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There is a dream Wei Wuxian used to have as a teenager.
In it, he's a voiceless, shapeless thing, able to spectate but not participate in the world around him. He's intangible, a floating consciousness trapped in a world he doesn't belong and that he cannot interact with in any substantial way.
Behind him, angry voices whisper cruelties he cannot discern in a lover's tone, their dark presence weighing his weightless body down, and in front of him, there is a cliff. He cannot tell its height, but he's certain it plunges down into the abyss. Something sits at the bottom, he thinks and he does not know why he thinks it or how he would know such a thing; he's not the one sitting near its edge.
Jiang Cheng is.
It would be an idyllic image were it not the circumstances that surround it—his pitch-black hair is loose, flowing gently with the wind and his posture seems relaxed in a way Wei Wuxian rarely sees him indulge in. The only movement there is to him is the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, unhurried and unbothered by the sight he must be facing, and Wei Wuxian cannot see his hands, but he knows they sit on his lap, fiddling with the fabric of his loose robes.
For some reason, he does not feel peaceful at all at the sight.
Beyond Jiang Cheng, the sky is a grey ominous thing, torn between day and night, oppressive and imposing with the feeling of an oncoming storm. The winds that flow from the horizon carry something strange with it, an ill feeling that unsettles every non-existent bone in Wei Wuxian's current shapeless body, and even if he does not have lungs, he knows it's getting harder to breathe with every passing minute.
Jiang Cheng likes storms, he thinks, but this is not a storm he should be facing.
He tries calling out to him, panic building in his chest for some unknown reason, for a multitude of reasons. The need to pull Jiang Cheng away from that cliff is desperate and urgent, but he cannot move and he has no voice. The whispers around him grow in cruelty and in volume and they are no longer aimed at him alone. If he had a shape, he thinks it would be crying.
"Wei Wuxian," Jiang Cheng calls. There's an uncharacteristic softness to his voice that quiets everything around them but it does not soothe his despair, and though he has turned slightly in order to address him, Wei Wuxian cannot see his face. His loose hair no longer flows with the wind—even when it has only grown more aggressive—but spills down his back, instead, a curtain of darkness slowly wrapping itself around him.
Wei Wuxian would always wake up before he could try to scream again, shivering and covered in cold sweat.
He never spoke a word of it to anyone. It always felt too personal, too telling—though what it told, exactly, he did not understand—, and he was never very good at showing his guts when it mattered. He'd get up, wash the sweat off his body and carry on with his day as if nothing happened, as if nothing ever bothered him.
Years later, he'd be the one standing at the edge of a cliff.
He would not remember the dream as he plummeted, but something inside him still had a mind to feel uneasy at seeing Jiang Cheng standing too close to the edge.
"I don't know what you want from me," Jiang Cheng tells him one night when they're drinking alone at one of the private pavilions that sit within the labyrinthine depths of Lotus Pier. He looks tired as he says it, more tired than a man his age should look, and Wei Wuxian wonders exactly how much of it is his fault. His mind conjures up the image of a mountain slowly being eaten away by a violent sea, of a great wall crumbling after years of constant enduring.
He's terrified that if he looks close enough, he'll see hairline fractures on the smooth surface of his skin where the glue he uses to put himself back together is wearing off.
I want you to love me, Wei Wuxian does not say, wishes he could say, longs to say. I want you to want me, to look at me and see someone worthy of your admiration. I want to not see pain in your eyes and they meet mine, I want to be allowed to love you again. Please let me love you again.
The words catch on his throat—he swallows them down. He's never been good at baring himself like that and even if he could find the courage to do it, this is not the right moment for it. It makes him feel small and inadequate, that he can't even give Jiang Cheng an honest confession without coming across as dishonest and meaningless, but that's what he's here to fix.
"For now," He starts, voice heavy with everything he wishes he could say. "Just let me stay. Please, let me stay." It's more than he deserves, but it's all that he needs at the moment. Everything can be solved if he's given time to solve it, if he's allowed to try. He'll overcome whatever he must, defeat whatever obstacle he stumbles upon to prove himself worthy of this.
"I was never the one keeping you from staying," Jiang Cheng turns towards the lake, away from Wei Wuxian. His posture is tense and his words echo a brittleness that Wei Wuxian feels deep within his soul; he chooses to focus on the reflection of the waning moon on the surface of the lake instead of the bleeding wound that was just poked.
"I know," He moves to stand at Jiang Cheng's side, unable to let the distance between them remain. For some reason, he gives in to the childish impulse to grab at his sleeve, pulling gently like they used to do to one another as children, a quiet expression of need and an equal relay of reassurance. It was all they could do sometimes, when they were unable or unwilling to actually hold onto each other but sought the safety of the other's presence regardless. "But I need to know I'm allowed. Please."
Jiang Cheng lets out a shaky breath but Wei Wuxian does not look up at him, keeping his gaze fixed on the silver embroidery on the expensive fabric of his sleeve. He knows what he's trying to convey came across—the need to know if he's wanted enough to be allowed to try again, if he's worth another chance even though it means opening yourself to be hurt again—and he's willing to give Jiang Cheng the privacy of working through the realization without the weight of a searching gaze on him.
"What will you do if I say no?" His tone is carefully neutral and Wei Wuxian closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and thinking beyond the razor-thin cut the question left behind on his skin. He doesn't let go of the sleeve, tightening his hold instead, and considers what answer he expects, what worst-case scenario Jiang Cheng has made up in his mind that he needs to destroy.
"I wouldn't go back, if that's what you want to know," He doesn't need to say where or to whom. "Whatever you decide, I know where I stand this time, where I've always stood. I know where I belong and where I want to be. If you... If I can't—" The sentence cuts itself off as his throat closes up at the idea. He swallows his panic down and tries again. "I don't know exactly what I'd do, to be honest. I like traveling, but it feels hollow when there's no home to return to. Maybe I'll save up and buy a little farm around here, I suppose. Little Apple could use a stable home environment."
It's a shallow little attempt to lighten the mood, but it works. Jiang Cheng lets out one of his surprised little exhales, an almost-chuckle that always seems to catch him off-guard and that Wei Wuxian used to spend hours trying to pull from him. It warms the blood running through his veins enough to melt the cold that had frozen over his insides at the idea of being denied.
"You'd be a shitty farmer," The comeback is half-assed snark, nowhere near the hilariously scathing ones he usually reserved for Wei Wuxian alone once upon a time, but ten thousand loving words from anyone else would never match the levels of comfort it brings him.
They stay like that for a while, eyes fixed on a distant horizon as they avoid looking at one another. The silence stretches into something almost peaceful and Jiang Cheng does not protest as Wei Wuxian's grip refuses to release the wide brim of his semi-formal robes. It's not a style he usually wears, Wei Wuxian thinks, and wonders what reason could have led him to stray away from the stricter and practical types he prefers. He's struck by the realization that if Jiang Cheng were to lift up his hands, the fabric of his sleeves would slide down his forearms and expose his deceivingly delicate wrists and fights down a blush at the idea.
A harsh exhale pulls him away from his fantasies and he refocuses on the moment, stomach twisting itself into knots in expectation.
"I don't know if any of this is salvageable. I don't know how to be around you anymore, at least not without—" He stops, but the words unsaid still echo in Wei Wuxian's mind. I don't know how to be around you without hurting, without expecting to be hurt.
The searing pain those words inflict is not easy to ignore, but he does it anyway. Because it's not a refusal, is it? Jiang Cheng has never been shy when it comes to refusing, has he? And if it's not a refusal, Wei Wuxian can work with it. He can still try.
He takes a shaky, watery breath and lifts up his eyes to meet Jiang Cheng's for the first time tonight, and oh.
How strange it is that people so readily believe him to be so devoid of anything but anger. How awful that Wei Wuxian himself allowed his mind to lead him astray upon his returned and acted upon that false belief. Because there isn't a single person still alive on this earth capable of carrying as much raw emotion in their gaze as Jiang Cheng—all his thoughts, all his feelings are echoed in the violet-tinted grey of his eyes, exposed for all to see if only they bother to try. He'd forgotten, he'd forgotten all about it and it's no one's fault but his own but it's always been this way: Jiang Cheng's feelings have always been loud and intense, almost overwhelming at times. When he was young and stupid, it was a constant source of affliction for him; the idea that anyone could bear witness to the intensity of his emotions, that any random person could, at any time, simply glance upon Jiang Cheng and find themselves lost in the maelstrom he carried so nakedly.
It was both outrageously insulting and a huge relief to find that others did not bother. It was their loss, Wei Wuxian always thought.
Right now, it's all there for him to see. Pain, confusion, anger, but also hope and—
He feels his knees weaken for a moment before he manages to resharpen his focus.
"If it cannot be salvaged, give me a chance to rebuild it. I'll sit at what was once the foundations and raise them back up again, I'll start anew. I'll wait another lifetime if I must. As long as you let me, I'll keep trying." His words are somewhat shaky, but he knows his conviction comes across strong by the faint widening of Jiang Cheng's almond eyes. "It doesn't matter if you don't know how to be around me anymore, you don't need to know. All you need to do is be and I'll find happiness in that. With time, we can learn to be if not what we once were, then something else entirely, something better."
Wei Wuxian's hands are shaking so hard he fears his entire body might be shaking with them, but he dares anyway. He slowly releases his grip on Jiang Cheng's sleeve, inching forward closer to his wrist before taking a hold of his hand and lifting it up so he can wrap it around both of his own.
"It doesn't have to be now. You don't have to decide anything here. Right now, all I'm asking is to be allowed to stay. I'll keep out of your way if you want me to, but please. Let me stay."
"Huh. When I heard you were creeping around the shadows I assumed it was just something the older kids made up to scare the children," A teasing voice calls out to his left, rudely awakening him from his almost-slumber. "But lo and behold, there you are."
Wei Wuxian opens his eyes.
It proves to be an immediate mistake as he's nearly blinded by the reflection of the sun in the gaudy yellow Jin outfit of the person standing in front of him. At almost seventeen, Jin Ling still stands shorter than either Jin Zixuan or Jiang Cheng did at his age, though he manages to carry the hauteur of both combined. He looks more like his maternal uncle than he does his father, too, with the same delicate sharpness to his features and the same intense aura and mannerisms.
He has his mother's eyes though, and Wei Wuxian tries not to feel like crying whenever he takes note of it.
"Has it become custom for young sect leaders to go around other sects indulging in gossip? I was unaware," He answers, squinting at the brightness of the boy's clothes. The words 'young sect leader' feel heavy and bitter on his tongue, and he feels the vague familiar churn of guilt weighing down on his stomach. History repeating itself, in a way. Jin Ling is more similar to his uncle than he thinks.
His comeback is ignored, which makes him wonder exactly how much time this child has been spending with Lan Sizhui, and Jin Ling continues: "You look different" He says, a thin eyebrow rising with his words. Less of a question and more of a demand for explanation and ah, he thinks. There really is no doubt who had a greater role in raising this kid.
"I'm growing out my hair," He gets an eye roll for his efforts and smiles. "May I be so bold as to ask what is it the Young Mistress wants from this humble servant?" He reaches a hand out without looking and grabs the bag of fresh lotus seeds a disciple had shoved into his hands earlier, peeling one and offering it to Jin Ling. It halts the indignant rebut in its tracks and he huffs, accepting the gift and throwing himself down on the floor next to Wei Wuxian with all the elegance of a prickly sixteen-year-old. At least he's sat himself further in the shade, away from open view; Wei Wuxian is sure he must've endured many a lecture about the necessity of acting poised and proper now that he's a sect leader and it makes this little act of rebellion all the more amusing to him.
"What are you doing in Lotus Pier?" Ah, he thinks again. So this is the conversation they're having, then. He can't say he didn't expect it, though he may have greatly overestimated the patience and subtlety of a descendant of Jin Zixuan. His fault, truly.
For a second, he considers stalling. Deflecting or shifting the conversation away from the uncomfortable confrontation he feels it's coming. He even considers flat-out running away, giving a poor excuse of how he's needed somewhere else before fleeing and finding a new place to hide from the world until Jin Ling has returned to his golden tower.
The thought it gone as quickly as it came. He promised himself, didn't he? He promised Jiang Cheng too, with not as many words. To stop running away, to stop acting like a coward and actually face his mistakes head-on. He needs to be better, for his own sake as well as Jiang Cheng's and everyone else around him, and that means not running the moment a situation turns unpleasant—there are no backs to hide behind anymore, nor does he want there to be.
Deep breaths. He's been through worse than a righteously confrontational teenager. And this specific teenager is owed, at the very least, some answers from him.
"This is my home," He says, making a conscious effort to relax the fingers he had clenched around the dark grey fabric of his robes. It's the simplest answer and also the deepest truth—Lotus Pier is his home. There's nowhere else he'd rather be.
"You left. And you spent a year away without a care in the world or a single glace back to this place after you returned. Why are you back now?" Jin Ling really is his uncle's child. Wei Wuxian doesn't know whether to be proud or to despair. He steels himself and answers the question, instead:
"If you want an easy answer for the things I've done, there is none." He stops, taking a controlled breath—here's to an exercise in trusting, he thinks and continues before Jin Ling has a choice to voice the protest he can see forming on his face. "If you want to know why it took me so long to come back... I don't know what to tell you. I was running away. I was trying to exist in a world I never intended to return to. I was scared. I wanted to pretend I was a version of myself that doesn't exist anymore, I wanted to pretend I could be the person Lan Wangji's blind faith thought I was. I didn't want to face my mistakes because it meant admitting how much I hurt the people I cared for the most, and it meant I really could be the monster everyone else painted me as," A shaky exhale. He continues, "I thought your uncle hated me and I knew he was justified in doing so. There is a myriad of reasons I could give you and none of them will ever feel good enough." He peels another lotus seed and hands it to Jin Ling again, mindlessly. "If you want to know why I came back—it's because I got tired of running. Because this is my home and I got tired of pretending it wasn't."
The words are a thousand sharp blades that cut into his throat as he pushes them out with herculean effort, raw truths that he had yet to dare to speak out into the world. He feels vaguely sick as he waits for a reaction, but part of him—small and hesitant—feels almost lighter, now. He wonders if this is what progress feels like.
Next to him, Jin Ling is quiet, eyes staring into the distance as he thoughtlessly peels and chews on the occasional seed he plucks from the bag on Wei Wuxian's lap. There's an echo of his mother on his face in moments like this; she often got the same look, this lost-in-thought softness and the idea of it soothes him. Jin Ling might be brash and impulsive, might sometimes let his mouth run before his mind can walk, but he's shijie's son and Jiang Cheng's nephew. The kind of people that carry too much love in them, that hurt because of it but still refuse to give up. Wei Wuxian desperately wants to protect him from the cruelty of the world, but he supposes it's too late for that now, isn't it?
"I never knew my mother or father because of you," Jin Ling starts. Conversational rather than accusing, and though an old wound bleeds at his words, Wei Wuxian does not let it phase him; it's the truth, after all. "I've had a lot of time to think about this, now. I know it wasn't all your fault, but you're not blameless either." Fair, he thinks, fairer than he deserves. "I never knew my parents, but I still try to be filial—I don't think they'd want me to hate you. And I don't think I do, either, nor do I think I want to." Another pause and Jin Ling turns to him, brows faintly burrowed. Now that Wei Wuxian knows him a little better, it reads as introspection rather than annoyance or anger. "But in my heart, they are not the only ones to whom I owe piety. They were not the ones who raised me, who taught me to read or to swim. I don't have memories of playing with them in the summer, of looking for frogs together after the rain. I love them and I will always do my best to respect and honor them, but they're myths rather than people at this point. I only ever had one tangible family in this life. There's only one person I owe everything I am today to. And you hurt him deeply."
A choked-out whimper makes its way out of Wei Wuxian's throat before he can even think to contain it.
"I did," He says, because that's all there is to it.
Jin Ling nods, seemingly pleased at his straightforwardness. He takes another lotus seed from the bag that laid forgotten on Wei Wuxian's lap and peels it carefully before handing it to him. It's a mirror image of two of the most important people in his life and he swallows the lump that had climbed its way up his throat.
"Well," Another seed, unpeeled and offered to him. There's something in his gaze that burns into Wei Wuxian's skin. "How do I know you won't do it again, then?"
"When we were younger I used to dream about you," Wei Wuxian says, counting the stars on a half-empty night sky instead of facing the one he's speaking to. An amused little exhale clues him into how his words must have come across, and he chuckles before continuing: "In many ways, of course." Another almost-laugh and it is as if the entire pier warms with the sound. "But I used to have this dream, you know. In it, I couldn't speak and I couldn't move. And you were sitting in front of me, at the edge of a cliff, looking at this sickly-looking storm that was about to hit. For some reason, all I could think about was that I needed to get you away from that cliff, that I needed to keep you safe. There was a crowd of faceless people I couldn't see shouting nasty things at us, but I didn't pay them any mind because all I could think about was that I needed to get to you, to make you hear me somehow, even though I couldn't speak. You always seemed calm, but I was always so scared." He takes another long sip of the wine he's holding—a terrible idea. He's lying flat near the edge of the pier now, and he's a little drunk already, so the wine spills down his chin and down his neck, into his loose robes. He's going to be sticky later.
Next to him, Jiang Cheng makes a noise of disgust and takes the wine from him.
"How did it end?" He asks, taking a much more dignified sip, throwing his sleeves back like he's at a conference, trying to intimidate other sect leaders with his poise. Wei Wuxian thinks he probably just enjoys the dramatic feel of it and is tipsy enough to indulge. He puts the wine down and leans back against the wooden beam of the pier, facing up and away from him, as well. The elegant arch of his neck and the beautiful cut of his jaw are made all the more evident by the position, and Wei Wuxian has to pull away a gaze he had not even noticed had been drawn to him.
"I always woke up before the end," He uses his sleeve to dry the small pool of wine that gathered on the dip of his collarbones and tries to decide if there's any use in fighting the urge to stare at Jiang Cheng when his eyes always seem to end up on him whether they mean to or not. He takes another—less disastrous—sip of wine. "I wonder what it meant."
"Must dreams mean anything?" Jiang Cheng asks, playing with the dark surface of the water. There's a subtle tension that wasn't there before, but Wei Wuxian is a little too drunk to fully notice it. "Can't they just exist?"
"I guess," Wei Wuxian answers, sighing. "But isn't it more interesting when they mean something?" He doesn't get an answer but does not think too much of it. Jiang Cheng was never one to indulge in these types of mindless abstract matters; he'd ask and discuss if he thought it was interesting, but he's always preferred to deal with the applied rather than the theoretical.
There's a small stretch of silence, but the mood is heavier than before. Wei Wuxian doesn't understand why, but something feels wrong, now.
He's still caught off-guard by what follows it.
It starts with a miserable shaky laugh, an unsettling chuckle that echoes around them, quiet but almost hysterical in nature. He startles, turning towards Jiang Cheng with confusion written all over his face, but does not find comfort in the sight before him. The pleasantly tipsy and relaxed posture from earlier is gone, replaced by tension and an anguish that Wei Wuxian has only seen on him once or twice before, on some of the worst days of their lives. It sets off multiple alarms on his mind and he feels lost at the sudden shift, choked up with building panic.
"It's funny, I just remembered," Jiang Cheng starts, staring down at his hands with a desolate half-smile that makes the entire world feel grey and bitter. "There is a dream I had about you when we were younger, too." He lifts his eyes, pinning Wei Wuxian down without meaning to—his gaze is almost unseeing, lost in either a miserable past or a bleak future. Wei Wuxian does not want to ask, but he does not need to. "In it, you left."
His stomach plummets.
"You never even looked back. I was left behind. There were hands holding me to the ground, so I couldn't move. I could speak, though, so I shouted after you but you never even looked at me." Another broken laugh, another dagger sinking deep into Wei Wuxian's heart. "Isn't it funny? What does it mean, do you think? All my nightmares came true. All I've ever feared was being left behind and it's exactly what happened, over and over again. Isn't it funny?" His shoulders shake but Wei Wuxian cannot tell if it's another tragic little laugh or an honest sob because Jiang Cheng has already turned his eyes back to his own hands, his half-tied hair falling from over his shoulders to hide his face.
Wei Wuxian scrambles to pull himself up, dropping the bottle of wine in the process. He pays it no mind as it rolls into the lake and sits on his feet at Jiang Cheng's side, eyes wide with fear and desperation. His hands twitch, reaching before pulling back, unsure if they would be welcomed. "Jiang Cheng—"
"You'll say you didn't mean to," He goes on, face still hidden from sight. "That you had good intentions. But what do good intentions matter when they clash with reality? When I spent a decade living in that reality? And then you came back, and what did you do?" The hand sitting on his lap fists itself on the fabric of his robes, shaking. Zidian sparks, but it seems off, unstable—the usual threatening fierceness it conveys is nowhere to be seen, here. "What were your intentions then?"
Wei Wuxian watches as a single tear makes into his line of vision, falling into Jiang Cheng's robes and leaving a dark purple stain behind. His entire body burns with shame and guilt, his own eyes burn as he tries to keep from crying and fails. "How can I forget the past when you keep making me relive it?" Jiang Cheng's voice is a heavy whisper and his words are carried away by the wind as if they were never spoken, leaving behind only a bleeding wound that Wei Wuxian cannot reach.
He closes his eyes, nails digging into his palms, and thinks, thinks, thinks. It's what he's good at, what he excels in—there must be something he can say, something he can do to fix this. He refuses to believe that hurting Jiang Cheng is all he's capable of. That he no longer has the power to soothe, to comfort the most important person in the world to him. It cannot be that all they can do now is hurt each other. He will not stand for a world in which this is fact.
A sob echoes in the night—he cannot tell from whom it came.
He won't allow this, he cannot let this be.
His determination ossifies. He throws caution to the wind and answers to his baser instincts before his courage dares to fail him.
With one sudden movement, he throws himself onto Jiang Cheng, wrapping his arms around him and hiding his face on the curve of his shoulder. His hold is probably too tight and more than a little desperate but he's far beyond caring about something as trivial as losing face—there's only one person in the world he's ever wanted to impress anyway, and his opinion of him is already justifiably low at this point.
"I'm sorry," He whispers into Jiang Cheng's neck, hoping they'll soak into his skin and find their way into his heart. "I'm sorry I left you, I'm sorry I made you feel alone." Made you feel unwanted, he doesn't need to say. "I'm sorry I left you to deal with the fallout of my mistakes, I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me, when I promised I would be. I'm sorry I didn't give you the same trust you've always afforded me. All I've ever wanted was to be by your side. When I thought that was no longer possible, all I wanted was for you to live and have a chance to be happy. Nothing mattered as long as you could live. Live to find happiness, live to be who you were meant to be, even live to hate me. I'm sorry, Jiang Cheng." He inhales the sweet smell of lotus and the notes of citrus that always cling to Jiang Cheng. It's a heady smell—the smell of childhood, of home, of love.
He loves Jiang Cheng so much he wonders how he ever let himself believe otherwise. How he was able to spend so much time away while he suffered, how he didn't feel like his entire world was darkening with every moment spent in this state of hurt and sorrow he let fester between them. From the start, Jiang Cheng was everything to him, was all he wanted—his attention, his trust, his affection, his love were all things Wei Wuxian ardently craved from the moment he realized what type of person he was when they were still kids. And once upon a time, it was all freely given to him, offered shyly with either small gestures he overlooked or sharp words that never cut.
At the time, he was too blind to see it, and the world only blinded him further.
He'd give anything to get it back.
"I was lost, too," He cries and it's a pitiful little confession, but it's the greatest truth he can offer. He's been lost for so long, he no longer remembers the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet, no longer remembers what it's like to know himself or the world. There's so much grief he never got to feel, so much he wasn't allowed to process and it's all making itself known now, making itself felt. "I just want to come home." It's such a childish confession and he can't help but cry harder at his own words.
He doesn't know if it's that last sentence, the entire half-sobbed confession, or something else entirely that becomes the catalyst for what happens, but he doesn't care. All he cares about is the sudden feeling of Jiang Cheng's arms slowly rising to wrap themselves around him, halting one of his sobs before it gets a chance to be vocalized. It's a tentative thing at first, done with all the hesitation of someone who is afraid of being denied—as if Wei Wuxian is even capable of denying him anything—, but it doesn't take long before Jiang Cheng is clinging to him as desperately as Wei Wuxian is.
With this, the world shifts.
It's as if some fundamental wrong has been righted. As if his entire life has finally shifted back into axis when he hadn't even noticed how tilted it was, hadn't even realized it was so out of place at all. He had been floating, but there's ground beneath his feet again and a feeling of wholeness explodes inside his chest. How long had it been since he last held Jiang Cheng like this? How in the world was he able to stop doing it? Nothing has ever felt more right, more natural than this and he wonders, oh he wonders. What would it be like to go further? What would it feel like to get more? Another type of affection, another level of intimacy? His entire body shivers at the very idea of one day being able to feel the softness of Jiang Cheng's lips, at the current feeling of his warmth surrounding him, his arms around Wei Wuxian's shoulders, his hands clinging to his robes.
He wants to dip this moment in amber and conserve it forever so future generations could get a glimpse of what love feels like. He wants to never let go, to stay like this forever, safe and warm and happier than he's felt in years. How will he be able to live without this now that he's had it again? It only strengthens his resolve—whatever happens, whatever he must do, he will do as long as it gives him a chance to stay. He can't go back to a world of frigid emptiness now that he knows what it's like to be warm again.
"I'm sorry, too," Jiang Cheng says into his neck, lips pressing into his skin as they move and oh, Wei Wuxian shivers again, feels it in his soul even as his eyes widen at the words. "You're hurting, aren't you? You were hurting, too." A weight shatters where he didn't know it sat on his heart, where it pulled down his soul and he gasps, clinging tighter still. "I'm sorry I made you feel like I hated you. I could never hate you. I tried and it only made me miserable. I don't want to hate you. I don't hate you at all." A loud cry breaks free from him and he breathes for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. Relief carries warmth as it flows through his blood and he feels as though he could conquer the world just so he could have something to throw at Jiang Cheng's feet.
He never realized how deep that fear ran, how terrified he had been of Jiang Cheng hating him.
"You're finally home, so stay this time, okay?"
From time to time, Wei Wuxian's insides start itching.
Actually, it's not quite an itch—that's somewhat diminutive. But there's no other way to describe the feeling, there's no otherer sensation that even compares to what if feels like but an itch that does not itch.
He first noticed a while ago, back when he was still roaming aimlessly through a world he could only witness from behind someone else's back. It started off soft enough that he barely paid it any mind; a vague located unease that was easy to ignore would hardly be a cause for concern when he's been through so much worse and survived. Didn't help that it tended to happen at night, a time in which he was far too tired to care. Plus, there was no one more vigilant of his physical state than Lan Wangji, at the time—if anything was wrong with the body or his qi, he would be able to tell.
Unfortunately for him, as most things left untreated tend to do, it got worse. It took him a while to notice it because that seems to have been the trend with him, but notice it he did, though only when the incremental growth took an exponential turn. He never thought to tell Lan Wangji about it—if he had not noticed anything awry, it meant whatever was wrong with him wasn't physical or related to his qi. For a while, Wei Wuxian considered whether it was a physical manifestation of his dissatisfaction with the life he was leading, but he never gave it much thought, because a simple solution soon presented itself: he found that drinking helped, so drink he did and eventually he was drunk often enough that it slipped from his mind entirely.
Until now, that is.
The thing is: he's been drinking a lot less since arriving at Lotus Pier. This is only somewhat intentional on his part—he missed the alcohol of Yunmeng dearly, but he also simply does not feel a constant need for it now that he's no longer suffocating under the weight of a life he does not want. That aside, he's here to prove himself to Jiang Cheng, isn't he? He doesn't think being constantly drunk would prove anything. It started to feel like a waste too: why drink himself into a stupor he has no need to be in anymore when he could be spending the day soaking in his surroundings? Re-familiarizing himself with his home? Bothering Jiang Cheng's cute baby disciples and watch from a distance as he teaches them the sword, firm but unusually soft, especially with the younger ones?
There's too much to be sober for, now. So he doesn't drink as much anymore and it was a good choice, except that now—
Now his insides itch again.
Except now, he knows what's wrong. He knows what's happening, knows why he never told Lan Wangji about it and it is because it cannot be fixed.
It's him, of course.
Him and the body.
The problem is him and the body, and the fact that this is not his body no matter how much it looks like him, now. His body was torn apart, turned to ash before it even hit the ground and this one—he does not fit.
He's being rejected, he's sure of it. He's being rejected from the body he was given simply because it is not his and it does not care if he did not ask for it: only that his soul does not belong within it. It tried for a while, to adapt, to change its own physical appearance in order to try and accommodate him but since that didn't work, it's simply trying to expel him.
It's maddening. He itches all over—under his skin, between fat and muscle, between flesh and bone. It oft burns, too, and he feels the condensed ball of panic he'd been so carefully keeping at bay starting to destabilize inside his stomach, the early stages of an explosion kicking into motion. He hasn't felt this crazed and out of sorts since before, since he was living on rotten land and had voices calling for his head and ghosts whispering in his ears. He wants to peel his skin off, suddenly, to dig his nails into his own flesh and rip open his stomach just to see what's crawling on his insides, what's making him feel so wrong, to check if he really is rotting, and try to relieve some of this awful feeling.
Only the thought that he wants to live stops him.
He wants to live so bad, it's painful. He's finally trying to fix everything he did wrong and he is desperate to be able to just see it through, to say he's sorry, to pay his respects to the dead and tell the living how he feels. He can't leave yet, his soul has to stay. So he'll make it stay. He'll hold onto this body until either he or it breaks and he'll keep going beyond it because it's not fair for this to happen when he's finally found his purpose in life, his will to live. Attempt the impossible, he thinks hysterically, and knocks his head against the wall as hard as he can.
In the end, he doesn't know how much time passes until something pulls him out of it.
Little by little, his focus shifts outwards as his mind works to register the new sensation on his skin, tentatively moving him further and further away from his flagellant trance.
It's sunlight, he realizes after a while. The sun has risen enough to find him and grant him a blessing; another one of Lotus Pier's small wonders. Rooms tend to be designed to get the early morning sunlight instead of being on the receiving end of the scorching afternoon sun. The light was still soft on his skin, so dawn must've only just broken. It feels a little foreign after the night he's had, but pleasant and soothing.
He blinks and takes in his current situation.
Ah, he's on the floor. He's sitting next to the bed, so he must've fallen off at some point and crawled here to curl in on himself and suffer, like a dying animal. Explains the faint ache that goes from his lower back to his neck that is rapidly making itself more noticeable, at least. His hair is loose, tangled, and damp with sweat and his robes are in an equal state of disarray. The feeling of carrion that had been driving him insane is gone, though he knows it will return eventually.
For now, however, it's gone. He won.
He breathes an easy breath. Stretches the tension out of his muscles, cracks some of his joints, and rises.
Lotus Pier had made itself into a powerful place, so the room he was given was quite large. The part with the bed is relatively hidden from sight, so he's not that bothered when he sees a tray of food waiting for him beyond the inner room—even if a disciple walked in, it's unlikely he was seen. The bathtub was recently filled too, and the water is still faintly steaming and ah, Jiang Cheng's hospitality really is something else.
He's a little concerned that he didn't hear anyone come in, but he's at least sure that he wasn't seen. As much as he's trying to be more open lately, it would have been a little too humiliating to have a disciple stumble upon him in the state he was and possibly alert a healer or Jiang Cheng. He does want to tell him about this eventually, especially since he's not sure whether it's something that is actually happening or just in his head, but there's a difference between telling and showing where one is much more likely to cause unnecessary alarm.
That's a thought for later, however.
Right now, his stomach is making itself heard but he refuses to eat in his current state. With great difficulty, he ignores the tray of food in favor of taking stiff steps towards the bathtub, undressing himself along the way and leaving behind a trail of sweat-covered sleepwear. Getting into the tub is a little tricky when all his muscles seem to have given up on any notion of flexibility after a night spent locked in tension, but the fabled Yiling Patriarch refuses to be defeated by something as minuscule as this and pushes through until he's happily half-submerged in the hot water. It works its magic almost immediately, and he can almost feel the tension being drained away from his body as he relaxes against the side of the tub before closing his eyes and submerging completely.
He takes his time washing himself and his hair, using the oils that were left next to the bath with childish glee. They didn't lack for funds on the road, but random inns in small villages are not exactly known for their luxuries, and for all that Wei Wuxian is fine with living cheap, he can't help but indulge in the small excesses he grew up with whenever he can.
Only after the water has cooled down and once his hands are wrinkled and pruned does he leave the tub, mindlessly drying himself off before putting on a clean set of robes and sitting down to brush his hair.
There is a beautiful wooden comb sitting in the dresser, along with a vial of hair oil and a single bright red apple. They certainly weren't there before he went to sleep and he wonders, hopes and dreams, but decides not to dwell on it. He takes a bite of the apple before moving to work on his hair, but he does not manage to do much of anything before something stops him in his tracks again.
The vial of hair oil he just opened seems to stare at him and he stares back, wide eyes, heart trying to beat its way out his chest.
It's his hair oil.
His. The type he always used when they were young, that he stole from Jiang Cheng because "It just smells so nice, A-Cheng!" and that Jiang Cheng just let him keep for himself with a huff of annoyance, switching to another kind entirely just because Wei Wuxian wanted this one. Nevermind that he only wanted this because of whom it reminded him. But he kept using it anyway because Jiang Cheng had given it to him, and it would always remain his even if he no longer used it, even if he now had another smell entirely now.
This can't have been an accident, there's no way.
He takes a deep breath, calming himself down before he breaks into hysterical laughter, something that would most definitely frighten a lot of the kids around here. It doesn't quite kill the giddiness he feels ballooning inside him, but it's enough that he no longer feels like screaming at the top of his lungs before diving head first into the lake.
It still ends up taking twice as long to brush and tie up his hair. The result is something a lot neater than usual, too, though he's sure that will change as the day goes by.
Finally, he moves towards the low table where the tray of food has been waiting for him, bringing his apple along with it. The food must be cold by now, but he's too hungry and far too excited to care about such a thing. He sits down, facing the lake through the large open window and almost getting distracted by how beautiful the sight is and by how content he feels before his stomach protests his neglectfulness once again.
He's about to start eating when he notices a piece of paper sitting under a small lotus-shaped weight.
It succeeds in distracting him from his hunger and he pulls it out from under the weight, carefully unfolding it.
I heard you were feeling sick. Eat well and rest.