Work Text:
This is the private domestic fantasy a ten year-old Jiang Cheng entertains: Jiang Fengmian is not his real father.
One day, his real father comes down from the mountain, sails in from the sea, descends from the clouds. His hair wreathes his shoulders, smells like ozone and storms and dogs. He has big hands, big enough to clasp Yu Ziyuan's hands and curl around Jiang Cheng's waist, to heft them both into a strong hold. His voice is big and booming -- gentle and soft -- and he when he looks into the eyes of his wife and son, his gaze doesn't waver -- doesn't skirt to the side, doesn't break -- and he says,
"I'm sorry, I kept you waiting."
"I'm here now."
"Let's go away."
Wei Ying and his big sister press into him, warm against his shoulders, as they pile lotus pods and fresh linen and kites into a basket in his hands.
"Your father's so cool," Wei Ying says.
"Come back and play with us," his big sister says.
"We love you, we'll come visit, we love you," they say, a mantra in harmony, curling tight against him. Two brackets, enclosing, close enough to blot out the ache of guilt -- of yearning -- of absence. He basks in it, lets his big brother wrap his arms around him, lets his sister dab at his tears with her sleeve.
His mother smiles. Her hand rests on his shoulder. Just rests, doesn't tighten into a grip, doesn't dig into flesh, doesn't fold into a fist. For the first time he can remember, she rests, and smiles, and meets her husband's eyes, and is content.
"We can be happy now," Jiang Cheng says.
His real father smiles.
His face is a melting smudge, eyes flashing blue -- gold -- brown.
Jiang Cheng reaches up, holds his cheeks; feels the roughness of his skin, the jut of his cheekbone. Tries to mold them back into shape, make man out of mud, as the cold silk of his pillowcase tears under his fingertips.