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He knew he wasn’t an easy person to understand, with all his scowls and constant bursts of anger.
He knew others referenced at him with hesitance, no clue as to how to ease his burning glare or the painful zap of Zidian.
He knew there was never one to personally look at him, look at his eyes and his lips and his face and his scowl and the whole that makes him him—
Beyond the sister he adored and cherished until she was ripped from him for the sake of his brother.
Beyond the brother he lost to flames and tunes and cries and loyalty.
Beyond the very same brother who rose from the ashes and still looked at him, looked at him like he was worthy of all the praises, of all the pain he’s endured, all the sacrifices he never even had the choice to make.
Worthy of gentle hands and light touches, worthy of the love he thought he could no longer want.
Could no longer have when he realized it was the only thing, the only one selfish desire left of his tired mind, left for him to ever burn with the trembles of fury to crave for.
He wanted that person who looked at him when others didn’t, approached him when others couldn’t, stood beside him when others dared not to, understood him in ways only he could.
He wanted Wei Wuxian, wanted his eyes, his hands, his presence to always, past the very laws of their world, past the very essence of what their purposes are for—
To choose him. To choose him, and his scowls and his laughs and his anger and his hatred and his devotion.
And standing right before him, in a new body, in a new face, in a new name—he aches with the hunger of a man left starved.
“Wei Ying,” he called, his voice softer and quieter than it's ever been. Those blue eyes (not stone grey, his mind whispers) widened, laced with fear and pain and—
And uncertainty.
Bitterness crawled at his throat. A question arose in his foggy mind, of which he dared not ever think of in fear of the true answer.
Did Wei Ying still want him?
Did Wei Ying still think of him in death as a soul?
He had played Chenqing once. And only once. Tried to play a song that could reach his brother and despaired when his song was replied with silence.
“Uncle,” Jin Ling spoke up, running to his side and glancing at Wei Ying with ambiguity. “Uncle, that Mo Xuanyu—it’s best if you ignore him. He’s insignificant and has a history of—” He broke off, something in voice wavering. He swallowed. “Nevermind. He’s bad news and—”
“Is coming back with us.”
Jin Ling nodded. “Is coming back with us—is coming back with us? ” he repeated, incredulous. “Uncle, I—are you okay?”
Years later, when the tale has reached the corners of every town and sect and house and is rooted as a legend on its own, those who witnessed the start of it all whisper how perhaps it’s when he did not snap at his nephew in retaliation for such a stupid question did they think a change in the sect leader was apparent.
He didn’t care. He didn’t care about what they had to say, about what they could possibly make out on his face right now as he gazed at his fallen (but alive, he’s alive, hesalivehesalivehesalivehesaliveheshere) brother.
“Wei Ying,” he whispered to himself, just to hear the name roll off his tongue. For years, he hadn’t uttered that name. No need to, when others are careful not to mention the Yiling Patriarch in his presence and Wei Ying’s title was lost in the translation of his darkened legacy.
Not even alone, silent and mourning his family, did the name come out of his very own mouth and in his own raw voice.
He feared how much he would break if he ever did.
But right now, he could care less. His brother, his partner, his everything was right there—
In front of them all, in front of his own sect, in front of his nephew, in front of that Lan Wangji (oh how he had snarled at the expression on the man’s face when they crossed paths from time to time), Jiang Cheng broke.
Wei Ying barely had time to react before he was encased in Jiang Cheng’s arms, strong hands latching onto his waist and pulling him toward his chest until he was all but one with Jiang Cheng. He distantly noted their new height difference and the delicate build of his brother’s borrowed body (and he’ll question him about that later, after the tears and the touches and the prospect that he’s back, back in his arms, back with him, back settles in his mind) so dainty and almost delicate compared to him.
At first, Wei Ying struggled, unclear as to what Jiang Cheng’s intentions were. To kill him, to hurt him, to restrain him? He could only guess of what was flashing through Wei Ying’s mind.
But Jiang Cheng held on. He held on because he could not before, held on because his chances were thrown away when he took what he had for granted, took the thought that he’d had Wei Ying to himself for granted.
Awkward under the astonished or bewildered inspections of the bystanders, Jiang Cheng felt him slightly loosen, though his hands remained strictly hovered in the air, unsure as to where to put them. In response, Jiang Cheng only tightened his grasp on his brother.
“—Sect Leader?” Wei Ying started. “I—”
“Come back to Lotus Pier,” he whispered. Wei Ying froze. The crown of his hair rests against his mouth, grazing him with every word spoken. Wei Ying’s scent—new body or not, Wei Ying smelt the same. Smelt like safety, like security, like care.
“Come back home, Wei Ying.”
Please come back home.
“We can visit sister,” Jiang Cheng continued, his hands trembling and lips moving before he could stop himself. “Visit sister and father and mother and I can introduce you to everyone. The sect—the sect is strong, rebuilt. And Jin Ling… Jin Ling will learn—”
It was overwhelming Wei Ying, he could tell. Overwhelmed by the promises Jiang Cheng swore he would make happen, by Jiang Cheng’s surprising acceptance of his brother being alive.
“A-Cheng,” Wei Ying croaked, eyes raw as they gazed up at him and the slightest shake of his lashes. “A-Cheng, don’t—are you—” Tears gathered and slid down his pale cheeks.
Jiang Cheng couldn’t do anything but hold on, hold on to his shaken brother who’s back, who’s alive, who’s here and will never leave.
You’re not leaving me, he swore, to all that could hear, to the heaven’s above and the monsters hiding in the shadows, to the liars and the saints and guiders—to them all. Wei Ying, you’re not leaving me.
“Come back with me,” he finally said. Finally had the courage to say to the one person who deserved to hear it the most.
Hands locked onto his waist with an iron clutch, fisting themselves in the purple of his robes. Wei Ying’s head tipped down, hair veiling his tears. He pressed his forehead into Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “You’re not lying?” he begged, hopeful and desperate.
“No,” Jiang Cheng denied strongly, reveling in how true it was. He’s hidden his emotions for the better part of two decades. He won’t allow himself to sit and waddle any longer. “No, I’m not.”
“You… you won’t throw me out,” Wei Ying quietly pleaded between them—only between them, Jiang Cheng preened, using all he could to not look over at Hanguang-Jun—”right?”
“A-Ying,” Jiang Cheng said. Wei Ying slowly glanced up at him. He let the slightest smile form on his lips, shaking with all he feels for his (soon-to-be, if he had a say in it) partner. “A-Ying, getting rid of you is almost as impossible as shutting you up.”
The laugh bursting from Wei Ying shook his entire frame, and Jiang Cheng stared—stared at the sight in front of him, at the man he’s waited, hands and feet on just for the speck of. Waited to hear one more time—just one. He wouldn’t dare wish for more.
But he could. He can. Wei Ying was right here, in his arms, laughing and happy and though they have many more steps to do, much more to talk about, much more to discuss and much more to confess to one another, Jiang Cheng had the man he loved in his arms, and all he could do was smile.
Home never felt so sweet.