Work Text:
Feng Xin and Mu Qing have wandered off in search of more murals, which is perhaps why they miss this one. It’s small, near the base of the wall, off to the side of the little red, disfigured boy offering a flower to Xie Lian, who holds an outstretched umbrella. A red umbrella, just like Hua Cheng carries now. The statues here—they took Xie Lian’s breath away, and every painting has stolen it further, dragging every molecule of air in the cave so far into the atmosphere he’s suffocating.
The Shangyuan Heavenly Ceremonial Procession. A shrine. A battlefield. The Grand Avenue of Divine Might. Buyou Forest. Beizi Hill. But also this—this little drawing, tucked away, nearly obscured by white silk:
A blood-red figure in a smiling mask, a white flower in one hand, a black sword in the other.
“Wuming,” Xie Lian whispers, his head pounding with a headache as he brushes the painting with the tips of his fingers. In the back of his mind, he can hear Wuming’s screams as he’s torn apart by a thousand resentful spirits. Hua Cheng’s screams? It was Hua Cheng?
His eyes fog with tears, and his lungs knot up like gnarled roots. Hua Cheng. Wuming. He pictures the Hua Cheng of now—eyepatch, coral pearl in his hair—in place of the young man Xie Lian abused to the point of killing him. Hua Cheng offering him a white flower. Hua Cheng insisting he was worthy of the title Your Highness—who pressed his luck to ask to release the spirits himself to avenge his beloved.
His beloved.
Xie Lian turns, taking in the sight of ten thousand veiled statues. All of him. These murals of him. Everything Hua Cheng is—because of him. His umbrella, because Xie Lian broke Heaven’s rules to offer it on a dreary day, when Hua Cheng professed a desire to die and Xie Lian told him to make him the center of his universe and live. Eming, because Xie Lian taught him how to wield a saber after dispatching binu. The pearl in his hair, because Xie Lian was wearing it when he saved Hua Cheng’s life as a little boy.
I’m his beloved. I’ve always been his beloved.
The tears in his eyes fall, his heart too big for his chest. He loves me. He’s always loved me. For eight hundred years, he’s loved me.
Then Feng Xin and Mu Qing shout, a scandalized noise.
“What is it now?” Xie Lian asks. They’re farther down the cave wall, both gaping at something. When Xie Lian walks toward them, Feng Xin hurries over to push him away.
“Holy fuck, don’t look!”
“What?” Xie Lian asks. “What was it? Why can’t I look?”
Mu Qing’s eyes are dark, his mouth set in a firm line. “Just…don’t bother. There’s nothing worth seeing here. Let’s get out of here as soon as possible!”
They each grab one of Xie Lian’s arms, but Xie Lian plants his feet, unwilling to part from these paintings. He wants to stay with them. He wants to see all of them—all of Hua Cheng’s devotion—their long history, barreling toward a love story, scrawled across this wall, a pictographic record of how much they mean to one another, how intrinsically tied they are. “What are you doing? I’m not done looking at the murals!”
“There’s no need to look anymore! Things like that shouldn’t be seen!” Feng Xin yells, tugging again, but Xie Lian refuses to move. “My fucking god! I’ve never witnessed anything like that in my fucking life. Nor anyone like him!”
“What have you never witnessed? What’s wrong with San Lang?”
Mu Qing scowls. “Why are you still calling him ‘San Lang’? Stop it! You can’t get away from him fast enough! Never go near him again—he’s not normal! He’s sick in the head! He’s crazy!”
“Why are you two insulting him like this? None of us are all that normal, you know!”
“Stop asking!” Feng Xin cries. “You don’t understand! He’s not like us! He’s crazy! He… Toward you, he… He…”
“‘Toward me,’ what? Please let me go. Let me go back and see for myself, all right?” Xie Lian yanks against their hold when, suddenly, a dangerous voice calls out from the dark.
“Didn’t I say not to randomly put your hands on things in other people’s territory?”
Hua Cheng leans against the stone wall ahead, blocking their way with a smile.
“San Lang,” Xie Lian breathes, relaxing.
“Stay back,” Feng Xin warns, and Mu Qing releases Xie Lian to draw his saber.
“Stop!” Xie Lian begs. “Everyone calm down. San Lang, you made all these statues and these paintings, right? I haven’t misunderstood?”
“Get away from him, Your Highness—”
But Xie Lian has had enough. He rips his arm free, and in the next second, Ruoye has Mu Qing and Feng Xin bound together on the floor of the cave, their mouths mummified, mute. Xie Lian steps toward Hua Cheng, who hasn’t moved.
“San Lang, please. I’ve already seen everything. Can’t you just tell me?”
“Has gege…really seen everything?” Hua Cheng asks quietly, like he’s terrified of the answer.
“Most of it. Enough of it,” Xie Lian placates, and wrings his sleeves in his hands. “Are all of those figures you? Did we really meet all those times, all those years ago?”
“If gege knows, why ask?”
“It’s true, then?” Hua Cheng says nothing. “It’s true? You’re all those people from my life?” Still, Hua Cheng says nothing, and Xie Lian’s eyes cloud. He whispers, “Are you Wuming?” Nothing. “San Lang, please. I need to know.”
After a beat, Hua Cheng leans away from the wall. Then, from behind his back, he reveals a wooden, white mask. It’s smiling.
“I was tattered after Lang-er Bay. I drifted here. It took a long time to get stronger—”
But Xie Lian doesn’t need to hear anymore. As soon as he gets confirmation, he closes the distance between them, goes up onto his toes, and pulls Hua Cheng into a kiss.
“Mmph—”
“Wuming,” Xie Lian whispers against his mouth, and after a moment of hesitation, Hua Cheng kisses him back. The wooden mask clatters to the cave floor, and two hands wind their way into his hair. They cradle his skull as Hua Cheng presses kiss after kiss after kiss to his lips.
Fanatical, Hua Cheng praises “Your Highness, Your Highness, Your Highness” in the parchment-thin space between them. In the litany’s gaps, Xie Lian weeps, “I thought I killed you.” A tongue slides along his own, and tears tumble down his cheeks. “I’ve spent so long—regretting everything I did to you—” Another kiss. “Wuming. My most devoted believer. My precious Wuming.” A final kiss before they’re both breathing heavily, foreheads pressed together, clinging to one another.
“Your Highness isn’t afraid?” Hua Cheng’s single eye burns like blazing fire, gaze locked on Xie Lian, unwavering.
“I could never be afraid of you.”
Hua Cheng’s hands slide out of his hair to cup his face, and Xie Lian lifts his own hands to hold them in place. For a while, they stand like that. Xie Lian’s heart feels like it might burst. To have his feelings reciprocated, more than reciprocated, is more than he ever hoped for. No more longing for what he thought belonged to someone else. No more mourning a nameless ghost he failed. They’re here, together, whole.
At last, Hua Cheng plants a kiss on Xie Lian’s forehead and releases him.
Which is when Xie Lian remembers they have an audience. It’s tempting to leave Ruoye in place so that he can find somewhere to lie down and hide in embarrassment, but he doesn’t. The silk band slides free and flies over to coil around his arm. Both Feng Xin and Mu Qing remain sitting on the floor, staring like they don’t recognize Xie Lian at all. He rubs the nape of his neck nervously, especially when Hua Cheng touches the small of his back to guide them forward.
Silence persists—until Feng Xin asks, “Who the fuck is Wuming?”
Hua Cheng smiles that fox grin of his, mysterious, mischievous. “His Highness’ most devoted believer.”
But Xie Lian corrects him: “My beloved. He’s my beloved.”