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In a disreputable wine parlor at the edge of town, Jiang Cheng happens upon a ghost.
Not a ghost in the traditional sense. Would that it were; would that all ghosts could be banished with a charm or a well-placed sword thrust. No, this ghost is one of memory: merely a man that looks too much like another man, one Jiang Cheng has not seen in thirteen long years.
Jiang Cheng had been in a hurry as he’d made his way to the tavern; he’d felt a restlessness in the marrow of his bones, and his skin too tight atop them. Work had kept him away from this particular haunt for weeks; it had been a long time since he’d been able to sit back with a cup in his hand amongst like minded men, still longer since he’d found release in another’s arms. The dry spell had made him irritable; he’d entered the tavern and made his way to a far table with ill grace, ordering his wine with a perfunctory bark at the server.
It is only in stages that he comes to notice the man sitting at the table next to him, and at first only because the stranger keeps stealing glances at him when he thinks Jiang Cheng isn’t looking.
Jiang Cheng sets the cup down on the table and turns to consider the man. He thinks to invite the stranger to his table if he finds him favorable to the eye, or else snap a dismissal if not—but the words die on his lips.
Because that face—he knows that face. The parts he can see, at least. The stranger wears a mask that covers most of his features, but from what little Jiang Cheng can see, he looks eerily like Wei Wuxian. The familiarity is in the subtle things: the curl of his smile, the fall of his hair. Maybe it’s just the wine, but the likeness takes Jiang Cheng’s breath away, makes him ache with old memories and unhealed regrets.
Of course, it’s not actually Wei Wuxian; Jiang Cheng doesn’t kid himself. It’s been over a decade and he still sees Wei Wuxian wherever he goes, will probably be seeing him in the faces of strangers for the rest of his life. Wishful thinking and the hazy glow of wine parlors can conjure up all sorts of illusions that fall apart under the harsh light of day.
He realizes he’s staring, raises his cup in a hasty toast. “Well met.”
The stranger smiles at him, but it’s a nervous smile, judging from the tightness of his face and the way his hands are clenched in the fabric of his over-robe. Odd. A newcomer, perhaps, not quite comfortable with the desires that brought him here. That would explain the mask, too.
As he watches, the man takes a quick sip of his wine. “Well met indeed. Here for any particular reason?”
The man doesn’t have to rub it in. “We’re in a wine house that caters to the passions of the cut sleeve,” he bites. “Take a guess.”
The man seems almost—surprised? His eyes widen behind the mask, and his fingers on his wine cup tighten a fraction. But he recovers quickly enough, setting the cup down with a laugh. “Fair enough. I suppose it was a stupid question, forgive me.”
Jiang Cheng grunts in begrudging acknowledgement. “What’s your name, then?”
The man hesitates. “Mo Xuanyu,” he says after a moment’s silence. He over enunciates his syllables, as if he’s unused to speaking the name. A pseudonym, then. Jiang Cheng pushes down his disappointment; men come here for unfettered release, not for any deeper connection. He has no right to any part of this man’s life, not even his name.
The man that calls himself Mo Xuanyu tilts his head playfully, and Jiang Cheng feels the familiarity of the gesture like a kick to the shin. “What should I call you, then?”
“Call me whatever you like,” Jiang Cheng says shortly. Normally he gives a false name too—heaven forbid that his visits here become public knowledge; he’d rather be stabbed in the gut than have to face a lecture from the clan elders about his unseemly proclivities—but tonight he’s too tired to maintain all the usual lies and pretenses.
Mo Xuanyu tilts his head, as if considering. He hesitates. And then— “may I call you shidi?”
Jiang Cheng’s eyes fly open. He takes a breath and forces himself to relax. It’s not an uncommon fantasy among the men that frequent these circles. A fantasy. That’s all it is. “If you wish,” he says shortly.
A brilliant smile, and oh, how it hurts. “Well then, shidi. Can I buy you a drink?”
Suddenly it’s all too much, too many little things that taken together in tandem become unbearable. Pebbles in an avalanche, and all that. Jiang Cheng stands abruptly. “I don’t come here for the wine,” he says gruffly. “I’ve a room upstairs if you care to join me.”
He makes for the stairs. He wishes he could stop himself from looking over his shoulder, from betraying his want, his need—but unlike Wei Wuxian, he never mastered the skill of leaving without looking back.
***
Miracle of miracles, Mo Xuanyu follows him without a word, the whisper of silks and the creak of the stairs the only evidence of his presence behind Jiang Cheng.
The hallway upstairs is quiet save for the muffled laughter of the drunken revelry below and the soft gasps and cries filtering from behind closed doors. Jiang Cheng’s heart thundering against his ribcage might be louder than any of it, but if it is, Mo Xuanyu doesn’t say anything.
Jiang Cheng is in the habit of renting out the nicest room in the inn; his commitment to slumming it does have limits. He regards the suite as opens the door: the bedroom is well appointed, with good silks and sturdy furniture. Enough wealthy men come here that the proprietors have gold to burn. He’s stayed in much shoddier rooms in the past, not to mention the nights spent camping under the stars, with only the warmth of Wei Wuxian at his side to cut the cold. Wei Wuxian. Damn, but his ghost haunts everything, phantom touches curdling the most innocent of thoughts.
Footsteps on the floorboards behind him. “These are your rooms, then?” Mo Xuanyu asks.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t deign to respond, just steps inside and gestures for Mo Xuanyu to follow him. Mo Xuanyu hesitates a moment, then steps over the threshold, shutting the door behind him. It’s good solid wood, designed to block the noise of sex, and Jiang Cheng feels a dark thrill course through his body as the latch clicks into place.
He turns to face Mo Xuanyu, lets himself enjoy the man’s figure, lets his eyes linger on the wet redness of his mouth, the smooth fall of his hair, the narrow shape of his waist. “Do you have any preferences in bed?”
Mo Xuanyu bites his lip, and Jiang Cheng absolutely does not stare at the sight of it. “The mask stays on.”
An odd request, but Jiang Cheng’s dealt with odder. He nods brusquely. “Right then. I prefer to top.”
“That’s fine,” Mo Xuanyu says a bit faintly.
The hesitation in his voice gives Jiang Cheng pause. Nervousness is one thing, but Jiang Cheng has no wish to push the man if he’s truly unwilling. “If you would rather not go through with this, I would not be offended.”
“No! I—I just…” Mo Xuanyu takes a breath, as if to steady himself. “I want this,” he says in a quiet voice. It sounds like an admission he’s only just made, as if he’s surprised himself.
Well enough; Jiang Cheng is not one to second guess such things. “Then get on the bed,” he says gruffly.
Mo Xuanyu pauses for a moment, and then walks to the bed with catlike grace. He sinks down onto the coverlet in a single fluid motion, the silks of his robe pooling like dark water around him. His fingers hover over the tie of his belt. “Shall I…?” He glances up at Jiang Cheng and then away, before Jiang Cheng can interpret the look in his eyes, just barely peeking out from behind the shadow of his mask.
Jiang Cheng swallows. “No,” he says, kneeling on the floor before the bed. “Let me. I want to see you.” He lifts his hands to take hold of Mo Xuanyu’s belt and undoes the knot, slowly and carefully. As he removes it and drops it to the floor, Mo Xuanyu draws in a sharp breath that sets a spark in his belly.
They’re both silent as Jiang Cheng works. The quiet is heady with tension, like a blade held against a bare neck. Jiang Cheng takes his time, peels back layer after layer like he’s stripping petals from a flower.
He commits himself to the rhythm of the work, concentrating on undoing each buckle, untying each knot one by one. He doesn’t let himself look at Mo Xuanyu except in the smallest of flashes: the clench of his hand where it rests on the bed, the quickness of his pulse jumping at the hollow of his newly-bared wrist.
The last tie falls undone in Jiang Cheng’s suddenly clumsy fingers, and he dares to look up at Mo Xuanyu. His silks have slipped from his shoulders to pool on the bed behind him, so everything is skin: smooth and pale and perfect. The perfection of him is galling and overwhelming; even without the wine in his belly Jiang Cheng thinks he could grow drunk just from tasting that skin, touching it.
And of course, even more delectable: nestled at the join of his legs, a pink cock already stirring with interest.
He looks up, meeting Mo Xuanyu’s eyes. “May I suck you?”
Mo Xuanyu blinks up at him. “I… yes?”
“Excellent,” Jiang Cheng breathes. Without further ado he goes to his knees, and then he’s swallowing Mo Xuanyu down to the root.
Mo Xuanyu lets out a cry like a wounded thing; the noise goes straight to his cock. He brings his hands up to grip at Mo Xuanyu’s waist and hold him in place. The bare skin beneath the pads of his fingers… it’s been so long. So, so long.
He loses himself in the rhythm of it, and it’s the closest he’s felt to peace in a long time. He’s finally out of his head, out of the endless recriminations and insecurities that dwell darkly there. Instead there’s only the here and the now: the bitter taste of Mo Xuanyu heavy on his tongue, the ache in his jaw and his knees, the soft cries Mo Xuanyu is making as he licks and suckles the other man’s cock.
A hand comes to rest in his hair, and normally he’d slap it away, but he’s in a fey mood tonight. He lets it stay, lets Mo Xuanyu twist his fingers over his scalp, make a mess of his coiffure, wreck it, take him apart. When he swallows around Mo Xuanyu’s cock and hums, he’s rewarded with a shriek and a vicious yank of his topknot that goes straight to his own cock, by now hard and leaking against the silk of his underrobe.
He works Mo Xuanyu over until the cries above him grow more frantic and the length in his mouth begins to jerk. When he judges it to be time, he pulls away, reaching up with lightning-quickness to make a ring at the base of Mo Xuanyu’s cock.
Mo Xuanyu sobs as he pulls away, hips jerking helplessly into the air, desperation writ tight in every angle of his body. “Please,” he pants. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need,” Jiang Cheng says, and gets to work removing his own robes.
Mo Xuanyu watches him with wide eyes, pupils blown black with lust. Jiang Cheng lets himself enjoy being watched, being seen as something worth desiring. Something precious. But of course, there are better things that only watching. Still, he takes his time, carefully folding each of his robes as the anticipation builds in his gut, helped along by the whines of impatience coming from the bed.
After one particularly theatrical sigh, he turns back to Mo Xuanyu with a mock frown. “Behave, or I’ll have to discipline you.”
Mo Xuanyu whimpers, and Jiang Cheng is blindsided by the wave of lust that hits him. If he had a week with this man tied up in his bed—
But he doesn’t. It’s one night. Just one night. Mo Xuanyu isn’t even the man’s real name. There’s no relationship to be had here.
His mood souring, he throws the last of his clothing on the floor and stalks back to the bed. “On your back,” he says. “I want to see your face when I fuck you.”
Mo Xuanyu doesn’t need to be told twice; he falls back like he’s been hit, back arched up so that his sweat-sheened chest and pert nipples are on full display. His eyes are glassy beneath the shadow of the mask; as Jiang Cheng watches, the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.
“Spread your legs,” he growls. “As wide as they’ll go.”
Mo Xuanyu spreads beautifully for him, legs like willows as they bend.
Jiang Cheng drenches his fingers in oil, not caring when it splatters on the sheets. He caresses the taut skin of Mo Xuanyu’s belly, leaving a trail of oil that glistens in the candlelight.
At the behest of another of Mo Xuanyu’s impatient noises, he dances his fingers lower, ghosting over the soft skin of his inner thigh before pressing feather light at his rim.
Tight. Too tight. He pauses, looks up. “Have you done this before?
Mo Xuanyu is staring down at him, eyes wide behind the mask. He offers Jiang Cheng a hesitant shake of his head.
For fuck’s sake, the man’s a virgin. The mere thought gives Jiang Cheng a headache; he hadn’t come here intending to shepherd some naïf through his first cut-sleeve dalliance. A part of him finds the thought rather sad, too: as far as he can tell Mo Xuanyu is winsome and sweet. He deserves a first time with someone that loves him, not a stranger in a dingy wine parlor on the wrong side of town. Especially not a stranger as broken as himself.
Well, plenty of people deserve things they don’t get. Mo Xuanyu is beautiful and naked in his bed, and Jiang Cheng’s just enough of a bastard to take advantage of the fact. “Try to relax,” he says. “It’ll go easier that way.”
Tamping down on his guilt, he tries to remember how to do this slowly, gently: the way you’d prepare a lover rather than a stranger you picked up in a tavern. He lets his fingertips circle the rim of Mo Xuanyu’s hole, pressing gently at his entrance and then slipping his finger in to the first knuckle.
At Mo Xuanyu’s gasp he withdraws. “Relax,” he says again, pouring more oil on his fingers.
He slips his fingertip in again, working it back and forth, crooking the tip to play at the rim. Mo Xuanyu begins to relax around him, but he goes slowly all the same.
At last, he judges Mo Xuanyu ready for another finger, and proceeds to press his second digit in alongside the first, slowly, slowly. He ignores Mo Xuanyu’s grumbles that he’s ready, really. He ignores the need in his own cock. Instead he works Mo Xuanyu over with excruciating gentleness, taking far longer than he normally would. Of course, it’s hardly a hardship: Mo Xuanyu twisting and whining beneath him is a feast for his eyes and ears. Each crook of his finger gets a breathy gasp, each slow pump a shudder.
“I’m ready,” Mo Xuanyu pleads, “Please, I need it, please—”
What little self-control Jiang Cheng has left falls apart in the face of Mo Xuanyu’s naked entreaty.
He withdraws his fingers and replaces them with his cock, and then he’s pressing forward into utterly blissful heat, sinking in inch by inexorable inch, further and deeper than he thinks he can go.
Mo Xuanyu takes every inch he gives. His eyes flutter closed and his head falls back onto the pillow, but even as Jiang Cheng opens his mouth to ask if it’s too much, Mo Xuanyu is pushing back against his cock like he can’t get enough of it. Like he wants to be filled with everything Jiang Cheng can give him.
Jiang Cheng’s hips come flush with Mo Xuanyu’s sweat-sheened skin. It’s what he imagines heaven might feel like. He lets himself rest, panting as he stares at the join of their bodies, feels the tremble of Mo Xuanyu’s body around him.
From there he sets a lazy and indolent pace: all slow snapping of hips, deep thrusts and slow withdrawal. He doesn’t want to overwhelm his partner, as of late a virgin. But everything he gives, Mo Xuanyu takes, and beautifully so.
It’s the stuff of dreams, the stuff of fantasy: Mo Xuanyu beneath him, head thrown back and hair flowing like black ink over the pillows, hands trembling in the sheets, mouth slack with pleasure and cheeks flushed camelia-pink.
He wants this view to last forever; he wants it painted on paper, on silk, on porcelain.
All too soon his thrusts turn sloppy and his movements jerky as he loses himself to the sensations: the perfection of Mo Xuanyu’s body gripping around him, the tight wet heat of it.
“Please,” Mo Xuanyu breathes, hand clumsily reaching up to caress the side of his face. “I want—"
“Anything,” Jiang Cheng gasps as he drives into him. “Anything you want.”
“I want—kiss me, please—”
Jiang Cheng never kisses the men he meets here, but he’s helpless in the face of Mo Xuanyu’s begging. Swearing quietly, he leans down as he thrusts into the tight warmth of Mo Xuanyu’s body again, pressing a messy kiss to Mo Xuanyu’s open mouth.
The kiss—it’s been so long since he’s kissed anyone.
Mo Xuanyu’s lips taste of plum wine, but are sweeter still. Jiang Cheng plunders Mo Xuanyu’s mouth as he fucks him, rhythm faltering, sloppy and jagged and desperate.
Beneath him Mo Xuanyu is gasping, thrashing. “Shidi,” he’s saying, “shidi, shidi—"
“Shige,” Jiang Cheng cries as he spends.
***
Normally Jiang Cheng rolls out of bed and leaves the tavern immediately after spending. He comes here for quick release, not doting caresses. The men he fucks are not his lovers; it feels cruel to pretend they are. But this time he’s too tired: too wrung out and drained, physically and emotionally, to move.
At his side, Mo Xuanyu is quiet. And then: “You were thinking of someone?”
Jiang Cheng can tell it’s only phrased as a question for the sake of politeness; they both know the answer is yes.
Jiang Cheng closes his eyes. It’s a truth he hides away most days, but tonight too much of him has been laid bare to pretend. “I was,” he admits, speaking the words into the stillness of the room. The admission feels like a defeat. Thirteen years, and he still can’t escape this one simple truth.
Mo Xuanyu shifts. “You should tell him.”
“He’s dead,” he replies, voice short. Because of me, he doesn’t say.
The silence stretches on, so long that Jiang Cheng assumes Mo Xuanyu has fallen asleep. But then, in a whisper so quiet Jiang Cheng almost doesn’t hear: “You should have told him before he died, then.”
Why is his voice so wounded, and why does hearing Mo Xanyu’s pain hurt almost as much as the stab of the question itself? “It’s no concern of yours,” he snaps, and rolls from the bed, grasping for his clothes, grasping for the tatters of his dignity. So what if he never told Wei Wuxian that he loved him as more than a brother? So what that he never told him what they did together in Jiang Cheng’s dreams, or how it hurt to see that golden smile turned towards someone else? It’s over. It’s done. Wei Wuxian is dead. There’s nothing he can do to change any of it.
With a curt nod to Mo Xuanyu he exits the room and leaves the tavern, turning his collar up against the chill of the night air as he steps outside. He can hear the revelers from the other wine parlors as he walks past them, the shriek of drunken laughter drifting through the open windows, but it sounds as if it’s coming from a world away. The streets are full, but even buffeted by bodies he feels very much alone.
He sighs. His body is content, replete with the bone deep satiation of good sex. But his heart feels heavier than it had been before he’d left Lotus Pier.
He swallows, and begins the long and lonely trek home.
He’ll always regret it, never telling Wei Wuxian how he felt. But what’s one more regret, when he already has more than there are stars in the sky?