Chapter Text
“You actually won it.” Wei Ying breathed out in disbelief over the top of his bottle.
“No shit, I told you that two weeks ago-”
“He has a terrible memory,” Wen Ning cut in, “you know that.”
“Hey!” Wei Ying spluttered. He brought his bottle down harshly onto the wooden surface, and smirked in satisfaction at the shared flinch between his little brothers.
Asshole.
Jiang Cheng wished, not for the first time that evening, that he had something stronger in his apartment. Since the pair had arrived, Wei Ying had done nothing but provoke him. He should’ve ushered Wen Ning in and closed the door in Wei Ying’s face.
“Are we going to record the unboxing on camera, or what?” Jiang Cheng asked.
He decidedly ignored Wei Ying’s existence altogether in favor of Wen Ning’s more rational presence. Still, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t rib him a little bit. Wei Ying had sworn up and down that their web series would be “more exciting” if they recorded them actually opening the boxes whenever a haunted item got delivered. To his apartment. Which meant the place couldn’t look like a bachelor pad, and he’d made them wait an extra day before they came over. Now, with the three of them gathered, no one had made a move to open it.
“Only if gege goes to get my gear from the trunk.”
If he and Wen Ning shared a smug look over that, Wei Ying didn’t have to know.
“I won’t!”
“Then that settles it,” Jiang Cheng announced. He opened his pocket knife and sliced the tape on the box in three smooth motions.
“Where were you keeping that?” Wei Ying gasped, hands like a vice around Wen Ning’s arm.
“My pocket.”
He huffed. Nothing had leapt out at them immediately, and Wen Ning looked no worse for the wear. It probably was just a fancy antique folding fan. Wouldn’t be the first dud they’d gotten their hands on. Jiang Cheng ignored his brother’s protests that his sweatpants didn’t even have pockets in favor of the careful removal of his purchase’s layers of protection. Paper, bubble wrap, more paper, smaller bubble wrap, another layer of paper--
“Oh.”
Wen Ning’s small acknowledgement when he uncovered the slim box with a broken talisman said enough.
“Ghost story?” Wei Ying asked.
He had freed the circulation in Wen Ning’s arm, only to grip his bottle just as tight. Jiang Cheng shot him a look from across the table. When they looked to Wen Ning, he only shifted where he sat. No verbal confirmation of a threat was as good as being told there wasn’t one. It was fun to watch his brother squirm anyway.
“Guess there’s only one way to find out, then.”
Jiang Cheng delicately removed the faded lid to reveal a silver silk-lined interior. Nestled safely inside was the hand fan that only he had bid on. His breath caught. While he could make out his brother’s disappointed slump in his peripheral, the palm bamboo guards had his full attention. His right hand hovered with uncertainty over the treasure; if he were to unfold it improperly, would it tear? If the rivet came out, could he repair it? For the first time since he had decided to risk a bid on the antique, Jiang Cheng resigned himself to acknowledge his anxiety on the matter.
It didn’t last.
“Well? Anything?” Wei Ying interrupted, elbow lazily propped on the edge of the tea table.
He startled, and placed the lid back on the box.
“No.”
“No?”
“Cheng-ge,” Wen Ning pressed. His concerned tone made Jiang Cheng bristle.
“The two of you can buy the next one. I’ll sell this to a collector.”
He pretended not to see the look the two of them exchanged when he shoved the packing back into the cardboard box. There was nothing haunted about this fan. It was just. Stressful. Something so fragile had no right being in any of their hands. He’d travel to Qinghefang on his next day off, visit the artists there and see if he could get it appraised. With the most pressing matter addressed, Jiang Cheng popped the cap on his bottle at last and took a long drink from it. He ignored the way Wen Ning looked between him and the box, and how Wei Ying looked at him like he had grown a second head.
“You’re not staying here if you drink. Won’t your precious Lan Zhan expect you for breakfast?” Jiang Cheng prodded.
Both of his visitors flinched. He felt a little guilty for frightening Wen Ning, but in the name of getting Wei Ying out of his apartment before he started waxing poetic about his husband, it was a necessary course of action. Wei Ying looked forlornly at his half-drunk beer, and then at Wen Ning. The latter averted his eyes as though it would change the next words out of his mouth.
“A-Ning, you’ll drive me home, won’t you?”
“Ah, gege,” Wen Ning began, “jiejie will expect me home soon. Just that bottle.”
Wei Ying had slouched again until his olive branch. Jiang Cheng raised his bottle in a mock toast, met across the table by his brother’s. With a sign, Wen Ning raised his water glass as well.
“To the responsible Wen Ning.” He said seriously.
“To A-Ning!” Wei Ying agreed enthusiastically.
Jiang Cheng remained immensely grateful for Wen Ning. If not for his intervention to get Wei Ying home after the one bottle (“What will A-Yuan say when his diedie arrives late for breakfast?”) there might have been an entirely different type of investigation on their hands. Trash and recycle in their respective bins, Jiang Cheng turned the slender box over between his hands in his now empty apartment. Only the light that filtered through his curtains gave him any visual on the repetitive movement. He couldn’t wait for their team to get back to filming properly. No more silly bids on “haunted” items, web series on hold, and clearances granted to step foot in places most people could only dream to see with their own eyes. His interim work could be brushed under the rug again.
He paused, hand on the lid of the box. One attempt to open the fan couldn’t hurt, right? He’d handled fragile items before, and a folding fan was no different. Jiang Cheng leaned over from his seat on the bed to turn on his bedside lamp. He set the box in his lap, slid the lid off once more, and set it aside on the table. This time, he did not allow himself to hesitate when he reached to pick up the fan. Its weight was an unfamiliar comfort in his hand, and he flicked his wrist without much thought to the motion.
“Pretty,” he sighed softly with little thought.
Embarrassed by his own words - nevermind that they were in the privacy of his own home, where he was completely alone - Jiang Cheng closed the glimmering dark paper with a pinched expression. The folding fan was placed back in its box with the lid snugly in place. He refused to think that they had been too quick to judge the antique as something innocent.
There was a lot to think about, and Jiang Cheng didn’t have time to unpack all of that.
Rather than dwell, he turned the light out and slid under his covers. He was buzzed and agitated. That was all. When morning came and he was sober... No. Everything was fine. He’d sleep off the alcohol he’d drunk too quickly, and check with his agent about when filming would start again. Wei Ying’s enthusiasm for so-called “haunted” objects had rubbed off on him. That was all.
And if he dreamt of a feather-light touch and the gentle rush of air from a folding fan, Jiang Cheng would never tell.
The next several nights followed in a similar pattern. Jiang Cheng would pull out the folding fan before bed, admiring its details a little more each night. He’d consider whether or not to tell Wen Ning about the compulsion, tuck the fan back into its box, and fall into a dream that grew clearer each night. The weight of fine cloth against him, humidity that could only come in the peak of summer, a distant voice that pulled at something in his gut that he couldn’t identify. Jiang Cheng could never recall the visuals of the dream, only the sensations and muffled sounds that haunted him well into his waking hours.
When Wei Ying and Lan Zhan hosted dinner at their house the weekend that followed, he found himself reluctant to leave the folding fan at his apartment. It was understandable, he reasoned, because he had begun to pull it out during the day when his research became too overwhelming. He fiddled with the fan to relax and distract himself. That was all.
“Ah, didi - what happened to your face?” Wei Ying asked, hands pressed firmly on Jiang Cheng’s cheeks.
“A-Ying,” Jiang Yanli scolded from the kitchen.
His hands fell to his shoulders immediately. Wei Ying dropped his voice, aware now that their older sister could hear them.
“Seriously, Jiang Cheng.”
Jiang Cheng nearly started at his brother’s serious tone. Nearly. He still scowled and shrugged his hands away.
“Someone has to pitch some more locations for the season, since no one else is,” he griped.
A tension he hadn’t noticed in Wei Ying’s shoulders relaxed. Then, he burst into laughter. Jiang Cheng sighed and pushed past him. At least Wen Ning and Wen Qing weren’t here to get on his case as well. Couldn’t someone else work with their producers? Although he imagined that if Wei Ying had a say in their lockdown locations, Wen Ning would probably quit on the spot. Determined not to let Wei Ying’s unusual interest in his well-being distract him, he made his way towards the kitchen.
“Jiejie,” he called, “I’ve missed you!”
Jiang Cheng found it harder to part with the fan after that night. When he’d finally gotten home and prepared for bed, he’d sat longer than usual just turning it over between his fingers to inspect each layering of gold flake in the artwork that depicted a mountain range. The dream that followed still hadn’t had a visual that he could recall, yet something else had stood out to him. He’d heard his name. There was an addicting quality to this evolution, and he told himself that he could stop and sell the fan away at any time.
Another week passed, and he still hadn’t gone to Qinghefang to have his folding fan looked at.
When had it become his folding fan? Jiang Cheng huffed and turned back to the article he had been sent by Wei Ying for consideration. Rather than send it directly to their agent, or to their producer, he had sent it to him to look over first. Which was probably for the best, since the entire thing read like a tourist trap. They’d have no content to put into an episode, and their ratings would drop fast. He shot the group text an eyeroll emoji and a short, “I’ll break your legs if you send more trash like that for me to read” for the both of them to consider. Wen Ning would never disappoint him like that on purpose, but he couldn’t let him think he’d get a free pass just because Wei Ying was the usual instigator.
Fan back in hand, Jiang Cheng looked at the clock. Just late enough in the day to excuse a nap, something he had started after his sister had expressed her concern over the dark circles under his eyes. And if he grew closer to a solved mystery in regards to the dreams he’d been having, it wasn’t like he lost much time in his day. Technically, that meant he was still working. He could stop the indulgence any time he wanted, yes, but it was work.
Wasn’t it?
Jiang Cheng closed his laptop and set his phone on its charger. He turned out the lights in his office and shuffled across the hallway to his bedroom, shirt already unbuttoned and off of his shoulders by the time he sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t remember being this tired between seasons before, but then again, he hadn’t had to look so hard for locations that would grant him and his team access to investigate and film before. It had nothing to do with the fan. The fan which, as he laid back on his pillows, he gently swung to get a light breeze off of it.
Jiang Cheng didn’t even know that he had fallen asleep.
One moment he was reclined in his own bed, and the next, he opened his eyes to a lavish room draped in dark silks and decorated with painted fans and scrolls that looked right at home in their environment. His heart skipped, and he shoved down the unease. It was a dream. There was no reason to overanalyze it. The fan wasn’t in his hand anymore, and he sat up slowly. Flexed his fingers, as if to check that he wouldn’t suddenly wake up back in his room. If he woke to find the folding fan broken... Jiang Cheng frowned.
“Ah, husband, why make such a face?”
He was surprised, but Jiang Cheng certainly didn’t jump when he heard the voice so clearly. As though pulled by a magnet, he found the speaker across the room with an ease that should’ve concerned him. Instead, he found himself breathless.
“Husband.” He repeated back, embarrassed by his own foolish tone.
The man laughed from his seat at a low table, dark paper and strips of bamboo spread out before him. He rose with a grace that put his heart in his throat, and glided over to the beside effortlessly. Expression mischievous, he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Forgotten so easily?” He asked him, mouth hidden behind a bell-shaped sleeve.
Jiang Cheng would dare to say that he was hurt. In a rush to reassure him, he tried to deny it. Rather than come across as a statement, he sounded unsure.
“No?”
In a practiced movement, the man before him bowed in such a way that kept the lower half of his face hidden from Jiang Cheng.
“Nie Huaisang. I’ve waited for you, A-Cheng.”
Unwilling to let himself be hesitant in his own dream, Jiang Cheng reached out to touch either side of Nie Huaisang’s arms. He guided them to lower and waited patiently for their eyes to meet again. Every part of him felt wrong and right all at once, and he shoved both feelings aside to ask his questions.
“How long?” Jiang Cheng asked.
So he’d only managed one question. He could only hold his thoughts for so long before they became an overwhelmed assessment of the man before him. Every sense drank in the man before him, from the careful lay of his braids to his dark lashes, the angle of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the slight twist in his lips that Jiang Cheng longed to kiss away. His hidden, slender fingers that he’d only glimpsed in his bow, the curve of his neck complimented by the gentle waves of his hair and the stiff collar of his robes. The unfamiliar scent of herbs that further calmed him, and the taste of ink on his tongue that could only have to do with the number of artworks in an enclosed space such as this.
Nie Huaisang moved closer, and Jiang Cheng found that he too moved to meet him halfway.
“A-Sang,” he said, the endearment rolling easily off of his tongue, “how long have you waited?”
“No longer than you have waited for me,” he evaded.
It wasn’t an answer, and Jiang Cheng opened his mouth again to say as much. But slender, delicate fingers trailed down the side of his face, stopped to cup his cheek. And he was lost in the sensations again. Mercifully, Nie Huaisang didn’t comment audibly on his sudden silence. Nothing about this man was familiar - nothing about this place - yet Jiang Cheng undeniably felt that the sense of rightness settled deeper into his bones.
Husband, his mind repeated. What had even felt wrong in the first place? He leaned into his touch, raised his own hand to cover Nie Huaisang’s with a content sigh.
“Husband, if I’ve forgotten,” he said softly, afraid to ruin the tranquility that had settled into the room, “then will you help me remember?”
Jiang Cheng leaned closer to the man, breathed in his scent. Fresh, crisp, and earthy. He smelled like home. How could he have forgotten what home smelled like? What it felt like? Nie Huaisang, like himself, had dark circles under his eyes. His were a more reddish purple, and Jiang Cheng longed to clear them from his face. His husband deserved a good night’s rest, he had waited so long.
“Of course,” his husband agreed easily.
He closed the distance and pressed a kiss to Jiang Cheng’s brow. Next was his nose, then his cheek, and then the corner of his lips. Jiang Cheng smiled and made sure the next kiss was shared. Any lingering unease, he reasoned, was because his husband had waited and remembered, while he had gone and forgotten. When Nie Huaisang pulled back to look up at him through his lashes, he felt his heart constrict all over again. That same pull intensified. He’d never felt like this - had he waited, too? Unaware, yet still devoted? Jiang Cheng would’ve liked to think so.
“And you’ll stay?” Nie Huaisang asked softly.
“Of course.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as you’ll have me.”
Jiang Cheng missed his next smile against his lips, missed just what the pleased hum against his jaw might have meant. He shivered, unbidden, under his husband’s gentle touch. Why had he ever left their home?
“I’ll have you forever, A-Cheng.” Nie Huaisang murmured against the hollow of his throat.
Jiang Cheng could live with that. There was nowhere else he’d rather be.
Wei Ying’s discovery of the broken folding fan in his apartment, Jiang Cheng nowhere to be found? He’d never know.