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These days, their routine has spiralled into something different — something gentle that catches Jiang Cheng falling asleep in Lan Wangji’s embrace, burying his nose into Lan Wangji’s blankets in the early hours of the morning, reaching for the warmth of his body.
(He refuses to acknowledge what it might mean, the same way Lan Wangji’s sudden, quiet, terrifying confession hasn't been mentioned even once in the passing weeks.)
Nothing has changed — every week on a particular day Jiang Cheng finds himself at the gates to the Cloud Recesses, jade token in hand. His face still stings from the biting wind that comes with sword travel, unnecessarily cold at this time of the year. He’s looking forward to the turn of the seasons, when Gusu is filled with the fragrance of flowering trees and the fresh scent of greenery.
Early spring loves to bloom in the aftershocks of winter.
Lan Wangji greets him with his usual impassiveness, and they spend the afternoon sipping tea in one of the guest pavilions, going over things he should be discussing with Lan Xichen. As usual, the Lans’ simple, unassuming estate is filled with tranquility.
The air is thick with the smell of ozone, cool air whisking the rising steam away from the surface of Gusu’s famous biluochun tea, its gentle aroma filling the air. Lan Wangji’s loose hair shifts, shimmering in the pale sunlight like an inky-black veil. The forest around them rustles quietly in the sudden breeze.
“Looks like it’s going to rain,” Jiang Cheng says.
Lan Wangji watches him over the rim of his glazed teacup.
“Mn.”
It’s in the aftermath of the storm, with its chilly wind and drips of leftover rain, that Jiang Cheng finds the courage to address the words that have been hanging unsaid between them. The sound of water sluicing off the roof is loud outside the shuttered windows, and thunder rolls over the distant horizon.
Lan Wangji is clinging to him, basking in the afterglow of their evening activities, a possessive hand curled around his waist. The evidence of their coupling has long been cleaned up, but the ache in his muscles and the stinging pain in his ass linger.
By the bed, light talismans glow dimly in the rapidly falling night.
Love , Jiang Cheng thinks. For someone who’s older than him, Lan Wangji can be surprisingly childish.
“Do you miss him?”
His words are steady, but he can feel his pulse pick up in his ears when the question leaves his lips. He’s not sure if he wants to know the answer. He’s not sure what he wants the answer to be . Wei Wuxian, the ghost that lies between them even in the most intimate of moments, watches the show from the front row seat of their thoughts.
Lan Wangji sits up to watch him with pale eyes unblinking like an owl’s, an odd sharpness to them that contrasts with the warm hands pressed to Jiang Cheng’s bare skin.
When he speaks, his voice is low, but clear.
“Do you want me to?”
Jiang Cheng doesn’t know how to answer that. He turns away from that piercing stare, his gaze flicking over the room.
“Wanyin.”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this about what I said? Before.”
“I don’t know, what did you say?”
“Wanyin–”
“Stop calling me that!” Jiang Cheng cries. Something hot burns in his eyes and he wipes at them angrily with the palm of his hand. Abruptly, he knows this entire charade has been a mistake.
Sleeping with Lan Wangji? Falling for the person who was– and still is – head-over-heels for his childhood crush? What kind of fucked up teenage girl story is this?!
Lan Wangji has no right to call him ‘Wanyin’ , the same way Jiang Cheng doesn’t want to call him ‘Lan Zhan’ . It’s not enough that Lan Wangji has never respected his title, or shown him even a little bit of face, is it? Now the great Hanguang-jun, Second Jade of the Lan Sect, has decided that Jiang Cheng is his Wei Ying replacement, and he wants to take more ?
“Hanguang-jun,” he says, pushing away the hand that tries to catch his shoulder. “Let’s end this.”
Jiang Cheng won’t look Lan Wangji in the eye, but that’s because he doesn’t want to see Lan Wangji’s face. He doesn’t want to see the impassive, cold disappointment in those beautiful eyes. He doesn’t want to know that all these months of nothing have culminated in an irrational attachment on Lan Wangji’s part and unwanted feelings on Jiang Cheng’s.
(He could pick up any cultivator from Yunmeng. It doesn’t have to be Jiang Cheng. What he wants to hear is that accent, isn’t it? The flat, messy Yunmeng accent that was always particularly strong on Wei Wuxian’s tongue.)
Lan Wangji doesn’t say anything for a long time.
“You need to let it go,” is what he says when he does.
‘ Let it go ’. As if the memories that haunt Jiang Cheng were nothing but an unfortunate blemish on their lives. As if Lan Wangji doesn’t spend his days and nights playing that stupid fucking song on that stupid fucking string instrument, hoping to even catch a glimpse of Wei Wuxian again. Jiang Cheng could punch him right now. Jiang Cheng hates him so much .
“My best friend died ,” he hisses, ignoring the heat in his eyes and the stinging in his nose.
“He fucking died , and I couldn’t do anything to stop it, and now I’m screwing around with some guy who was obsessed with him .” When he inhales, it feels like he’s drowning all over again - throat tight, chest tight, his lungs burning. He grips at the messy blankets under him, fingers digging into the smooth cotton.
“And you want me, to, to fucking, let it go ?!”
The silence, this time, lasts longer.
Jiang Cheng’s anger pulses in his neck, filling his head with a cottony feeling. Right now, the last person he wants to see is Lan Wangji. He stares at the paper-thin screen that hides them from the rest of the room, eyes tracing over the intricate details in silver trim with his eyes. With a flick of a hand, he could break the illusion of privacy.
The Lan Sect expends so much effort in maintaining its appearance of simplicity, but it’s never been more clear to Jiang Cheng than right now how hypocritical they are. How full of shit Hanguang-jun is.
“He was.. important. To both of us.”
It’s not an apology, but it’s not as if Jiang Cheng has heard Lan Wangji apologise to anyone, ever. He breathes, fingers reaching for a Zidian that he’d left with the rest of his robes when they’d collapsed on the bed earlier in a tangle of limbs.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” he laughs, and it comes out all hoarse and strangled, with an awful, bitter taste in his mouth.
Lan Wangji doesn’t stop him when he gets up from the bed, back turned. He doesn’t say anything when Jiang Cheng gets dressed in rough, shaky movements. The jade token he’d brought with him is left on the tea table where they had dinner just a few hours ago.
He can feel Lan Wangji’s gaze burning into his skin, until the moment he disappears behind the hanging silk screen.
Jiang Cheng refuses to look back.
The Jingshi, outside of that curtain of warmth, is unlit. Outside, the dripping rain continues to patter against the pebbled pathways, the air still in the hours after the storm has passed. Jiang Cheng makes his way to the door, grabbing his sword on the way out, Zidian letting out sparks that trail down his fingertips.
In the mountains where the Lan Sect’s estates lie, the air is especially cold at night. Jiang Cheng’s breath puffs out in tiny, miserable clouds as he shivers his way out the gates and mounts his sword, heading back home.