he nodded, satisfied. He stepped closer and offered both of his hands to Quan who looked at them with puzzlement before he brightened and placed his own hands in them, the robe draped over his forearms for the moment.

Ducking, Wu pressed a kiss to his forehead, provoking a torrent of giggles again.

"I'll ask you not to laugh—" Wu began snappishly, offended, when Quan gripped at his hands firmly with his own, leaned up and kissed his mouth without reservation or shyness.

Wu looked at Quan, as though he was debating what to say to him but, in the end, he shrugged his shoulders in defeat and declared: "Well, s'pose a little laughing is all right."

From that day onward, the dragon spirit of inspiration and the court clothier lived happily ever after.

THE END