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For a moment, Jiāng Chéng can't help but wonder if he's having yet another qì deviation.
He's had them before, after all, and Cloud Recesses has become a particularly difficult place for him over the past few years; what was once a place filled with pleasant memories of his youth has turned into something emotionally draining and occasionally soul-shattering. There's no reason for him to believe that what he's seeing is anything but yet another unfortunately timed bout of qì disarray or a full blown deviation. For a moment, he event dares to hope that this will finally be the one to prove fatal—he always knew a violent death awaited him, and there's something spitefully pleasant about it happening here of all places. It soothes the bitter and vengeful little part of him like nothing else.
The moment passes as quickly as it came when flash of bright yellow and a tearful haughty face crosses his mind.
With a sigh, he slowly takes in his surroundings, finding that silence has fallen all around him like a criminal at the gallows. He blinks his previous thoughts away only to finally notice that yes, others also seem to be aware of the impossible thing standing right before his eyes. A brief glance at the farthest corner of the courtyard reveals a face that he has avoided for years now, and finds the shock and recognition he feels etched upon still unfamiliar features.
Not a qì deviation, then. Good to know.
The impossible thing before him seems uncaring of the spectacle its mere presence has caused. Rather, it appears to be soaking up the attention, its smug smile growing sharper with every second of prolonged stunned silence. Its eyes, however, never leave Jiāng Chéng's even as it ignores the echoes of its own named whispered in voices Jiāng Chéng would rather never hear again.
A long minute passes until it opens its soft, pink mouth to speak—its canines are a little sharper than they should be, than he knew them to be—but Jiāng Chéng beats it to it. He refuses to admit to himself that he might be more than a little scared of what could come out of a tongue that silver, of a mouth that sweet.
"I thought you died," Is what he ends up saying, somewhat stupidly. An angry hum rings out from somewhere behind the impossible thing's broad back, but neither of them pays it any mind. "A long time ago now."
The thing laughs, bright-eyed and amused. Another sound echoes in response—a soft, vulnerable gasp this time. It might have come from Jiāng Chéng himself, though he doubts it given how tight his chest feels and the size of the lump on his throat. The thing's eyes are a deep burgundy color that could almost pass off as brown to someone less familiar with the shape of them, and there's an edge of desperation seeping through the amusement that Jiāng Chéng only remembers seeing once or twice before, always in the very worst moments of their lives.
"Oh, no. Not me," Its smile turns sinister then, a little cruel. It warms something dangerous deep within the bowels of Jiāng Chéng's soul. "That cowardly thing that once wore my face might have, but not me. I wouldn't do that," To you, Jiāng Chéng hears and immediately dismisses it, keeping at bay the hysteria rising in his heart. The poison that drips from the impossible thing's voice nearly dyes the air around him a sickly green, but the instinct to defend and protect that would once upon a time have manifested by now has long been smothered by years of abuse. It took a while to get used to the empty feeling it left behind, but Jiāng Chéng is nothing if not adaptable.
Before he can get lost in the endless sea of melancholy, the impossible thing moves, claiming all of his attention to itself again. It swaggers towards him with confidence and hunger, and for a moment, Jiāng Chéng considers whether he should fear being devoured whole.
There's no fear left him him, however, at least not for himself, though he knows that even then, he would still remain dauntless. This is a face he knows, a face he's seen twisted with sorrow, hatred, cruelty; that he's seen alight with delight, mischief, pleasure. Even if this is all a trick meant to harm him, he could never fear a face that has never once turned to him with the intention to harm.
What has unease bubbling in the pit of his stomach is the fact that it has been a very long time since anyone has looked at him with an intensity that belied anything other than hatred, disdain or terror. It's as refreshing as it is uncomfortable, he realizes, and he refuses to look away from it, flattered, embarrassed and defiant.
Jiāng Chéng has, after all, faced many an impossible thing throughout the course of his life; regardless of the circumstances, this will not be the thing to which he falls.
Deep red eyes light up with inexplicable delight at his reaction and a hand—nimble-fingered and scarred, nails darkened and claw-like—slowly rises to cup his cheek the moment the distance between them becomes negligible. It's an action so foreign at this point in Jiāng Chéng's life, so far removed from within the realm of normalcy, that zǐdiàn can't help but react.
It glows bright purple between them even as its master remains frozen in place, lightning striking almost gently against the impossible thing's chest. The thing itself remains unbothered, waiting for the ring to calm down as if it had barely left an impression, expression unchanged. If anything, Jiāng Chéng notices with exasperation, its expression seems to have grown warmer, fonder, brighter.
Vaguely, distantly, he hears a racket somewhere behind the impossible thing that stares at him with wide, awed eyes. There's the sound of a sword being unsheathed, something that would usually have him jump into action, followed by nervous pleas that would normally bring anger and sorrow into boil inside of him. He ignores them both, too absorbed on what's in front of him, and the thing itself seems to have hardly heard a thing, eyes stuck to Jiāng Chéng's face as if he holds all the secrets of the universe in the spaces between his eyelashes.
"My brother," It says. "My leader. I'm not the one who broke my promises to you," The hand on his cheek is scalding hot, but Jiāng Chéng finds the burn to be a comfort in a moment like this. He would not mind, he thinks irrationally, if it branded him, turned him to ash entirely. "I'm the man who sold the world for you."
The statement gives him pause, causing a hitch in his breath and his heartbeat alike. It's spoken with such earnest devotion that Jiāng Chéng is unsure of how to react, can't even begin to think of what it might imply, especially when combined with its speaker's very existence. Impossible things have always been known as harbingers of turbulent times, and such words do nothing to rid the world of that notion.
Still, and perhaps most importantly—Jiāng Chéng finds that he does not mind. Would not mind.
"You..." His voice is a whisper between them, heavy with confusion and wonder, with fear and trepidation. He wants to step back suddenly, to put some space between them so he can think, or at least try to make sense of this situation. He needs to breathe, to call back rationality and reason from wherever they fled to the moment this thing showed up in front of him, touched him so tenderly, spoke so softly.
Alas, the impossible thing must have sensed his intentions, and it seems fully unwilling to let him go. It moves closer in response, keeping him from moving from within its reach.
The hand on his cheek—fond, foreign but familiar, comforting, loving—slips towards the back of his neck and pulls him in with a strength Jiāng Chéng had not expected, pressing their foreheads together carefully but desperately.
"Me," He–It sighs, pleading, relieved and astonished all at once. As if Jiāng Chéng is the impossible thing between them and not the other way around. As if it had waited lifetimes for this. "Won't my zōngzhǔ say my name? So I know at last that he is not yet another fantasy I dreamt up? This lowly one has waited so long to hear it again, sacrificed so much. Won't zōngzhǔ fulfil this humble disciple's desperate wish?" There's something bordering on hysterical in its voice, a feverish desperation that Jiāng Chéng has felt in his bones before, has heard plenty from the mouths of dying men.
His heartbeat feels too loud in his chest, threatening to crack the ribs that contain it, and the impossible thing's breathing seems louder still, drowning out the sounds of names being called out, of discussions being had behind him. Jiāng Chéng's whole world has suddenly narrowed down to the thing standing in front of him, holding him in place with an iron-grip and half-crazed eyes.
It could be a trap, Jiāng Chéng thinks, tries to think. Rationally, he knows that impossible things are just that—impossible. Something that should not and likely does not exist. Never mind the fact that others see it as well, hear it and sense it as if it were real; that only rules out the possibility of Jiāng Chéng being the problem here. For all he knows, it might still be some sort of tactic to have him lower his guard, to kill or humiliate him, rob him of his position, to cut open old scars that he only recently managed to forcibly seal shut.
He has enemies upon enemies, people desperate to take revenge on him, to pull him down from a throne they deem him unworthy of occupying. Anything is possible, and the most sensible thing to do would be to step back and investigate, to seek out answers and keep his distance.
And yet.
There's a rawness to those dark red eyes that he knows, intimately and personally. There's an anguish to the grip on his neck, a layer of frenzied hope under the faux-casual tone of the voice that sings to him. It's all familiar in more ways than one; not only has he been there and done that, been flayed alive by that same desperation, but he has seen it before as well. On that very same face. Heard it from that very same voice.
Zǐdiàn glows bright purple again between them as Jiāng Chéng raises his own hand, hesitant and unsure.
He doesn't know what he's doing until he's done it, lifting his hand and pushing aside the fabric of hastily put on, half-undone outer and inner robes.
There is a scar there, he realizes madly, a painfully familiar one. It does not match his own in shape, but they once agreed that it matched fully in meaning, in what it represented. He's almost tempted to trace it with his fingers, to feel the raised edges of that disgusting sun once again. It wasn't something he was aware he sought until he found it, but it's not quite what he's looking for at the moment.
Still, he allows himself to brush over it lightly, gasping at the way the impossible thing shudders at the sensation before moving past it entirely and letting his hand stop to hover atop the place where the impossible thing's heart would sit.
In a way, this is the moment of truth, and Jiāng Chéng finds himself hesitating, more than a little scared. He doesn't understand what he's scared of, doesn't want to acknowledge that there was ever any hope to fear losing in the first place, but can't seem to find any more excuses for himself, mind clouded with feelings he refuses to accept.
The impossible thing understands, it seems. It waits patiently, calmly. Stares at him in awe, with wonder, with the very same fear and hope Jiāng Chéng is feeling and, for a moment, it's almost as if they're a single entity split into two, sharing the same dreams and nightmares.
He can only beg whatever gods still deign to listen that they share a heartbeat as well.
Jiāng Chéng takes a deep breath, though it proves to be a mistake as he ends up filling his lungs with the familiar scent of ink, cinnamon and blood. He feels dizzy with longing suddenly, and the only thing he can think to do to distract from the burning desire to bury himself in that scent is to act.
Gently, he lowers his hand onto the chest beneath it.
It's warm, he realizes at once. As warm as the hand on his nape, warm in a way that should be impossible and is definitely abnormal. The skin is smooth and soft under his calloused fingers, though defined muscle makes it firm to the touch. But most importantly—
There, Jiāng Chéng thinks, gasping at the feeling.
Right there, right where it should be. As real as his own, and seemingly just as loud, nearly in tune.
Under his palm lies a frantically beating heart.
He looks up at those impossible wine-red eyes, asking, hoping, and watches as a smile spreads across pink lips he had never before dared to even dream about feeling against his skin. "You?" He repeats, stupidly, vulnerable in a way he swore never again to be.
"Yes," The impossible thing laughs, relief and amusement combined into a soft melodious sound that reverberates all around them and hugs Jiāng Chéng like a divine blessing. "Yes, me." It–he repeats, also a little stupidly, though the charming smile on his face is certainly far more appealing than whatever expression is stretched across Jiāng Chéng's own features right now. "Won't this shīdì call his shīxiōng by his name at last? I know something wearing my soul has hurt him terribly, and this shīxiōng will present his apologies in due time, but won't you? This lowly one has waited for so long for this, zōngzhǔ."
It really is him, Jiāng Chéng thinks absurdly. That boyish arrogance and charisma, the bright eyes, the crooked smile and messy hair, the poorly done clothes. It's him.
He nearly startles at the realization, almost pulling himself free so he can panic in the safety of solitute, but the grip on his neck tightens further, bordering on uncomfortable now. It's more than a little comforting, and strangely soothing.
Jiāng Chéng lets out a deep, heavy breath, allowing the last of his trepidation to wash away. The weight on his shoulders disappears so abruptly he nearly buckles at the sudden lightness of his body.
With a choked out sound, he places his hands on his impossible thing's broad shoulders, digging his fingernails into the dark fabric of his clothes and the skin underneath. He presses their foreheads together even more forcefully, wishing desperately that they could fuse into one being, incapable of ever leaving one another again.
And then, at last, the words tumble out of his mouth:
"Wèi Wúxiàn."