Archive of Our Own

A gentle breeze rocks the lotus flower stems protruding from the still water.

Jiang Cheng’s reflection ripples, his facial features distorting. He looks, for a brief second, like an illusion, a mirage – barely there, in the corner of your eye, but once you turn it disappears.

The wind caresses his face, playfully tugs at the strands coming loose from his bun. It’s a familiar sensation, in equal parts comforting and agonizing. If he closes his eyes, lets the image of his present self drift into oblivion, he can hear the wind-chimes, the splash of a rock being thrown, kids’ laughter, a melodious voice saying ‘A-Cheng, are you pretending to be a fish again?’, an obnoxious drawl in his ear—

Jiang Cheng opens his eyes and the memory dissipates. His weary face stares back at him, hard lines etched into his features, perpetual scowl in place. ‘Our Jiang Cheng, pretty as a flower…’

He thinks about letting himself fall, his reflection rising up to meet him and then – blissful cold, utter silence, nothing. He can almost feel the water closing in over his head, but—

‘That is not the proper way a Sect Leader should conduct himself! Don’t be an embarrassment, A-Cheng!’

A bird chirps nearby. The evening is warm and quiet. Underneath Jiang Cheng’s hands, the old wooden dock still contains traces of warmth from the afternoon sun. It creaks and groans, even when he sits perfectly still for hours. It makes him feel a little less alone.

Jin Ling left a few days ago. “Don’t worry, Uncle,” he said, chest puffed, Suihua clutched in one hand. The sword had looked a little less ridiculous in proportion compared to a few months ago. He must have grown. “I’m going to bring glory to our Sects, you’ll see!”

What good does glory do, Jiang Cheng had thought. “Don’t be an embarrassment!” he said.

So, Jin Ling is gone, off to Lanling, to his real home. Off to new adventures with new subordinates and advisors and friends and people who are not his old, bitter, hateful uncle. Good for him. Better for him.

A-Cheng, a voice sounding suspiciously like his sister chides. Don’t be so harsh, you know he still needs you.

Needs me? Jiang Cheng has to suppress a crazed giggle. No, he doesn’t. He should be glad I didn’t mess him up entirely. Because A-Ling is good, he’s still got enough of A-Jie, of her kindness and compassion. Despite Jiang Cheng’s best attempts, his nephew is not hateful, or vengeful, or unforgiving.

Another thing he almost ruined.

A small splash; a frog squatting on a lotus petal. Jiang Cheng likes coming here, to the docks on the North side of Lotus Pier, far from prying eyes and suffocating responsibilities. His mother used to spend a lot of time here, nursing her hurt and disappointment. He was seldom allowed to disrupt her peace; when he did he was met with a verbal lashing and an account of his recent failings as a son and heir.

But his mother is not here anymore.

She has not been here for a long time.

The dock is just another piece of the legacy she left him. A refuge, a place of outwardly peace, a spot where he is closer to her than anywhere else and closest to the truth he tries so desperately to distance himself from.

That, in the end, he had proven his parents right. Over and over again.

The cultivation world has slowly been rebuilding itself, mending crevasses left behind by that fateful day at the Temple. The great calamity, is what Jiang Cheng bitterly named it. The rot that had been revealed within the foundations of the cultivation world had made waves far and wide and led to a myriad of discussion about the immanent power of larger sects and the systematic disadvantage of minor sects and rogue cultivators.

Jiang Cheng had tired of it quickly.

Jin Guangyao, whether premeditated or not, had left a snide of destruction in the wake of his death. There had been conferences – so, so many conferences – which usually ended in heated discussion without actual implemented change.

Jiang Cheng had been in a daze for the first couple of months – thoughts too loud, head filled with cotton – until he had noticed the sleazy way some Sect Leaders tried to undermine Jin Ling at every turn. As newly appointed Sect Leader, his nephew had been in over his head from the start. Much like yourself. Jiang Cheng had kept his distance, tried to advise him behind the scenes, knowing painfully well how those people could sniff out weakness like a pack of blood hounds, ready to strike.

A-Ling had cried a lot in the beginning. For his parents, for the person he had thought his uncle to be, for his misplaced anger and resentment. And whose fault is that? Jiang Cheng had tried to comfort him; he tried speaking softly, but it only came off as mocking. In the end, he had limited himself to aiding his nephew in rebuilding his sect, consolidating his power.

And Jin Ling, because he is better than Jiang Cheng in every manner, because he still is part A-Jie, had somehow prevailed. Had wiped his tears, had listened to his uncle’s advice and now sported genuine smiles on his face again. Jiang Cheng tried not to see himself in his nephew too much, tried to suppress the what if’s, the if only’s…

Other than the Jin Sect, further adjustments were made in the major Clans. Sect Leader Lan had gone into seclusion mere days after the events at Guanyin Temple. Jiang Cheng recalled the vacant, fractured look in Lan Xichen’s eyes and wondered whether he would ever been seen again. Privately, a part of him envies Lan Xichen – he tries not to think too much about it. In his absence, Lan Qiren has taken over Sect Leader duties, considering Lan Wangji could apparently not be bothered, busy frolicking around with the Yiling Patriarch while the rest of them pick up the pieces.

Sect Leader Nie is different too. At first Jiang Cheng thought that the events at Guanyin Temple had terrified the man into adopting a new personality temporarily, but the more time passed the clearer it became that Nie Huaisang, the Head-Shaker, had managed to locate his brain and his spine along with it. Gone was the whimpering fool clutching his elders’ robes, begging to be saved. There were even talks about him taking over the currently vacant position of Chief Cultivator.

Jiang Cheng has mixed feelings about this. He has his own suspicions concerning the man and the recent calculating gleam he detected in Sect Leader Nie’s gaze made him rethink a lot of their previous interactions. The fact that Jiang Cheng witnessed Lan Wangji treating Nie Huaisang in the same brusque, icy manner he usually reserved for interactions with Jiang Cheng only, reinforces his suspicions. There is something else, he is sure of it. Something, that, once again, Wei Wuxian has deemed not important enough to share with him.

Well, fuck that! Not like Jiang Cheng needs the likes of him anyway.

In the end, the Jiang Sect prevails; the way it always has. No thanks to Wei Wuxian, of course. If there’s anything at all in this miserable life Jiang Cheng will take credit for, besides Jin Ling, it’s this. This is his sect. His work. His legacy.

Except it’s not, a twinge in his chest likes to remind him. Not really.

Maybe not at all.

There is someone on his roof.

Jiang Cheng lies on his pallet, one leg bent, feet still boot-clad because it felt futile when he is simply going to put them back on in a matter of hours. He is sweating.

The first time his ears pick up on the shuffling, he puts it down to the wind. The second time, he thinks it’s a bird. The third time the noise is too determined, too precise. It sounds like someone scratching the wood, trying to find a way in.

Let them, a tired, exhausted part of him thinks. What’s the worst that could happen?

But Jiang Cheng is a Sect Leader and Sect Leaders aren’t cowards.

The noise increases in volume as he stumbles towards the doors of the jingshi. The cool night air entering his lungs makes him suddenly aware of how tight his chest feels, how difficult his breathing is. He stands there for a second, heart thumping in the same rhythm it had that starless night, with blood coating his hands, iron taste in his mouth, a voice rising to meet his ears through the haze, ‘A-Xian! A-Cheng!’

Jiang Cheng slams both fists into the wooden railing surrounding the place. There is a resounding crack and a sharp pain tears through his fingers, all the way up his left arm. He curses, kicks the remaining part of the railing in a fury, once, twice, three times—

Something drops from the sky onto his head. Sharp needles pierce the skin of his neck, tangle in his hair, rip his night gown. Jiang Cheng twists and turns, swatting at the air, and receives a shocking blaze of pain to his hands.

It’s over as quickly as it began.

Jiang Cheng whirls around, but no one’s there. Only the broken railing and the open sliding doors of the jingshi. He is about to yell at the thing for hiding like a coward when a clear meow sounds from behind him.

“This better be a fucking joke,” Jiang Cheng hisses, turning to come face to face with the beast. Black button eyes meet his, furry ears twitching, head cocked as if mocking him. The creature is scrawny; it looks malnourished and there are patches missing from its black fur. One ear has a tear in it.

It blinks at him. Then meows.

Jiang Cheng explodes. Grabbing parts of the destroyed railing, he starts hurling them at the beast, yelling at the top of his lungs – fuck off, fuck off and die, you filthy, disgusting beast, you better run before I kill you with my bare hands!

The night guard coming upon him is one of usual. He offers Jiang Cheng a bow and upon discerning no evident threat to his Sect Leader exits the courtyard in quick strides.

The creature is nowhere to be seen.

He holds a sect meeting a few days later.

There have been reports of a fierce female corpse tormenting a nearby town. The villagers have sent a number of pleas to the Jiang Sect for assistance.

“I’ll go, Sect Leader Jiang!” one of his disciples calls out. Jiang Cheng waves him off, ordering a few of his fellow students to join him. He doesn’t bother listening to the detailed report. His disciples know better than to blunder and embarrass the sect.

Jiang Cheng is tired. His head aches. There is a gnawing sensation in his stomach. He briefly wonders when he last ate something.

“Sect Leader.” One of his generals this time. He says something about an incident in Qinghe. Jiang Cheng does not follow.

Another general replies. Then another. They start discussing the subject between them; Jiang Cheng watches, not hearing a thing. What he does hear is, “—said they saw the Yiling Patria—”

A sudden hush falls over the meeting hall.

His general catches himself, eyes shifting toward Jiang Cheng nervously, moustache trembling. “Sect Leader Jiang!” He scrambles to his feet, throws himself onto the ground in front of Jiang Cheng, prostrating. “Apologies, many apologies, this foolish one did not think!”

Jiang Cheng cannot breathe. There is cutting sensation inside his chest.

All eyes are on him. “This meeting is over,” he says icily and stands. He cannot feel his tongue.

The whispers follow him all the way out.

Suibian is collecting dust.

It is a shame, really, letting such a formidable spiritual weapon wither, but Jiang Cheng cannot bring himself to touch it. He cannot bring himself to even look at it most days. He cannot stow it away either. He has to see it, day after day, laying on the table beside his sleeping pallet.

To remember, he tells himself when his mother’s voice rears her head, demanding explanations. To not forget.

Forget what exactly? What is there to forget? As if Jiang Cheng has ever been capable of forgetting a single thing in his life. As if he didn’t wish he could forget.

Perhaps it’s meant as a punishment, then. For Wei Wuxian. For himself. He cannot detangle his thoughts surrounding it, so he doesn’t bother trying.

All he knows is the pain in his chest. All he knows is he wants to forget.

Love is a funny thing.

For Jiang Cheng, it has always been synonymous with pain.

Growing up, A-Jie used to tell him he was a gentle soul; that he loved innocently and deeply. ‘A-Cheng, you’ll make a great sect leader one day,’ she used to tell him. His parents disagreed. ‘Take note of your brother, you must learn that it takes bravery and risk to become a true leader.’ ‘Look at you, crying over a scrape like a silly child, is this how a son of mine should comport himself?’

But mother, he wants to say, I was a child.

He knows his parents loved him. In their own way at least. Maybe in the only way they knew. They gave their life for him, so there must have been love there. His sister loved him, he is sure of that. And maybe his broth— maybe Wei Wuxian loved him too, once.

So, Jiang Cheng has known love; he has been loved. Though perhaps never quite in the way he needed to be loved. He only allows his thoughts to go there when he is on the slim edge between wakefulness and sleep or at the bottom of his seventh cup of liquor. His mother’s love, suffocating and conditional. His father’s love, a distant breeze. A disappointment to them both.

Except A-Jie. Sweet, gentle, kind-hearted A-Jie who only ever looked upon him and his numerous failings with fierce love and patience. Who told him, ‘It’s all right, you don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not, A-Cheng. You’re perfect the way you are!’

Only – she left him.

Another confirmation of a pattern Jiang Cheng has long identified; that love tends to escape him. He has a penchant, somehow, for loving things that eventually leave. His dogs, his father, his mother, his home, his childhood friends. Then, his core, his strength, his dignity. And finally, most crucially, most significantly, his sister.

(And brother. He lost him numerous times.)

There is Jin Ling, still. Although Jiang Cheng finds it silly to count him considering his nephew didn’t have much of a choice in loving him, similar to how every child loves its parents regardless of their failings.

It must be him, then, Jiang Cheng concludes. There must be something horribly wrong and rotten within him that makes him undeserving. That he gets to experience love but never gets to keep it. That he is loved but never enough to be put first, never enough to make them stay.

A-Ling comes to visit.

He brings cautious smiles, grand tales and Fairy. The dog is glad to see him, at least. Jiang Cheng pets her as his nephew excitedly talks about night hunts with other juniors and flying sword tricks. Jiang Cheng sharply berates him for the latter.

“Jingyi nearly got himself beheaded by a mountain spirit, that dumb idiot,” A-Ling says. “If Hanguang-Jun hadn’t been there—” Here, he cuts himself off, shrinking back and throwing Jiang Cheng a sheepish glance. “Anyway,” he quickly concludes. “It was awesome.”

The sharp sting in his chest is back. Jin Ling is watching him tensely.

“How perfect,” Jiang Cheng spits, unable to keep the venom from spilling over. “What are you telling me all this for, then?”

The flash of hurt in his nephew’s eyes almost makes him want to take it back. He doesn’t know how. Fairy, sensing the shift in atmosphere, slips from underneath Jiang Cheng’s hands to console her owner.

Even the dog can’t stand Jiang Cheng’s presence.

The creature is back on his roof.

Jiang Cheng lies awake, listening to its scratching and thumping. He imagines getting up, leaving the jingshi and hunting it down. He would strangle it, throw it around the courtyard and listen to its bones snap. He would drown it in the koi pond and bash its head in with a rock.

As if telepathically connected, the beast yowls in response.

Jiang Cheng puts his pillow over his face and presses it down.

Jin Ling stops by during a night hunt taking place in the region. He brings Jiang Cheng fresh pastries from the auntie down at the pier and shoves them at him while averting his eyes. “She gave me too many. You eat some, Uncle.”

Jiang Cheng recognizes the ploy for what it is, but he picks out a soft bun anyway. It briefly occurs to him that A-Ling might be worried about him, but he dismisses the notion immediately. It is not for him to worry.

The buns are fluffy and warm, filled with delicious fruit.

They taste like ashes. Everything does these days.

During the warm months, Jiang Cheng spends most of his time inside.

In the past, he used to oversee the summer festivities in Yunmeng – the youths’ diving competitions and archery, numerous banquets and jovial musicians. All part of being a good sect leader, along with leading sword practice, holding council, accompanying night hunts – the list of his failings is endless.

He is too exhausted and embarrassed to do any of these things these days. He knows people talk; whispers and speculations passed behind his back about how Sect Leader Jiang is unstable, mentally confused, crazy. Better not speak to him, he’ll whip you to shreds.

Never mind that he hasn’t whipped anyone in a long while.

A brave disciple requests a demonstration of Sect Leader Jiang’s formidable spiritual weapon one day, undoubtedly aiming to stroke his ago and garner plus-points. Jiang Cheng is loathe to admit that a few months ago this approach would have been effective. How pathetic. As it is, the disciple receives a severe verbal lashing in the presence of all his peers and Jiang Cheng stomps off the courtyard, clutching Zidian like a lifeline.

He is well aware of the rumors and conjectures. Sect Leader Jiang has stopped going on night hunts. I heard he no longer carries his sword. Sect Leader Jiang has stopped overseeing practice. Really? He is known for his strict training regimen, I thought. I heard someone say they haven’t seen him use his spiritual weapons in a while. No, that can’t be!

He cares less about the whispers than he thinks he should.

At least when considering how careful he has been in curating his reputation over the years.

The truth is, using his core feels different now. Wrong, somehow. He tried to ignore it at first, the sensation of it. How every summon feels like a knife to his gut, how every spark of spiritual power feels like a hand reaching into his chest to clench his beating heart, how every slice of Zidian sounds like a cry of anguish, how the hand wielding the weapon no longer feels like his own.

He tries to remember, tries to recall whether it felt different. His core. This core. But memories are fickle and those in particular are blurry, cocooned in blood, and loss, and grief. The harder he tries to retrace his steps, delve back into the nightmares that have visited his dreams for over a decade, the more he feels them slipping away.

In the end, he cannot say. And even if he had noticed something amiss, had felt the ache between his ribs, the sensation of wrongness, would he have concluded what had transpired? What his broth— what Wei Wuxian had done? Could he have? When Jiang Cheng in his place would never have thought to attempt the same?

His core feels different. Using his spiritual power is agonizing.

Jiang Cheng stops using it.

The Sect Leader Conference takes place in Lanling.

Jiang Cheng travels there early, long stretches of the way on foot. Jin Ling accosts him a few miles out, landing gracefully beside him. He shoots him a funny look and Jiang Cheng can tell he is trying very hard not to say something. He almost lets it go, but his head hurts and his feet ache and he is exhausted.

“What is it,” he snaps.

His nephew purses his lips in a pout. “Nothing. Just—”

“Just what?”

“Why are you—” Jin Ling pauses, then huffs. He reminds Jiang Cheng of Jin Zixuan a lot in moments like these. “I just don’t understand,” A-Ling finally says. “People are talking, you know?”

“And so?”

“Aren’t you the one who taught me reputation matters?” Jin Ling throws up his arms in exasperation, nearly knocking Suihua into Jiang Cheng’s face.

He swats it away with a scowl. “Stop waving that thing around like a madman! Also, is this the way to talk to your elders?”

He only catches his nephew’s eyeroll because Jin Ling doesn’t turn away fast enough. Jiang Cheng debates the merits of rebuking him for it and chooses to let it go. He feels hot and sticky and this throat is parched. He really just wants to rest.

The conference takes place the following day. Sect Leaders mingle in the great meeting hall of the Jin Sect, small clusters of cultivators discussing the newest developments in their regions, cups being clinked. Jiang Cheng sits at his designated spot, robes arranged around him, subtly keeping an eye on Jin Ling who is speaking with Yao Bingwen and Wang Manchu, leaders of the Yao and Wang Sect.

Despite not knowing for sure, Jiang Cheng can take a guess as to what they are discussing. A couple of months ago Jin Ling passed a new reform implementing stricter sanctions for the sale of fake talisman in the Shandong area. It was meant to better protect the commoners from getting scammed. However, smaller sects in the surrounding areas – such as the Yao Sect and the Wang Sect – used to earn a large portion of their income from selling talisman and similar devices. With the items undergoing a more severe vetting process before being allowed on the market these sects are bound to lose their efficiency and reliable income source. The sect leaders now are likely banking on A-Ling’s youth to try and flip his decision.

However, it appears that Jin Ling is holding his ground. Jiang Cheng can make out the exasperated face of Wang Manchu and feels a swell of pride watching his nephew navigate these older, more experienced men treating him like an incompetent fool. Jiang Cheng often sees himself in Jin Ling these days. Compared to him back in the day, Jin Ling is exceptional – not that Jiang Cheng would ever tell him in those words. He truly has matured in leaps these past few months, steadily making a name for himself as Sect Leader.

A-Jie, you’d be so proud of him!

There is a commotion somewhere on his left; Jiang Cheng hears a murmur go through the attending cultivators. He detaches his sight from Jin Ling to turn towards the entrance of the hall, where the delegation of the Lan Sect has arrived. Except, it’s not Lan Qiren leading the party.

The whispers swell as Lan Xichen strides into the room, people parting like a wave around him. Lan Qiren follows behind him, eyes sharp and ever-present frown unchanged.

Jiang Cheng is stunned. He has, of course, heard the rumors that Lan Qiren’s health is deteriorating and besides, the man was never meant to take over the position of Sect Leader permanently. However, Jiang Cheng had not for one second entertained the notion of Lan Xichen leaving seclusion. Not this early, at the very least.

The last time he saw the man, he had been sitting on the ground outside of Guanyin Temple, clutching the bloodied wushamao – the only remaining piece of Jin Guangyao. Much like all the involved parties, Jiang Cheng had stumbled out of the scene an altered man, beaten and bruised; however, no one could deny that out of everyone, Lan Xichen had been damaged the most. Before, Jiang Cheng had always known him as a figure of authority; he was reliable, strong, unyielding and, most importantly, loyal.

To a fault, it turned out.

Something in Lan Xichen had irreparably broken inside that temple, with each vicious verbal exchange, every betrayal following the next, his wielding of the executioner’s blade. With all of them bearing witness, Lan Xichen had shattered.

That is what you get for refusing to see the bad in the people you trust…

And now he is back.

Jiang Cheng watches him make his way around, formally and politely greeting every single cultivator by name and rank, even those newly appointed during the period of his seclusion. While Lan Xichen appears composed, regal and unaffected, he wears a guarded expression, eyes a bit more dull, smile a bit too tight. Jiang Cheng notes his strangling grip on his sword.

People continue mumbling throughout. The cultivation world is quick to raise you on a pedestal and even quicker in sentencing you to hell. Jiang Cheng has been privy to such treatment for as long as he can remember, is intimately familiar with the swift fluctuation of public opinion, like the changing of the tide. Still, he has always been a bit too hard and unpleasant, known to have a temper – even when he was accepted, he was never liked.

For Lan Xichen, however, this must be new, unfamiliar ground. After all, the esteemed Zewu-Jun had always held the favor of the public; he was an accomplished Sect Leader, a powerful cultivator, the ideal husband, flawless in every way, shape and form. He was what other cultivators aspired and strived to become. Until…

“…should have known…”

“…aided his younger sworn brother in the murder of his elder sworn brother…”

“…knew of his crimes and concealed them…”

“…a coward…”

“…an accomplice…”

“…a fool…”

And yet, Lan Xichen resolutely continues to address every single person with consideration and grace. He is a better man than Jiang Cheng could ever be if their situations were reversed.

Sect Leader Lan eventually comes over to speak to him. They exchange hollow pleasantries and bows, forgoing the tradition of sharing a cup of wine. They are both eager to spend as little time as necessary in each other’s company.

During the conference Lan Xichen is an active participant. He offers skilled perspective, useful ideas and solid advice. Through it all, he speaks in a calm, gentle manner. The cool detachment remains.

Wei Wuxian writes him letters.

The first one arrived nearly a season after they parted ways at Guanyin Temple. Since then, a letter will turn up at Lotus Pier every few months or so. They are never long, only a couple of lines, distantly polite, almost clumsy at times.

It irritates Jiang Cheng to think of Wei Wuxian in such a manner. Clumsy. The Wei Wuxian he knew, the one he grew up with, was a lot of things – loud, obnoxious, troublesome, over-confident – but never clumsy.

And yet…

I got to grade the juniors’ papers the other day. Imagine I could have graded ours back then.

Lan Zhan brought his uncle’s wrath onto Cloud Recesses for illegally storing liquor for me. I think one of these days he might just drop dead in anger.

The bunnies have babies now. You should see how cute they are.

Do you remember what Emperor’s Smile tastes like?

Sizhui seems quite fond of Jin Ling. I think it’s great they are friends.

Jiang Cheng of course understands what Wei Wuxian is not saying. I forgive you, I hold no grudge, I am trying. It makes something old and viciously bitter rear its head. So what, he wants to write. Does that mean I should forgive you too? Just like that? For betraying me, abandoning me, taking A-Jie from me, forcing A-Ling to grow up without his mother? Without his father? You think it’s that easy?

He knows Wei Wuxian, though. It stings to admit it, even if only to himself. Wei Wuxian has always been quick to forgive; Jiang Cheng found it grating. For the longest time he thought that Wei Wuxian was simply incapable of holding grudges, of truly hating another person. Of course then the war happened and it changed everything.

Jiang Cheng has spent nearly two decades deconstructing the image of the person he once considered his brother. He rearranged pieces, dismantled every interaction, fed the obsession with his hatred and rage until he had a clear idea of who Wei Wuxian actually was – who he had always been.

A selfish, callous coward who never cared for anyone but himself.

It was a house of cards. Had Jiang Cheng paid even a sliver of awareness to his emotions – not the bubbling rage, not the overwhelming hatred, but those hidden underneath, stifled and smothered by the inferno above – he would have known he had built upon a precariously unstable foundation. Still, it caught him off guard; how rapidly the house unraveled.

Truthfully, Jiang Cheng is aware that Wei Wuxian is a much better person than him. Jiang Cheng is not sure he could ever forgive himself if he were Wei Wuxian. For not knowing it was a set-up, for not believing in him unconditionally, for abandoning him in return.

I didn’t know. But perhaps he should have.

He resolutely does not think about the other thing. His chest aches.

He does not reply to the letters.

On Jiang Cheng’s birthday it rains.

It is not surprising; the seasons are shifting, the air turns colder, the waves wilder, the wind more ferocious. When he was a child and his birthday was celebrated in grand style, they used to wish for rainy days so they could indulge in silly made-up games. Puddle-jumping and fill-the-cup and fly-across-the-courtyard-without-getting-wet and mud fights.

Naturally, Wei Wuxian was the initiator of most games. Naturally, he was punished for them by Jiang Cheng’s mother later on. Yet Wei Wuxian always smiled after, the brightest grin, and slung an arm around Jiang Cheng in their jingshi. He ruffled his hair and said, “Totally worth it. Always, for my didi.”

Then A-Jie slipped into their quarters after dark, bearing gifts of soup and pastries and the three of them had their own little feast on the floor, in the middle of the night. This was the true celebration Jiang Cheng was eager for every year.

The first birthday after was the worst. It had been months since that fateful night, since he had carried his sister’s lifeless body off the battleground, since he had scrubbed his hands raw to rid them of her blood. He spent the day by himself; Jin Ling had been with the wetnurses. Jiang Cheng had wandered through the forest, time slipping past him the further he went. What if I just keep walking, he thought. What if I never return.

The grief had still been fresh, seizing him in random moments throughout the day, sliding between his ribs and coating his tongue until he felt like he would choke on it, like his chest would collapse in on itself. In the forest that day he destroyed trees, beat his hands bloody on the bark, screamed his throat hoarse. After, he stumbled back to Lotus Pier and got black-out drunk on every liquor bottle he was able to find. It was the first time he felt numb in a long while.

His birthdays now are a solemn matter. Another reminder that he’s ageing, another reminder of a year without A-Jie, without his parents, without—

Jin Ling visits and stays. His birthday is only two weeks after Jiang Cheng’s and he will celebrate it in Lotus Pier, as he always has. This year he invited a mass of people, including his junior friends and, of course, Wei Wuxian.

Jiang Cheng is not thrilled. Still, when A-Ling posed his request, sheepishly, Jiang Cheng had not found it within himself to deny him. “Do whatever you want,” he said and went back to reading his reports. For the briefest moment he was privy to Jin Ling’s radiant smile before he turned and left the room.

His own birthday, however, Jiang Cheng does not celebrate or acknowledge. No one who is part of the Jiang Sect congratulates him. Maybe they know and have learned that he dislikes it, or, more likely, at this point there are only a select few who even remember it. All things considered, it’s just a normal day at Lotus Pier.

Jin Ling arrives late in the afternoon, dripping wet with an equally soaked Fairy in toll. “I nearly flew into a tree,” he exclaims while wringing out his ponytail. “It better not rain on my birthday!”

“Stop complaining,” Jiang Cheng replies. And, “Don’t drip on the floor.”

Jin Ling pouts, but cedes. He and Fairy withdraw to his chambers to get changed. Jiang Cheng busies himself with paperwork until his nephew pops back in a little while later. “So,” A-Ling says, nearing his desk from the left. “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations for what.”

“You know.” A-Ling slinks closer, till he stands right next to Jiang Cheng. “Your birthday. Congratulations!”

“What are you congratulating me for? It’s not like I did anything.”

Jin Ling frowns, his expression twisting in a way that reminds Jiang Cheng, painfully, of A-Jie. “Well, I don’t care, it’s still your birthday,” he says. “I got you something.”

Jiang Cheng’s brush halts in its movement.

Something strange and large materializes in his stomach. He cannot remember the last time he received a present. As a child A-Ling – in similar style as young Jiang Cheng – used to pick flowers and give them to him, until Jiang Cheng sharply admonished him for the girlish act. Jin Ling never did it again. And safe for the time the Ghost General had forced Suibian onto him, Jiang Cheng cannot recall obtaining gifts as an adult.

Ink darkens the paper underneath Jiang Cheng’s hand. He carefully puts down the brush.

Jin Ling shoves a small, square package into his hands. Jiang Cheng can sense his excitement, coming off of him in waves. “Go on, Uncle,” he says. “Open it!”

Jiang Cheng’s hands are shaking. He holds the present, wrapped in exquisite dark red silk and wonders why he feels like throwing up or sending his nephew home. There is a pressure behind his eyes which feels suspiciously like incoming tears – but Jiang Cheng has been unable to cry since the Temple, so that can’t be it.

He watches, almost detached from himself, as his hands peel away the silk and open the golden clasp on the pine box beneath. For some strange reason his mother’s ring looks comically large on his finger while doing so.

Jin Ling is shuffling his feet, pressing into his space as much as he dares to peer into the box himself as if not already knowing its contents. Jiang Cheng has no mental capacity to scold him for this behavior.

The present is a hairpiece.

Rushing water fills Jiang Cheng’s ears, his throat dries up. The box appears to waver in his sight.

The hairpiece is objectively beautiful. A slim, silver design which curves into a gorgeous arch, intricately twisting itself to give the impression of a blossoming lotus flower.

He cannot bring himself to touch it.

“Do you like it?” Eagerness betrays Jin Ling’s attempt to appear nonchalant. “I just thought a new one would look good on you. You’re always wearing the same one.”

Always wearing the same one.

The one holding up his hair this very moment. He’s been wearing it for over two decades now. It had been a gift, post Sunshot Campaign when Jiang Cheng had naively thought the world was righting itself. When his parents had been properly buried, his sect reclaimed, his sister and broth— Wei Wuxian by his side.

A-Jie had been the one to pick it out, handing it to him with an expression of pride and sorrow alike. “As Sect Leader you should be dressed accordingly,” she had said.

“Help me put it on?” he had replied, eager for her soothing touch, the reassurance that everything was finally going to be alright.

“A-Cheng.” Her voice had been choked, Jiang Cheng remembers this clearly. Her hands in his hair. “You’re going to do amazing. You already are!” And then, quieter, “I just wish…”

To this day, Jiang Cheng cannot forgive himself for not pressing for a reply, for never being able to know what it is she had wanted to tell him. I just wish our parents could be here? I just wish you were fiercer? More like A-Xian?

The hairpiece is one of the few things his sister left him, a gift intended for Jiang Cheng specifically. Something he never had to share or give up.

The thought of exchanging it with this new, glimmering headpiece void of A-Jie’s residual touch fills him with bone-deep dread.

The box drops from his limp hands into his lap where it stares at him, mockingly. “Look, I even made sure it fits with the sect emblem!” His silly nephew is still talking, oblivious to the inner turmoil threatening to bubble over.

And Jiang Cheng tries. He actually, truly does this time.

But he cannot control the eruption. “What is this?” His voice sounds so far to his own ears. “I told you there was no need for congratulations or gifts! Why won’t you ever listen to me, you stupid boy! Is this how I raised you? To disobey your elders?”

Jin Ling shrinks back with the force of his words. His eyes are huge, his face a mask of shock morphing into hurt and regret. One of his hands has subconsciously come to clutch his Clarity Bell as if in comfort.

The blood is still rushing through Jiang Cheng’s head, his vision blurring. He wants A-Ling to leave, to stop staring at him with such naked betrayal. “What are you standing there for? Get out!” he hisses.

Jin Ling appears frozen. He blinks and Jiang Cheng recognizes the surge of tears in his eyes. Unforgivable, a part of him thinks. Making him cry. The moment passes and Jin Ling snaps out of it.

“Fine.” His voice is choked. “I’ll leave then! You can be a bitter and angry old man all on your own. See if I care.”

Later, Jiang Cheng will be rattled by those words, by the tone in which Jin Ling spits them. His nephew has never in his life dared to speak to him in such a manner. With such venom. For now, he simply watches Jin Ling stomp out of the study in a flurry of yellow, disappearing into the thundering sheet of rain.

Jiang Cheng is left behind, a new hairpiece in his lap, a botched letter on his desk and the horrible sensation of having done irreparable damage.

Jiang Cheng is not stupid.

He is aware he is by no means good at interpersonal relationships. People have always been a difficult subject for him. In the past, his sister and – more often than not Wei Wuxian – had been the ones to connect to other disciples, to form camaraderie and friendship. Jiang Cheng had been tugged along in the process, included mostly because others recognized they were a package deal. In actuality, Jiang Cheng knows he had been entertained not for his charming personality or quick wit, but for the resulting company of Wei Wuxian.

He hadn’t minded much. Not back then. He hadn’t viewed it as him being the problem, not until much later.

To Jiang Cheng it often feels like he is standing in front of a glass wall – he can see and hear the other people interact on the opposite side but he cannot find a way to bridge the gap.

A-Jie had managed to cross over to his side of the wall and join him in his isolation. Wei Wuxian had shattered parts of the wall with single-minded determination and relentless pursuit. But both of them ultimately left, cutting off Jiang Cheng’s only connection to the other side.

Now, there’s Jin Ling.

Jin Ling who deserves better. Jin Ling who was raised on rotten soil, on broken promises and a nation in mourning. Jin Ling who has never experienced the love of his father or the patience of his mother. Jin Ling who was picked on for issues out of his control. Jin Ling who has been nurtured by Jiang Cheng’s fury, his hatred, his grief.

Jin Ling who bought him a present. A beautiful, thoughtful present. Because despite the fact that Jiang Cheng is atrocious and despite the fact that he did a horrible job of loving him, somehow, Jin Ling still cares.

And Jiang Cheng – he does not know what to do with that.

He does not know how to speak with his nephew. He cannot find the words nor the tone. He does not know how to show A-Ling that he cares. That he is sorry.

The wall is firmly intact. And Jiang Cheng cannot bridge the gap.

Sleep evades him.

It is something he has struggled with for over half his life at this point. Whenever he lays down his head, his body tenses and grows restless. Whenever he closes his eyes, vibrant pictures scorch the back of his eyelids. Whenever he sleeps, he dreams of home, of his mother’s proud smile, his father’s arms. Of Wei Wuxian, laughing and teasing. Of A-Jie patting his head, offering comfort.

Then, the dream shifts and suddenly there is the fire, the heat, the screaming. He sees his family, all lined up in the middle of the courtyard, bloody gashes torn through their bodies, glassy eyes staring into nothingness. There is manic laughter surrounding him. He turns, and there he stands, Wen Chao, with his mistress beside him and – Wen Zhulio. His hand reaching for him, a crazed grin on his face—

When he wakes, Jiang Cheng usually finds himself on the floor, heated skin pressed against the wood, dry tears on his cheeks. More often than not he picks himself up, stumbles to the door and into the courtyard – just to make sure.

It is always empty.

So, Jiang Cheng barely sleeps. He spends his nights staring holes at the beams overhead and revisiting old memories, chipping away at them piece by piece, walking through elaborate scenarios of what-if’s and if-only’s. Sometimes he wanders the desolate courtyard, feeling the cold stone beneath his naked feet and wonders whether this was the last sensation his parents felt on their skin.

He longs for home. He is home. Except home is a graveyard his family doesn’t frequent anymore; he is the only thing haunting it.

Tonight, Jiang Cheng can hear the creature again.

It shows up every other night now, scratching and clawing and making awful sounds that make Jiang Cheng’s fingers twitch. He listens to it, prancing around his roof like it owns it. He imagines throttling it.

After a while, the sounds stop. Jiang Cheng twists onto his side. Suibian is bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight coming in from the window. He can count each speck of dust; the intricate design on the handle is covered in it. His chest thumps in a way that makes it hard to breathe.

Involuntarily, his thoughts wander to Wei Wuxian. To him twirling Suibian with an air of vanity; to him naming the blade, cheeky and smug in his delivery; to him crossing swords with Jiang Cheng during practice, teasing and challenging. Jiang Cheng recalls grasping Suibian like a lifeline during his search for Wei Wuxian, when there had been no mention, no sighting, no sign of life from his broth— from Wei Wuxian. He remembers thrusting the sword back at Wei Wuxian, him taking it almost hesitantly. The way he had not used it after. How Wei Wuxian had come back to him, but not entirely. How wrong he had been.

How Jiang Cheng had not seen it. How Jiang Cheng had not figured it out. How Jiang Cheng had been so dumb and foolish and short-sighted and preoccupied and—

An intense yowl disperses Jiang Cheng’s thoughts.

He is upright immediately, thumb finding the ring on his right finger, energy coursing through his veins. Another screech rips through the silence, followed by a clattering sound down the side of the roof. Having processed the initial shock, Jiang Cheng can feel uncontainable anger surging to the forefront.

Fists clenched, trembling with rage, Jiang Cheng crosses the jingshi in two large strides, yanking the doors open wide. “I’ll fucking kill you—” he grits, coming face to face with the beast.

It is perched on the repaired railing, yellow eyes gleaming dangerously. Upon making eye contact with Jiang Cheng, it has the audacity to cock its head mockingly.

“You…” Jiang Cheng is seething. He reaches down to grab hold of his boot, fully intent on launching it at the ferocious creature. It beats him to it by letting out another horrible screech, sharp canines reflecting the moonlight.

It does not attack him, though and something about this makes Jiang Cheng pause, shoe half-undone.

The creature stares at him, unblinking, and Jiang Cheng stares back. He cannot say how much time passes like this, only that at some point the cat flicks its tail, stretches and jumps onto the ground in front of him. Jiang Cheng, hand still resting on his boot, doesn’t move.

It slinks past him, down the stairs and half-way into the courtyard. There, it halts and looks back at him. They share another moment, two predators, coming to a silent agreement of sorts.

Then, with another flick of its tail, the beast saunters off into the night.

Jin Ling’s guests start trickling in during the late morning.

As Sect Leader, Jiang Cheng is unfortunately burdened with the task of greeting each and every one of them. He wishes he cared less about trivial things like this, but his mother’s teachings are deeply ingrained. A good sect leader is comprised of many qualities…

The first grander delegation to arrive is the Ouyang Clan. Jiang Cheng gets to witness Jin Ling act aloof when greeting his junior friend – Jiang Cheng can’t for the life of him recall his name. It is quite obvious to him, however, how excited his nephew is to see the other boy. It’s a nice change seeing A-Ling like this after the tense and sullen mood they have been sharing since Jiang Cheng’s disastrous birthday.

“Have Sizhui and Jingyi arrived yet?” the Ouyang boy questions Jin Ling after bowing to Jiang Cheng. “I have so much to tell you guys, you won’t believe what happened to me the other day…”

Jiang Cheng has to hook a finger into the collar of Jin Ling’s clothes to keep him from immediately wandering off with his friend. “It’s your celebration. You should greet your guests.”

Jin Ling flashes him a glare but acquiesces. “I’ll see you later, Zizhen.”

More cultivators arrive as the day progresses. Jiang Cheng bows so many times his neck stars to ache. He can feel a headache coming on. Thankfully the Jiang disciples have been sufficiently briefed and are capable of showing each overnight guest to their designated quarters. It reduces the amount of communicating Jiang Cheng has to do.

Meanwhile Jin Ling is growing antsy. Jiang Cheng can tell, although he is remarkably good at hiding it. If he weren’t the Clan Leader, Jiang Cheng might have taken pity on him by now and shooed him off, but as it is, reputation and showing face are important. He doesn’t want A-Ling to be subjected to even more unnecessary scrutiny this early on.

By the time the Lan delegation reaches Lotus Pier, Jiang Cheng has a full-blown headache and little patience left in his repertoire. “Is Fairy contained to the Eastern courtyard?” he asks Jin Ling, whose face has brightened upon spotting the familiar white clothing in the distance.

“Of course, Uncle,” he replies, then glances at Jiang Cheng sideways, as if considering something.

It makes Jiang Cheng feel itchy. “What?” he snaps.

Before Jin Ling can form a response, a loud voice calls out, “Jin Ling!”

A figure in white dashes along the pier, waving frantically in their direction. Jiang Cheng recognizes them as one of the Lan juniors – the boisterous one, who is so unlike the rest of the Lans Jiang Cheng has met in his lifetime. He comes to a halt in front of them, hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“Jingyi,” Jin Ling greets his friend; he tries and fails to suppress a smile. “What took you so long?”

“Ugh, don’t even get me started, there was a situation! Wei-qianbei wanted to check on Lil’ Apple before leaving, then we found out that it had eaten rotten fruit and it was sick all over the place. It was terrible! And then—”

“Jingyi.” It is Lan Sizhui who interrupts; Jiang Cheng recognizes him instantly, dignified and calm in his appearance. “Hello Sect Leader Jiang.” A polite bow. “Jin Ling.”

Having been made aware of Jiang Cheng’s existence, Lan Jingyi gives him a perfunctory bow as well. “Sect Leader Jiang.” He turns back to Jin Ling instantly, “As I was saying, for some reason I got sent to clean up the mess—”

“You deserved it,” Lan Sizhui interjects. “Don’t listen to him, Jin Ling. How have you been?”

As they begin conversing between the three of them, Jiang Cheng turns his attention back to the advancing figures. At the forefront, Lan Wangji is striding with purpose, face cold and unreadable as usual. Beside him, Jiang Cheng is surprised to find Lan Xichen, who had not been confirmed as a guest. And on his other side…

Wei Wuxian is talking animatedly, hands moving in rapid succession as if to demonstrate a point. His clothes are creased, his ponytail askew; he is holding an apple in his left hand. Jiang Cheng feels his fingers curl into fists in anticipation; the familiar sting in his chest returns.

It is his first time properly seeing Wei Wuxian since the Temple.

It takes simultaneously forever and mere seconds for them to cross the distance. Lan Xichen, perhaps sensing the impending awkwardness, takes the lead. “Sect Leader Jiang, Sect Leader Jin.” He bows, then addresses Jin Ling again, “Congratulations for your birthday!”

Jiang Cheng elbows his nephew who mumbles a thank you in response. “Sect Leader Lan,” Jiang Cheng says. “Welcome to Lotus Pier. We were not expecting you.”

He catches Lan Xichen’s smile slip momentarily.

Lan Wangji uses the pause to step forward. “Sect Leader,” he says, his eyes barely lingering on Jiang Cheng before settling on Lan Jingyi who is currently in the process of subtly moving his body behind Jin Ling’s. “No running or shouting,” Lan Wangji reprimands.

“Or acting frivolous,” Wei Wuxian chimes in from behind, head popping around Lan Wangji’s body to grin at the juniors. He offers Jin Ling a sincere greeting, then turns to face Jiang Cheng, his smile dimming a bit. “Hello Jiang Cheng.”

Jiang Cheng feels his stomach churn. He is suddenly intensely aware of the other cultivators’ focus on him and Wei Wuxian and their interaction. He wants to throw up; he wants to run away. He can’t. It’s not the way a distinguished Sect Leader is supposed to act.

Instead, he takes a deep breath through the piercing pain in his skull and says, “Wei Wuxian. Hanguang-Jun. Welcome to Lotus Pier.”

Lan Wangji graces him with the tiniest of nods. Wei Wuxian, on the other hand, appears to lose a little tension from his shoulders. He tosses the apple into the air once, then launches it in Jiang Cheng’s direction. Jiang Cheng catches it reflexively.

Wei Wuxian grins. “It’s one of auntie Yu’s. We passed by her stand – I didn’t know she still sells them.”

Jiang Cheng can only nod, afraid of what might come out of his mouth if opened. Seeing Wei Wuxian with a different face – with Mo Xuanyu’s face – still trips him up. It feels akin to going down a flight of stairs and missing a step. There is a short moment of weightless free-fall before he catches himself on the next one.

This isn’t the Wei Wuxian he knows, the one he grew up with and shared so many memories – happy and sad – with. It isn’t his voice, or face, or even height. It’s not who Jiang Cheng thinks of when he thinks of Wei Wuxian.

And yet, at the same time, it is Wei Wuxian in a way it could only ever be him. The way he carries himself, his movements, his expressions, the choice of words – they are exactly the same. They are Wei Wuxian.

“You’ll be staying in the South quarters,” he tells the man wearing Mo Xuanyu’s face. “I presume you recall the way.”

“I can show you!” Jin Ling eagerly supplies, tearing away from the conversation with his friends. Jiang Cheng is too worn out to remind him of his still arriving guests he ought to be greeting.

Wei Wuxian is watching him in a way that makes him want to peel his skin from his face. “I remember,” he says. Then, almost hesitantly, “I wondered… I wanted to visit Shije…”

Jiang Cheng feels another stab accompanied by a wave of guilt. He notes that Lan Wangji grips Bichen more tightly, appears to grow a bit bigger as if anticipating a negative reaction. Jiang Cheng has the urge to hurl at him, to tell him to stay out of our business, it’s nothing to do with you, this is between family, between him and I—

“Do what you want,” he bites. “You know the way.”

There is silence, after. Then, Wei Wuxian gives him a soft smile. “Thank you, Jiang Cheng. I’ll see you later.”

He watches them leave, an enthusiastic Jin Ling leading the way, a somber Lan Xichen building the rear. Before passing through the gates, Jiang Cheng catches Wei Wuxian touching his hand to the solid beam. He turns to look back in Jiang Cheng’s direction.

Jiang Cheng shifts his back towards him.

He feels unmoored. The interaction – as short as it was – has knocked something loose within him. Old memories are fickle and easily disturbed; the smallest breeze can cause them to whirl up and grow into a raging storm. And Jiang Cheng has had enough of those to last a lifetime. He just wants to forget.

To ground himself, he bites the inside of his cheek until the copper tang of blood fills his mouth. It is a method he’s been using since he was a little boy and forced to listen to his mother rage on and on about his father’s failings and consequently his failings. A good sect leader is durable and never cracks under pressure.

Jiang Cheng swallows a mouthful of blood and prepares himself to welcome the next delegation.

The apple is still in his hand.

The banquet takes place later that evening.

Jiang Cheng has not had a single second of rest since getting up that morning. After greeting the guests, he is roped into solving a problem at the kitchens concerning a lack of carrots and then there is an issue with the assigned sleeping quarters. Needless to say, Jiang Cheng’s head feels close to bursting. He is proud and slightly floored that he only shouted twice.

At this point his only viable relief is the liquor being served at the feast. Which is why Jiang Cheng’s first move upon entering the packed and rambunctious courtyard is to pick his way over to his designated seat, slump to the floor – in a dignified manner befitting of a sect leader, of course – and pour himself a cup of wine.

He downs it and refills it twice before he can bring himself to actually take in the scene.  

His gaze first goes to Jin Ling, who appears flushed in the face – probably the liquor – and is passing around gifts to his friends. The loud Lan disciple knocks his shoulder into Jin Ling’s and reaches out as if to touch his head. Jin Ling ducks away and shoves him in response. Lan Sizhui steps between them.

Feeling reassured that A-Ling is not in any danger from himself or others, Jiang Cheng catches himself studying the courtyard for a very different person. He does not seem to have arrived yet. Rubbing a hand over his chest he sips some more wine and watches the food being served.

He eats little. The texture feels funny, the taste practically nonexistent. Jiang Cheng is aware he should probably consult a doctor at some point, but he doesn’t know what to say. I barely eat because all food tastes strange to me. I can’t sleep. Sometimes I’m not certain if things are real…

Better to just wait it out.

Some Clan leaders assemble around him after a while. A few try to talk business, but he shuts them down ruthlessly. He is not in the right state of mind at the moment. He is also not in the mood for flattery. Or gossip. After the third incident of someone subtly praising his spiritual skills while simultaneously calling into question the rumors of him not using his spiritual weapons, he can’t take it anymore.

“Fuck off! All of you, fuck off! Don’t speak to me!”

Some look startled, one opens his mouth as if to protest. Jiang Cheng grasps his ring, electricity blazing to life in warning. They quickly disperse after that.

As he collapses back into his seat, he notes Jin Ling gazing his way warily. Jiang Cheng has the urge to break something.

Tearing his eyes from his nephew, he finds the area designated to the Lan Sect has filled. Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji are sitting beside each other, backs straight, forehead ribbons bound perfectly – it makes Jiang Cheng want to pour wine over their heads just to get a reaction, to see them less put-together, messed up.

Wei Wuxian, of course, is there as well. He is seated next to Lan Wangji, practically glued to his side. It makes Jiang Cheng’s hands tingle, a hot bubbling sensation stirring inside his stomach – he wants to grab Wei Wuxian by the nape and drag him away from the Lans; he wants to hurl insults at them and lock Wei Wuxian up where he can never leave.

It is a silly fantasy.

Wei Wuxian appears to be in a good mood; he is laughing while holding a cup of wine in one hand, the other wound around Lan Wangji’s arm. He is chatting animatedly, his expressions open and inviting, doling out smiles cheaply.

Not for you, though. He won’t smile for you. Not like that.

Not anymore.

Jiang Cheng downs another cup of liquor. He already feels slightly woozy, the edges of his vision blurring. At least it lessens the pounding in his head.

Wei Wuxian. Lotus Pier.

It is strange the way those two go hand in hand yet are so disconnected inside his mind. Seeing Wei Wuxian here feels odd, but also like the most accurate, normal thing in the world. As if detecting an old, familiar melody one heard as a child but never since.

Lan Wangji is pouring Wei Wuxian another drink. He leans into Wei Wuxian’s space to say something to him. Wei Wuxian giggles – Jiang Cheng can’t recall ever having heard his brother make such a sound. It makes him nauseous.

He cannot understand how nobody else seems uncomfortable at their display. How removed they are, caught up in their own world – friends, lovers, husbands. It’s pathetic.

He sees his brother light up whenever Lan Wangji looks at him. He sees Lan Wangji place a hand on his brother’s back. He sees the air of comfortable familiarity between his brother and the oh-so-esteemed-greatest-of-the-great Hanguang-Jun. The fire rages within him.

So, Jiang Cheng is jealous of Lan Wangji. He is not too proud of a man to admit it.

He’s not exactly jealous of him stealing Wei Wuxian away. He knows his brother, knows it was only a matter of time, that Wei Wuxian had left him behind long before Lan Wangji entered the picture. If anything, at least with Lan Wangji around Jiang Cheng can rest assured that his brother’s safety is being taken care of – Wei Wuxian has not changed much in regards to his self-destructing tendencies.

No, Jiang Cheng is not jealous of that.

He’s not even jealous of Lan Wangji’s reputation, his sect, his looks, his cultivation.

Mostly, he’s envious over how it all turned out for Lan Wangji in the end.

For a while there it felt like a part of them recognized something in each other. They have never seen eye to eye, but pain recognizes pain. They have both known suffering, Jiang Cheng thinks. In different ways, but bound to the same person. A part of him knows it is futile to weigh hardship, misfortune and agony against each other, but Jiang Cheng never claimed not to be a selfish, egotistical person.

Because… because…

It’s unfair the way the story ended; so deeply unfair in a way that makes him want to do something drastic – like whip someone to shreds, like cut his hands to ribbons on broken shards, like set fire to his home, like cry.

Because in the end Jiang Cheng had watched his parents get butchered; Lan Wangji had lost his father, but his uncle had survived. Jiang Cheng had lost his home to the flames and rebuilt a graveyard; Lan Wangji’s home had been resurrected from the ashes, like a phoenix born anew. Jiang Cheng had his core disintegrated, his bones broken, his mind shattered; Lan Wangji had never once faltered. Jiang Cheng had held his sister in his arms as she bled out. Jiang Cheng had lost his brother, not once, not twice, but over and over and over again. What did Lan Wangji know about such pain? Such suffering?

So, Jiang Cheng burns with envy and perhaps to some degree there is hatred mixed in there too. He is quite adept at the latter; it’s his best friend and worst companion.

He must have been staring for too long, too intensely. Lan Wangji is glaring back, a challenge issued across the space separating them. Jiang Cheng actually contemplates it for a moment – the satisfaction of landing a strike against the great Hanguang-Jun versus the absolute shame of being beaten to the ground. It would also undoubtedly ruin Jin Ling’s birthday feast.

Jiang Cheng looks away.

Time passes. A-Ling gets drunk with his friends. The junior from the Ouyang Clan loudly serenades the guests with an off-key rendition of a love ballad. An intoxicated Lan disciple stumbles over a table and is admonished by Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian eats and drinks and talks and laughs and sometimes his eyes wander in Jiang Cheng’s direction.

The elders are mostly clustered in small groups, sharing wine and fruit and gossip. Some have retired for the night. Others are flat out drunk, swaying against each other. Having learned their lesson no one tries to approach Jiang Cheng again.

His headache returns with viciousness after a while and he has to get out. Leaving the flickering lights and noise behind, Jiang Cheng takes a turn around the docks. The air is cooler these days, the wind sharper. It rips at his clothes, his hair, tries to enter his body and settle in his bones.

The water is rougher too, the way it crashes into the wood of the docks, mist forming on its surface. Jiang Cheng stares into it, no reflection to be found as the night is moonless. He is temped then, to let himself fall. It would be easy too, he thinks. To let the waves take him, to surrender to the cold, to let the darkness consume him.

From behind him comes a hiss.

This has to be a fucking joke—

He turns just as the creature streaks past him with a loud howl, claws briefly tangling in his robes. It disappears onto the land and into the mist. Jiang Cheng wishes he was less drunk – he would have captured the beast and wrung its neck.

He is about to retreat when he notices it – a figure walking along one of the docks further down. The wind and waves are so loud that Jiang Cheng did not perceive them until now. He squints and makes out light robes and dark trailing hair.

The pier Jiang Cheng is currently standing on is connected by a walkway to the other. Before Jiang Cheng can make the conscious decision to retreat before he is spotted, the other figure appears to halt in its movement, briefly hesitant, before changing course and making its way in his direction.

By the time Jiang Cheng has debated how profoundly rude it would be to leave anyway, how badly it would reflect on him and how little he cares, the figure materializes as Lan Xichen.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” he says, bowing lightly. He looks less put together than at the banquet – clothes ruffled, cheeks flushed. “I was just getting a bit of fresh air.”

Jiang Cheng feels wrong-footed somehow. He did not expect to have to converse with a prominent Sect Leader this far into the night, drunk as he is. “Ah, yes,” he says inelegantly. “It gets quite stuffy inside.”

There is an awkward pause. Then, “You’re very generous to be hosting everyone.”

“Not like I had much choice.” It slips out before Jiang Cheng can stop himself. The wine. He clears his throat. “I hope you’ve settled in well.”

Lan Xichen nods. “Yes. Yes, thank you. We were provided with great accommodation.” He appears at a loss then, unsure. He seems younger like that; insecure and inexperienced.

It makes Jiang Cheng frighteningly uncomfortable.

“Um, alright, I should head back—”

“Sect Leader Jiang.” Lan Xichen looks as astonished about his own interruption as Jiang Cheng is. He folds his hands in front of his body, appearing conflicted. Jiang Cheng is about to relieve them from this awkwardness by simply walking away, when Lan Xichen continues. “Please forgive my bluntness as I have consumed a few drinks tonight. But I couldn’t help noticing the way you were looking at Wei-gongzi and my brother earlier and considering your well-known hostility towards each other, I feel myself obligated, as Sect Leader, to question whether I must consider you a threat.”

Well-known hostility. A threat.

He waits for the familiar stirring of anger, the building wave of rage – but there is nothing. He just feels empty and cold; his head hurts. The absurdity of the situation – of Lan Xichen of all people to call him out like this – makes Jiang Cheng want to burst into laughter.

Lan Xichen is staring at him, dark eyes wide as if perplexed by his own line of inquiry. Weirdly, a part of Jiang Cheng wants to praise the man. Good job, you spoke out about something you noticed instead of ignoring it! And you did it in a direct manner too!

Another part of Jiang Cheng finds it a bit rich that he chose to say something now.

He says, “Sect Leader Lan, I don’t see how this is any of your business. You are a guest at Lotus Pier, same as Lan-er-gongzi and Wei Wuxian. Don’t overstep your boundaries and we won’t have a problem.”

He is proud, he thinks, of how he says it. Calm and collected. Lan Xichen might be feeling the same from the quizzical expression passing over his face. He opens his mouth, closes it again, looks to his side. The flush on his face is more pronounced. “With all due respect, Sect Leader Jiang.” He picks his words carefully. “I feel it is indeed of my business since it concerns the Lan Sect.”

Perhaps you should first concern yourself with your own reputation and problems! Weren’t you in seclusion until just a few months ago? Wasn’t it you that used to let everyone do whatever they pleased unless it concerned you or your sect directly?

“Yes, right, because Wei Wuxian is part of your sects now, is he? Weren’t you just as quick to condemn him for his crimes just mere months ago?”

Lan Xichen fidgets. Jiang Cheng has never in his life seen the esteemed Zewu-Jun this uncomfortable. And yet, now that Lan Xichen initiated the conversation, he cannot back down. That would appear weak. “Much like yourself, Sect Leader Jiang, and the rest of the cultivation world I was led to believe things about Wei-gongzi that in hindsight turned out be… false.”

This time, Jiang Cheng cannot suppress a bark of laughter. “Sect Leader Lan, are you claiming that you would have acted differently had you known the truth?”

An indignant look. “I— of course I would have! I always have and always will stand against injustice—”

Jiang Cheng interrupts him, swift and brutal. “What injustice? When has the Lan Sect ever truly stood against injustice? You think yourself better and more righteous than the other sects, but are you not the first to convict anyone who dares think differently or in ways you deem unethical? You are quick to jump on the wagon when others condemn injustice, I suppose, but can you claim to stand against injustice when the majority has a different opinion?”

Red patches are forming high on Lan Xichen’s cheekbones. His hands are clenched into fists. If Jiang Cheng was less drunk and cared more about his standing in this moment he might have found A-Jie’s voice of reason within himself and recognized how pathetic he is being; fighting with a fellow Sect Leader at his nephew’s birthday party. Jiang Wanyin, have you no decorum?

But Jiang Cheng has already crossed the line and so he might as well tumble headfirst off the cliff. “And Sect Leader Lan, if we are being honest here, the only person you ever truly stood up for was the same person who murdered your sworn brother and deceived you for years. You were too comfortable and trusting and blind to the deceit of those closest to you. Don’t act like you were only a victim in this mess; you are responsible too!”

A bright, metallic sound fills the air. It takes Jiang Cheng a second to place it; Lan Xichen has unsheathed Shuoyue a few inches. His knuckles are white, his grip deadly. His chest is heaving, ragged breaths that look painful. A distant part of Jiang Cheng is in awe; never once, safe perhaps in glimpses during the hostage situation at the Temple, has Lan Xichen seemed so real, so honest, so raw.

Like an actual person instead of the image he portrays.

A moment passes. Jiang Cheng counts the waves of pain piercing his skull. Finally, Lan Xichen loosens his grip a fraction. “Sect Leader Jiang,” he says, voice uneven. “You are crossing a line. Such accusations coming from you… I find that preposterous. You have spent your entire life hunting down any cultivator alleged of practicing the demonic path because of an obsession. You claim I condemned Wei Wuxian for his supposed actions? That I did not stand against injustice? Were you not more relentless and vicious than the rest of us? Did you not drive him from the Jiang Sect and aid in his death? Should you not have known him better than anyone else? Do you not own Wei-gongzi a much greater debt?”

Here, he pauses.

The words hit Jiang Cheng like a molten hand to his lower stomach. All of a sudden he no longer feels drunk. The baggage inside the carefully sealed trunk in the back of his mind shudders and strains.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Xichen looks astonished at his own comment, perhaps even remorseful. “I— It is late and it has been a long day. Please excuse me, I believe I should retire now.”

He offers Jiang Cheng a curt bow, then turns to make his way back to the residence. Jiang Cheng does not watch him go; he opts to stare into the churning water reflecting his inner state of mind.

The waves have never appeared more inviting.

Jiang Cheng cannot sleep.

He tosses and turns, the wind howling through the courtyard outside. His mind is more active than it has been in a long time. The usual actors make their appearances – Wei Wuxian, who is physically close at the moment, probably listening to the same wind; Jin Ling, whose birthday present for Jiang Cheng remains untouched on his bedside table; his mother, who reprimands him for his failings with harsh words.

Today, a new character joins them.

The conversation – if that is what it can be called – with Lan Xichen on the docks replays inside Jiang Cheng’s mind on a loop. Now that he is a bit more sober and his headache has lessened, he feels more capable of dissecting the interaction.

He expects anger, first and foremost. The vicious sort, the one that drives him to do and say unspeakable things, the one that lets him give up control of his body, the one that – briefly – burns away everything else.

Instead, he is confused.

Confused and surprised and intrigued.

He understands of course that Lan Xichen has changed, that something fundamental cracked and rearranged itself within him back in Guanyin Temple. He understands that Lan Xichen not only experienced betrayal of the highest order – regardless of his own naivety and blind trust in that person – but found himself complicit in actions that oppose his morality. He understands that Lan Xichen was bound to either break or bend.

Jiang Cheng had expected him to break.

After hearing the announcement of Sect Leader Lan’s seclusion Jiang Cheng had not been able to extend much sympathy for the man. He had to contend with his own worldview being flipped, had to aid Jin Ling in his new role as Sect Leader and assist in the clean-up of the mess Jin Guangyao had left behind. Perhaps he had felt a bit bitter even – after all, it was a privilege to be allowed to simply drop your responsibilities as Sect Leader and disappear for a while. Either way, he had not expected to see Lan Xichen again in his lifetime; some people simply don’t manage to put themselves back together.

It turns out he might have been wrong in his assessment.

Lan Xichen is back to his duties. He shows up to all the meetings, takes active part in conversations and, as far as rumors go, has started discussing reforms in his territory. He is also, as decreed by the many Lan rules, still polite and courteous.

But still, something has changed. There appears to be a new edge to him; his gaze is a bit sharper, his smiles a bit less sincere – or perhaps he doesn’t exert as much energy into pretending they are. It is something that speaks of the familiarity of having experienced deception.

‘You have spent your entire life hunting down any cultivator alleged of practicing the demonic path because of an obsession,’ he had told Jiang Cheng. And, ‘Were you not more relentless and vicious than the rest of us?’ And, ‘Do you not owe Wei Wuxian a much greater debt?’

It is true, of course. Maybe that is why it hurts so bad. An obsession, Lan Xichen called it. Jiang Cheng isn’t sure if he would subscribe to that – a fixation, sure. Perhaps a compulsion too. He had known. Known that Wei Wuxian, of all the people in the world, could not be killed in such a simple manner. Known that he would find a way to come back, that stupid, stubborn man who never encountered a rule he did not wish to break—

Obsession, they called it. Whispering behind his back, disdainful glances, parting around him wherever he went. But hadn’t he proven them right in the end? They called him delusional yet they had been in the wrong. He had known and no one had believed him.

And now – do you now owe Wei Wuxian a much greater debt?

The familiar sting in his chest returns. Memories of rejoining with his brother during the war, the sickly pallor of his skin, the following stubborn refusal to wield his sword, their endless arguments, Wei Wuxian’s enraged tone, threatening Jiang Cheng to back off, his betrayal…

Why, Jiang Cheng thinks, not for the first and certainly not the last time. Why would you do this to me? Why would you not speak with me? Why not confide in me? Why would you leave me in the dark and make me believe you cared so little for the promises you made me?

But of course, there is no real reason to be uncovered here. Or at least none that will satisfy this empty pit inside of Jiang Cheng.

“Consider it a repayment of my debt to the Jiangs,” Wei Wuxian had said in the Temple. That he did it out of an obligation. Duty. A debt.

What about love? the eternal young boy-version of Jiang Cheng whimpers. Was there no love in there somewhere?

There is too much to detangle, so much it would take a lifetime and beyond to achieve. In a way it had been easier when Wei Wuxian had been presumed dead, when Jiang Cheng didn’t possess the knowledge he has now, when he had been capable of focusing solely on the overarching feeling of rage.

But Wei Wuxian is back. The truth uncovered. And Jiang Cheng has to now live with the fact that people are aware of his inadequacies, his deficiencies, his flaws – how none of his successes can be attributed to his strength and power. What a sad, pathetic man he is.

In the moonlight Suibian glints at him. Always, a reminder.

The next day Jiang Cheng discovers Jin Ling practicing his sword formations in the South courtyard. Wei Wuxian is with him.

Jiang Cheng stumbles upon them by accident – at least that is what he tells himself. He is on his way to the main hall to discuss a potential Night Hunt with the leaders of the nearby Clans. He just so happened to pick the path traversing this very courtyard.

And now that he is here, he might as well stay to oversee Jin Ling’s progress.

A-Ling is great with Suihua; he has advanced in leaps over the past year, displaying a mixture of techniques from the Jin and the Jiang Sect. He also incorporates styles primarily used by the Lan Sect. Jiang Cheng waits for the familiar taste of bitterness at the realization. Instead, his brain offers an alternative explanation – he must have picked them up while training with his friends.

Wei Wuxian is watching Jin Ling intently. He is sprawled across the steps leading up to the walkway, one leg bent, elbow slung over it haphazardly as he flings peanuts into the air and catches them with his mouth. Once in a while he shouts something at Jin Ling; a correction, an alternative skill, a teasing distraction.

He looks… at ease. Like he belongs.

Like this is home.

The thought lodges in Jiang Cheng’s throat, sharp and painful.

He should leave. He is intruding on a private moment and if spotted is sure to ruin the mood for everyone. He is particularly good at doing that with his mere presence. But he cannot tear his eyes away.

Jin Ling is carefree in a way he has not witnessed in a while – or maybe ever. He still scowls and talks back to Wei Wuxian like the little brat he is, but it has a lighter feel to it. And with every compliment he gets handed, he appears to stand a bit taller.

And, of course, it is Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian with his easy personality and charming manner, offering smiles and praise and lifelong friendship as easily as breathing air. Wei Wuxian who entered Jin Ling’s life only a few meager seasons ago yet managed to carve a place for himself almost immediately.

Wei Wuxian, who somehow appears to have become a safe space for Jin Ling.

Jiang Cheng will never be able to comprehend how he does it. How Wei Wuxian connects with people with such ease, relates to them, makes them feel special; how almost everyone who meets him is enchanted and drawn into his orbit. How they will lay down their lives for him. Even now, decades later, after his crimes and death and resurrection, while in a different body, Wei Wuxian continues to have the same ability to induce endless devotion in others.

It used to be wondersome when they were children, infuriating in their teens and borderline agonizing during and after the war. Now, Jiang Cheng just views it as something inevitable.

After all, he knows he is a hypocrite. Weeks, months, years spent cursing Wei Wuxian and the wretched reverence others have for him; one so strong it drove A-Jie into the blade. And yet—

Are you any better?

Hadn’t Jiang Cheng also admired him? Hadn’t it been loyalty and twisted love alongside the overbearing dread of further loss that had pushed him into giving himself up? Without thinking of the consequences. Without thinking of his parents, his sect, his duty of safeguarding the Jiang bloodline. Without thinking about A-Jie and what the repercussions of his actions might mean for her. Hadn’t he also thrown his life at Wei Wuxian’s feet without hesitation? Without him asking it of Jiang Cheng?

He violently slams the drawer shut on those memories.

Watching Wei Wuxian and Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng feels a longing so strong it compresses his chest. The wall between them appears insurmountable, more so than it usual. What they have, the relationship he is witnessing, is unreachable to him. Still, A-Ling tries to breach the wall, tries makes jokes, tries to invite Jiang Cheng to spend time with him, tries to gift him beautiful, thoughtful things because somehow, strangely, he cares for Jiang Cheng despite all his flaws.

Jiang Cheng wishes – more than anything else at this point in his life – to be able to reciprocate, to show A-Ling his affection, to make him feel at ease in the way it comes natural to Wei Wuxian.

But that is not who Jiang Cheng is. And he doubts that after nearly four decades that will simply change.

Time passes as he stands there, lost in thought. Someone comes to stand beside him after a while. When Jiang Cheng snaps out of it enough to notice, he is not surprised to find Lan Wangji.

He does not speak and still manages to convey his contempt and superiority as usual. Jiang Cheng digs his nails into his palms and resolutely chooses not to grant him the satisfaction of a reaction. The mighty Hanguang-Jun, back ram straight, white robes immaculate, forehead ribbon secured in place – whatever does Wei Wuxian see in him? Jiang Cheng will never understand.

They remain silent for a while, watching Jin Ling and Wei Wuxian who have yet to notice either of their presence. They have moved on to a new training technique that involves Jin Ling launching himself into the air while Wei Wuxian hurls peanuts at his face.

Jiang Cheng is loath to admit defeat but there are Clan Leaders waiting for his presence in the main hall and he has to show up at some point. As he turns to leave, Lan Wangji finally deigns to address him.

“Have you received them?”

Jiang Cheng halts in his movement. “Received what?”

“The letters. Are you not receiving them?”

Ah. The letters. Wei Wuxian’s letters.

Jiang Cheng scowls in response. “Of course I received them.”

Lan Wangji’s glare intensifies; Jiang Cheng can sense his murderous intent and the impulsive thought of challenging him to a duel to the death flashes through Jiang Cheng’s mind. But Lan Wangji only takes what appears to be a calming breath.

“Then reply,” he says icily and strides away before Jiang Cheng can explain to him just how little of his fucking business this is.

All throughout the meeting and for the remainder of the day, Jiang Cheng’s ribs ache.

He sees little of Wei Wuxian during the next few days. Lan Wangji cannot be found either.

Granted, Jiang Cheng is busy juggling the departing Clan Leaders who are all clamoring to get in the good graces of the leader of the Jiang Sect. Jiang Cheng gives up counting how many times he snaps at a cultivator and how often he tries and fails to hide when crossing paths with someone who is eager to chat him up.

The only person seemingly immune to his presence is Sect Leader Lan. Since their meeting during the night of the banquet Lan Xichen has been doing a remarkable job of dodging every possibility of interaction. He does not appear to the meetings Jiang Cheng is forced to host in the main hall nor does he take part in the communal dining – despite the fact that supper time now aligns perfectly with the rigid Lan Sect schedule.

Jiang Cheng is bothered by it.

He cannot explain why. It just annoys him. Is it because he views it as cowardly? Not befitting of a Sect Leader?

Or maybe it’s because, for a moment, Jiang Cheng felt alive in a way he hasn’t in months, perhaps years. Lan Xichen’s words cut deep – the truth always does find a way to aim true – and yet it was easier, somehow, to accept it after the anger had faded. Perhaps it’s because he shares no deeper personal connection with Lan Xichen. Perhaps it’s because Lan Xichen himself has recently fallen from grace, has had his flaws violently exposed and dragged out for the whole world to see.

Perhaps Jiang Cheng saw a kindred spirit for a second there.

He muses over this as sleep won’t come. Outside, he can hear the now familiar scratching sounds on the roof coupled with the whistling of the wind. Tonight however, the sound cuts off after a while. There is no howl, no shriek, no claws traversing the walkway in front of his jingshi.

He sits up.

Jiang Cheng does not bother fixing his hair or putting on shoes. He crosses the jingshi to peer into the courtyard. Just to make sure, he tells himself. Not because of that beast!

The courtyard is occupied.

Jiang Cheng spots the figure first. It is Wei Wuxian, of course; Jiang Cheng recognizes him despite the unfamiliar body. He thinks he would probably recognize Wei Wuxian no matter his shape or form.

Wei Wuxian is crouched beside the pond in the far left, abnormally still. Beside him, the creature moves in circles, tail brushing against his robes.

Traitor, is the first thing Jiang Cheng thinks.

Which one, is the second.

He hesitates in place, silent and observing. Why is Wei Wuxian awake? Why is he in this courtyard? Does he know Jiang Cheng has his quarters here? It is a ridiculous question. Of course Wei Wuxian is aware of Jiang Cheng’s sleeping arrangements; they once lived an entire life side by side.

A breeze reaches out to gently toy with Jiang Cheng’s loose hair. What are you waiting for? A-Jie’s ghost urges. Go talk to him, A-Cheng! He finds himself moving without making the conscious decision to.

The ground is cold beneath his naked feet; the wind suddenly more vicious. Wei Wuxian does not react to his approach, although he must be aware of his presence. The creature, on the other hand, hisses at Jiang Cheng in warning. He glares at it menacingly.

When he reaches the pond, he stops. Uncertain how to proceed he shuffles his feet, keeping a close eye on the cat whose tail is standing on end. This is why dogs are superior, he thinks then wants to laugh at the absurdity.

Say something, a part of him desperately implores. Say anything at all! And yet he cannot find the words. The wall is solid; his hands pressed against the glass. Please, he thinks with all his might. Please let me through! Please help me out!

And as he always has, Wei Wuxian hears his plea and extends a hand.

“Everything’s the same.” His voice is low, monotonous. He does not turn to meet Jiang Cheng’s eye, gaze firmly fixed on the lotus flowers in the pond. “I keep expecting Shije to walk out and scold me for not being in bed.”

Jiang Cheng has to fist his robes to hold back a cruel and unnecessary comment. He settles for, “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” A shrug. “Too many… ah, memories here. Always feels strange to be back. I don’t know how you stand it.”

There’s a shard locked inside Jiang Cheng’s throat. It hurts when he speaks. “It’s home.”

It was yours once too.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Do you still consider it home? Or has it been replaced now, by mountains and creeks and rolling clouds?

There is a pause in which Wei Wuxian finally lifts his head. He still won’t look at Jiang Cheng; one hand reaches out to caress the creature which lets itself be patted with glee. “You have a cat now.”

“Not mine,” Jiang Cheng replies. “Beast keeps showing up to torment me at night.”

As if comprehending, the cat hisses at him. Wei Wuxian lets out a chuckle. “I think it’s cute. It suits you.”

“What are you saying?”

“Oh, relax,” Wei Wuxian chuckles. “I’m just playing around. It likes me, I think.” He is still running his hand over its back. “Animals usually don’t.”

“It’s because you’re too loud.”

“Ah, that might be. Thought it was because of the demonic energy.” Wei Wuxian scratches the cat behind its ear. “You should name it.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Well, it clearly likes you if it shows up every night. You should at least have a name for it.”

“I’ll name it after you then. It’s just as annoying.”

A delighted laugh escapes Wei Wuxian’s lips. It appears to surprise him as much as Jiang Cheng. “Oh, you would honor me, Jiang Cheng!”

Jiang Cheng has to bite his lip to not say something nasty in response. This entire situation feels like a dream; hazy and precarious. Like a single wrong word or move can make it evaporate. Jiang Cheng does not want it to.

Thankfully, Wei Wuxian has always been a talker. “Jin Ling is good with Suihua, isn’t he? Still reminds me so much of that damn peacock sometimes.”

Jiang Cheng scoffs. “He has more of A-Jie.”

“And thank goodness for that.” Wei Wuxian twists to properly look at him. Jiang Cheng notes that he appears tired, dark circles lining his eyes. Still, he has that signature smile, one not even death can erase apparently.

“You raised him well,” he says.

The shard shifts in Jiang Cheng’s throat. “What are you saying now?”

“Just that.” Wei Wuxian looks at him and Jiang Cheng feels like for the first time in a very long time someone truly sees him. He has forgotten how painfully vulnerable of a sensation it is. “You did a good job, Jiang Cheng.”

The shard travels into his chest, where it burrows deep. Jiang Cheng is acutely aware of the cold spreading from his feet through his entire body, the way his untidy hair tickles his nape, the pressure behind his eyes. He wants to rage at Wei Wuxian and he wants to cry and be held while doing so.

Weak, his mother reminds him.

“Shut up,” he manages to say through clenched teeth. “Don’t be stupid. He’s a good boy… most of the time.”

Wei Wuxian nods. He tears his eyes away, starts stroking the cat again. Jiang Cheng feels much lighter immediately. “Shije would be proud I think,” Wei Wuxian says.

The shard brushes against an old scar. “Well, she’s not here, is she,” Jiang Cheng bites. He regrets it instantly when he sees Wei Wuxian’s face crumble. I didn’t mean it, a part of him howls. I’m sorry.

What he says is, “Whatever. Your— Lan Wangji came to defend your honor, you know? Demanded I reply to your letters.”

“He did?” A sheepish grin passes over Wei Wuxian’s face. “Ah, what a dummy. How embarrassing. Don’t listen to him, Jiang Cheng.”

He scoffs. “Hard to ignore a man who threatens me in my own home.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Wei Wuxian continues to watch the cat and Jiang Cheng is caught by an irrational jealousy. Look at me, he wants to scream. Stop looking at that damn thing, look at me!

“Whatever. No need.” He swallows the emotion down, moves his icy feet a bit, feeling quite out of his depth. A part of him wants to run back inside, burrow under his blankets and never see nor speak to another person ever again. Another, much younger part wants this moment to continue, wants Wei Wuxian to want to be here – a younger brother, begging for attention.

So, clumsy as he is, Jiang Cheng tries. “So, Lan Wangji… he’s… and you…”

A frown. “Husbands?” Wei Wuxian offers. There is something in his tone, a hidden reprimand. “You can say it, Jiang Cheng. Don’t be a jerk.”

Jiang Cheng bristles. “Husbands? What husbands? Is this a joke to you? You didn’t even invite me. You got married and I had to find out through A-Ling and a fucking three-sentence letter. I’m not the one being a jerk about this!”

Wei Wuxian stands. He is shorter than Jiang Cheng is this body but somehow still grander. “I didn’t know you wanted to be invited,” he says, crossing his arms. “It’s not like you’ve been very supportive or have shown any interest in me or my business!”

“So—what? You just decided it was none of my business, then?” Jiang Cheng is trembling. He is unsure how much of it can be credited to the cold. “But I suppose it isn’t my business since you’re no longer part of the Jiang Sect!”

“Jiang Cheng!” It is the first time Wei Wuxian raises his voice. The creature lets out a blood-curling hiss, darting into the darkness.

“What?” Jiang Cheng shouts back. He is once again teetering on the edge of the cliff, hanging on by a mere thread. “Why does everyone keep pretending like I’m in the wrong? Am I wrong, Wei Wuxian? You say it’s none of my business and you will bear the consequences but you make decisions that affect everyone around you. And then you say it doesn’t concern me?”

It is quite obvious to the both of them that they are no longer talking about the wedding. “Jiang Cheng, don’t—”

But Jiang Cheng has already hurtled off the cliff. There is no stopping him now. “Are you still like this, then? Have you learned nothing? Did A-Jie dying not teach you anything?”

“A-Cheng…”

Jiang Cheng explodes. “Don’t fucking call me that! Don’t—just leave! That’s what you’re good at anyway. Leave and keep your fucking letters, I don’t need them! Go back to the Cloud Recesses since that’s your home now!”

A-Cheng, A-Jie admonishes. Be kind. You are all each other have left.

Not true, he argues back. He has that husband of this! He has no need for me.

“Jiang Cheng…” Wei Wuxian’s face is blank again. Jiang Cheng knows that he is to blame for it and the shard in his chest aches in protest. Wei Wuxian swallows once, then nods. “I’ll leave then,” he says and turns without meeting Jiang Cheng’s eyes.

No, a part of him trembles in terror. Don’t go! I didn’t mean it. Please don’t leave me again!

Jiang Cheng cruelly stomps it into submission as he watches Wei Wuxian disappear from the courtyard. It feels an awful lot like saying goodbye.

People start departing in trickles, then like a flood.

Jiang Cheng is exhausted. Since his conversation with Wei Wuxian he has been sleeping worse and his chest is in a constant state of pain. It’s like a piece of clothing he kept balled up in the back of the closet, hidden behind layers of robes, has been shaken loose and is now banging against the closet door.

It takes every inch of his willpower to keep the doors shut. Meanwhile, he struggles to send each cultivator off while simultaneously keeping his temper in check.

He cannot wait for all the visitors to finally be gone.

Sect Leader Lan and his disciples are set to depart late in the afternoon. Jin Ling accompanies his friends to the pier from where they will fly directly to Gusu. His mood is subdued; Jiang Cheng can tell. Probably because after this he will he stuck here alone with his moody uncle who cannot speak nicely to him.

Still, it’s not like he will be completely on his own. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji have decided to stay another night and will depart in the morning to travel via foot to Yunping City. Jin Ling has eagerly agreed to join them upon request. Jiang Cheng does not bother asking what they are planning on doing there.

While Jin Ling and his friends stroll ahead, eagerly conversing and playfully shoving each other, Sect Leader Lan walks beside him. He is unhurried, gradually slowing down the closer they get to the docks.

This is the first time since their dispute that Jiang Cheng has seen Lan Xichen for longer than a few moments. He’s put together, pristinely dressed, not a hair out of place. Gone is the person from that night with the flush and the raised voice and the painful honesty.

Jiang Cheng hates it.

“I hope you have a pleasant journey home,” he says, choosing to break the awkward silence lingering between them.

“Thank you, Sect Leader Jiang.” The response is lackluster at best. “You are gracious to have hosted us for a such a long time.”

Jiang Cheng makes an affirming noise. He does not have it within him to offer more platitudes.

It’s when they step onto the wooden pier that Lan Xichen’s snail-like pace comes to a grinding halt. He faces Jiang Cheng so suddenly, it spooks him a bit. “Sect Leader Jiang.” Lan Xichen’s gaze is serious, smile wiped away. “I wanted to say something before I left.”

Oh no, Jiang Cheng thinks.

“I meant to apologize for my behavior the other night,” Lan Xichen says. Even his apology is perfectly polite; he holds eye contact with Jiang Cheng, his words appear thought-out and sincere, his tone calm. “I was drunk and clearly out of line. I should not have said the things I did and I hope you will seek to accept—”

“I won’t.” It escapes him, fast and violent.

Lan Xichen blinks at him, completely taken aback. “Excuse me? I—”

“Doesn’t it get fucking tiring?” Jiang Cheng interrupts, blaming his words and actions on the lack of sleep and general inner turmoil of the past few days. “To always play the perfect prestige Sect Leader? Don’t you just want to say what you really think sometimes? Don’t you hate pretending?”

Jiang Cheng thinks he may have broken Lan Xichen. He cannot recall ever having seen him at such a loss, safe maybe at the Temple. His face is cracked open, stripped of his signature smile. It crosses Jiang Cheng’s mind for the first time since knowing Lan Xichen that it might have always been fake.

“I mean,” Jiang Cheng rushes on. “I won’t accept your apology. We both know you meant what you said. Don’t apologize for that. It’s stupid!” The words sound inelegant and clunky. But some frantic desperation has grabbed hold of him. “Do you see me apologizing? No! I probably should, it’s not exactly the proper way a Sect Leader should comport himself, is it? But why should I say sorry when I meant what I said and you meant what you said so why should you— anyway, this is stupid.”

Jiang Cheng ends his rant, feeling increasingly embarrassed. What would his mother say if she could see him now? Thankfully, there is no one except Lan Xichen to witness his uncomfortable outburst. Lan Xichen, who has yet to say a word, who keeps staring at Jiang Cheng like he has never seen him before, who is… laughing?

Jiang Cheng can only stare in horror as the Sect Leader of the Lan Sect brings a hand to his mouth, pearly laughter echoing from behind it. His whole body seems to shake with it, eyes crinkling, features relaxing. A faint part of Jiang Cheng notes that he has never before seen Lan Xichen laugh like this.

Lan Xichen laughs for a while. Jiang Cheng grows increasingly uncomfortable, shuffling his feet and gripping his mother’s ring for comfort. The age-old awareness of being laughed at settles harshly in his bones. He has to throw his entire weight against the closet doors to keep them from bursting open.

Finally, Lan Xichen wipes the corner of his eyes, clearing his throat a few times. “Sect Leader Jiang,” he says. “I apologize for laughing. I did not mean to offend you. It’s just… well, you are very straight-forward. Honest, I suppose. I did not expect that. You are right, I did mean the things I said, although I could have worded them… differently. I hope you can forgive me for that.”

Jiang Cheng finds himself stunned at the words used to describe himself. Straight-forward, sure, one could call him that. But, honest? Jiang Cheng cannot recall anyone ever ascribing him that attribute.

He ponders on it, replays Lan Xichen’s words for the remainder of the morning, midday and afternoon. Lan Xichen does not know him, not truly, and as such his assessment of Jiang Cheng’s character should not matter in the slightest – not now anyway, when Jiang Cheng cares as little about his outward reputation as ever before in his life.

But he cannot deny how something within him warms at the idea of another person seeing something good in him. Something worthwhile. Something honest.

The next evening, he occupies his usual spot on the docks. Despite the colder season Jiang Cheng is incapable of abandoning this sacred ritual.

Earlier today he watched his broth— Wei Wuxian depart. A fleck of black and red on the horizon, flanked by a tall figure in white and another, smaller one, in yellow. One would assume that by now Jiang Cheng has grown used to it – Wei Wuxian leaving. If he were an artist, he could sketch Wei Wuxian’s back, his retreating form, from memory alone.

Jiang Cheng hates himself for it. He hates even more that despite expecting it, it still hurts.

At least Jin Ling came to say goodbye. Even hugged him, albeit briefly. It’s happening less and less these days – his nephew truly is growing up. Soon he might not want to visit his pathetic uncle any longer.

With the last of them gone, Lotus Pier descends into subdued silence. The easy chatter of guests, the simple noise of traded laughter, even the mere sound of footsteps on wooden walkways disappears. All that remain are the servants, unobtrusive as shadows, and Jiang Cheng, who haunts his home like a restless spirit.

He thinks about death a lot.

That in itself is not strange; death has been a constant in Jiang Cheng’s life since he was a teen. They are close acquaintances, much like grief is his most intimate companion. But, recently, his thoughts have been preoccupied with his own mortality.

When he passes the courtyard during a training session, he wonders what it would feel like to obtain a deadly sword strike, to bleed out on the very stones soaked in his parents’ blood. When a malicious wind makes the wooden beams above his head groan, he wonders what it would feel like to be buried underneath layers of lumber, slowly suffocating. When the ache in his chest grows, he wonders what if would feel like if he took a knife to his skin and carved out the throbbing thing protected by the curve of his rib cage.

Would the pain cease?

Sometimes, when lying awake at night, Jiang Cheng pictures it. His death. His funeral. Who would even mourn him if he passed? Who would feel his absence? Would anyone miss him?

He has no heirs. None except A-Ling. Who would take over the Jiang Sect? Would anyone? Or, will the Jiang name be buried alongside him, laid to rest and forgotten as history runs its course. Oddly, it’s not as horrifying a scenario.

And it’s not that Jiang Cheng wants to die. Sometimes he just isn’t quite sure whether he wants to live either.

He used to house this fire inside of him, a roaring inferno that propelled him forward and informed nearly every course of action he took. Jiang Cheng hadn’t realized just how much he had come to rely on that kindling, how much warmth and light his rage offered, how much strength he derived from it.

Jiang Cheng always knew that this fire of his burned people, scared them off, kept him isolated and contained behind the glass wall. He hated it, loathed its existence, knowing fully well where it came from. Yet now he understands that very fire was also what kept him from death and despair, what made him survive the war, rebuild his sect and wake up each morning, choosing to breathe.

He last felt it at the Burial Mounds, right before inviting a horde of cultivators into his home, before Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, before Wen Ning and Suibian, before the Temple and all that came with it.

With it gone, snuffed out, Jiang Cheng is left in darkness, with nothing but cold ashes and a looming sense of emptiness.

There is a soft pattering of sound and something brushes up against his side. Dark eyes meet his, furry ears twitching as if in communication. Jiang Cheng thinks about lifting his arm and raising his voice, thinks about putting his hands on the creature and doing all the things he pictured during those sleepless nights.

But, he’s tired. He cannot find the will or the strength.

The cat looks at him. It sits down beside him, front paws demonstratively resting on his billowing robes, its tail flicking against Jiang Cheng’s side.

It feels like a tentative state of truce. Two animals, sharing a section of wood in companionable silence.

The dark season descends upon Jiang Cheng like a heavy blanket.

Every morning, he waits in vain for the sunlight to breach his sleeping quarters. He drags himself to meetings he cannot summarize mere minutes after they end. He forces food past his lips under the watchful gaze of his cook, whose stern expression leaves little room for negotiation, and tastes nothing.

Jin Ling visits and Jiang Cheng pulls himself together to offer consultation and guidance. His nephew invites him to a night hunt, barely concealed longing in his voice, and Jiang Cheng tells him no. You don’t understand, he wants to say when Jin Ling’s face crumbles. You do not want me there. I would only ruin your fun.

Oh, A-Cheng, the ghost of A-Jie whispers. She sounds sad.

With each passing day Jiang Cheng finds it harder to gather the strength to peel open his eyelids, to move his toes, to leave his bed. He is impossibly tired, all the time, except he is not – because he doesn’t sleep.

Nights find him tossing, cowering under the duvets to escape the freezing cold, until it feels like he is choking under the weight of them. He wanders the courtyards in nothing but his night gown, his feet carrying him over and over again to the spot where his parents shed the last of their lifeblood. He sits on the docks, barely taking note of the way his fingertips turn red and numb, the way the icy air scrapes along his throat.

More often than not he is joined in his misery. The cat has an uncanny sense of knowing Jiang Cheng’s whereabouts and Jiang Cheng doesn’t have the energy to scare it away. Its small body turns into his only source of warmth during those nights and once, or maybe twice, Jiang Cheng catches himself stroking that dark fur, feeling the unmistakable heat and movement of a living creature underneath his palm.

You should name it, Wei Wuxian said and Jiang Cheng said, I’ll name it after you, then.

He finds his mind, more often than usual, occupied with Wei Wuxian. With his entire family, truly, but Jiang Cheng can visit them whenever he likes whereas Wei Wuxian…

He was angry. With Wei Wuxian. There was a time when Jiang Cheng was angry with almost every single decision, with the mere presence of Wei Wuxian. He always had that ability, even when they were children. Knew just how to rile Jiang Cheng up.

Sometimes Jiang Cheng wonders where it all went wrong.

He thinks about the lies and the grief, the sacrifices and the betrayals, and the love. He thinks about the few memories he holds close to his heart, right where it aches, the ones he wishes to keep unsullied from everything that came after.

He feels like a petulant child then, screaming, I never asked for this. It’s not fair. I never wanted any of this! But, that is not how it works. Jiang Cheng may not have asked for this life, for the family he was born into, for the cultivation he received or the inherent birthright of a future Sect Leader. He may not have asked for the war, the invasion, the fighting, the death and the aftermath.

And yet – Jiang Cheng knows he is responsible too. Responsible for his choices, his actions, the consequences he brought on.

He often thinks how much easier the dead have it. His parents, his sister. They do not have to witness the pitiful creature Jiang Cheng has become.

It should have been me, he thinks, when the wind grips his hair and the waves crash against his ankles. I should be the one buried and gone. He knows it is true – back then as much as today

It is truly tragic that fate decreed the worst member of the Jiangs survive.

The letter arrives when the trees begin to blossom again.

It’s not one of Wei Wuxian’s; Jiang Cheng can tell immediately. The paper is unblemished, fully intact without a single crease. It is delicately folded and Jiang Cheng isn’t sure whether it’s because he is losing his mind lately, but it faintly smells of something floral.

Its contents are cause for much greater amazement.

Dearest Sect Leader Jiang,

You are sure to be aware of the approaching Sect Leader Conference held in Qinghe in two weeks’ time. As the destination requires for members of my Sect to pass through Yunmeng, I write this to inquire whether you would, by any chance, wish to travel the remainder of the way together.

With deepest regards,

Lan Xichen, Sect Leader of Gusu Lan

Jiang Cheng cannot stop the disbelieving laugh that escapes him once the words arrange themselves into something coherent. He cannot recall a time in his life where his company was ever desired or explicitly requested.

He reads the letter twice, and once again for good measure. But, whatever angle Lan Xichen is hoping to pursue with this attempt at companionship, Jiang Cheng is none the wiser.

In the end he deposits it in the wooden chest beside his bed where it joins the numerous unanswered correspondence from Wei Wuxian. Jiang Cheng does not formulate a reply.

Lan Xichen accosts him the second Jiang Cheng steps foot into the conference hall.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” he says and if Jiang Cheng did not know any better, he’d think Lan Xichen appears relieved. No one is ever relieved at Jiang Cheng’s presence, though. “How good that you are here. I was unsure whether you had received my letter…”

Jiang Cheng is tired from the journey and already annoyed at the sight of dozens of cultivators bowing at each other and offering fake platitudes in the name of courtesy. He sighs. “No, I received it.”

The smile on Lan Xichen’s face only wavers momentarily. “I suppose it was drafted on short notice.”

Jiang Cheng does not believe any Lan member has ever done anything on short notice, but he decides not to comment on it. Already he finds eyes drifting their way, murmurs spreading like a drifting breeze. He feels his mood, if possible, worsen.

“Did you have a pleasant journey?” Lan Xichen asks, somehow still sticking to Jiang Cheng’s side.

Of fucking course not, Jiang Cheng wants to say. Instead he says, “Thank you. Great.” And then, because despite everything his mother’s teachings remain firmly ingrained, “What about you?”

Something appears to loosen in Lan Xichen’s expression then, his smile morphing into something marginally less mask-like. Jiang Cheng must be imagining it; it is impossible to think that something he said or did could ever warrant such a response.

Just then, from behind them, another voice speaks up.

“Sect Leader Lan. Sect Leader Jiang.” Nie Huaisang, formerly known as the Head-Shaker, dons his fan, offering them a courteous bow. “Welcome to Qinghe. I hope your travels were without complications.”

Jiang Cheng is fairly certain he does not imagine the way Sect Leader Nie’s gaze seems to rest upon him a moment longer when saying those words. His chest twinges uncomfortably and he briefly wonders whether the days of travel are on obvious display.

A good Sect Leader maintains an impeccable appearance.

“Sect Leader Nie.” Lan Xichen has gone rigid beside Jiang Cheng. There are faint traces of caution and apprehension in his voice. “Thank you for hosting and accommodating us during this conference.”

Perfectly polite, as usual. It causes Jiang Cheng a headache.

“Is it still Sect Leader Nie?” he asks. Chief Cultivator.

Something flashes through Nie Huaisang’s eyes, something that confirms the growing suspicion Jiang Cheng has been harboring, something he files away to examine later should he find the energy.

“Just for a while longer, Jiang Cheng,” he replies and Jiang Cheng finds he quite dislikes the sound of his name from Nie Huaisang’s lips. He turns deliberately to face Lan Xichen then. “Xichen-ge, I hope you don’t mind; I made arrangements for our seats to be beside one another.”

“Of course I don’t mind, Huaisang.” Despite nothing giving it away, Jiang Cheng is inclined to believe Lan Xichen does in fact mind.

“We haven’t had the chance to properly speak since your return,” Nie Huaisang says. “I was hoping we could catch up.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

Reasonable. If Jiang Cheng wasn’t nursing a headache, he’d probably laugh.

“Well,” Sect Leader Nie says, snapping open his fan. “I better make the rounds. I am glad you two could make it. Sect Leader Jiang, Sect Leader Lan.”

Jiang Cheng watches, with curiosity, as Lan Xichen’s expressions falters when Nie Huaisang departs. He looks conflicted, or at least deeply contemplative, a small frown upsetting his otherwise flawless complexion.

He leaves after a mumbled excuse about needing some air which, if Jiang Cheng recalls any of the Lan teachings, can definitely be labeled as disrespectful. In the case of Lan Xichen specifically, it almost transcends the realms of mere rudeness into outright insult.

Jiang Cheng finds himself intrigued.

His hesitation holds up for just a moment before he finds himself following Lan Xichen. The alternative would consist of Jiang Cheng being forced to remain in a room filled with people he knows do not like or respect him. He is also currently not in the mood to be watching Nie Huaisang mingle – a stranger compared to the man Jiang Cheng once considered a friend.

When Jiang Cheng finds him, Lan Xichen is standing with his hands folded behind his back, gaze seemingly caught on something in the distance. Suddenly, Jiang Cheng is unsure what he is doing out here, why he felt the need to – to do what, exactly?

Offer comfort? Some other strange notion? To Lan Xichen, of all people?

“I feel… very confused,” Lan Xichen says before Jiang Cheng can retreat. “You would not lie to me, Sect Leader Jiang, would you?”

Jiang Cheng probably would, if it served him a purpose. But he suspects that is not what Lan Xichen is aiming at.

Straight-forward. Honest. That is how Lan Xichen apparently views him. It feels unexpectedly crucial to Jiang Cheng that it stays that way.

He says, “No, I probably would not.”

“I did not think so.” Lan Xichen sighs in a manner that feels like relief. “I am afraid I am doing him a disservice. It is a good thing he has… changed. He is stronger now, not so reliant on others. His—his brother would have been proud. It is just… sometimes, I cannot help thinking… if he…”

Lan Xichen trails off, the words seemingly getting lost. Jiang Cheng does not require them to be spoken aloud. “If he did it deliberately?” he says and watches Lan Xichen flinch in miniscule.

“He is changed,” Jiang Cheng says and thinks about the interactions he witnessed between Lan Wangji and the man and how Wei Wuxian, once again, left Jiang Cheng to fill in the blanks by himself. “I don’t recognize this man.”

“We are all changed, I believe,” Lan Xichen says softly.

Jiang Cheng does not know how to respond. He can feel the glass wall closing in on him. It borders on a miracle that he has managed to lead a civilized conversation this far.

“I have been… misled before.” It clearly pains Lan Xichen to admit this. “My ability to recognize deceit has never been particularly sharp. I am… trying to do better, but maybe… I remain worried I am still not… seeing things clearly.”

Jiang Cheng thinks back on Nie Huaisang, everything he knows about him, everything he witnessed. He remembers the boy he was and the man he grew into, the losses and the gains. How his brother was avenged and Nie Huaisang seemingly did not have to lift a finger in aid, while Lan Xichen wielded the executioner’s blade. Jiang Cheng thinks back on Nie Huaisang and understands that, perhaps that day in the Temple, Lan Xichen faced a betrayal on two fronts.

“I do not know about seeing things clearly,” Jiang Cheng says. Not when people are always capable of lies and deceit and treachery. “But maybe, if you are thinking like this in the first place, you should take that into account.”

Lan Xichen gives a thoughtful hum in response.

Standing side by side, they observe the arrival of more cultivators. A good number of glances and confused whispers are directed their way, which no one can blame them for. They make a rare pairing; two leaders of prominent sects, both ostracized for vastly different circumstances.

“I fucking hate these conferences,” Jiang Cheng says with an exhale.

Beside him, there is an inhale and a long moment passes before, like a secret admission, Lan Xichen whispers, “Me too.”

When the conference comes to an end two days later Jiang Cheng sets off on foot to return to Lotus Pier. In silent understanding, Lan Xichen joins him for a stretch of the way.

Oddly, it does not feel uncomfortable. The opposite even.

It almost feels like companionship.

All his life Jiang Cheng has been convinced there must be something fundamentally wrong with him.

Something that makes him unworthy of love. That makes people leave him. That makes his bonds fragile in trust, easily severed. A wall of glass, entombing him within, like a princess locked inside a tower.

‘This is why no one likes you, Jiang Cheng,’ Wei Wuxian used to say while laughing. ‘That temper of yours scares everyone off!’

‘You are a leader,’ his mother sternly told him. ‘Leaders don’t have friends. They have subordinates.’

For the first time in his life Jiang Cheng wonders whether his mother could have been wrong. Lan Xichen does not quality as a friend, not by far, but he certainly isn’t a subordinate either.

Jiang Cheng does not know what to make of him, but he finds himself thinking about the leader of the Lan Sect often.

These days, despite the warmer weather, Jiang Cheng is somehow more keenly aware of how lonely he feels. He has his disciples and servants and – wretched as he is to admit it – a cat. The halls of Lotus Pier are filled with noise, footsteps and muffled laughter.

Still, an aching loneliness persists.

He attempts to fill the void by visiting his family more often, spends hours on his knees with an incense stick between his palms and a reverent silence surrounding him. But, unlike before, it isn’t enough anymore.

When he speaks to them, they do not respond.

Jiang Cheng is awake, which is why he hears them when they arrive. That, and his nephew’s frantic calling of his name.

It’s the latter that catapults Jiang Cheng into action. Jin Ling has not sounded this frightened since – since there was a wire to his throat, held in place by a person who claimed to love and cherish and protect him. He sounds terrified now, and he is calling for Jiang Cheng.

He finds them in the courtyard; Jin Ling, ponytail askew, an expression of frozen terror on his face and beside him, dangling from his shoulder, barely conscious and covered in blood – Wei Wuxian.

For the briefest of moments Jiang Cheng’s world stops. He sees a crumpled figure, deathly white, stained red, on cobbled stones, her expression peaceful in the end. He sees a shell of a person, in the throes of madness, barely recognizing him, there and then gone in a blink.

He feels the familiar dizziness grab hold, his chest tightening to the point of black dots dancing in his vision. No, no, not again, is the only thing his mind can loop around. Please, no! Not again! Not now!

“Uncle!” Jin Ling cries and Jiang Cheng, hearing his child’s plea, snaps into action.

Wei Wuxian is a dead weight against him. His blood – because Jiang Cheng has zero doubt that it is Wei Wuxian’s blood – stains Jiang Cheng’s robes, smears across his hands in a hot, sticky mess. His eyes are closed, his cheeks pale, but he is warm – and breathing still.

It makes something in Jiang Cheng unfurl, suddenly, painfully.

“Get doctor Qi,” he tells Jin Ling, who has dry tear-streaks across his face. So young, Jiang Cheng thinks. He is still so young. His nephew, letting out a wet sniffle, rushes to comply.

Jiang Cheng curses Wie Wuxian to heaven and back as he lugs his unmoving, broken body past the threshold of his jingshi. He tries not to focus on the uncharacteristic silence from the person in his arms, or the way his hands are – yet again – covered in the rapidly dwindling lifeforce of one of his siblings, or how his own mind has gone blank, static, caught on loop around one revolving word.

Please. Please. Please. Please.

He gets the story from Jin Ling, albeit in fragments. Doctor Qi is inside Jiang Cheng’s quarters and Wei Wuxian has been stabilized and Jiang Cheng is sitting on the steps outside, having covered his nephew in one of his robes.

It was a Night Hunt, a regular occurrence. There had been nothing to signal it was going to develop into anything out of the ordinary. But, there had been a miscalculation. A fierce corpse had separated them from the rest of their companions and Wei Wuxian insisted – because, of fucking course, he would – he could handle it. He entered the building on his own while Jin Ling had been attempting to retrace their steps to the group and fell into an ambush.

“Why the fuck would you go in there alone?” Jiang Cheng yells as soon as he is allowed to step foot into the jingshi. “Have you lost the rest of your goddamn mind now on top of having no sense of survival?”

Wei Wuxian only lets out a weak chuckle, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “It’s good to see you too, Jiang Cheng.”

With him awake, the evidence of his survival prominent, Jiang Cheng finds the murderous grip around his heart slackening. Jin Ling nearly sobbed, a sound of utter relief tearing from his throat as he threw himself bodily at Jiang Cheng when he told him the news.

Jiang Cheng cannot remember when he last got to hold his nephew like this, when Jiang Cheng was sought out for comfort in such a plain, desperate manner. He found his arms coming up easily, wrapping around Jin Ling in a practiced motion – despite his growth spurt he still fits inside Jiang Cheng’s embrace the way he did when he was little.

Now there is Wei Wuxian. Hurt, battered, bruised, but alive. Undeniably alive. Breathing. Blinking. Speaking. Grinning. Alive.

“Where is he?” he demands. “Where is Lan Wangji?” I will kill him. The thought rises, fast, unbidden, furious. Jiang Cheng grasps at the familiar heat, the sizzling flame, like a lifeline. I will kill him for leaving you.

“He’s not—” Wei Wuxian coughs, a bead of blood trickling down the side of his mouth. “Lan Zhan is busy. I— you can’t tell him, Jiang Cheng. Please!”

Why the fuck not? “Is he not treating you right?” It comes out harsh, cold like the snap of a whip.

A funny expression passes over Wei Wuxian’s face. “What? No. No, Lan Zhan would never… that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I just— he would worry, that’s all. That idiot would—”

Jiang Cheng’s flames lick higher. “You claim he is your husband,” he snaps, watches Wei Wuxian shrink back at the force. “Should he not worry about you? Who are you to decide who is allowed to worry? Wei Wuxian, you really—” He breaks off with a curse.

Something has shifted in Wei Wuxian’s expression, a thoughtfulness, something understanding. “Jiang Cheng…” he says.

“Fuck off!” Jiang Cheng replies, but to his horror, he can feel the flames sizzling out, feels something large grow in the back of his throat, finds his hands shaking, his eyes stinging.

He sits himself down on the floor, touches fingers to his mother’s ring, grounds himself. “You will never do that again,” he says when he finds he trusts his voice again. “I never want to see A-Ling carry his uncle inside here again, terrified he is going to lose someone again. Am I making myself clear, Wei Wuxian?”

Wei Wuxian is looking at him, half-propped up on Jiang Cheng’s sleeping pallet, dried blood still crusted along his chest, his neck, his lips. “I really scared the kid, didn’t I,” he finally says. “I never meant to do that.”

I know you didn’t. “Then stop playing the hero,” Jiang Cheng says.

A silence descends between them. Wei Wuxian shifts on the pallet, brings up a hand to brush strands of hair from his face – from Mo Xuanyu’s face. Jiang Cheng finds he cannot bear to look away for too long, as if, should he avert his gaze for just a fraction of a moment, Wei Wuxian will cease to exist.

It is silly. Come morning, he will most certainly leave anyway.

“You brought me to your quarters,” Wei Wuxian says after a while. He has arranged himself against the pillows, adopted a languid posture that Jiang Cheng knows is for show – Wei Wuxian is nervous.

“Where else would I bring you?”

Wei Wuxian says nothing. Jiang Cheng sees his eyes wander, land on Suibian, halt. He braces himself for the emotion in Wei Wuxian’s face, the pain, the regret, the longing, the pity.

None of it shows. Instead, Wei Wuxian looks – normal, if perhaps a little sad.

Before Jiang Cheng can do something stupid, like ask, Wei Wuxian says, “What’s that?” and nods at the small box containing Jin Ling’s hairpiece. Jiang Cheng has not touched it for months.

Just a present, he wants to say. Nothing important. Except, that is far from the truth. Nothing concerning his nephew can ever be labeled as not important. So, Jiang Cheng finds himself saying, “A-Ling gave me a new hairpiece.”

The admission sits between them, heavy and loaded, Wei Wuxian being the sole remaining person to comprehend the significance of the statement. Jiang Cheng watches him digest the information, a sudden ache taking over his features.

In the end, all he says is, “I miss her so much, sometimes it hurts to breathe.”

Jiang Cheng waits for the familiar pain, the raging thought of, You don’t get to talk about her, you’re not allowed, not after everything. Instead, all he finds is a tenderness between his ribs, the taste of iron on his tongue.

“A-Ling deserved to have her.” Instead of me, he doesn’t say.

Wei Wuxian only nods.

Jiang Cheng stays in his position on the floor for the remainder of the night. Wei Wuxian falls into a restless sleep at some point, tossing and turning, muttered snippets drifting to Jiang Cheng’s ears – Lan-er-gege, no, Shijie, please, I never wanted, where’s Jin Ling, I’m sorry, no, Jiang Cheng…

Even when his back starts to ache in protest and his eyes sting from fatigue, even when he discovers dried blood underneath his fingernails and hears the familiar sound of scratching from the roof, Jiang Cheng does not move.

He stays rooted to the spot, guarding his brother’s sleeping form, until the first rays of sunlight peak through the gaps in the wood.

Wei Wuxian stays.

“Lan Zhan knows I’m here,” he tells Jiang Cheng while shoveling big mouthfuls of chili rice past his lips. “But he’s busy for the next few days anyway, and I’m certain uncle Qiren is glad to be rid of me. Also, doctor Qi said I should rest and recover, so…”

Jiang Cheng can only grunt in response.

Secretly, he is thrilled. It is a strange sensation, having Wei Wuxian back at Lotus Pier. Even knowing there is an expiration date, it feels exhilarating somehow. Jiang Cheng is afraid he will find his presence aggravating, foreign, agonizing – instead, it is painfully simple.

Wei Wuxian, not unlike A-Ling, slots into place like he never left in the first place. His wariness dwindles fast and Jiang Cheng finds him strutting along the docks charming the vendors in less than a day. He playfully duels Jin Ling in the southern courtyard, empties Jiang Cheng’s stack of peanuts and chases his cat onto the roof.

It should be frightening how fast Jiang Cheng gets used to his presence, how the ache in his chest seems to lessen when he hears that familiar cackle, how something restless inside him settles.

They do not spend much time together, one on one. Both too wary, too intimate with each other’s vulnerabilities and hurts, too scared perhaps to break the fragile peace.

But, when A-Ling asks him to join them for dinner, Jiang Cheng agrees. When they are practicing in the courtyard, Jiang Cheng watches. When Wei Wuxian parades along the docks, Jiang Cheng visits his favorite vendors and lingers.

Wei Wuxian departs after six nights, looking fresh and unburdened, his cheeks rosy with color and eyes bright with life. When Jiang Cheng reiterates his warning, he laughs, says, “You always worry about me, Jiang Cheng. Who worries about you?”

It’s with a jubilant goodbye that he finally leaves and Jiang Cheng watches him until his silhouette is nothing more than a smudge in the distance.

He can’t say why, but it feels different this time.

That night, Jiang Cheng’s dreams torment him, albeit in a different manner.

He finds himself, as he often does, in the depths of his childhood home. Unlike reality though, it is not a home built on brittle bone, deep resentment and conditional love. Instead, it goes a bit like this:

Jiang Cheng wakes to the sound of laughter and barks. In the courtyard outside his sleeping quarters he finds three puppies – Jasmine, Princess, and Love – running in circles, chasing after a bright-eyed Wei Wuxian, who looks not a day older than fourteen.

“Jiang Cheng! You’re finally up!” His brother greets him with a wide smile and since he halts in his movement, the puppies pile up, clamoring at his legs. Dream Wei Wuxian does not freeze in fright, or shriek, or turn pale – instead, he playfully growls at them. They growl right back.

A-Jie is in the dream, naturally. She is gentle, and patient, but there is a spark to her and her laughter sounds like bells being rung as she scolds them for being late for breakfast. She asks if they will join her in the water later, and her face is full of color and life, and Jiang Cheng hurts.

It is a dream, and Jiang Cheng knows this, because when his parents appear, there is an air of warmth between them. They do not glare at each other, his mother does not throw quips at his father, his father lovingly gazes at his mother. They do not talk about strength and leadership and stupid Sect mottos, his mother does not label him a failure, his father looks at him with pride.

He wakes, heart heavy, the sound of splashing water and shrieks of laughter ringing in his ears. He can smell the spring blossoms, feel his sister’s cool touch on his forehead, taste the freedom of an unburdened childhood.

There is a suspicious pressure behind his eyes, tingling, burning. It grows, with each step Jiang Cheng takes towards the pier, accompanied by the sounds of cicadas and the soft rolling of summer waves.

‘A-Cheng, come look at this fish!’ A-Jie said in the dream. ‘Doesn’t it look a bit like A-Xian?’

‘Shije, you cannot slander me like that!’ Wei Wuxian complained. ‘Jiang Cheng, you tell her!’

Their voices mingle, then disperse, leaving Jiang Cheng with the lonely nighttime sounds. When his naked feet hit the wood of the pier, he feels the pressure crest, exponentially, build and build until – it tips over.

The first drop surprises him. It escapes so easily, runs down the slope of his nose, catches on his upper lip and Jiang Cheng tastes the salt, has a moment of stunned realization, notes how blurry his vision has become. Then, something within him cracks.

It feels like an internal explosion. His sight vanishes, his legs buckle, his chest and stomach cramp, painfully. Sensations come to him in fragments; wood beneath his knees, a wetness to his cheeks, his ragged breathing. Harrowing sounds fill the air around him and it takes a long while before Jiang Cheng understands they are originating from his own throat.

It’s agonizing, feels like something is being torn, forcefully, from deep inside his belly all the way up his throat and past his lips. Distantly, Jiang Cheng is aware that he is crying. He has not cried in a long, long time.

‘A disgrace,’ his mother sharply reprimands. ‘An utterly embarrassing display for a sect leader.’

‘I see, after everything, you still fail to understand the Jiang Sect motto,’ his father says.

Jiang Cheng finds himself clawing at his chest. Air will not properly enter his lungs and his nose is clogged up and he wonders if this is how he finally dies and meanwhile all he hears is—

‘A-Cheng, you’ll make a great sect leader one day!’

‘You raised him well.’

‘You don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not, A-Cheng. You’re perfect the way you are.’

‘You did a good job, Jiang Cheng.’

A delicate meowing beside him, a soft pressure against the hand gripping at his robes, the swipe of something fluffy against the underside of his chin. Through his obstructed vision Jiang Cheng glimpses his furry friend – that is what they are – button eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

When he reaches out, it is half desperation, half earnest longing. Jiang Cheng has always loved being held, and yet, he can count the number of times he has been truly hugged in the past decades on one hand. He expects to be rebuffed, to find himself – once again – alone in his misery.

Instead, the cat lets out a warning hiss, but as soon as Jiang Cheng cradles it against his chest, brings his face down into its dark fur, it ceases its squirming. Jiang Cheng holds it, gently, despite everything, and lets his tears soak the animal’s coat.

He cries for the person he was and the person he could have been had he been born to different parents, had the world been a bit kinder, had he been braver, stronger, better. He cries for his sister, whose loss he has accepted will torment him for the rest of his living days and he cries for his brother and a relationship that has always been strained and complicated and filled with hurt, although it did not have to be.

He cries until his eyes run dry and start to sting, until his throat feels raw and his chest heaves and his gums ache. He cries until he feels hollowed out, an empty shell, a non-person. Until Jiang Cheng ceases to exist and he is nothing but flesh and bone and blood.

Tucked against his beating heart, claws tangled in his robes, the cat begins to purr.

A few weeks later Lan Xichen surprisingly visits Lotus Pier.

“I have business in the area,” he tells Jiang Cheng. “I’m just passing through.” He’s not as good of a liar as he thinks he is; Jiang Cheng decides not to question his motives and reasons.

Because he is a good host – and because Lan Xichen looks lost and lonely standing all by himself in the huge courtyard – Jiang Cheng takes him to the docks, introduces him to some of the vendors there, recommends fruit and sweet pastries.

“Your wine is delicious,” Lan Xichen praises, taking small sips as they stroll along the sun-soaked wooden planks. “Sweeter than Emperor’s Smile.”

“It’s been a while since I tasted it,” Jiang Cheng admits. Do you remember what Emperor’s Smile tastes like?

“My brother keeps a stash for Wei Wuxian. He thinks it is secret, but he is bad at hiding things. Next time, I shall bring you some to try.”

Next time. It sounds odd in Jiang Cheng’s head.

Everyone is charmed by the likes of the great Zewu-Jun in a matter of minutes. Jiang Cheng understands, of course, he is no different after all. Lan Xichen has an easy-going manner, doles out smiles and compliments as if it costs him nothing, knows just the things to say to make people trip over themselves in favor of just a moment longer of his time.

Jiang Cheng is fascinated. He is also mildly envious.

“It’s nice being around people,” Lan Xichen says when they make their way back up towards the gates of Lotus Pier. He almost sounds bashful about it.

It takes Jiang Cheng by surprise. “There are no people in Cloud Recesses?”

“Well, no. Of course there are. But, not as many visitors.” Lan Xichen grows quiet then, contemplative, before adding, in a much softer tone, “Wangji is not around much anymore.”

This, on the other hand, Jiang Cheng is not at all surprised by. As much as Wei Wuxian apparently loves the presence of Lan Wangji, he has never held much appreciation for the Cloud Rescesses or Gusu as a permanent residence. Neither is Wei Wuxian a person to grow strong roots in one place; he has always been free-spirited, hard to pin down.

So, Jiang Cheng understands. He wonders if that’s another thing he somehow shares with Lan Xichen; the particular loneliness of being a Sect Leader

“I miss when A-Ling used to be around more,” he says, aware of how vulnerable the admission feels, but desperate to offer something in return.

Lan Xichen hums in understanding.

The next morning, Lan Xichen request to go on a walk through the forest on the North side of Lotus Pier. Jiang Cheng associates a great number of memories with this stretch of wood, starting from his childhood days when Wei Wuxian hid in the treetops all the way through their teenage years when they would chase each other through the bushes until the day of A-Jie’s death when all Jiang Cheng wanted was to burn down every branch in the vicinity.

Lan Xichen holds no such entanglement. He walks, a serene expression on his snow-white complexion, once in a while brushing a finger against a low-hanging leaf or the bark of a tree.

“You enjoy this,” Jiang Cheng realizes.

Lan Xichen makes a questioning noise, dark eyes resting on a bird chirping up above.

“This. Walking… thing,” Jiang Cheng clarifies, immediately feeling like an utter fool. Who speaks like this?

Lan Xichen, however, is unperturbed. “It helps me clear my head,” he says. “I like the sounds of nature. It reminds me that there is more to life, that I am just a cog in the wheel.”

Jiang Cheng does not know how to respond to that.

To his absolute astonishment he finds he does not hate this. Walking with Lan Xichen in near silence through a place that is irreversibly tied to his best and worst memories. He should hate this, despise it even. Instead, Jiang Cheng almost feels relaxed.

He is clever enough to comprehend that a lot of this can be attributed to the man beside him, although Jiang Cheng has yet to understand why his presence does not aggravate him the way nearly every other person does. He also does not comprehend what Lan Xichen is gaining in return, though perhaps it is simply the fact that he seems to view Jiang Cheng as being honest, as not lying to him.

Could it be that simple? A basis for… something?

Jiang Cheng finds his gaze sliding over as they walk. Lan Xichen, with his straight back and immaculate robes, hair ribbon trailing down his back where his hair glows black like obsidian. Shuoyue hangs at his waist, a weapon of great strength, once associated with moral purity, now complicit in the killing of a sworn brother.

I admired you once, he thinks and so he says it.

Lan Xichen appears to briefly stumble at those words. He catches himself fluidly, his shoulders seeming to draw inward for a moment before he forcefully pushes them back. “Many people seem to feel that way these days.”

“No,” Jiang Cheng says, because that is not what he meant to say and the glass wall is preventing him from properly explaining to Lan Xichen that when I say I admired you, I mean I never met a man so kind and gentle, who treated everyone with politeness and respect, including me. I mean, I never met a person so well-loved, so easy-going, so untouchable in both skill and personality. I always thought if I could only be more like you, just a little bit, I’d be a better man, a better leader, a better brother… Like you, I did not understand that in doing so you created blind spots, made yourself vulnerable to deceit.

“There was nothing much to be admired, I fear,” Lan Xichen says bitterly. “I was naïve and blind.”

“If you were, then so was everyone else,” Jiang Cheng offers, half-desperate.

Lan Xichen shakes his head. One single long strand has come untucked from the otherwise tidy hairdo; it flutters against his cheekbone. “Not everyone. I should have… known. It’s not like there weren’t any signs. I simply could not… no, I simply did not want to believe them.”

It is recklessness that has Jiang Cheng saying it. “Because of your relationship.”

Lan Xichen falls silent.

There were rumors, of course there were, surrounding the true nature of the esteemed Sect Leader Lan’s relationship with the deceased Jin Guangyao, deemed a mass-murdering, incestuous traitor after his death. They had been sworn brothers, evidently holding each other in close confidence, sharing a bond like no other. There were whispers, though, hushed suggestions, the word ‘lover’ being traded under breaths. Jiang Cheng had never paid much attention to gossip, but later, he wondered.

“Yes,” says Lan Xichen and that simple word contains a multitude of emotions; a conflicting mix of love, suffering, and longing. Jiang Cheng recognizes in it his own confusing sentiments whenever he spends too long thinking about Wei Wuxian.

“I used to believe—” Lan Xichen stops himself there. One hand is pressed flat against his chest. “That people are inherently good.”

Jiang Cheng says, “I don’t think that’s true,” and he thinks about his parents’ murderers, and his sister’s killer and every single person responsible for taking his remaining family from him.

“I want to believe that,” Lan Xichen insists. “If I don’t, if I can’t believe that—people have good intentions despite their flaws, then I don’t know what to believe in.”

It sounds, to Jiang Cheng, like a futile endeavor. You could believe people are inherently evil, he wants to suggest. That way you would never find yourself caught off guard.

Instead, he finds himself saying, “I suppose some people might find that admirable.”

Lan Xichen looks at him then, skeptical. “I doubt that includes you, Sect Leader Jiang.”

And Jiang Cheng cannot lie. Not to him. Not after Lan Xichen asked him, so earnestly, for his honesty. “I think that line of thinking can only end in disappointment. But,” he adds while glancing down at his mother’s ring and the sword tassel on Sandu, “I don’t think I am the right person to be passing judgment about anything much.”

Lan Xichen makes a pensive sound. “I suppose the question of a person’s true nature being inherently good or evil is not one we will be answering today.” For a moment he seems to deliberate, then says, “We can resume this line of argument over some good Gusu wine next time.”

There it is again. Next time. Spoken like an irrefutable fact. That Lan Xichen, Zewu-Jun, leader of the Lan Sect is willing and wanting to spend time with Jiang Cheng, who is bad-tempered, unpleasant and generally lacks social skills.

Is this a joke?

Perhaps Lan Xichen fell and hit his head somehow?

It drives Jiang Cheng to blurt out, “What I meant to say earlier was that I think I like you better like this.”

Despite the truth of the statement, he finds instantaneous embarrassment floods his veins in the aftermath and he hardly dares cast a glance at Lan Xichen from the corner of his eye.

He is certain he will find the man making fun of him, or offended, or at best irritated.

Lan Xichen, however, is smiling.

When the leaves turn colorful, Jiang Cheng visits his nephew in Lanling.

Jin Ling proudly shows off his new sword skills, as well as the numerous legislations he is in the process of establishing. He has somehow grown a bit further, or maybe Jiang Cheng is starting to shrink, but A-Ling’s nose is now at his chin level.

Jiang Cheng is painfully aware that in the not-so-distant future, A-Ling won’t need his guidance, or advice, or approval any longer.

She would be so proud, he thinks while he watches his nephew hold a meeting, chin-up, voice projecting.

He would be proud too, he thinks as Jin Ling twirls Suihua through the air with practiced ease.

The list of things in his life that Jiang Cheng regrets is endless. Nearly every decision, every path taken, most of his spoken words, they are all cause for regret and remorse. Jiang Cheng regrets a lot in relation to A-Ling as well; the loss of his parents, the loss of a childhood, the burden of a legacy, the burden of a spiteful, angry uncle.

Even so, despite it all, the mere existence of Jin Ling and the fact that Jiang Cheng is lucky enough to call himself his uncle, might be the singular thing he has no regrets over.

I am proud of you, he thinks, telegraphs it across the glass separating them, hopes A-Ling can pick up the frequency and decode its meaning. You don’t know how incredibly proud of you I am.

The way back to Yunmeng takes him through the mountains and without consciously making the decision, Jiang Cheng finds himself in Gusu a few days later.

Someone must have spotted him on his journey and relayed the news to the Lan Sect, because when he crosses the city gates, he discovers Lan Xichen waiting for him underneath a tall willow.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” he says and it sounds like he is genuinely glad. It adds to Jiang Cheng’s confusion, on top of the small flare of exhilaration at being a wanted presence.

They climb the path to the Cloud Recesses together, Lan Xichen explaining one landmark or another while Jiang Cheng does his best not to pant like a dying dog. Dry sweat makes his skin itch and his knees have been protesting for the past few miles.

“You seem to enjoy walking as well,” Lan Xichen remarks when they glimpse the first of the rooftops through the dense trees.

Jiang Cheng chooses not to reply. He knows Lan Xichen must be aware of the circulating rumors. He also knows Lan Xichen is probably too honorable a person to lend them much credit without proof.

Does this qualify as proof?

He freshens up in the cool mountain springs and eats bland rice with only the barest hints of seasoning – how does Wei Wuxian survive here? – and when the sun dips over the horizon, Jiang Cheng finds himself sitting outside the guest chamber, counting the emerging stars.

That is how Lan Xichen finds him, a bottle of wine dangling from his wrist. “As promised,” he says, almost sheepishly and Jiang Cheng can’t help the small laugh that escape him at the display.

“How many of the Lan rules are you breaking right now, Sect Leader Lan?”

Lan Xichen seems to flush at that, but he retains his regal expression and Jiang Cheng can’t be bothered to further tease him when he gets the taste of Emperor’s Smile on his tongue.

It coaxes out memories, vividly. Memories of youth, of unburdened freedom despite not being aware of it, of breaking rules and feeling that rush of being alive. It tastes like friendship, like an arm slung over his shoulder, like easy laughter and a simpler time.

“It’s good,” Jiang Cheng says when he realizes Lan Xichen is observing him.

It’s just as I remembered.

For a while, there is comfortable silence, broken only on occasion to share an insight or a random thought. Jiang Cheng reflects on his visit to Lanling and how much Jin Ling resembles his father with each passing year, how sometimes depending on the lighting and the angle it feels like he is looking at a ghost.

“He should start practicing with Zidian soon.” He says it more to himself than anyone else, maybe to dispel the memory of a determined Jin Zixuan marching towards his death and his sister’s form collapsing into his arms at the news. Either way, it is not like it is untrue – Jin Ling will inherit the family heirloom and it is about time he learns to properly wield it.

Lan Xichen frowns at him. It seems like there is something he wishes to say, but is holding back. It makes annoyance rise in Jiang Cheng.

“What?”

“Ah, nothing.” Lan Xichen smiles, placatingly. “Apologies if I—”

Jiang Cheng cannot bear the falsehood, not today. “Don’t do this,” he says. “Say what you mean.”

For a moment he is certain Lan Xichen will not comply, that he will withdraw, back into the safety of polite courtesy. Then, he stabs Jiang Cheng where it hurts.

“You’re not using your spiritual core.”

Jiang Cheng breathes through the ache in his chest. “You’re right. I’m not.”

A pause during which the sound of a distant splash pierces the night. “Why?” Lan Xichen asks and it is this honest confusion that drives the blade deeper.

Jiang Cheng cannot keep the bitterness from his tone. “You don’t recall?”

“That it used to be Wei Wuxian’s core?” It is said matter-of-factly. A statement of undeniable truth. “No, I remember. But, surely… that is not the reason…”

Jiang Cheng wonders how the other man must view him. Arrogant, vain, selfish. Here is a person who would be powerless without the greater sacrifice of the man he condemned, who is now rejecting that gift because of what – a triviality?

“It is not healthy,” Lan Xichen says when Jiang Cheng does not reply. “To not use it.”

“It will not kill me.” Jiang Cheng would know.

“No, probably not. But it isn’t healthy either.”

Jiang Cheng knows this. He is not, despite many people’s claims, arrogant to the point of stupidity. It is simply that he no longer cares. It could kill him or it could not, what difference would it make? In the end, the power is not and never was his.

“Sect Leader Jiang…” It is said slowly, cautiously. For Lan Xichen standards, it’s downright pushy.

Jiang Cheng intends to wait him out. He does not anticipate the weight of Lan Xichen’s expectant gaze, the sheer patience of almost stubborn quality he is apparently capable of possessing.

It breaks Jiang Cheng’s rigid defense.

“Using it hurts,” he discloses. “The source, it… no longer feels like it’s coming from within me. It does not feel like I am the one wielding the power.”

Lan Xichen remains unperturbed. He nods, calmly. “Did it hurt before?”

“What?”

“Before you… found out,” Lan Xichen clarifies. “Did it hurt then, using your spiritual powers?”

Jiang Cheng can only shake his head.

A look of determination crosses Lan Xichen’s face. “So, before then you weren’t experiencing any of these symptoms?”

And what should Jiang Cheng say? That before finding out he never questioned whether the core supplying him with spiritual power was truly his? That it never crossed his mind that it could be anyone's but his? That it never occurred to him that he might be stealing someone else’s power?

“I would have to do more extensive research on this to tell you anything conclusive,” Lan Xichen says. “But, Sect Leader Jiang—”

“Jiang Cheng,” he says, because in all honesty this conversation has passed the point of titles a long time ago.

“Jiang Cheng,” Lan Xichen repeats and oddly this is what makes Jiang Cheng feel the most vulnerable. As if, up until this point, he simply failed to grasp the extent of emotional exposure during this exchange. “I don’t think the problem is your core.”

“Is it mine?” Jiang Cheng says before he can stop himself.

A flicker of surprise crosses Lan Xichen’s dark eyes. “Of course,” he says with the conviction only a man of his standing could ever muster. “It is inside you, or not? It has been with you for half of your life, no?”

Jiang Cheng never once thought of it this way. It shocks him to discover that nearly two decades have passed since his body last held his own core. The one he was born with, the one he cultivated, the one that was brutally burned from his body in the most agonizing manner.

He remembers that portion of his life only through a mix of confusing flashes. The violence. The emptiness. His siblings’ tears. The trip to the mountain. The foreign sensation. The dizziness. How it took him a while to reconnect with his core – back when he thought it was his own.

When Lan Xichen says it, it seems so very simple. Jiang Cheng cultivated far longer with this core than with his original. Its original vessel, Wei Wuxian’s body, has long returned to the soil. His new body holds no guarantee of handling such a core and besides, Wei Wuxian does not want it. It has been Jiang Cheng’s now for longer than it ever was Wei Wuxian’s.

It’s a striking realization.

If Lan Xichen notes his inner turmoil, he respectfully keeps his distance. Only once the dark has fully descended and the jar of wine emptied does he get to his feet in a graceful, fluid motion.

“Use your core, Jiang Cheng,” he says kindly. “Let the past rest.”

Jiang Cheng almost snaps then, calls him on his stupid bullshit, but then he recalls Lan Xichen’s honesty, his own painful admissions, the blind spots he is no longer attempting to cover. Lan Xichen is trying. He is changing.

And maybe, so is Jiang Cheng.

Suibian beckons him.

Four nights Jiang Cheng stays up, eyes locked onto the dust-covered scabbard, turning Lan Xichen’s words over in his mind.

On the fifth night, he picks it up.

The water is dark and still; to others it might appear menacing, but for Jiang Cheng it spells comfort. The sounds of the night envelop him like a blanket. A soft breeze nips at his exposed neck.

Deliberately channeling his spiritual powers for the first time in months feels strange. A foreign sensation, yet intimate and mundane. The sound as he unsheathes Suibian – a smooth, easy glide – is accompanied by the impression of a blade between his ribs.

Jiang Cheng almost bows out when the ache seems to spread further, settling low in his belly, running down into his fingertips and up into his head. But, Lan Xichen said, Let the past rest. And Suibian feels familiar in his palm. And the power wandering through his veins reminds him of the strength he once possessed.

The first slash feels like being torn open. It blasts the surface of the water, disrupts the peaceful quiet of the night, churns up the waves in a manner befitting of Jiang Cheng’s inner chaos. Jiang Cheng strikes again, and again.

He leans into the pain instead of shying away from it. Each cut, each swing, Jiang Cheng lets himself breathe into it. He recalls the sensation of Wen Zhulio putting his hands on him, the searing agony of feeling his core being torn from his body, the glaring emptiness and wrongness it left behind.

Did it feel this way for Wei Wuxian too? When he willingly went under the knife, let the good doctor carve him open and extract an essential part of himself in an act of desperation.

An act of utter and insane foolishness. An act that eroded any and all autonomy Jiang Cheng thought he held over his own mind and body. An act with devastating consequences for everyone involved.

An act of mere debt? No, Jiang Cheng knows better than that by now.

It was an act of love.

Stupid. Absurd. Crazy.

Because love – and Jiang Cheng knows this, has had to learn this lesson time and time again – is not enough. Love cannot save people or bring back the dead. Love cannot justify horrendous actions or redeem a person. Love cannot mend ravines too deep or restore relations too fractured.

And yet, it persists. Jiang Cheng has spent decades wondering if the pain would be less severe had there been less love.

But, what is the point of it all, without love? Even at the risk of losing it, doesn’t everyone seek it out anyway? Doesn’t Jiang Cheng seek it, wishing, praying, hoping that this time, just this once, the love will be enough to make someone stay?

No, love doesn’t change anything. Not truly.

But love changes everything.

Suibian arches through the night. With each slash, the pain weakens. Or perhaps Jiang Cheng grows used to it. A dull ache remains, one he is unable to shake. A memory, a reminder.

Weak, his mother’s spirit sharply criticizes. You let him upstage you again. Is this something to be proud of?

For the first time in his life Jiang Cheng tells her to go away.

The cat slinks into his sleeping quarters a few nights later.

Jiang Cheng is up, sitting in flickering candlelight, mindlessly sorting through Wei Wuxian’s letters. He is tired, the exhaustion settling in his bones, but he has come to find that if he forces himself past a certain point, his body will fall into a dreamless sleep eventually.

When the cat pokes its head through the half-open doors of the jingshi, Jiang Cheng is nearing that very point of collapse. Perhaps that is why his usual reflex of flinging something at the creature does not spark.

Jiang Cheng watches as it stands there, head cocked, eyes glowing in the dim light.

“Well, come on in then,” Jiang Cheng huffs. “Don’t just stand there.”

As if understanding, the cat glares at him then raises its nose before sauntering into his quarters. While Jiang Cheng continues reading, the cat carefully examines every inch of space. It sniffs at the legs of the desk and the sleeping pallet, rubs its head against the floorboards and swishes its tail against Jiang Cheng’s robes each time it passes.

In the end, it deems the left corner of the room acceptable, where it curls up into a black ball of fur, the only sign of its breathing the slow rise and fall of the body.

It is strangely soothing to share the company of another living being. By the time dawn crests Jiang Cheng finds himself deep in the clutches of sleep, the candle having burned down to the wick.

His dreams are peaceful.

The trees start to shed their leaves as the wind turns rougher and shortly before Jiang Cheng’s birthday, he gets up one morning and doesn’t reach for A-Jie’s hairpiece when dressing himself.

He lets one finger skim along the metal clasp that lost its shine a long time ago. It feels like A-Jie is in the room with him, stood right by his shoulder, a delicate hand braced on his lower arm.

I’m not going anywhere, she seems to say, despite contradicting evidence.

Jiang Cheng feels vulnerable and strangely naked without it. He notices his hands are shaking when he carefully opens the box containing Jin Ling’s present, the gorgeous silver hairpiece in the design of a blossoming lotus flower.

‘I got you something,’ Jin Ling said.

‘Do you like it?’ he said.

It sits heavy in Jiang Cheng’s palm, looks shiny and new compared to A-Jie’s, and something huge settles in his stomach. A-Ling probably spent hours picking out the perfect gift. He wrapped it and carried it with him in order to present it to Jiang Cheng with unabashed delight.

Because, just like his mother, it is his way of showing his care.

Jiang Cheng weaves it into his hair.

Jin Ling visits Lotus Pier a while later. He brings Fairy, who sullies Jiang Cheng’s pristine robes when she puts her paws onto his legs in an excited welcome. Jiang Cheng finds himself scratching her ears even while admonishing her.

The rainy season is upon them and so they sit inside, drinking hot tea, and Jiang Cheng works on his reports while his nephew plays on the floor with Fairy. He catches the exact moment A-Ling takes note of the change in his hair décor, for it is accompanied by a loud gasp.

Jiang Cheng, who stood to close one of the windows due to the ferocious lashing of the wind, finds himself briefly frozen in place, before making his way back to his desk. Jin Ling’s eyes follow him like a hawk.

Fairy lets out a disgruntled bark at being ignored and with great reluctance Jin Ling turns his attention back on her. However, for the rest of the day, Jiang Cheng is aware of his nephew’s assessing glances. They do not speak about it.

A-Ling asks him to review his sword work and when he issues a challenge Jiang Cheng, for the first time in a while, draws Sandu and they spar on the still wet cobblestones in the Eastern courtyard. Jin Ling’s eyes twinkle with joy.

When the times comes to say goodbye, Jiang Cheng makes sure he is properly wrapped up in his coat while Jin Ling puts up a fuss. “I am not a child anymore, uncle.”

To me, you will always be, Jiang Cheng thinks as he adjusts A-Ling’s hood to protect him from the rain.

“Your mother would be very proud of you,” he finds himself saying instead, surprising not only Jin Ling, but himself also.

His nephew’s eyes grow wide and then misty and when he launches himself at Jiang Cheng, Jiang Cheng does not have the heart to scold him for not acting like a dignified Sect Leader. He holds him, on behalf of A-Jie and maybe even Jin Zixuan, and feels the glass wall slowly collecting cracks.

The world turns dark and then icy white.

Jiang Cheng visits his family and pays his respects. He writes his reports and listens to his people’s concerns. He sends aid to the city of Yunmeng when they face an issue with a nefarious ghost. He picks up on his training and starts overseeing practice again.

When Jin Ling extends the request, Jiang Cheng accompanies him on a Night Hunt. They find themselves in a bit of a situation where Jiang Cheng cannot help snapping at his nephew for putting himself in danger so recklessly. He regrets it almost immediately and though he struggles immensely, makes certain to praise A-Ling for his skills later on. It comes out awkward and stilted but Jin Ling lights up nonetheless.

Jiang Cheng swears to do better.

Lan Xichen writes him letters. Small updates or mindless musings or open invitations. Sometimes, Jiang Cheng replies. Once, they meet in a tea shop in Yunmeng and it’s nice. Not easy exactly, but comfortable. Jiang Cheng is not sure what to call this thing, whether this is what friendship is supposed to feel like. He finds he could come to like it, though.

He still thinks about death. Not as much as he used to, but it remains a constant in his life, buried in the depths of his mind even when not at the forefront. Whenever he finds his thoughts circulating towards the topic of his own death, Jiang Cheng finds ways to distract himself. He goes on walks and pens letters that he never sends or sits for hours on end on the snowy Pier in the company of his cat.

Somehow, the season passes. The days gets longer and the frost begins to melt and so does the darkness seep out of Jiang Cheng’s mind. When the first flowers begin to blossom, Auntie Yu shows up at the gates with a basket full of fresh pastries that she hands out with soft smiles and when Jiang Cheng finally gets around to trying them, he discovers that they do not taste as stale and ashy as he recalls.

The sun warms his skin and tickles his nose and Jiang Cheng wakes up one morning and finds that he can breathe easier again.

The truth is, letting the past rest does not come easy to him.

Jiang Cheng has always been the type of person to obsess over minor inconveniences, to latch onto a word said in a certain tone or the way another person rolls their eyes. It is like his mind is wired to focus on these little things, to run them back and replay them, offering him hundreds, no millions, of alternate scenarios and realities in which the situation progresses differently.

The trouble is, no matter how many hours Jiang Cheng spends trapped inside those never-ending loops, he will never find a way to erase the past or reshape it or reclaim it.

Because the past is past. There is nothing more to it.

Maybe it is not about that, then. Maybe it is not even about forgiveness. Some things are simply too great, too excruciating, too soaked in deception to forgive. Sometimes the past weighs too heavy to shake free.

But Jiang Cheng can try. Try to forget. Try to concentrate more on the good than the bad. Try to remember what it was like in the beginning and in-between and all the small moments that make the continuation worthwhile.

The truth is, he misses his brother.

So, with the trees in full bloom and his heart lighter than it has been in decades, Jiang Cheng sits down at his desk and carefully drafts a letter. It is short, five words in total. He cannot bring himself to say more. He does not know what else there is to say, for so many things remain unspoken and the words fail him.

It’s A-Jie’s birthday. Come home.