Chapter Text
“Well, what are you waiting for,” Jiang Wanyin asks, a lean brow raised in arrogant expectation. “Are you striking or not, Sect Leader Lan?”
“I can’t,” Xichen presses out. His fingers tremble to stay steady on Bichen, and he feels his useless heart patter in unsteady variations. Cold sweat trickles in a faint line down his spine, cold as the sharp disapproval in Wanyin’s eyes.
“There’s no Huaisang here,” he says baldly. “And I don’t intend to get stabbed by you. Do you think so lowly of my martial arts?”
Xichen furrows his brows, wounded, trying to hide his faint heart’s roar. “I would never-”
“I know. And I wouldn’t do anything to make you have to stab me. So hurry up-”
Xichen strikes out, smooth as a ripple of water. There is a sinuous grace in the Lan style, an easy fluidity that makes Jiang Cheng almost jealous. Almost, but not entirely. He parries, raising a lightning-fast hand to block the First Jade's blow. Their blades clang in the air, steel ringing against melodious steel. Jiang Cheng grits his teeth against the force Lan Xichen applies. They meet eyes across the blades, Xichen's narrowed into flinty almonds, and Jiang Cheng, despite himself, feels his lips stretch into a vicious grin. He draws back and the blades sing as they scrape across each other. He blocks a quick stab and spins, coming up behind Lan Xichen. They dance and skid across the firm ground of the training yard, whirling figures of silk and cloth stained by the dirt their feet fling up. Jiang Cheng pants hard, his arms and feet working in tandem, balanced and sprightly against the languid force Lan Xichen wields.
Without their notice, a small crowd of disciples gather and watch in open-mouthed awe. They must make a sight, Jiang Cheng considers, and feels a tinge of pride ripple through him. A careful whisper seeps up too, calling into question his prowess, his beauty, no doubt incomparable to Lan Xichen’s sheen of ethereal loveliness. How do the pair look in the crowd’s eyes? Has he paled against the other man’s skill? In competency, in grace, he knows he lies far behind. But even in this, this brutal dance he knows like nothing else, he is overtaken even in this, he doubts miserably. Who would root for the snubbed, vicious lotus over the paragon of righteous justice before him? He falters, caught up in his thoughts, and hisses as he pitches backwards, stumbling over his own stray steps. He sucks in a sharp breath, ready to feel the sting of gravel rub his palms raw, and thinks he is glad for the punishment. It is easier to feel bruised by physical aches rather than the bitterness inside his head. But then there is a murmur of white and cloud blue silk from somewhere ahead of him.
Lan Xichen reels forward, and Jiang Cheng feels warm, broad hands close over his waist, his sword-wielding forearm. Jiang Cheng pants, suspended inches above the ground, his heart racing off without his will and his frame held fast. Lan Xichen’s eyes are wide with worry, his brows twisted into a ripple of concern.
“Is Wanyin alright? Not wounded?”
Jiang Cheng grits his teeth, twists his arm and staggers up, striking at an awkward angle that yet manages to slide too close to the other man. Xichen pulls back, startled, but then an odd expression glides onto his face. Jiang Cheng races to speak before he has to consider the look.
“Will you reach out to catch your enemies on the battlefield too, Zewu Jun?”
“No, only perhaps- perhaps if they are as lovely as Wanyin. Then I might make an exception.” Jiang Cheng walks in a tight circle, his blade drags on the dirt behind him. He studies the taller man, searching for what the odd emotion lining his smile is.
“You will find many on par with me. Will you assist them all?”
“Ah, but Wanyin is wrong. I don’t think any can compare to him.” When Xichen’s arm reaches out in an elegant line, Jiang Cheng is so distracted by his discovery that he misses the way it passes his barriers and settles a hair’s breadth away from his throat. Competition, he realized, watching the lovely curl of his lip and the sharp glint in his eye. He stands, defeated, and watches Lan Xichen before him, arm outstretched in victory, proud without malice, smug without any bite to it. Beautiful, Jiang Cheng thinks, almost involuntarily. He growls a laugh then, pleased, and throws his blade down in admittance.
“A fine match, Zewu Jun.” He bows in careful angles, a typical greeting to end a match between equals. “You shone brightly.”
When Lan Xichen pulls him up by his elbows, hands firm and smile indulgent, Jiang Cheng feels his heart race again, unaffected by the match’s exertion, leaving him no excuse for denial.
“It was this one’s honor to fight one so skilled. I have much to learn, even yet,” Lan Xichen murmurs, his hands still in place long after their need has ended.
"Learn what?" Jiang Cheng scoffs. "You won, didn't you? What is left to master?"
Lan Xichen ducks his head and says his parting words almost to himself. His hand lingers atop his chest, and Jiang Cheng's eyes cannot help but snag on the fine-boned art of it, laying over his heart. "I have many things yet to master, Wanyin."
Jiang Cheng pulls away, promising dinner later, and feels the other man’s eyes prickle against his back as he leaves, disoriented. The disciples chatter and burble despite the rules calling against overexcitement as he passes by, but he avoids their eyes. As he shucks off his over robes in his chambers and calls for a cold bath to be drawn, all he can think is, ah, maybe I understand that snobby Jin traitor now. If Lan Xichen had held me up like that, when all the world had shunned me, I wouldn’t have been able to touch a hair on his head either.
It irks him to see anything in similar with that man’s golden memory besides Jin Ling, so he stews for the rest of the afternoon in a dark sulk.