Chapter Text
It’s raining again.
Jiang Cheng lifts his head to the crying sky. The world is awash in darkness: black clouds, blacker streets, the yawning void of nighttime shadows.
There is no solace in a place like this. There never could be.
A tail traces gently over his spine—his sister, her lovely white fur matted with mud. Jiang Cheng hates the sight of her so filthy. It isn’t what she deserves. It isn’t what either of them deserve.
Jiang Cheng? Blue-grey eyes blink through the darkness. What’s the matter?
Everything, he wants to say. The wounds of their losses burn terribly, an agony seeping to Jiang Cheng’s bones. He’s mad with the pain of it all— furious, a horrible fire lit by everything they’ve suffered through.
Perhaps a lesser being would be discouraged in his position. Jiang Cheng only feels rage.
Nothing, he tells her, and then: We need to move on.
There’s nothing left for them in a place like this. There never was.
Not all are gifted with the power to change. A whole species exists—a whole world— where change is wrought not by magic, but by might. By physical things: blood and bone, speech and strength.
Sometimes Jiang Cheng wonders what birth in that world would have been like. Who would he have been? Where would he have gone? What could he have still had, had he not been trapped in a shifter’s body?
Dreaming is Wei Ying’s job. Jiang Cheng is the muscle—the arm carrying out his plans, the secondary voice for decision making. He knows it does no good to wonder, to wish or hope. He knows what must be done, ugly as it is, and how to do it.
But Wei Ying is not here anymore, and so Jiang Cheng dreams.
The Jiang Clan didn’t always roam the streets. There was a time before, when their bellies were full and their fur was clean. There was a time when Jiang Cheng felt sure of his place in the world, of his purpose, his future. There was a time when they numbered more than just three.
Two, Jiang Cheng reminds himself. Bitterness curdles in his gut like sour fruit. There are only two of us, now.
The city they’ve arrived at is relatively clean. There’s plenty of food in the garbage—plenty of bugs to capture if you know where to look. The air smells fresher here than elsewhere; the grass, greener and fuller. In terms of places to be moored within, Gusu is not the worst they could do. Not by a long shot.
That doesn’t mean Jiang Cheng is happy though. If anything, the begrudging acceptance he’d cultivated within has been scattered to ashes. There are only two of them now, and soon..
Soon, there will only be him.
Jiang Cheng knows the signs. His mother had made him recite them day after day before. It was their calling—the beginning of the rest of their lives. They had to be ready when the time came.
First, there is the yearning.
I have a good feeling about this place, his sister tells him over their next meal. They’ve scrounged fish out a grocery store dumpster—barely fresh, but food nonetheless. I can feel it in my bones.
Jiang Cheng notices the way she looks at the buildings above. He sees her whiskers twitch when they cross certain streets, the way she stops to ponder human things. She asks more questions now than she did before. She dreams with her eyes wide open.
Then, there is the song.
They’ve rested for the night under a discarded box. The cardboard is damp; the towel beneath them, rank with sweat. Finding both objects had been difficult with how clean Gusu is, so Jiang Cheng cannot complain, but he despises it nevertheless.
Sister stirs.
Jiang Cheng cracks his eyes open. The moon still hangs above like fine jewelry, a silver pendant in a sky of diamond. His gaze flicks to his sister beside him.
Go back to sleep, she says. I just thought..
Sister looks out through the box’s open end. Her ears are pricked forward, as if straining towards a sound Jiang Cheng cannot hear. Her whiskers twitch.
It’s nothing, she finally tells him. Nevermind.
But when Jiang Cheng awakes again, she is already gone.
Navigating the world alone is surprisingly easy. Jiang Cheng is familiar with the typical strategies: when to beg, when to scavenge, when to fight, when to flee. He scrounges a meal off a restaurant’s back door the day after Jiejie’s departure and walks Gusu’s streets with no particular aim. He has nowhere to go—and so he goes everywhere.
Gusu’s suburbia are carefully manicured: pristine whitewash, delicate flower beds. Birdsong echoes from all sides to mingle with cars and chattering people, the shivering of trees in the early spring breeze. Jiang Cheng picks his way alongside an immaculate gutter and thinks that perhaps, without Wei Ying or Jiejie, he will need to move on soon. His song is not here.
The idea of leaving them aches—but how can he stay if he can’t even show a human face? What use could they have for a shifter who cannot shift at all?
No, Jiang Cheng thinks. I will leave tomorrow. He doesn’t know where he’ll go, but Gusu is not the place for him.
Jiang Cheng is so lost in his thoughts that he nearly misses the small alleyway.
He stops. Blinks. Turns back to peek inside.
There are no dumpsters. The road is swept clean, white brick pavement against walls swathed in paint. Jiang Cheng cannot see colors clearly—the curse of being feline—but even he recognizes the curvature of wizened trees, the smattering of emerald leaves. The alley’s been painted into a beautiful forest.
Mural, he remembers. Humans call them murals.
A single door opens to the alley half-way down. The entrance is shaded by potted ficuses and crawling hibiscus, wooden-carved screens lining the doorway. There’s even a woven doormat.
Indecision tangles in Jiang Cheng’s chest. He should go—but nothing is stopping him from staying, either.
Just a peek, he tells himself. I’ll look inside and be on my way.
He steps forward. The sounds of the city fall away.
Humming fills his ears.
Jiang Cheng initially doesn’t know what he’s looking at. The door opens to a wide, spacious area, all smooth wooden floors and walls covered in ink and canvases. Tarps are thrown about, blending with stray objects of no discernible use. Fumes clog the air.
And in the center of it all, humming as he paints away, is a man.
Jiang Cheng’s view is skewed from the ground, but even he can discern fine bone structure. The man has long, elegant limbs, lithe like a dancer. He turns slightly and offers glimpses of high cheekbones, an angular chin. His eyelashes are curiously long for a human’s; his hair, longer still. He hums a tune Jiang Cheng doesn’t recognize.
An artist, Jiang Cheng realizes. The canvases surrounding are full blooms compared to the ink scratches before him, but the similarity is there. The man must have painted them all himself.
Quietly, Jiang Cheng steps inside.
The space—cluttered as it is—shows signs of living. There’s a futon with clothes piled on it, and a garbage can full of teabags. There’s even open containers of food, steamed chicken and vegetables, resting on a low table.
Jiang Cheng knows an opportunity when he sees one. He casts a single glance in the man’s direction, affirming his focus, and jumps onto the table. The containers rattle.
The humming stops.
Instantly, Jiang Cheng’s brain sends up alarms. Run, part of him hisses. Get out of there! But the other half, traitorously ruled by his stomach, begs him to stay. He should at least try a mouthful before leaving.
The man turns around.
Long eyelashes. A pert nose. A mouth, perhaps a little small for a human’s, with cupid’s bow lips parted in surprise.
“Oh!” he says, blinking. “Hello, little kitty!”
Irritation bubbles in Jiang Cheng’s chest. His ears fold back unconsciously. Who are you calling little? You’re hardly the right size for a human!
“Oh, no no.” The man sets down his paintbrush. “I didn’t mean to offend you!” His gaze flicks to the containers. “Are you hungry? That’s not cat food!”
And I’m not a cat! Jiang Cheng ducks for the container purely out of spite and snatches a piece of chicken.
“Wh—hey! That’s mine!” The man takes a sharp step forward, but stops at Jiang Cheng’s growl. “Okay, okay. We can share. But let me get you a plate—I can’t have some random animal eating out of my bowl! You could have fleas.”
And you, Jiang Cheng thinks contemptuously, could have a brain.
He watches carefully as the man shuffles into a back room, emerging with a small, purple dish.
“I’ll have to take the container,” the man informs him. “If you’d just let me..?” He frowns at Jiang Cheng’s glare. “What? I promise I won’t take it all!”
Hesitantly, Jiang Cheng leaps to the futon. The clothes smell sweet— jasmine, he thinks—and rub softly against his paws. He curls up on top of a jacket and watches the man dump meat into the bowl.
The man looks up. “Hey, that’s mine! You—” He sighs, shaking his head. “Never mind. Take it. Just don’t get food or cat hair on it, alright?”
They settle quietly into the meal. Jiang Cheng wonders, briefly, if this is how human interactions are supposed to go. Who is this man that talks to animals like they’re people?
Is he crazy? Jiang Cheng wonders. He peeks up from his bowl. The man is organizing his vegetables by color. ..Maybe just peculiar.
And then, because their encounter is already completely incorrect from anything Jiang Cheng’s ever learned about humans, the man says, “I should give you a name.”
A name. Jiang Cheng knows plenty about those—things like good-for-nothing and smelly rat and fleabag. Once, a human threw a shoe at them and called them dogmeat. He unconsciously squats further into the clothes at the thought.
“How about..” The man twirls a chopstick. “Little Dove?”
Silence stretches. Jiang Cheng stares at him.
“Okay, maybe not,” he amends. “How do you feel about Rain Cloud, then? Or Sardine? You’re grey, so it would only be proper..” The man trails off, mumbling as he pokes at his food.
Maybe he is crazy, Jiang Cheng thinks. But the food is free, and the man isn’t encroaching on his space, so it’s safe. For now.
The thought keeps him even after the meal. There’s something delicate about the man’s building—the soft scratching of his paintbrushes, the sunbeams spilling into a room wonderfully still—that makes him want to linger. Tumultuous thoughts, dreams long soured, the aching of Jiang Cheng’s feet—all wash away with humming and muffled birdsong.
The man’s gone back to his spot in the center of the room. The scratches on his canvas are beginning to look less like lines and more like fingers, or perhaps a gnarled copse. He works diligently and peacefully, lip caught between teeth, and doesn’t disturb Jiang Cheng where he lies at all.
Jiang Cheng’s eyes fall to half-mast. The cloth he’s wrapped in is comfortable. He’s warm with food and sunlight, drowsy with newfound peace.
I’ll stay one more day, he thinks. Just one.
He closes his eyes and slips into dreams.
“Hey? Yeah, it’s me.. Yes, I’m at the studio.”
Jiang Cheng blinks. What..?
The man is standing. He’s watching Jiang Cheng with a peculiar expression, lip caught between teeth.
“Yeah. Uh-huh. I know.”
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. What time was it? The sunbeams were gone—the sky outside obscured, but the alleyway darkening. Shit.
Jiang Cheng’s stomach growls.
“Yep. Hey, listen..” The man swings away, head cocked at his paper. The lines had thickened in Jiang Cheng’s slumber. “How would you feel about a cat?”
Huh?
“Yeah. Uh-huh. No, I was just wondering.” The man turns back around. Where had he gotten that towel? “Mm. Don’t worry, Brother. It was just a thought. Honest!”
Something is off. Jiang Cheng stumbles to his feet. His bones are still sleep-stiff, heavy with dreams. He blinks, disoriented.
“I have to go. I’ll see you at home, okay?”
There’s a soft click— the man putting something into his pocket—and he sighs.
“Brothers,” he tells Jiang Cheng seriously. “What can you do?”
And then he lunges.
It’s too quick. Jiang Cheng lurches, scrambling for the floor. The tarps tangle under his feet. He trips.
Quick as a viper, the man snatches him up. He wraps the towel around Jiang Cheng like one would a wound, tucking in limbs with pinpoint precision. Jiang Cheng snaps his teeth, but the man only laughs. He pats his back like a baby.
What—
“Little Dove,” the man says. “We’re going to get along great.” And then he smiles.