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It’s the fifteenth day of the first month, and just like every other year since Wei Wuxian’s death, Jiang Cheng spends it alone.
Yunmeng’s night sky is glowing with the light of a million paper lanterns, their warm glow shrouding the sparkle of distant stars as they rise as a collective whole, carrying the wishes and prayers of those who released them.
Jiang Cheng sits atop an outcropping of rocks at the edge of Lotus Pier, watching his disciples release lanterns into the sky as his own lies undecorated by his side. Their chatter fills the air with clamours of camaraderie, reminiscent of the days when he had been among them. During the day, his solitude doesn’t bother him much; he is too caught up in his work, and the presence of his staff and disciples are enough to keep him company.
On nights like these, though, Jiang Cheng feels an acute ache in his side, a void that someone once filled. Someone who had understood him, who had stood by him, and who had vowed to stay with him into the next life.
Instead, he is left gazing at the full moon alone, wondering if a lost soul somewhere is doing the same.
A light breeze brushes past him, the tinkling of ceramic jars sounding surprisingly delicate among rowdy laughter. Jiang Cheng turns to see a figure in white, an impassive jade face softening into something he has learned to recognize as longing.
“Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji says by way of greeting. A few years ago, having Hanguang-jun call him by anything other than his title had been unfathomable, but now, they address each other like old friends.
Jiang Cheng’s eyes fall to the jars of alcohol dangling from long, slender fingers, calloused from hours of playing the qin. Three familiar characters are etched along their sides: Emperor’s Smile.
“I thought it was against the rules to drink, Lan Wangji,” Jiang Cheng teases, making room on the rock for the other man to sit.
Lan Wangji does so elegantly, holding out a jar in offering. “I do not drink,” he affirms. “This is for you.”
Jiang Cheng accepts the alcohol and, removing the cloth stopper in one fluid movement, pours some down his throat without much finesse. It burns on the way down, notes of sweetness and spice reminiscent of carefree summer days in the Cloud Recesses. Even after so many years, Emperor’s Smile tastes the same, befitting of the title of best wine in Gusu. For some reason, this trace of consistency in an ever-changing world grounds him.
“What brings the illustrious Hanguang-jun to the humble Lotus Pier on this fine night?” Jiang Cheng asks, setting the jar of wine down.
Lan Wangji lets out a dry laugh at his formality. “I had thought you might be alone.”
Jiang Cheng frowns, gesturing at his disciples who are now huddled in groups, surrounding campfires as they watch the lanterns become pinpoints of lights against a dark canvas. “I’m not alone.”
Lan Wangji tilts his head judgmentally, but he does not comment.
“Oh please, don’t be a hypocrite. Where’s your brother? Shouldn’t you be spending the Lantern Festival with him?”
“Xiongzhang is visiting Lianfang-zun,” Lan Wangji replies, the barest hints of bitterness and displeasure bleeding into his words. “It is for the best that they have one another, during this difficult time.”
Jiang Cheng hums in understanding, taking another sip and letting the alcohol warm his body through. It has not been too long since the late Sect Leader Nie had passed from a particularly violent qi deviation, and his death had devastated both his sworn brothers.
The two of them fall into a comfortable silence, watching the stars and listening to the Yunmeng disciples laugh and sing, their bright voices warming up the winter night. For some reason, sitting on the overhanging rocks where his past and present intersect, Jiang Cheng feels compelled to speak.
“We used to come here a lot, you know,” he begins, and Lan Wangji shifts ever so slightly to show that he is listening. Jiang Cheng doesn’t need to elaborate—he can only ever mean one person, between the two of them. “The younger disciples would fly kites, and the older disciples would try to shoot them down. We always made it a competition, to see who can shoot the kite that flies the highest, the farthest.”
“Who won?”
Jiang Cheng laughs, surprised by the lack of acidity in his voice when he responds. “He did, of course. Overachiever. He was better than me at everything.”
“Not everything,” Lan Wangji corrects, frowning.
“Hm?” Jiang Cheng looks up at the unexpected words, startling when he meets a pair of golden eyes watching him intensely. “What are you talking about?”
Lan Wangji nods at his gathered disciples. “Rebuilding Lotus Pier. Leading the Yunmeng Jiang Sect. They are your accomplishments, Jiang Wanyin.”
Jiang Cheng’s throat suddenly feels dry, and he takes a quick sip of alcohol to mask his embarrassment. Judging from Lan Wangji’s expression, he isn’t very successful.
“And yet,” Lan Wangji continues, as if Jiang Cheng hadn’t just choked ungracefully in front of him. “You choose to remain alone.”
“I’m not alone,” Jiang Cheng argues again, instinctively.
“Your disciples admire you,” Lan Wangji says, ignoring him. “Your staff respects you, and your second-in-command is certainly trustworthy in her own right. Yet, you sit on your own on a night when family and friends gather together.”
“You’re awfully chatty tonight, Lan Wangji,” Jiang Cheng snarks, but there is no heat to his words.
“Mn,” Lan Wangji replies. Jiang Cheng is going to strangle the next person that says Hanguang-jun doesn’t have a sense of humour.
“I’m just working,” Jiang Cheng explains, feeling like he has to justify himself somehow. “They’re fine on their own, they have each other, and—” he cuts himself off forcefully. And there’s no one else I’d trust the same way I trusted him.
Except maybe you.
The realization is startling, and he coughs awkwardly, taking another sip of alcohol to sooth his nerves.
Not wanting to give Lan Wangji any chance to press further, he diverts the topic. “Besides, it’s not like you had wanted to be near anyone, after. You know. You went into seclusion for three years.”
It’s Lan Wangji’s turn to look away, doing his best imitation of an actual block of jade. Eventually, he sighs, and corrects tersely, “Force seclusion.”
Jiang Cheng looks at him in surprise, remembering the scars he’d felt on Lan Wangji’s back from a night hunt a few years back. He’d had guesses about their origins, but hearing Lan Wangji’s bitterness and anger in person still comes as a shock. He isn’t even sure whether Lan Wangji is angrier at the elders who delivered the punishment, or at himself for not being strong enough to protect the one he loves.
“Still, you don’t get to yell at me for being withdrawn. Hypocrite,” he adds, in a poor attempt to lighten the mood.
The faintest of smiles pass over Lan Wangji’s face, and in the light of the full moon, Jiang Cheng thinks he looks rather good, smiling.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the feeling of implicit understanding between them, but Jiang Cheng starts laughing softly. “Heavens, look at us. We’re so pathetic, huh? Hung up on a dead guy who’s probably passed on by now. What’s the point?”
“You do not believe he is truly dead,” Lan Wangji points out.
Of course not. Neither of them do. If there is anyone who could come back even after his body and soul have been ripped apart by resentful energy, it would be the Yiling Laozu, founder of demonic cultivation. The fact that Jiang Cheng kept Chenqing after the siege, the fact that Lan Wangji plays Inquiry tirelessly, is testament to that belief.
Jiang Cheng levels him a look that tells him he wasted his breath.
“If he was here right now, he’d tell you some nonsense about how it isn’t that easy to get rid of him,” Jiang Cheng says, feeling his chest constrict and lighten at the same time.
“Mn. That is certainly how he had acted during the Gusu lectures,” Lan Wangji agrees.
The two of them exchange fond, exasperated smiles, trading stories about Wei Wuxian from the past. Tales of him are carried into the sky by the night breeze—not the embellished legends of the fearsome Yiling Laozu told to children as bedtime stories, nor the exaggerated rumours of a defected disciple exchanged at tea houses, but the anecdotes of a young man with a mischievous smile and a good heart, whispered between the two people who cared about him the most in the world.
Subconsciously, Jiang Cheng shifts closer to Lan Wangji as they speak, instinctively seeking the warmth of another body where for so long there had only been empty air. Surprisingly, Lan Wangji doesn’t flinch away, even relaxing when Jiang Cheng tentatively leans his head against Lan Wangji’s shoulder, alcohol making his head feel too heavy to stay upright on his neck.
They remain as they are for some time, basking in their shared warmth, until Jiang Cheng shifts away abruptly. Standing up, he picks up the second jar of Emperor’s Smile and approaches the edge of the rocky outcrop, taking off its cloth covering.
“Wei Wuxian!” he declares, lifting the jar towards the moon. “I toast to you!”
Slowly, meaningfully, he tips the jar at the rocks below, watching the alcohol trickle down the boulders in a gradual silver stream, catching the lights above.
When the last drop has fallen from the jar, he returns to his seat, only to find that Lan Wangji has produced a brush and a filled inkstone, spreading Jiang Cheng’s blank lantern in front of him.
“That’s mine,” he feels the need to say, even though he doesn’t mind at all. Jiang Cheng hadn’t been planning to release a lantern tonight, after he had tried and failed to think of something to write on it.
Lan Wangji hums in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t lift his head. In his neat, textbook-perfect calligraphy, black characters bloom starkly upon a background of white. Let my future be bright. Let my path be smooth. He blows over the words softly to help them dry quicker.
“For you, or for me?” Jiang Cheng asks.
“Can it not be for both of us?” Lan Wangji asks him in return.
Since when, Jiang Cheng marvels, did Lan Wanji and I become an ‘us’?
Feeling braver than he is, no doubt due to the alcohol, Jiang Cheng steals the brush away before Lan Wangji can begin to clean it and put it away. With a small, cheeky grin, he scribbles four more characters onto the lantern, though in noticeably messier handwriting.
Let our friendship be everlasting.
Lan Wangji frowns for a split-second, his eyes lingering on the characters for ‘friendship.’ After a moment, he shakes his head and sighs. “Childish.”
“Hmm? Are we not friends, Hanguang-jun?” Jiang Cheng says, just to be annoying.
Lan Wangji ignores him in favour of reaching over to pluck the brush from Jiang Cheng’s hand, putting it away before Jiang Cheng can get ink all over his robes. After setting it down, he takes the paper lantern in both hands, holding it steady as Jiang Cheng lights the wick with a flame talisman.
They hold the lantern between the two of them, letting it fill with warm air and keeping it level, before releasing it together. Their eyes follow the flickering point of light until it blends into the stars, too far for their eyes to see.
Let our futures be bright. Let our paths be smooth. Let our friendship be everlasting.