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"I never understood why you and Da-ge were friends growing up," said a far away voice.
Lan Xichen struggled against his sleep-foggy brain. That voice, it sounded like… but no, it couldn't be. It couldn't. No matter how much Xichen might wish for it.
"Not that Da-ge didn't deserve friends, but I remember how he was as a boy," the voice took on a wry tone, "like Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji rolled into one. Not exactly friendly."
Warm hands press against Xichen's face and hair. It felt immeasurably sweet, and he chased after it. The sensation pulled him to the surface of what he hoped was wakefulness and not another desperate dream.
"Huaisang," he rasped, "Huaisang, you're truly here?"
Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes at Lan Xichen, but didn't answer. "Da-ge actually mellowed out after becoming Sect Leader." He gave that self-deprecating laugh Lan Xichen used to find so charming.
"Would you be appalled, Er-ge, if I said that I thought Mingjue was happiest during the window of time when our father was dead and Wen Ruohan still lived?
"Ah, but I digress! I never understood why you and Da-ge were such fast friends. As sect heirs of similar age, you would have met regardless. But perhaps two sickly boys, whose caregivers still demanded excellence, might find themselves confiding in one another?
"Then, you stepped down-- when the jianghu most needed your guidance as the cultivator who brought justice to Jin Guangyao. Especially knowing how hard you tried not to become your father--it hit me:
"The main branch of the Lan family must be equally prone to qi deviation as my own accursed ancestors. You Lans are just more private about it. Seclusion certainly sounds better than self-destruction."
"Huaisang, why are you here?" Lan Xichen couldn't imagine Huaisang wanted anything to do with him, now. Yet there he sat, knowing the full extent of Xichen's many weaknesses.
"Do they give you actual medicine while you're locked away?" He deflected, turning to examine the bottles on the nightstand.
It was Xichen's turn not to answer. But from his look, Huaisang recognized the sedatives provided by the Lan healers. Even Cleansing had more of a soporific effect than a healing one, which was why he hadn't been able to play for Mingjue.
The Burial Mounds siege and all that followed took a toll on Xichen. Mingjue saw him fraying under the stress of maintaining his calm, public face. That was the reason his best friend agreed to let Jin Guangyao play.
"Do your bones ache, Xichen-ge? Da-ge used to say how badly he hurt, 'like a gnarled old tree.'" Huaisang drew a jar of salve from his sleeve and when he popped the lid, the smell of Nie Mingjue flooded the room, spicy and dark.
Huaisang warmed the salve between his palms then reached out to Xichen who could not help but close his eyes and groan. And now Xichen knew he wasn't imagining, because even in his most fevered dreams he'd never been granted this luxury of soft hands smoothing his blankets or rubbing his aching temples.
He kept his eyes shut as the other man drew back the blankets and untied his robes. Huaisang's qi infused every touch and he worked methodically down Xichen's body; pinching then soothing each muscle, joint and pressure point.
There was nothing intimate about his touch. But when was the last time he'd been comforted so? Not since his mother died. She'd not been trained in the manner of the Lan Sect to bear pain in silence. To carry on never asking for help.
Xichen still hadn't asked for help even as his spiritual power turned to poison in his veins and his world turned to ash at the sight of San-ge's lifeless corpse dragged down by Da-ge's. He'd stayed the dutiful son of Lan, secluding himself so that no one would have to be troubled over the shattered First Jade.
"You're much more poetic than I expected," Huaisang mused, "but morbidity is only poetic while you're still alive. Afterwards it's just pitiful."
Xichen realized then he'd been speaking aloud. The truth springing free from his lips as his body relaxed in Huaisang's hands. There was something else. A growing tide in his chest that flowed inevitably towards the man above him. He couldn't yet put words to it yet, but he could open his eyes.
Huaisang looked tired. Sweat clung to the small hairs of his brow despite the perpetually chill air of the Gusu mountains. He'd wrung out his own meager cultivation for Xichen, just as he'd pushed himself for years to bring his brother retribution. His face, once so bright, was drawn thin and pale. But Huaisang's gaze was steady and he did not flinch away when Xichen pulled him close.
"I will weigh you down, A-Sang. You could be free of me, of-- of this whole sham."
Huaisang huffed a laugh against Xichen's chest, still bare from when he'd opened Xichen's robes.
"How could any of us ever be free? You're a repressed Lan, but are the self-destructive Nie any better? Or the pleasure-addicted Jin? The reckless Jiang? And we can't forget the late Quishan Wen and their ironic obsession with immortality.
"So much power among us yet not a single great sect has a leader older than fifty. Not one of us has a living grandparent even! That's the real sham, ge-ge."
The sheer petulance surprised a laugh out of Xichen. He honestly hadn't expected to find anything funny again. Yet he found himself in the outlandish situation of laying, half-dressed, in bed discussing cultivator politics with the Head Shaker, who sounded just as peeved as when he used to complain about the sundry irritations of managing a sect.
"And what will you do about it, A-Sang? Expose the entire jianghu one cultivator at a time?"
"Hmm. Perhaps. But you won't find out if you stay secluded in here."