Work Text:
If Lan Xichen had checked his messages before leaving work, he would have been prepared. He would have stopped by Rey’s Taqueria, picked up a dozen carne asada tacos, a six pack of Tecate, one tub of the good guacamole and one of the fresh pico de gallo, and a bag of freshly made tortilla chips. He would have dropped a hint to Marisol and Xiomara Reyes, the sisters who ran the shop, that he hoped he got the order right, because yes, that cutie Jiang Cheng usually picked up their order, but he had a terrible day at work, and couldn’t they help him? And the sisters, like sisters everywhere, like Yanli, would fuss over Xichen and make sure he had enough food to feed his amors for the rest of the week. (He’d tip well, of course. He wasn’t a monster. But he liked being fussed over like a little brother, okay?)
But Xichen had not checked his messages (five from Mingjue, three from Wei Wuxian), and so he arrives at their house in blissful ignorance, parks, checks the mail, makes his way up the walk to the front door, puts his hand on the knob, and stops.
The music isn’t terribly loud, not enough to disturb the neighbors, but it is loud enough that Xichen could make out the lyrics.
I am--vindicated, I am selfish, I am wrong, I am right, I swear I’m right, and I knew it all along.
Xichen rests his head against the wooden door and lets out a breath.
“Well, shit,” he says. He stands on the porch, taking stock of the situation.
Mid-2000’s emo pop nonsense never bodes well, particularly Dashboard Confessional, and extra particularly, this song. Xichen had once tried to argue that the song has a hopeful message, but they had been out drinking at a karaoke bar with their various brothers, and the argument ended in one of their first real fights as boyfriends, so Xichen keeps his opinions about this to himself. Instead, he learned what really mattered: that he could determine the levels of Jiang Cheng’s emotional distress through the pop and punk pop of the late nineties and early two thousands.
So. Dashboard Confessional isn’t great, but it usually means something has gone wrong with school. Jiang Cheng isn’t taking a full course load this semester. He’s doing some sort of independent study work at the historical society museum while he re-evaluates what he wants to do with his history degree.
The last time they’d spoken about his work at the museum, Jiang Cheng had been full of enthusiastic energy, hands gesturing wildly as he described, in excruciating detail, the moment the head of the museum, Sally Blake, had taken him back to the rare books room and let him touch — touch, Xichen! With my actual hands! Well, gloved hands, but MY gloved hands! — books from the museum’s collection of journals from the late nineteenth century. He’d also said something about Ms. Blake dropping hints that he would soon be given an important project to oversee.
Well, Xichen will learn nothing by standing on the porch, listening to “Vindicated” on repeat. He takes out his phone, scrolls through the missed texts that confirm his theory about Jiang Cheng and his current angst, and sends Mingjue a text asking him to pick up tacos. The Reyes sisters like Mingjue better anyway. Mingjue texts back immediately, confirming that he would handle dinner, and Xichen steels himself to see if he can coax Jiang Cheng out of this anxiety spiral before it devolves into a trip through the Black Parade.
He tries to be unobtrusive as he goes in. He hangs his coat and bag by the door, slips out of his shoes, and listens. The music is coming from the living room, not Jiang Cheng’s conservatory, which means he might not be averse to company. Xichen stops in the kitchen first and picks up a couple of cans of ginger ale and a package of Thin Mints from his secret hiding place in the pantry before making his way to the living room.
“A-Cheng, heart of hearts, I’m home.” Xichen pauses a moment at the threshold of the room. Jiang Cheng is sprawled face-first on the sofa. He lifts his head a fraction of an inch at Xichen’s greeting, and he mumbles something that might have been “hello” before turning his face away. Xichen takes it as an invitation and goes into the room. He puts the sodas and cookies on the coffee table and perches on the edge of the sofa. He strokes Jiang Cheng’s back. “I brought you a snack.”
“Mmmm,” Jiang Cheng replies. He makes no move to sit up. The song ends and starts again.
So. Not just a general malaise about school but a specific problem. Jiang Cheng likes to listen to a song on repeat when he is working out a problem, the song becoming something like a mantra to engage his anxiety and leave the rest of his mind free to worry at the problem. Xichen lets his hand wander up and down Jiang Cheng’s back as he weighs his options. He looks down and notices that Jiang Cheng’s hair has been hastily twisted up into a bun, several times by the looks of the snarls forming, and that gives Xichen an idea. He moves Jiang Cheng’s hair aside and kisses the back of his neck.
“I’ll be right back, my love.”
“Mmmm.”
Xichen makes a quick trip to the bedroom, snagging a handful of hair ties and a wide-toothed wooden comb before returning to the living room. He takes hold of Jiang Cheng’s shoulders and tugs. “Sit up,” he says, pulling Jiang Cheng’s dead weight. “Come on.”
“What? Why?”
“Sit,” he says. “Do it.” When Jiang Cheng refuses to help, Xichen slides down to the floor and hauls Jiang Cheng, more or less gracefully, down with him. He ignores the other’s protests and manhandles him into a sitting position. Xichen scrunches down between Jiang Cheng and the sofa. He makes a space between his legs and pulls Jiang Cheng closer. “Sit up and come here, my heart.” He shows Jiang Cheng the comb. It has been too long since he’d allowed Xichen to comb out his hair. He’d cut it all off shortly after he moved in with Xichen and Mingjue, but for the last few years he’d let it grow, and now it brushes his collarbones.
“Mmmm fine,” Jiang Cheng whines, but he allows Xichen to prod and pull him until he is settled comfortably on the floor in front of Xichen, letting escape a little sigh as Xichen takes out the rubber band that he’d hastily wrapped around his hair.
“Talk,” Xichen orders as he gently separates sections of hair and begins to pick out the worst of the knots.
“It’s nothing,” Jiang Cheng mutters, though his shoulders relax a fraction of an inch as Xichen works through his hair. “It’s fine.”
“Your afternoon soundtrack suggests otherwise,” Xichen replies. He separates Jiang Cheng’s hair into sections and ties up one section on the top of his head so he can weave in a tier of waterfall braids, more for the pleasure of running his fingers through Jiang Cheng’s hair than to style it.
“How dare you presume to know me?” Jiang Cheng huffs, but the tension is leaving his shoulders bit by bit, so Xichen simply smiles to himself.
“I’m the worst,” he agrees. “Now tell me. What’s going on at work? Did that Ms. Blake take away your project and banish you to a store room to catalogue...what was it? Railroad nails?”
“Buttons!” Jiang Cheng wails. “And how rude of you to remind me! No, Sally is fine. She gave me a big project, actually.”
“I thought you wanted a project.” Xichen fastens off one braid and takes a moment to massage a knot in Jiang Cheng’s neck before moving onto the next section of hair.
“I do! And it’s great!” He sighs and flops back against Xichen’s chest, ignoring his protest as he grabs Xichen’s hands and wraps his arms around his middle.
Xichen shifts back and squeezes his arms tightly around Jiang Cheng’s waist. If he wants to cuddle, far be it from Xichen to deny him. He can finish the braids later.
“So what’s the problem then? Actually, hang on. Where’s the stereo remote?”
“On the sofa, I think. Oh, are those cookies for me?”
“Yes, indeed.” Xichen reaches back for the remote and turns the music off while Jiang Cheng opens the sleeve of Thin Mints and eats a cookie with a happy sigh. “Alright, so you have a big project, but there’s a problem?”
“Nooo,” Jiang Cheng says after he eats a second cookie, “not a problem, per se. But it’s, I don’t know, it’s a lot.”
“Can you tell me what the project is, love?”
“Oh, hah, yeah, that would be helpful.” He snags another cookie and offers one to Xichen. “So, okay, you know how there’s a large Japanese-American population in the city? So we got a donation of some materials relating to the internment camps set up during World War Two, and Sally thinks we could create a really powerful exhibit with the stuff and a lot of the stuff we already have, but, like, it’s an important topic, and I really want to do it justice. You remember that Chinese and mining exhibit from a few years ago, right?”
Xichen winces. He does indeed remember that trainwreck, though to be fair to the museum, they had fired that particular curator after the racist hot mess. Xichen releases Jiang Cheng to maneuver him so he can massage his back.
“Right? So I really don’t want to have a repeat of that fiasco, but there’s just a lot of material, and a lot of pressure, and I don’t think Sally gave it to me just because I’m Asian. Like, she definitely knows that Chinese and Japanese cultures are not part of a monolithic, like, thing. And I really, really want this project, and I think I could do a good job, but what if I get it wrong? What if I put together something horribly racist and wrong. What if I fuck up on, like, a British Museum scale, Xichen?” The last question carries a note of panic, a telltale sign of an impending anxiety attack.
Xichen stops massaging Jiang Cheng’s back. His right hand drops to Jiang Cheng’s hip while his left snakes around front and rests on Jiang Cheng’s throat. He applies no pressure, simply lets it rest against Jiang Cheng’s soft skin, enough weight to bring Jiang Cheng’s attention to it as he breathes. Xichen’s thumb caresses the side of Jiang Cheng’s neck, and Jiang Cheng falls silent.
“Deep breaths, my heart.” Xichen inhales and feels Jiang Cheng do the same. He exhales and repeats the process several times. When Jiang Cheng remains silent, Xichen circles his waist, presses his chest to Jiang Cheng’s back, and rests his head on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder.
“My love, my heart, you keep breathing, alright? And listen a moment.” He kisses Jiang Cheng’s cheek. “I still have not perfected time travel, and so we cannot go back in time and kick Lord Elrond’s—“
“Elgin’s,” Jiang Cheng corrects, “and you know it. You’re the biggest fucking Tolkien nerd.”
“But I made you smile,” Xichen says, and Jiang Cheng scoffs, but he doesn’t argue. Xichen kisses the side of his neck. “We cannot go back in time and kick Lord Elgin’s ass. We cannot go back and stop the plunder of antiquities, and so, we will speak no more of the British Museum tonight.”
“But—“
“No buts!” Xichen pokes Jiang Cheng’s side until he relents and is quiet again. “No buts,” he continues as he squeezes Jiang Cheng’s butt, ignoring Jiang Cheng’s indignant squawk, “and no more cursing crusty white men. Not tonight.”
“Then what do I do, Xichen? It’s a big project, and an important story to tell, especially now. But who am I to tell it?”
“That’s a fair question, A-Cheng.” Xichen rubs his cheek against Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “Do you have to do the whole thing by yourself?”
“Well, no. I mean, there are some archaeology students who need volunteer hours for a class. Sally said I could enlist them for the physical side of actually putting together the displays. But I’m responsible for designing the exhibit. It’s on me to choose the artifacts, chart the path through the exhibit, define the narrative that visitors will see.”
“Alright. But, do you have to do it all alone, with no guidance?”
“I...” Jiang Cheng leans into Xichen’s embrace as he thinks. “I mean, I don’t have any funds to hire someone, and anyway, wouldn’t it look like cheating if I hired someone to come up with the layout for me?”
“Mmm, that would be questionable, but what I mean is, are you allowed to ask for help? Are you allowed to brainstorm with someone else?”
“Oh.” Jiang Cheng shifts in Xichen’s arms and turns to look back at him. “You mean collaborate?”
“Yes, exactly!” Xichen beamed at him. “A collaboration! Is that allowed?”
“I can’t imagine why not,” Jiang Cheng admits. “I should ask Sally, just to be sure, in case this is like a test for my course, but I think that would be okay. Like consulting with a professor about a paper.”
“Wonderful!” Xichen kisses Jiang Cheng’s cheek. “Well, if I may suggest, I have a friend who might be able to help. Yoshiki Asaoka. He’s actually Marjorie’s friend, but he’s come out with us a few times, and I think he mentioned something about his grandparents being interned at Manzanar. If he can’t help you, I’d be willing to bet he can put you in touch with people who can.”
“That would be really helpful, Xichen, thank you.” Jiang Cheng turns fully around so he can hold Xichen. “I just don’t want to mess this up, you know?”
“I do.” Xichen strokes Jiang Cheng’s back. “But you know, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you did make a mistake, because I know you would learn from it, fix what you can, and do better.”
Jiang Cheng’s laugh is more bitter this time. “You did not attend the Yu Ziyuan School of Life.”
Xichen squeezes Jiang Cheng tightly. “No, although I do have some notes about its curriculum.” He kisses Jiang Cheng. “I have absolute faith that you will put together an educational and thoughtful exhibit, my heart, but you do not have to finish it tonight. In fact, the only thing you really have to do is eat some tacos and guac and maybe drink a beer.”
“Tacos?” Jiang Cheng sits up. “There are tacos?”
“Darling, I know what you need when you get like this. Of course there are tacos. Or, there will be,” Xichen says, “just as soon as--” He stops as the front door opens. “Ah! There he is. Perfect timing!” he calls over his shoulder.
“Are we eating in there or at the table?” Mingjue shouts back.
“Table,” Jiang Cheng decides. “And then can I kick your ass at Uno?”
Xichen kisses the end of Jiang Cheng’s nose. “Oh, my love, you can try.” He grins as Jiang Cheng’s expression turns shocked and affronted. “Go wash your face and, oh!” He tugs at a loose lock of Jiang Cheng’s hair. “Maybe run a comb through this.”
Jiang Cheng tries to run his fingers through his hair and grimaces. “You’re a menace,” he says.
“You love it,” Xichen replies, kissing away any argument. “Go on,” he says when Jiang Cheng is too breathless to press the issue. “Wash your face and meet us in the kitchen.”
“The worst,” Jiang Cheng groans as he hauls himself out of Xichen’s lap. “Both of you,” he tells Mingjue, who is watching from the doorway.
“What did I do?” Mingjue asks as Jiang Cheng kisses his cheek in passing.
“We cared about him,” Xichen says. He gets up and walks over to greet Mingjue with a kiss of his own.
“Wow, we’re rude.” He pulls Xichen in for a proper kiss. “And I was going to let him win the first hand of Uno.”