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It is a privilege to be able to self-isolate when there is an almost literal plague, well, plaguing the world.
When he first made the joke to Wangji, his brother simply deadpanned, “It’s a viral outbreak. The plague was bacterial.” But Wangji’s shuttered expression hides the smallest spark of mirth, and Xichen is pleased to see that at least Wei Wuxian has the good sense to demonstrably find his joke absolutely hilarious.
Wei Wuxian’s laughs are tinny and distorted through the lag in the videochat. The network connections must be overloaded with all the people turning to virtual hangouts.
Mingjue told him it is stupid to all of a sudden resort to videochatting. What is so wrong with good old simple messaging? It isn’t as if they were seeing each other’s faces all that often, anyway, with Wangji and Wuxian in Gusu and them in Qinghe. Anything of importance can be conveyed through the groupchat, which, much to Mingjue’s apparent chagrin, includes some very unsavory characters , but Xichen had reminded him that it was mean to refer to his brother Huaisang and good friend Guangyao as such, and Mingjue only grumbled that he, at the very least, refuses to Zoom when there are already perfectly good native platforms on their phones to use.
Their group chat, in any case, has been exploding. Huaisang and Jiang Cheng, both in Yunmeng, somehow believe that it is productive to air their daily bickering even as they sit next to each other, one thumb-typing furiously on his phone, the other pounding out long tirades on his laptop’s keyboard. Xichen knows this because Wei Wuxian was receiving live private updates from Jiang Cheng about how Huaisang is purposefully driving him up the wall with his loud typing, and Wuxian has a lovely, albeit annoying habit of projectile vomiting everything that comes to him back out to the world. Xichen thinks this is good socialization for Wangji, who, surprisingly, has demonstrated the patience of a saint when it comes to Wei Wuxian. After all that they have gone through together and apart, Xichen thinks it is only natural to be a little indulgent of one’s long lost love.
“Zewu-jun, Zewu-jun, yesterday Lan Zhan and I found the cutest little creek during our walk. There were so many fish! Do you think it is OK for us to catch some and grill them if we don’t bring them back to the Cloud Recesses? Technically, we wouldn’t be violating any rules! There’s nothing that says you have to eat vegetarian food outside of the Cloud Recesses, right? Zewu-jun, please say yes! Lan Zhan is so stubborn! I haven’t had any meat in weeks, being shut up here. I think I’m going to tragically waste away.”
It always amuses and impresses Xichen that Wei Wuxian possesses the unique ability to draw enough breath in at once to power through a whole five-minute monologue. He addresses his brother. “Wangji, what do you think of Young Master Wei’s suggestion?”
“Mm,” Wangji says simply.
Xichen sighs. “I’m afraid that my brother is right, Young Master Wei. The reaches of the Cloud Recesses are far and wide. Even if you do not violate the letter of the rules, you would be breaking the spirit of the rules. Perhaps it would be wise to wait until the lockdown ends and make a trip to Caiyi Town for your… culinary adventure.”
Wei Wuxian looks as if he is ready to cry. His brother leans over and whispers something in Wuxian’s ear, and as if on cue, Wuxian’s face flushes immediately with a fetching shade of pink. “Not in front of your brother,” he hisses, but their microphone is quite powerful, and Xichen can hazard a good guess of what has transpired. He clears his throat. “Well, it is good to see you both in good spirits. Please pass on my greetings to Uncle. I hope to be able to visit everyone at Gusu as soon as possible after the lockdown ends.”
“Mm,” Wangji says. A fond smile graces Xichen’s lips. His brother is always so thoughtful. Mingjue will be glad to hear that he has asked after him.
“Bye, Zewu-jun! Say hi to Chifeng-zun for me!” Wei Wuxian chimes in, waving a little. His blush only seems to grow, judging by the way Wangji’s hand is slowly snaking across his shoulder. Xichen quickly waves and presses on the End Call button. There are things that even very close brothers should pretend not to know about.
The day is still long. He gazes out at the opened paper screen door at the expanse of mountains and greenery surrounding the Unclean Realm, tracing the way the weak spring sun illuminates only patches of the woods. Qinghe, unlike Gusu perching in the misty peaks, is situated at the foot of a wide, imposing mountain. The craggy rocks jut out forbiddingly, and Xichen thinks of how Mingjue, too, comes across as forbidding to most people. He knows otherwise. On his first day visiting Qinghe so many years ago, he and Mingjue had conquered that mountain and still had enough time to enjoy each other’s company as they stretched out in a nest of natural rocks at the summit.
Perhaps tomorrow will be another warm day, and a hike will do them both some good.
He knows the lockdown has affected Mingjue a lot more than his boyfriend lets on. The Unclean Realm, normally bustling with disciples and servants and commerce, is eerily devoid of life. If Xichen is completely honest, the bustle of activities is really the only reason the Unclean Realm can be habitable. The halls are dark and dimly lit, the stone walls bare and austere, and the ceilings are too tall and cavernous, and it is so cold without the breaths of hundreds of milling bodies to warm it up. And despite all of Mingjue’s protestations to the contrary, he knows that Mingjue does genuinely enjoy commanding his troops, training his soldiers, and overseeing the general day-to-day life of the denizens of this institution. As it is, Mingjue spends the majority of his “free” time polishing Baxia and practicing swordsmanship, sometimes with Xichen, sometimes alone. Xichen hears him muttering to himself from time to time, and at least once a day he yells into the phone to a frightened, whining voice coming out from the speaker. Poor Huaisang is also probably going nuts from his unintended quarantine-mate. His visit to Jiang Cheng has been about some business transactions between Qinghe and Yunmeng, and now, with the lockdown, the two are forced to become fast friends. Or take each other’s head off. Xichen is sure that Huaisang has more… subtle methods in mind, but knowing what he knows of Wei Wuxian’s adopted brother, he is reminded forcefully of the same type of blazing temper currently furiously sharpening Baxia in the other room.
Xichen tosses his phone on the dresser and pushes open the door to their living space. True to his guess, Mingjue is glaring at Baxia as if daring it to go dull while he passes it back and forth on an ancient whetstone. Technology may have moved on with sandpaper and fancier gadgets, but Mingjue insists on maintaining the traditions as best he can. Baxia has never even touched anything that was not available when the first Nie ancestors picked up a cleaver. Xichen admires that dedication, but he admires even more the intensity of Mingjue’s focus, the way the light casts soft shadows on the plane of his perfectly chiseled face and glistening back muscles. Even in the chilliness of the Unclean Realm in early spring, Mingjue radiates so much heat and keeps himself so active that it seems he is always in slight need of a bath. Xichen doesn’t complain, secretly liking the musty scent that always comes with Mingjue after a bout of exertion. They get up to quite a bit of that, these days, much to Xichen’s satisfaction. He does love watching Mingjue move his body, wielding it with pure power and strength.
Mingjue’s hair is in a high ponytail with the tip curled and tucked into itself. It is one of Xichen’s favorite styles, and he thinks Mingjue is perfectly aware of his sartorial choices.
Mingjue looks up when Xichen steps into the room. The scowl on his face seems to relax just the slightest bit. “Xichen,” he greets. “How was your… Facetime?”
“Da-ge,” Xichen replies, sitting down across from Mingjue and eyeing the way Baxia shines. Mingjue has done a great job. He can almost see his own reflection in the broad blade. “It was fine. We used FB Messenger this time. The quality is about the same. Camera angle looks a bit different. I’m not sure how that all works. In any case, everyone seems to be doing well.”
Mingjue grunts noncommittally. After a moment, he sets Baxia aside and brings his full attention to Xichen. “Want to go for a round?”
A dozen sly retorts vie for attention on the tip of Xichen’s tongue. It is indeed too early in the day, however, and he does not think Mingjue cares of that kind of wit at the moment. “Of course. Shall I get Shuoyue?”
Mingjue shakes his head. “No, not for now. I’m itching for a bit of arms-free combat.”
Xichen is sure he must be blushing, just a little, but Mingjue’s stony expression clarifies what he must have meant to say. “Of course. Give me a moment to get changed. I’ll see you out in the yard, Da-ge.”
He takes his leave, heading back to the chamber they share. All these years of being together , and Chifeng-zun still leaves him feeling so flustered even with an innocent request.
Xichen almost feels guilty for hoping that this lockdown will continue for a while longer.
Despite their best efforts, the match ends in a draw. Or, that is to say, the sun has long set, the evening air cools, and the sound of bodies tussling has not abated. Somewhere between dodging each other’s blows and trying to gain the upperhand in the match, one of them, and Xichen will deny knowing exactly which one, has played dirty, reached below the non-existent belt, and stroked.
The match is a foregone conclusion. They have trained together, against each other, since boyhood. They know each other’s strengths, each other’s moves, each other’s weaknesses and distractions. This, they both know, is a joint one.
The stone beneath him is cold, but Mingjue burns hot enough to keep the both of them quite comfortable even without the help of the sun. The Unclean Realm is heavily shaded with ancient trees, their trunks sturdy, their canopies generous. Stalwart guardians for successive generations of Nie and their disciples, and, as it turns out, confidential witnesses for all the trysts that have happened under their shades. Xichen wonders how many times he and Mingjue have ended up here, in this exact spot, and whether trees have spirits, and whether they are offended or amused by what they see.
Mingjue is built like the mountains of his homeland, broad planes and hard edges and composed entirely of boulders. Fortunately for them both, Xichen is very good at climbing.
They shower together. Mingjue insists that it is to save water and claims austerity measures imposed by the lockdown. Xichen thinks it is a thin excuse. The leader of the Qinghe Nie sect hardly needs to economize on water, but he indulges Mingjue anyway. There are other ways to make Mingjue blush, and they have plenty of time and absolutely no distractions from each other for the present moment.
Mingjue’s hair is long and loose, and Xichen makes him sit down on a stool, lathers up the shampoo, and takes a deep inhale of the eucalyptus and mint scent that permeates the bathroom. His fingers start at the side of Mingjue’s temples, trail upward, and he flips his palms so that the whole surface of his fingernails scratch against Mingjue’s scalp, drawing out a long, muffled moan. The steam rises around them, coating them in moist warm air, and the shampoo scent intensifies and makes Xichen just the slightest bit heady.
He gathers Mingjue’s long hair into a sharp, pointy ponytail at the nape of Mingjue’s neck, twisting the cord of hair up to poke the hardened tip against Mingjue’s left ear. Mingjue lets out a sharp, embarrassing sound and quickly attempts to cover it with a growl. Xichen does not mind. He is one who takes punishments well.
The tub is almost full. As is their habit, a shower necessarily precedes a dip in the bath. It is a ritual born from thousands of years of bathhouse culture, and Xichen, for once, appreciates that tradition. It would be such a shame to submerge oneself in water already dirtied from one’s own filth.
It is a much more pleasant bathing experience to be pulled into the tub by one’s boyfriend, both already clean, and proceed to make another kind of mess.
Xichen must insist that despite all appearances to the contrary, he is very much concerned about the plague (“Viral outbreak,” corrects Wangji) and the lockdown. He knows that his self-isolation experiences are, hmm, unusually privileged, even among fellow cultivators. Disclaimer aside, there are quite a lot of things that he very much enjoys about this long stretch of isolation with Chifeng-zun.
On the third day of the lockdown, when all the prepared food in the Unclean Realm’s vast kitchens have run out and the servants long left for the safety of their own homes, Xichen came up with the bright idea of making mantou. Kitchenwork was never formally taught at the Cloud Recesses. Rather, one would opt-in for kitchen assignments if one decided that a life of the sword and the pen was not the most fulfilling path. He knew many childhood companions found solace in the preparation of food, even with such simple fares as served at Gusu. They said to him that it is almost meditative to prepare sustenance, waxed poetic about the merits of crushing rice into flour or rolling noodles from stiff dough. Xichen, for his part, has always preferred his meditations to be non-moving, sometimes upside down, but always in a quiet room, alone.
But there was the uncertainty of the plague, and the dearth of food, and Xichen could not even trust himself to boil rice without burning the pot. And so, he had needled and wheedled until Mingjue sighed, set down Baxia, and accompanied him to the kitchen.
“You want to make what,” Mingjue had said tonelessly.
“Mantou,” Xichen replied serenely. “I’ve seen it made, once. It does not seem very difficult, but I just don’t know where things are in this kitchen.”
Mingjue eyed him skeptically. “You’ve never made mantou, and you want to do it now.”
“No,” Xichen confirmed. “I thought it might be nice to try something new.”
Mingjue snorted, gathered the ingredients, and presented them in front of Xichen as if to say well, go ahead . Alright, so maybe it was Xichen’s design to have Mingjue do a little more of the work than he had made it out to be.
Mingjue, for once, understood, and he only heaved a great sigh as he doled out a measure of wheat flour, water, salt, and the fresh yeast the kitchen maids kept behind the pantry door. Maintaining eye contact with Xichen as if to dare him to say something, Mingjue began to mix the dough, kneading it with quick, decisive movements of his fingers and palms, and rolled it into a rough, shaggy ball. Xichen eyed it skeptically. “Is that how mantou is made?”
“I thought you said you’ve seen it made,” Mingjue retorted. He reached for a bowl, floured the inside, and plopped the ball of dough in it, covering the whole thing in a large kitchen towel. “Now it needs to sit and proof for about two hours. Usually it doesn’t take as long, but it’s a little cold today,” he explained to Xichen, whose eyes grew wide in awe.
“It takes so long to make mantou?” Xichen questioned, frowning. He was already hungry. Perhaps it would have been wiser to make rice.
Mingjue grunted. “Then you have to knead it again, divide the dough, let the individual portions sit to proof a second time, and then finally steam them.” He glared dolefully at Xichen. “This is why I asked why you wanted to make mantou.”
“You did not,” Xichen protested. “You only asked if I want to make mantou. I do want to make mantou, but Da-ge, you are so good at it that I don’t want to distract you from your craft.”
Mingjue only pressed his lips together and handed Xichen an apron, not unlike his own. “Put this on and wash some vegetables,” he commanded. “We can’t just eat mantou plain.”
Xichen didn’t see why not, but he was not able to argue with Mingjue when the man already took out a large butcher knife. Gusu Lan sect may not indulge in animal products, but Qinghe Nie practically built their entire heritage around butchering, and Xichen is ever a gracious guest when he visits. It may also have something to do with the way Mingjue looked as he concentrated on the task of dividing up the pieces of meat from a whole carcass, all burnished muscles shifting underneath too-tight shirts, and Xichen was ashamed to say that he would eat anything Mingjue prepared.
When the dough was ready to be kneaded a second time, Xichen watched from his perch atop the kitchen counter as Mingjue gathered the ball of dough in his hands, slapped it hard against the floured countertop, rolled it back on itself and folded it, stretching, again and again, his shoulders heaving as he poured his strength into pounding the dough to submission. Xichen swallowed hard and reached for his mindfulness skills, but he was hungry and the urge too strong, and when Mingjue complained to him, an hour later, that the dough was now overproofed and the mantous practically ruined, Xichen himself was only too satisfied with what they have made.
When they emerge from the bathhouse and return to Mingjue’s chamber, Mingjue makes his way to the bed and begins checking his emails. Sect business, although disturbed by the lockdown, is supposed to go on as usual. It is also so for Gusu Lan. Xichen silently thanks his uncle and Wangji for handling the on the ground operation at the Cloud Recesses, but he, too, should be pulling his weight and putting in some more work with the correspondences and other matters.
He pulls himself into a one-handed handstand, turns on his computer, and slowly pecks one-handedly at the keyboard. Across the room, Mingjue snorts but does not comment. He thinks the sound is fond, but Mingjue would be the first one to deny it.
They work silently for an hour. Xichen is the one to speak first. “I was thinking, what if we go back to Gusu to ride this out? We can self-quarantine for two weeks in the hanshi.”
Mingjue snorts. “You think your uncle will approve of his successor bringing a boy home?”
Xichen’s smile is mischievous. Pushing aside his laptop, he approaches Mingjue on his hands, who lifts an eyebrow at his antics and stands up from the bed. As he nears his boyfriend, his sweatpants-clad legs wrap around Mingjue’s neck, his hands finding purchase on Nie Mingjue’s ankles, and he shifts his entire body weight onto Mingjue, enjoying the sudden flex of Mingjue’s feet and the hands that inevitably rest on his waist. He arches his back and wraps his arms around Mingjue’s hip, feeling cheeky enough to ghost over Mingjue’s firm buttock.
“You are insatiable, Zewu-jun,” Mingjue murmurs and easily flips him onto the bed. Xichen’s hair is loose and damp and fans out around him. Mingjue’s hands are on his wrists, and Mingjue leans down, sealing their lips together in a deep kiss.
When they break apart, Xichen smiles breathlessly. “We’re not children anymore, Da-ge. It’s not as if we hide what we are doing anyway. My uncle isn’t oblivious.”
Mingjue hums noncommittally. “I guess he already has to put up with one wayward nephew and his disastrous spouse. He is probably wise to it.”
Xichen smirks, wrapping his legs around Mingjue waist and pulling him down so that their chests are flushed and their faces are mere inches apart. “Spouse, huh? Are you trying to ask me something, Chifeng-zun?”
Mingjue grins, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes, and Xichen vows to analyze it later when he is not already so occupied. “You should have more faith in me, A-Huan. I would never ask in such a lackluster way.”
Xichen is weak. This man, for all his hard edges and commanding shouts and toughened stands, makes him soft. “I have all the faith in the world in you, A-Jue.”
Hours later, at 5 AM, with Mingjue still fast asleep curled around him, Xichen realizes with an exasperated chuckle that Mingjue has never replied to his question about moving them both to Gusu. Sneaky Chifeng-zun, he thinks, vowing to himself to bring up the issue again at breakfast. Perhaps he can convince Mingjue to make handpulled noodles.
They have a lot of time, after all, and Xichen thinks he has a few methods of persuasion in mind.