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It’s early summer when they come to Lotus Pier.
Jiang Cheng sees Wei Wuxian coming first. As a child he’d worn as few layers as he could get away with during the Yunmeng summers. But his robes are impeccably neat today, vibrant blues and reds that flash bright as a bruise on the docks. He looks pale against them. In his first body, Wei Wuxian would be tan by late spring. Mo Xuanyu’s body doesn’t seem to have seen the sun until after its owner’s death.
Wei Wuxian’s hands are folded in front of him, shoulders tight and small. Jiang Cheng would know he’s nervous immediately. But Wei Wuxian never comes to Lotus Pier of his own volition, let alone asks for a private audience in advance. Jiang Cheng already knows that he’s nervous.
Lan Wangji leans just slightly to the side – fucking bizarre, by the way, watching Hanguang-jun stand anything but stock-straight – and whispers something to Wei Wuxian that makes him laugh. They pause for a moment, face each other, and Lan Wangji takes one of Wei Wuxian’s hands in both of his. Lan Wangji brings the hand to his chest, splays Wei Wuxian’s fingers over his heart. Wei Wuxian breathes once, his shoulders rising and falling. And then he smiles.
And Jiang Cheng knows, even before they’re close enough to spot him, why they’re here.
He lets Wei Wuxian tell him properly. And throughout, Jiang Cheng watches him: he’s talking fast and his hands are talking faster, like someone pumped him full of lightning and set him loose on Lotus Pier’s receiving room. He’s less visibly anxious now. But Jiang Cheng can see, in his posture, someone trying to avoid a fight.
Sometimes, Jiang Cheng thinks he’d like to be the type of person to look at someone on their back, belly exposed, and not unsheathe his sword. But it’s not going to be today.
“Hmph,” Jiang Cheng says, when Wei Wuxian is finally finished. “Here I thought you already took your bows on some dusty mountaintop.”
Wei Wuxian laughs halfheartedly. “It was more of a hill.”
“Whatever its height,” Jiang Cheng says, louder, “why am I expected to attend a wedding for two people who’ve already been wed?”
“Not expected,” Wei Wuxian says, with a speed that usually means he’s trying to get ahead of his husband. Sure enough, Lan Wangji’s expression has gone dark, though as usual, he’s avoiding Jiang Cheng’s eyes. “Asked? Invited. You, ah—if you don’t want to come, you don’t have to. You’re busy!”
“So you’re answering for me now, Wei Wuxian?” he grits out. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t come. Do you know how it will look if I sit out Hanguang-jun’s wedding?”
Wei Wuxian lights up. Jiang Cheng’s come to hate that look, how little it takes to spur it.
“It’s going to be a small ceremony,” he says. “Like you said, we’re already married! We don’t want anything lavish. We just want to do this properly before Lan-xiansheng comes even closer to a qi deviation than he already is.”
“Not the only reason,” Lan Wangji says. Quietly, like Jiang Cheng isn’t even there. It’s not scolding, exactly. It’s just kind of—soft.
Jiang Cheng flexes his fingers. Wei Wuxian doesn’t seem to notice. “Not the only reason,” he echoes to Lan Wangji.
Jiang Cheng clears his throat, hard. “Give the details to the head disciple on your way out. Let him know what I’ll be required to do.”
“Required? Oh!” Wei Wuxian hops to his feet, all reticence melting. Small mercies. It fits poorly on him. “Don’t worry, Jiang Cheng. You’ll be there as our guest. You’re not required to do anything! Except enjoy yourself? Ah, that’s optional too, though.”
Jiang Cheng falters on his own way to standing. And for a second, something shifts into a question behind Wei Wuxian’s eyes. It doesn’t seem fair that he can still do that, even after thirteen years gone.
“Good,” Jiang Cheng says. He drives the word like a fist, jolts that soft look right off Wei Wuxian’s face. “I hadn’t planned on it.
Wei Wuxian laughs. Lan Wangji narrows his eyes. And as far as Jiang Cheng is concerned, that’s the end of it.
***
Jiang Cheng arrives in Cloud Recesses with three aides, Yunmeng Jiang’s wedding gifts, and a headache in the dead center of his brow. Not quite painful yet. More like the first cell of a storm, a sharp hint of pressure building.
He dismisses his aides. Sends the gifts along with a pack of uneasy Gusu Lan juniors. And he turns to the disciple who’s been somewhat patiently waiting for him to notice.
Jiang Cheng heaves a sigh as he meets Lan Jingyi’s eyes. “So you’re my minder this time.”
Lan Jingyi grins and salutes. “This disciple welcomes you to Cloud Recesses, Sect Leader Jiang.”
Jiang Cheng knows Lan Jingyi well enough, if by ‘know’ one means that Jiang Cheng has frequently, unwillingly found himself talking to Hanguang-jun through one of his disciples. Which reminds him. “Where’s your friend?” he asks. “Lan Sizhui. Is he babysitting someone else?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Lan Jingyi says. “He’s assisting Senior Wei until the ceremony tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Jiang Cheng says. The last time he saw quiet, polite Lan Sizhui was on a night-hunt that he and Jin Ling attended with Gusu Lan. Lan Sizhui had been cordial, as always. But whenever Jiang Cheng looked Wei Wuxian’s way, Lan Sizhui was always next to him, looking back. Still polite, but watchful. Not the way Lan Wangji looks at him, but not dissimilar, either.
“I’d like to go to my room,” is what Jiang Cheng finally says. That cell of pressure is growing bigger, tighter.
They pass the dorms for guest disciples, and for a second, at least, Jiang Cheng nearly turns without thinking. Habit, he’d like to think. Except he’s been here maybe five times as sect leader, while Wei Wuxian was dead, and he never looked twice in their direction.
He grimaces. One of the worst things about weddings: by the end, everyone’s maudlin. If he’s feeling that sentimental for the old days, he can grab a drink with Nie Huaisang later. Although lately it feels unwise to let his tongue loose in Sect Leader Nie’s presence.
Mercifully, they arrive at the quarters for Cloud Recesses distinguished guests without running into anyone. “Right through here.” Lan Jingyi opens the door, and steps aside to let Jiang Cheng through first. “If anything isn’t to Sect Leader Jiang’s liking, please let this disciple know and I’ll take it straight to Senior Wei.”
Lan Jingyi’s looking at him expectantly, so for his sake, Jiang Cheng makes a show of looking around. It’s fine, as guest quarters go. Nondescript, as to be expected from Gusu Lan. But somebody’s made an effort. The bed has been made with a deep violet quilt. A painting of the Yunmeng Jiang lotus adorns the far wall. The room faces the courtyard, and the late afternoon sun spilling across the floor. He glances back to the door. Lan Jingyi is still glancing between Jiang Cheng and the room, all but bouncing on his heels.
“It’s fine,” Jiang Cheng says.
“Would Sect Leader Jiang like to keep looking around?” Lan Jingyi says, with great meaning. “Ensure everything is to his liking? Maybe—”
“Lan Jingyi,” Jiang Cheng says. “Is this a scavenger hunt? If there’s something you want me to see, point it out.”
Lan Jingyi deflates. “Alright. Back window. But this disciple asks that you remember how exciting it would have been had it been a complete surprise.”
Jiang Cheng’s teeth slide together impatiently as he strides to the window, yanking the curtains aside. The back of the cottage faces a patch of meadow, and in the distance, the back of Lan Wangji’s home, the Jingshi. In-between them sits a pond, muddy blue in the midday sun. Jiang Cheng can see, just barely from here, little bursts of pinks and greens in the water
It’s a lotus pond.
“Senior Wei thought you’d like a little bit of home out your window,” Lan Jingyi says. “And of course he wanted you to know how close he is, in case you need anything.”
Jiang Cheng blinks into the brightness of the afternoon. The headache blots across his brow, like the press of a bruise. “So this was Wei Wuxian’s idea.”
Lan Jingyi’s smile finally flickers. “Yes?”
Jiang Cheng looks from Lan Jingyi back to the pond. The light shifts, bathing the room in gold. The storm cell mounts into a gale.
Like any storm, Jiang Cheng finds the tallest tree and strikes.
“Tell Wei Wuxian I’d like my room moved,” Jiang Cheng says. “It’s too bright.”
Lan Jingyi’s face goes fierce-corpse stiff. “Oh,” he says. “That’s—well. The thing is, all of our guest quarters are full for the ceremony, so… we’ll need to shift.”
Jiang Cheng leans against the window, turning his back from the Jingshi altogether. “Then I’ll wait.”
Lan Jingyi just stares for another beat, as if he waits long enough, Jiang Cheng will register the inconvenience, change his mind. His face visibly falls when despite his best, silent efforts, reality doesn’t rearrange itself.
“Right, then,” Lan Jingyi says. “This disciple will be right back.”
***
They used to talk about their weddings, when they were young.
“Hmm,” A-Jie would say, when asked. “I’d love a big ceremony. Nothing extravagant. But how often do you get to have so much family in one place? Ah, and all kinds of food at the banquet. Something for everyone.”
Jiang Cheng had smiled. A-Jie was marrying into Lanling Jin. Her ceremony would be extravagant no matter what. But the substance of it always mattered less to her than the people around her, than the one next to her.
“Ahh,” Wei Wuxian had said mournfully, “it’s too bad we can’t eat Shijie’s food at the banquet.”
“Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng huffed, “my sister will not be cooking for you on her wedding day.”
“I wouldn’t ask her to!” Wei Wuxian said over A-Jie’s laughter. “I just get sad whenever I think of any cooking that isn’t Shijie’s. I’m horribly spoiled, you know.”
“A-Xian deserves to be spoiled,” she’d said, without missing a beat. And Wei Wuxian had smiled and squirmed and gone red, the way he always did when A-Jie talked about what he deserved.
“Well, I want mine small,” Jiang Cheng said. “And quick. It’s creepy, thinking about all those eyes on you.”
“We’ll marry you off in the dark, then,” Wei Wuxian said through his grin. “No one will be able to look at you.”
“That’s too sad, A-Xian,” A-Jie said, though she was smiling too. “It’s my little brother’s wedding. I want to watch every moment.”
Wei Wuxian let out a performatively loud hum. “Then we’ll ask everyone to close their eyes except for Shijie. And me, of course.”
“Could you two—” Jiang Cheng gestured uselessly at them as they kept laughing. “I’m being serious.”
“So are we.” A-Jie’s smile softened. “A-Cheng, it’ll be your wedding.”
Abruptly, Jiang Cheng found that he was the one squirming. He tried to move on from it as quickly as possible. “Wei Wuxian hasn’t answered yet.”
He thought he knew what Wei Wuxian would say. Aiya, didn’t you guess? If Shijie’s wedding is going to be big, mine’s going to be loud. They’ll be able to hear it in Qishan.
But Wei Wuxian went strangely blank for a moment. When he smiled again, it was crooked. “Ah, Jiang Cheng,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll get married.”
Jiang Cheng met his eyes then. They were thirteen that year: the only thing Wei Wuxian loved more than parties was flirting at parties. When he was nine, he drew stick figures kissing above his bed. He smiled at couples holding hands on the street. Marriage was made for him. “Why not?”
He laughed, made some excuse, and the conversation moved on. And eventually, Jiang Cheng forgot to wonder.
In the future , Wei Wuxian would tell him, years later, you’ll be the sect leader, and I’ll be your subordinate.
Years after that, Jiang Cheng would realize that was his answer.
***
By a quarter of an incense stick’s time, what felt in the moment like a small but satisfying blow to the rigid order of Gusu Lan feels more like a child’s tantrum. But once one has made a stand, one can’t exactly sit back down. So Jiang Cheng waits for his new room.
Lan Jingyi opens the door wearing such a rigid smile that Jiang Cheng nearly tells him not to bother. But the politeness of the Lan always wins out, even for a disciple like Lan Jingyi. “Excuse the intrusion, Sect Leader Jiang,” he says. He neatly bundles up the violet quilt, the painting, and a few engraved lotus candlesticks Jiang Cheng hadn’t noticed. “If you’ll follow me right this way.”
Jiang Cheng raises an eyebrow. “Does my new room require decorating?”
“Our guest rooms,” Lan Jingyi says, “are outfitted for each individual sect.” There is an unspoken so help me in his tone. Jiang Cheng lets him have this one.
“Apologies if it was inconvenient,” Jiang Cheng says, following him through the door.
“As it turns out, it wasn’t inconvenient at all,” Lan Jingyi says airily. “Senior Wei asked me to pass on that you’ve actually done him a tremendous favor. Somehow in all the chaos, Sect Leaders Jia and Shao were assigned next to each other, and the change in your quarters allowed us to move them. So now you’ll be two doors down from your nephew, the sun should be less direct here, and no one will come to blows. Senior Wei extends his thanks.”
“No need.” Jiang Cheng stares at Lan Jingyi’s retreating back. “So it all worked out, then.”
Lan Jingyi, on the other hand, is entirely too pleased. “He said he owes you one. Not—now, of course. Later sometime.”
They pass Jin Ling on the way, who greets Jiang Cheng with a polite Jiujiu and Lan Jingyi with an eyebrow raise. Jiang Cheng can’t see the look Lan Jingyi shoots him in return, but he doesn’t appreciate it nonetheless.
By the time Lan Jingyi is done outfitting the room with Yunmeng Jiang’s accoutrements, the new room is an exact mirror image of the old. The sun is indirect, comfortably cool. Jiang Cheng’s headache flares.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Lan Jingyi says. “Dinner will begin promptly at xu hour. Do you know where the banquet hall is? Ah, right, Sect Leader Jiang was a guest disciple here, of course. Well, this disciple will come to escort you just in case.”
“Thank you,” Jiang Cheng says dryly.
“You’re welcome!” Lan Jingyi says, hardly pausing in his recitation. Lans. “Senior Wei asked me to tell you that there would be a second meal option for our guests who prefer meat: braised pork served with steamed turnips. Senior Wei will be providing extra chili oil for our guests from Yunmeng, but is there anything else Sect Leader Jiang would prefer?”
Jiang Cheng pinches the bridge of his nose. What he’d prefer is to be home. But that seems beyond Lan Jingyi’s ample capabilities. “He’s thought of everything, has he?” he says. “Your Senior Wei.”
Lan Jingyi, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. “Senior Wei wants Sect Leader Jiang to be comfortable.”
As long as he doesn’t have to see me , Jiang Cheng barely doesn’t say. It’s fine. Of course Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to see him. The best way for them to go forward is far away from one another. Just because they’ve never said that in words doesn’t make that any less true.
He opens his mouth. Not to say that, exactly. Maybe to explain to Lan Jingyi exactly what happens when his Senior Wei wants things for Jiang Cheng.
What comes out is, “I don’t eat turnips.”
Lan Jingyi blinks. Once, then twice. The thing about a Lan blink is, it’s not only intentional, but pointed. “Senior Wei said—”
“Senior Wei has not lived in Yunmeng for some time,” Jiang Cheng says acidly. “He should not presume to know my current tastes.”
“So—” Lan Jingyi blinks again, as if that might reorient reality. “Sect Leader Jiang would like the traditional Gusu Lan meal, then.”
Jiang Cheng would not. Jiang Cheng ate his fill of traditional Gusu Lan meals at age fifteen. But unfortunately, Jiang Cheng does what he always does when he finds himself in a hole. He digs.
“You said it yourself,” he says. “I was a guest disciple here. Perhaps I developed a taste for it.”
Lan Jingyi goes dramatically, unusually still. He glances to the door, as if expecting to see someone listening. And then he hisses, “I know what you’re trying to do.”
Jiang Cheng wonders how many times in his life he’s expected to be on the receiving end of that look from a Lan. “All I’m trying to do is eat a meal. If you’re so concerned, just tell Wei Wuxian I loved every bite.”
“As a former guest disciple,” Lan Jingyi says dryly, “Sect Leader Jiang surely remembers that lying is not permitted.”
“Then don’t tell him anything,” Jiang Cheng says. “He’s got dozens of guests to worry about, surely he’s not keeping track of my dietary choices.”
“Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Jingyi says. It’s rare that he looks every inch the disciple of Hanguang-jun, but somehow he’s summoned it. “Do you really not know?”
Jiang Cheng is briefly, powerfully tempted to ask. Because, as he’d love to tell Lan Jingyi, he doesn’t know. Why would he be expected to know anything about Wei Wuxian, after Wei Wuxian personally ensured that he wouldn’t?
“The traditional Gusu Lan meal,” he says. “Please.”
Lan Jingyi looks as if he has something else to say, for a moment. But he pointedly straightens, and the look passes. “Will that be all?”
Jiang Cheng huffs. “What else would there be?”
***
The first time Wei Wuxian visited Lotus Pier in his second life, he had to be carried out. Jiang Cheng would like to think about this less often than he does.
It’s not always a choice when they fight. For one, it’s not always Jiang Cheng who starts it: sometimes it’s Lan Wangji, and sometimes, despite what Lan Wangji seems to believe, it’s Wei Wuxian. But even when it’s Jiang Cheng, it’s not always a choice. Lightning doesn’t strike with intention. It builds, and it releases.
The day Wei Wuxian visited to inform Jiang Cheng of his wedding was his third visit in Mo Xuanyu’s body. He was smiling, animated, kept up a round of running commentary at dinner fueled by adrenaline and Yunmeng’s finest black tea. He wasn’t the pale, cautious shadow of that first time. But Jiang Cheng remembers it nonetheless. No one would call Wei Wuxian fragile in either of his lives. But he no longer seemed to care, at least in the same way he used to, if Jiang Cheng noticed that he was capable of being hurt.
So from dinner until they took their leave, Jiang Cheng held his tongue. They could call it a wedding present.
But as always, Lan Wangji couldn’t leave well enough alone.
“Sect Leader Jiang,” he had said, as they prepared to take their leave. It was the first time that day he’d left his fiancé’s side – Wei Wuxian was across the courtyard, chattering happily at a clutch of disciples.
Jiang Cheng took a breath through his teeth. He’d resolved not to upset Wei Wuxian, at least tonight. As long as the venerable Lan-er-gongzi behaved, so could he. “Is there something else you need, Hanguang-jun?”
Lan Wangji paused then, as if choosing his words carefully. And then, with the sort of direct look he hadn’t given Jiang Cheng since they were children, he said, “Wei Ying is right here.”
He said it like they both understood what it meant. Like Jiang Cheng would look at that fucking impassive face of his and know what kind of reproach it was. He’s here, no thanks to you? He’s here, so get your shit together? What did it matter? Both were true.
So for lack of a right answer, he went with a wrong one.
“I’m aware,” Jiang Cheng said. “It’s hard to miss him.”
He watched the exact moment Lan Wangji’s expression shuttered. And he tried, for the rest of the night, to convince himself to feel satisfied.
***
Lan Jingyi reappears about an hour later, with a degree of stealth that Jiang Cheng didn’t know he possessed. One moment Jiang Cheng was glaring into an empty courtyard, and the next moment Lan Jingyi was blocking his view.
“Sect Leader Jiang,” he says.
“Gods above,” Jiang Cheng barks. “Knock next time.”
“My apologies, Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Jingyi says, pointedly flat. Little shit. “This disciple was just so excited to share the good news with you.”
Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes. “What good news.”
“You won’t believe the odds, Sect Leader Jiang,” he says. “But when the chef went into the kitchens to change your meal, they happened to check the bushel of turnips. It turned out they were older than we realized – most of them had started to rot. If you hadn’t asked for your meal changed, it might have been hours before they realized. So Senior Wei thanks you profusely for your assistance. And asked me to tell you that he owes you one. Again.”
For a long moment, all Jiang Cheng can do is stare. It’s typical, isn’t it. Wei Wuxian could trip on stones and land on soft grass. Wei Wuxian was literally torn apart limb from limb, and now he’s here and whole and happier than all of them.
“Well,” he says dully. “How lucky.”
“Yes,” Lan Jingyi says. “So your attempts at sabotage went unnoticed.”
Jiang Cheng snorts. He’ll give Lan Jingyi this: he’s gutsy. And he’s never been much for the Lan passive-aggression anyway. “Two reasonable requests amount to sabotage now? Don’t believe everything your Senior Wei says about me.”
“Gossip is not permitted in Cloud Recesses,” Lan Jingyi says. Judging by the too-straight way that he holds himself, he’s fully aware that the way he’s speaking to a sect leader is completely out of bounds. But it doesn’t stop him, either. “… which Senior Wei doesn’t particularly follow but still. He would never do that. Not to you.”
Jiang Cheng leans against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “What your Senior Wei would do might surprise you.”
Lan Jingyi raises his chin defiantly. And with an odd twist, Jiang Cheng recognizes Jin Ling’s influence in it. “This disciple is well-aware how Sect Leader Jiang feels about Senior Wei.”
Jiang Cheng barks a laugh. Does he? Perhaps he can explain it, then. Because most days. Jiang Cheng has no idea how he feels about Wei Wuxian. “But?”
“But,” Lan Jingyi echoes. “Sect Leader Jiang should know that Senior Wei only told this disciple one thing: that you don’t want to be here, but you came anyway, so he hoped this disciple could be kind to you.”
The ringing in Jiang Cheng’s ears bleeds through him, until it feels as if it could shake him from where he stands. He’d love to be angry. It would be wildly refreshing to be furious right now. But the ringing is all he feels.
“Big words,” he finally says, “from someone who sent a disciple to handle me.”
Lan Jingyi’s rigid Lan posture wilts a little. “He wanted to see to you himself, you know. It took Hanguang-jun and Sizhui both to convince him there were only so many places he could be today.”
Jiang Cheng huffs a toneless laugh. The ringing goes on. “Give him time. He’ll find a way to split himself in two.”
“And he didn’t send me to do anything, by the way,” Lan Jingyi says. “I volunteered. I want Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei to have a nice wedding, because after everything, it’s the least they deserve. And if my changing your room and your dinner and whatever else you’d like to change is going to make Senior Wei happier, then that’s what I’m going to do.”
Steadily, the churning in Jiang Cheng is receding into the headache of this morning, that one little cell of pressure. So Wei Wuxian still inspires this kind of loyalty, even here. But that shouldn’t be a surprise. Jiang Cheng felt it once, too.
Lan Jingyi holds firm under his stare, at first. But at length, he fidgets, his bravado punctured. “So if you have any more requests,” he finally says, “this disciple will see them through.”
Jiang Cheng keeps staring at Lan Jingyi’s earnest, suddenly self-conscious face. He still can’t believe Lan Wangji and Lan Sizhui took on the nigh-insurmountable task of convincing Wei Wuxian of his human limits. He and A-Jie never managed it. Even Wen-guniang and the Ghost General didn’t.
Idiot. It’s a wedding. Of course he isn’t going to make everyone happy. There’s always going to be someone who wants you as miserable as they are.
The pressure in his head builds. Jiang Cheng casts for a place to redirect it. But this time, he comes up empty.
“I’ll take the braised pork,” he says. “If it’s not too late.”
There’s a beat. And Lan Jingyi’s face actually softens. “Sect Leader Jiang… it’s rarely too late, you know.”
Jiang Cheng pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Lan Jingyi.”
Lan Jingyi pauses. “It might actually be too late to change your meal,” he says. “But you know. Not for other things.”
“Yes, Lan Jingyi,” Jiang Cheng says hollowly. “I understood you the first time.”
***
Wei Wuxian maintained, all of his first life, that he probably wouldn’t marry. But if he changed his mind, Jiang Cheng had plans.
It would have been up to him and to A-Jie, of course. That was a given. His mother would have resented every coin Yunmeng Jiang spent. His father would have helped some. He would have regretted not helping more, though that regret would have changed nothing. It felt disloyal, all these years, to remember these parts of them. It still does.
But he planned it with A-Jie sometimes. To pass the time when they were children. To keep themselves from thinking about anything else those three months he was gone.
We have to be his family, A-Cheng , she’d said, in those first few months after Father brought Wei Wuxian to Lotus Pier. There’s no one else . And now here he is.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t sleep that night. In the morning, he puts on his robes, a restless summer sky purple. And he goes to the Jingshi to tell Wei Wuxian he’s leaving.
It’s a humid morning in Cloud Recesses. Not the swampy humidity of Yunmeng, but cool and dense, like walking through fog. Jiang Cheng makes his way up the path, past the lotus pond, and feels suddenly, sharply empty-handed. He already handed over Yunmeng Jiang’s gifts. Handed over what, he doesn’t know – his aides did the choosing, something suitable for Hanguang-jun’s marriage. But now he’s wishing he brought something. Some kind of acknowledgement that Jiang Cheng would have done this for him, once.
But no matter. He’s removing himself. That should be gift enough.
He draws closer to the Jingshi, close enough to hear the pair of voices drifting through the open door. And then he slows.
“Sizhui.” Wei Wuxian’s voice is a little higher than it used to be, but Wei Wuxian’s inflections permeate Mo Xuanyu’s tone so thoroughly that it’s hard to tell the difference if you aren’t listening for it. Jiang Cheng always listens for it. “Look at me.”
Lan Sizhui’s voice next, tight enough to fray. “I’m looking, Senior Wei.”
“Just don’t panic,” Wei Wuxian says.
“I’m not panicking, Senior Wei,” says Lan Sizhui, who is almost certainly panicking.
“Okay, good,” Wei Wuxian soothes. “Just try again. You can pull. You’re not going to hurt me.”
“Okay.” Lan Sizhui audibly steels himself. “Okay, I’m going now.”
There’s a pause. And then, despite Wei Wuxian’s assurances, an undeniable yelp of pain.
Jiang Cheng strides inside.
Lan Sizhui is on his feet, eyes wide and back rigid, hands hovering above Wei Wuxian’s shoulders. Wei Wuxian is seated on a chair in front of him, a vibrant splash of red in the pale sparsity of the Jingshi. His wedding robes sit neatly on him, perfectly tailored to his shoulders. But his hair is wild and askew, tangled so helplessly that it nearly obscures the golden hairpiece blazing across the crown of his head.
“Jiang Cheng?” Wei Wuxian blurts out.
“Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Sizhui says in the same moment. “Please forgive this disciple’s impudence, but this isn’t—”
“What’s going on?” Jiang Cheng says.
For a moment, Wei Wuxian just looks at him through the mess of his hair, with that stranger’s face that’s both younger than Wei Wuxian is and older than he was ever supposed to be. When he smiles, it quivers. “Funny story,” he says. “My hairpiece is stuck.”
On the morning of her wedding, A-Jie had gotten two jade tassels completely knotted together; the Jiang lotus root had bisected and looped around the Jin peony. It had looked like one final inside joke. The ghosts of their shidi, showing Jin Zixuan what would happen if he didn’t treat their shijie right. How did you manage that, A-Jie? Jiang Cheng had asked.
A-Jie had laughed helplessly. Her eyes had that look they would hold for the rest of her wedding day, a soft, barely-hidden wildness he had never known from her. I don’t know , she’d said. I don’t know, A-Cheng.
Jiang Cheng crosses the room.
“You take that side,” he says to Lan Sizhui. “I’ll take this one. Just focus on getting it loose from his hair. And don’t pull. That’ll just get the thing more stuck.”
He doesn’t look up to meet Lan Sizhui’s stare. But he feels it on him. “Yes, Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Sizhui finally says. And at first, they work in silence.
Wei Wuxian is the one who breaks it, of course. “You’re good at this,” he laughs.
Jiang Cheng frees another several strands of hair. “The old man with the biggest lotus pond,” he says. “We used to help him untangle his fishing nets. Punishment for trespassing so often.”
“Oh,” Wei Wuxian says. “Don’t know why I didn’t remember that.”
Jiang Cheng doesn’t mean to say anything. Not here, with Wei Wuxian sitting in front of him in his fucking wedding robes. But from the start of this terrible visit, there’s been a force greater than nature guiding Jiang Cheng’s stupid, careless mouth. “You’ve forgotten so much already. What’s one more thing?”
Lan Sizhui freezes. Even Wei Wuxian stills under Jiang Cheng’s hands. “Ah, Jiang Cheng,” he says, carefully light. “I’m sorry about the room. And the turnips.”
“Why are you apologizing?” Jiang Cheng says. If the world was a fairer place, he’d be capable of lowering his voice right now. “I was being difficult. I was making your wedding more difficult.”
“Sect Leader Jiang.” Lan Sizhui’s soft voice is sharp. “Now is not—”
Wei Wuxian turns—idiot, he’s only going to get his hair more tangled that way—and looks up at him. The look he used to give their smallest shidi, struggling through their sword forms. Patience without expectation.
It’s infuriating.
“I know you didn’t want to come,” Wei Wuxian says. “But I was hoping to make it easier for you to be here. But here you are helping anyway, right?” He laughs. It clangs, discordant. “I really do owe you, Jiang Cheng. Even if you didn’t mean it the first two times.”
The thin thread of Jiang Cheng’s patience snaps.
“Is that what you think I wanted?” He drops his hands from Wei Wuxian’s hair. “You think I just want to sit on my ass and do nothing while you stand up there without any family to claim you?”
Wei Wuxian blinks. Once, then twice. “Jiang Cheng—”
“Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “You’d think you’d have learned your lesson about assuming what I want.”
Lan Sizhui moves forward, but Wei Wuxian stops him with a half-raised hand, never looking away. Jiang Cheng barely registers it. He bares his teeth, and he sinks in deeper.
“You were of Yunmeng Jiang once,” he says. “Do you think I’m so ungracious? That I have no sense of responsibility? Or is your precious fiancé too good to pour tea for me?”
Jiang Cheng never knew it was possible to flinch from your own words. But here he is. His mouth snaps shut, he falls back on his heel. And the pressure in him shifts. From anger to ache.
Wei Wuxian’s eyes don’t waver from him. But he doesn’t look the way Jiang Cheng feels, like Jiang Cheng just flayed himself open in the middle of Lan Wangji’s home. Wei Wuxian just tilts his head to the side. His eyes widen a little. And he asks, “You want Lan Zhan to pour tea for you?”
Under that stare, Jiang Cheng is fifteen again in the worst way possible. He doesn’t fidget, but barely. “It’s your wedding,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what I want.”
Wei Wuxian looks at him for a long, long beat. The way he might look at an equation, or a talisman nearly complete. “Sizhui ah,” he says at length. “Could you ask Lan-xiansheng if he wouldn’t mind one more last-minute change? He will most definitely mind. But, you know, formalities.”
There’s a silent conversation playing out in front of Jiang Cheng: Lan Sizhui’s brow is softly furrowed, Wei Wuxian’s return smile steady. Lan Sizhui breaks first. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says.
Wei Wuxian’s smile spreads. “No rush. I’m not going anywhere.”
Jiang Cheng doesn’t miss the way Lan Sizhui flicker up to him. “Then this disciple will excuse himself, Senior Wei. Sect Leader Jiang.” And bowing, he leaves the Jingshi.
And for lack of anything better to do with his hands, Jiang Cheng starts untangling Wei Wuxian’s hair again. “Does every outsider merit such suspicion from the Lan disciples,” he says, “or am I special?”
Wei Wuxian nearly throws his head back as he laughs – Jiang Cheng has to hold him still with the flat of his palm. He sees now how Wei Wuxian got the crown so desperately tangled in the first place. “Go easy on them, please. They’ve been wrangling half the cultivation world all week. Anyone would be a little on edge.”
“Your Lan Jingyi called me a saboteur,” Jiang Cheng says.
Wei Wuxian’s smile goes disgustingly soft. “He’s a good kid.”
Jiang Cheng unwinds a particularly stubborn strand from the teeth of the crown. “Sorry,” Wei Wuxian says. “Again. Back at Lotus Pier, I—didn’t want to assume.”
“So you assumed in the other direction,” Jiang Cheng mutters.
Wei Wuxian winces. It’s probably not from the pull at his hair. “That’s fair.”
Jiang Cheng sets his teeth together. He’s not here to put this all on Wei Wuxian. Not all of it, at least. But either way, it’s beyond the point. “You don’t have to do this,” he says. “I’m not a child. I don’t need to be included.”
Wei Wuxian hums, holds still for once. “As everyone keeps telling me, it’s my wedding. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want.”
Another pause. Jiang Cheng has to flex his hands, let his fingers shake themselves still, before continuing. “I can’t believe you were going to be alone up there pouring Lan-xiansheng tea.”
“It wouldn’t have been that bad,” Wei Wuxian says. “I’m growing on him.”
Jiang Cheng barks a laugh. “No you’re not.”
“No I’m not,” Wei Wuxian agrees readily. “But we both love Lan Zhan, so we have an armistice. For today, at least.”
Jiang Cheng tugs one last strand loose, and the crown slides free into his hands. Wei Wuxian huffs a little sigh of relief and smooths his hair down. It has absolutely no effect.
“I hope you don’t expect me to brush your hair now,” Jiang Cheng says.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Wei Wuxian tilts his head back to grin at him. “Sizhui can fix it when he gets back. Thank you, Jiang Cheng.”
Jiang Cheng recognizes that thank you for what it is: not a dismissal, really, but an open door. An invitation to take his leave, now that the crisis has passed. He can go find Lan Qiren, collect his marching orders, and later, collect the most grudging cup of tea from Lan Wangji that the world has ever known. This can be the end of their conversation. It’s a better end than he could reasonably ask for.
He sets the crown aside with one hand. The other hasn’t quite moved out of Wei Wuxian’s hair yet, still sorting and releasing the tangles. It’s the kind of job A-Jie would have assigned herself, were she here.
“I had plans for this,” Jiang Cheng says, eventually. And then, because apparently he’s going to do this one way or the other, he picks up the brush. “For your wedding, not for your beauty regimen.”
“Oh.” Wei Wuxian’s shoulders go oddly straight. “I never knew that.”
“Well, we did.” He runs even, strangely calming strokes through Wei Wuxian’s hair. “A-Jie and I.”
“Oh,” Wei Wuxian says again, softer. Then, eventually, “I never asked you how it was.”
Jiang Cheng doesn’t have to ask what. And when the first few answers on his tongue are acid, he bites them back. Today, at least, she deserves to be in the room. She would want to be.
“Beautiful,” he says. “Any Jin wedding was going to be. But she was happy. She…” He clears his throat. “She wanted you there.”
Wei Wuxian’s gaze is ahead, unfocused. His hair lies perfectly straight at his back now, but Jiang Cheng keeps brushing. “I wanted that, too.”
“She…” Jiang Cheng exhales through his teeth. “She would have lost it today, you know.”
Wei Wuxian laughs. It doesn’t quite sound like a laugh. “Shijie always cried when she was happy.”
The crown gleams at Jiang Cheng’s side, a wildfire sunset. It’s not a choice at all, in the end. But it takes him a moment to reach for it nonetheless.
This time, Wei Wuxian doesn’t move until he’s done. Jiang Cheng barely feels him breathe.
He doesn’t trust himself to speak, either. Not until he’s secured the final fastening into Wei Wuxian’s hair. “I’m here for her,” he says. And then, when he sees Wei Wuxian start to misunderstand— “I’m here for both of us.”
Wei Wuxian smiles. And Jiang Cheng, finally, lets his hands fall away.
***
The sun is low in the sky when Lan Wangji pours tea for Jiang Cheng. It is easily the most pleasant Lan Wangji has looked in his presence. But Jiang Cheng suspects Lan Wangji’s attention is only for the person kneeling at his back.
Wei Wuxian is lit up in the late afternoon. His robes are already mussed, the crown just a little crooked on his head. His hands were steady when he poured the tea for Lan Qiren just a few moments ago. He’s beaming now, frantically scrubbing at his tears with his sleeves. A-Jie was never the only one in the family who cried when she was happy.
Lan Wangji’s attention shifts as he finishes pouring. And Jiang Cheng thinks of what Lan Wangji told him, that day they came to Lotus Pier to tell him they’d be married. Wei Ying is right here.
I’m sorry, Wei Wuxian said, back in the Jingshi. I didn’t want to assume.
Wei Wuxian had never been one to hesitate. Not in his first life, not now. But this, maybe, is what Lan Wangji wanted Jiang Cheng to look at. That Wei Wuxian is standing still, waiting to see where Jiang Cheng wants to move.
Jiang Cheng sits back on his knees. Lan Wangji inclines his head. Wei Wuxian laughs quietly, helplessly at nothing. Not quite close enough to touch. But right there.
Jiang Cheng tilts back the cup and drinks until it’s dry.