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When A-Jie used to make it, she was always smiling. Her eyes would crease at the corners, cheeks rosy with steam, hair falling haphazardly around her face. She was radiant, beautiful in her own quiet joy at caring for her favorite people. But she was gone now, and all that was left was Jiang Cheng.
The lotus roots are all freshly peeled. Off to the side, the peels have almost as much flesh left on them as the usable bits do from his imprecise knife-strokes. He brushes them into the bin before finally pulling one of the lotus roots closer to him and slicing them as precisely as he can. They’re not right; a few too chunky, most too thin. A-Jie had always gotten them to be the exact right thickness to soften in the broth without curling too much into themselves. His throat feels tight. He cuts another, concentrating to try to get it right. Closer. (Not quite right.)
He throws them into the pot of water, plunking in the pork after them with enough force that the water splatters across the counter. Ginger. Seaweed. Onion. It doesn’t look right, at all, like the colors have washed out and greyed over. It doesn’t feel right, either. He’s supposed to be sitting at the table, smacking Wei Wuxian playfully on the head for some stupid remark while A-Jie scolds them lightly even as she smiles warmly over at them, the smell of lotus root and pork rib soup wafting through the kitchen. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until his tears splash into the pot. Extra seasoning. Wei Wuxian would have liked that.
Even after all this time, their absences feel like a gaping wound—their shadows all that remain, haunting all the places they used to live. The training grounds. The docks. Every path and hall. The kitchen. The kitchen gets bigger at night, shadows extending to cover him, all smudged edges and obsidian darkness. It makes him think of the drape of his brother’s robes, a black shadow curling around his knees when he sits down, makes him think of the dark sheen in his eyes when he’d dangling from the cliff, that last time.
He’d looked for his brother, after the fall. All he’d found was that stupid fucking dizi. He’d clutched Chenqing between his hands, almost wanting to snap it in half. He didn’t, still hasn’t. It’s hidden away in his room, propped up in a shadowed place next to Suibian. He polishes them both every week with the same delicate care he uses on Sandu. That place inside him that couldn’t snap Chenqing, that needs to keep his spiritual tools in perfect form as if he’s going to stumble into Lotus Pier any day now, it aches. It’s worse at night; he’s shrouded in the same darkness that Wei Wuxian will never come back from.
As dawn breaks through the little window set into the corner of the kitchen, Jiang Cheng misses A-Jie like a limb lost. She was always so warm. A pit yawns within him, and he can’t tell if he’s furious or devastated that he can’t escape this grief no matter what the light in the room is doing. It’s just like those two to rule his every moment. They always have. He laughs, but it comes out wrong—twisted—so he stops. The kitchen is full of warm steam. It almost smells like her soup, but he can tell already there’s not enough ginger as it slowly simmers. Not enough ginger, none of his sister’s love crafted into her recipe. There’s only him, and the shrinking shadows and kitchen.
“Jiujiu?”
Jiang Cheng blinks. The kitchen shrinks again to its rightful size, to the silhouette of his little nephew standing in the doorway, hands balled at his sides even as he looks up with wide concerned eyes.
“A-Ling,” he says, clearing his throat uncomfortably when it cracks. Jin Ling takes hesitant steps toward him, looking up at his eyes before darting his gaze back to the floor. Maybe it was just the early hours softening both their hard edges, but Jin Ling reaches his pudgy little hands up, pulls Jiang Cheng’s face down, and wipes clumsy fingers against his cheeks. They come away wet. “Oh.”
“Is jiujiu sad?”
Jiang Cheng bends down, pulling the little boy into his arms, and pinching his sides until he’s complaining and trying to wriggle away with unwilling laughter. “Your jiujiu is fine,” he says gruffly. “Are you hungry?”
At Jin Ling’s enthusiastic nod, he plucks the kid up in his arms to go check on the soup. The broth is a little lighter than it’s supposed to be, not enough pork, lotus root a bit too thinly sliced, making them wobble and snap as he stirs it around with the ladle. He pulls Jing Ling tighter against his hip, patting the boy’s back gently as his swollen eyes begin to sting again. It feels warmer now, somehow, this unending grief, like he can finally take a deep breath. He buries his face in Jin Ling’s hair, and kisses his head, again and again until he smacks him with little hands and complains. This time, the laugh sounds right.
He ladles the soup into two turquoise bowls, making sure Jin Ling’s has a generous portion of pork. He lugs the boy back over to the table and settles him onto a chair, ignoring his whining with practiced ease. When he returns with the two filled bowls, Jin Ling smiles brightly at him. The shadows ease further as Jin Ling happily spoons his soup into his mouth, making a pleased noise after every bite. It doesn’t taste the way he remembers, but it’s still decent, and Jin Ling likes it.
Sometimes, the light gets in.
***
“I don’t get why I need to learn this,” Jin Ling whines. “No one at Koi Tower would let me cook anyway.”
Jiang Cheng sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut in consternation. What a brat. Who had raised him? When he opens his eyes, Jin Ling’s own nose wrinkles in apparent disgust as he pulls the blanched rib bones from the water one by one, held delicately between pointer finger and thumb so they barely touched his skin before he sets them on the counter.
“Give me that,” Jiang Cheng demands, yanking the still steaming bone from Jin Ling’s hand. “What are you going to do when you’re not in Koi Tower then? Depend on everyone else for the rest of your life? Over my dead body!”
“Like I’m going to be able to make this on a night hunt!”
Jiang Cheng clenches his jaw tight enough to hurt, something viscous and jagged burning up his throat. “Just pay attention or I’ll break your legs!”
Jin Ling snaps his mouth shut on another complaint, still glaring mutinously up at him. Good enough.
“Okay, curl your fingers like this,” he says, handing Jin Ling a knife, and forcefully curling his fingers around the hilt of the knife, making sure to tuck them securely away from the blade. “Now, you just slice the lotus roots.” He moves Jin Ling’s hand slowly across one of the lotus roots stacked in front of him, holding it steady with his own free left hand. “Got it?”
Jin Ling nods, so Jiang Cheng hesitantly removes his own hands, only to immediately put them back when Jin Ling steadies the lotus root himself with his pinky finger pointed straight out, right in the way of the descending blade. “Do you want to cut off your finger?” he demands, curling the offending finger away from where it rests against the cutting board. “Always curl your fingers, like this. I’m not going to sew any back if you cut them off, got it?”
“Whatever,” Jin Ling mutters, but he dutifully keeps his fingers curled as he clumsily chops the lotus root. Jiang Cheng removes his hands again after a few successful, safe slices. The first piece Jin Ling cuts alone breaks in half, knife skittering at a strange angle and leaving a jagged edge. With a curse Jiang Cheng pretends not to hear, Jin Ling cuts off the bit he’d accidentally left, making the working surface smooth once more. The second slice is too thin. Third, too thick. It evens out after that, each a little jagged and thick. Jiang Cheng smiles.
When Jin Ling looks back up at him after the last lotus root is cut, he smooths his face back into a scowl, picks up the lotus roots, and sprinkles them into the waiting pot. “Make yourself useful and get the pork.”
Jin Ling rolls his eyes again. Jiang Cheng rolls his right back, but lowers the pot so Jin Ling can throw the prepared meat in. He scrapes the onions and ginger off the counter, and into the soupy mixture, before settling it all back down to boil with a brisk stir. He covers the pot, satisfied with their afternoon’s work.
“I don’t get why we’re doing this,” Jing Ling whines as he flops down onto a chair, head thrown back in dramatic as if Jiang Cheng had just made him practice his sword forms for hours on end, instead of helping him chop vegetables for less than thirty minutes. Jiang Cheng thinks of Wei Wuxian, unwittingly reminded of his brother’s careless sprawl and playful whining.
Jiang Cheng sits across from him, glaring down at his hands. In moments like this, the longing for Jiang Yanli is almost overwhelming. She would know what to say to her son when he’s like this. Jiang Yanli sits between them, an unacknowledged presence in this moment, even if Jin Ling doesn’t know to miss her in the growing smell of cooking vegetables. He’s never been good at reaching out—connecting. Even Wei Wuxian would be able to—no. Not him. He clenches his fists.
Jin Ling sighs dramatically. “The soup better be good,” he mutters.
Jiang Cheng smiles down at the table, not meeting his eyes.
The soup’s good, better than when Jiang Cheng makes it on his own. Jin Ling hums happily as he spoons it into his mouth, complaints long forgotten. He can almost see Jiang Yanli smiling out of the corner of his eye.
***
“—my fault your tongue is weak!”
Jiang Cheng stops at the threshold to the kitchen, listening to Wei Wuxian’s taunts. They sink in his stomach, heavy and burning. He turns away, leans his back to the wall, and tries to steady his breathing.
“It’s not weak, you’re just insane!” Jin Ling snaps, sounding angrier than he truly is. Jiang Cheng wonders if Wei Wuxian can tell from the way his voice goes high and warbling like he can.
There’s the sound of a scuffle, shoes skittering across the floor, before Wei Wuxian scoffs. “See if I offer to cook for you again!”
“Like I’d want you to, Wei-shushu!” Jin Ling says. He mutters something too quiet for Jiang Cheng to hear. Wei-shushu. When had that started? Jiang Cheng’s gut clenches. He feels muddled, awash in—what? Fear? Rage? Jealousy? Of which one of them? He can’t even tell with how it’s all roiling together.
Wei Wuxian responds with a joyful laugh. “You think you can cook better than me?” he asks tauntingly. “They let the poor little rich boy cook in Koi Tower?”
“My jiujiu taught me!”
“Ah, so you’re going to poison us!”
Jin Ling snarls. Another scuffle ending in the resounding smack of a hand meeting flesh.
“This is elder abuse,” Wei Wuxian wails.
Jiang Cheng lets the words wash across him as he sinks to the floor. He’s untethered, floating away on words not meant for him to overhear. He can’t remember the last time Wei Wuxian was that carefree around him. Before he’d come back, for sure. Before the Wen remnants, maybe even before he’d gotten his golden core back (been given it, carved straight out of his brother's chest, no matter how unknowingly), before Lotus Pier fell?
The shadows shifted after Wei Wuxian’s return. They’ve shrunk, sure, but they writhe now, the way only living things can. Sometimes, they almost choke him with this unending fury and grief all twisted together, intertwined with a bone-weary relief at seeing the dark silhouette his brother cuts. It’s the bite of the cut, and the soothe of a healing balm rubbed tenderly into broken skin. But in the other room, Jin Ling is laughing. And that’s something, isn’t it? That’s something.
The sounds of rhythmic chopping filter out of the kitchen. Jiang Cheng can almost see it, Wei Wuxian sprawled out in his customary chair, watching Jin Ling stand where Jiang Yanli always had before—for them. He wants, with a desperation that scares him, to know what expression he’s making. He wants to get up off the floor and settle down in the chair beside him and watch Jin Ling make lotus root and pork rib soup (because he only taught him the one recipe), bickering with all the barbs shorn off. He doesn’t.
“Are you making—?” We Wuxian starts to ask, before trailing off uncharacteristically.
“Lotus root and pork rib soup.”
Silence settles, the sound of ingredients dropping into a pot of water the only interruption to the deafening quiet. It’s unnatural for Wei Wuxian to be this quiet. Jiang Cheng raises his knees, arms wrapping around them and hopes no one walks by to see him in such an improper position. It’s not dignified for a sect leader.
“Shijie used to make that for me and Jiang Cheng, you know,” Wei Wuxian says, voice hesitant, barely carrying to his hiding place by the door.
The quiet sounds of Jin Ling in the kitchen, the rustling of Wei Wuxian’s characteristic twitching, it all stops. Silence descends, oppressive, and blanketing. Jiang Cheng’s nails bite harshly into the skin of his forearms, torn between fleeing and checking to make sure Jin Ling is okay. Neither urge wins out, so he stays there, stuck in the hallway, waiting. His own breathing is deafening in the silence, sharp and shallow. It’s a wonder the other two can’t hear it.
“My—?”
Wei Wuxian hums in affirmation to the unasked question. “It was our favorite, you know,” he says, sounding wistful. Sad. “I’ve missed it,” he says. I’ve missed her, Jiang Cheng hears.
His throat is tight again, burning with all the things he’s yet to find a way to say; still can’t but maybe saying something, anything, will be better than this pervasive silence that’s settled between them, this little bit of family he has left. It’s harder than anything he’s ever done, getting up from his curled position on the floor and walking into the kitchen.
Jin Ling is leaning against the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, eyes wide and just beginning to spill over. Wei Wuxian is sitting in his chair, back unnaturally straight as he looks up at Jin Ling with a wobbling lower lip and his own watering eyes. They both turn in his direction, shocked at the sound of his footsteps. Jin Ling tries to wipe away his tears, turning back toward the soup. With an aggrieved sigh he doesn’t really feel, Jiang Cheng loops his arm around Jin Ling’s slim shoulders, leads him over the table, and pushes him down into a chair next to Wei Wuxian.
He turns his back on both of their wide eyes and goes to the stove. All that’s left is scooping the ginger in. He takes his time, sliding each piece in one by one, before putting the lid carefully on and leaving it to simmer. He can still feel their eyes on him. He puts both palms flat on the counter, looking down at the space that’s left between them, and takes a deep breath. Then another. And another.
“She’d make it whenever we were fighting,” he says, voice rough. “We’d always forget whatever stupid thing we were fighting about to argue over who got the most pieces of pork.”
Wei Wuxian laughs. It sounds wet. Jiang Cheng turns around to find them both openly crying. Wei Wuxian’s smile is brighter than he’s seen it in this new life, eyes warm. Jin Ling’s doing that thing he does when he’s trying not to cry where he scrunches all his features in together, eyes squeezed shut.
“You didn’t tell me it was her recipe,” Jin Ling says.
Jiang Cheng walks over and carefully settles into the last open chair. There’s always been this vacant space, empty but for the shadows of what once was. His throat clogs at the sight of it filled. He clears his throat. “You’re a lot like her, you know?” he says. “You’re just as kind and dedicated.” Jin Ling opens his eyes, no longer bothering to hide the tears freely streaming down his cheeks and into his lap. “Except your attitude, that’s all Jin Zixuan.”
Wei Wuxian laughs again. “Oh, come on! He got all that from his jiujiu!”
“Shut up!”
“Or what, you’ll break my legs?”
Jin Ling interrupts them with a demanding “enough!” They both turn to him, eyes wide. Jiang Cheng wonders if Wei Wuxian can feel Jiang Yanli with them, here, in this moment. In her Jin Ling. “Stop fighting or neither of you get any pork.” His arms are crossed, pout prominent enough that Jiang Cheng can’t blame Wei Wuxian for laughing.
“You’re right, Cheng Cheng,” he says, ignoring Jiang Cheng’s indignant squawking. “He’s shijie through and through, attitude and all.”
The quiet this time is comfortable. Settled. Jin Ling beams between the two of them, clearly happy by the comparison. “Do you remember that time with Jin Zixun?” Wei Wuxian asks.
“You mean when she literally destroyed him for your honor?”
“Really?” Jin Ling asks, excited. Jiang Cheng wonders how much of her memory lives on as something quiet, delicate. Ornamental.
“Yeah!” We Wuxian sounds wistful again, but he’s smiling. “The Jin were hosting a night hunt, and Jin Zixun accused me of cheating. She looked him dead in the eye and said it wasn’t my fault that he couldn’t hunt prey.” At Jin Ling’s delighted laughter, he continues. “She demanded an apology for the entirety of Yunmeng Jiang for the slight, and Madam Jin made him follow through.”
Jin Ling swings his eyes toward Jiang Cheng, looking delighted. “Really?”
“I wasn’t there, but the rumors about A-Jie’s takedown of Jin Zixun were the talk of the cultivation world for weeks afterward.”
Jin Ling’s smile is radiant. The kitchen is light, airy. There are no writhing shadows, no dark stains creeping down his throat. They’ll come back, he’s sure. But right now, the rest of his family is here, smiling across at him, and the smell of lotus root and pork rib soup is wafting across the kitchen. It’s good.