Chapter Text
"Just sitting here
I'm waiting, oh yeah
But he's not by my side"
As Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue approached the tavern, now convinced despite themselves that it was indeed Yiling Laozu's tavern, the world seemed to warp around them as if it had decided to tease them with an almost affectionate delicacy. They had just finished asking for directions for the umpteenth time—seven, to be precise, but only because Nie Mingjue had refused to believe the first, second, third, and so on, like a man who sees reality opening up beneath his feet and insists on pounding the ground to see if it is solid, and each person they met seemed like a piece added to the puzzle of absurdity they were putting together.
The old man with the basket of mushrooms had looked at them the way one looks at someone asking if the sun really rises in the east: a slow, slurred expression, as if the question itself had offended him. "Wei Wuxian's inn? Over there, behind the incense shop. Who else do you think cooks so well that it attracts people at this hour?" The two children with the crooked kite had instead indicated the same direction with the military precision of two miniature generals. "Go straight! But be careful not to let Mrs. Wen Qing see you; she's nervous today!"
The tofu woman smiled, happy as if she knew a harmless secret. "There! Tell him he has to pay me for the tofu from the other day. He put it in the broth and then forgot about it!" The man with the potato cart had sighed like a romantic poet betrayed by life. "Um... yes, over there. But if you can, tell him to stop taking my change without giving it back. I know he doesn't mean to, but..."
Then the old woman. She had frozen them. She had looked them up and down with the same distrust of someone fearing a tax audit while simultaneously praying for a storm to cover their escape. "A pumpkin? Do you want one? It's good. Fresh. Perfect. You... are inspectors? Tell me right away, and I'll get the rest ready!"
Lan Xichen had tried to reassure her with a smile, but it had been worse. She had tried to stuff his hands with vegetables, as if getting rid of the evidence was the only salvation left.
When Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue finally stopped in front of the tavern, it felt like they had arrived at the border between the civilized world and an alternate version of reality where logic had packed up and moved on. The sign above the entrance hung from a single nail, swaying at the slightest breath of air as if on the verge of falling, and bore three warnings written in handwriting that seemed to struggle to stay upright: No dogs allowed, No Jin cultivators allowed, No troublemakers allowed. Below, added later with a different stroke and a clear sense of tiredness, a very precise note: PS: If you are of the Jiang sect or Sandu Shengshou , Wei Wuxian is not here. You are drunk if you see him.
Nie Mingjue remained completely still, as if his brain had decided to stop to avoid a short circuit. He looked at the sign, then at the entrance, then back at the sign, like a man trying to figure out if he's really awake or if reality has decided to play tricks on him. Lan Xichen remained silent because there was no way to explain what was before them without making the situation worse: the tavern did not look like a dark and dangerous refuge, nor that of a nest of demonic magic or a forbidden place. It was… a tavern. One with the warm smell of broth, fruity wine, damp wood, and with the door constantly opening and closing because of the customers.
What unsettled them most of all was that people seemed to be coming and going as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if the infamous Yiling Laozu were nothing more than a random innkeeper, one of those who pours your wine and asks how your day was.
Nie Mingjue massaged his temples, almost certain that a headache was rising from the back of his skull like a storm that wouldn't let up. "Xichen… please… explain to me what I'm looking at. Tell me I'm drunk." Lan Xichen inhaled slowly, as if trying to get some clarity back into his lungs. "I think… this is Wei Wuxian's tavern."
"No." Nie Mingjue shook his head so hard that his hair twitched like an irritated horse. "No. This is a trap. A poor imitation. A... a parody. It can't be here. It can't."
Lan Xichen wanted to prove him wrong. He wanted to believe that it was all a gigantic misunderstanding, that Wei Wuxian was elsewhere, engaged in something sensible, coherent, befitting the reputation that accompanied him. Instead, the more he looked at the tavern, the closer the truth came like an inevitable thought: Wei Wuxian was there. Truly there.
Not on the summit of the Burial Mountains, not in a dark cave studying forbidden arts, not surrounded by restless spirits. There. In Yiling. With a sign banning dogs, Jin, and anyone looking for trouble. And with a note warning the Jiang Sect members that if they saw Wei Wuxian, it only meant they were not sober.
What struck Lan Xichen like a gentle punch in the stomach was the way normality mixed with paradox: the scene was so everyday, so human, so unthreatening, that he almost felt as if he had dreamed everything the other clans had told him. In that normality there was something more powerful than any weapon or spiritual technique: there was proof that the world had been wrong, that fear had distorted the facts, that the truth had been trampled underfoot like dry leaves on a mountain path.
“Mingjue,” he said finally, his voice calm but with a new spark running through it, “I think we need to go in.”
Nie Mingjue stared at the open door and seemed to rejuvenate and age at the same time, in one long breath. “If we find Wei Wuxian drunk serving wine… I swear I’ll walk back to Qinghe… and without shoes.”
Lan Xichen smiled, an incredulous but genuine smile, because at that moment reality was so absurd that it was almost reassuring. "Let's go. Maybe... we'll find more answers than we imagine." And together, like two men walking toward truth and possible disaster in equal measure, they grabbed the tavern handle and pushed open the door, ready to discover what awaited them inside.
As Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue pushed open the door of the tavern, the warm air inside hit them like an unexpected breath, thick with the scents of broth, boiling herbs, fruity wine, and burning wood. It wasn't the smell you'd expect from the hideout of the most feared grower in recent years; it was the smell of a lived-in place, a refuge for ordinary people, of evenings spent eating and telling stories. The infamous Yiling Laozu tavern seemed to have built itself around the footsteps of Yiling residents: crooked tables, lanterns hung so asymmetrically that they seemed a deliberate stylistic choice, warm shadows flickering on the walls like memories that refuse to fade.
Lan Xichen stopped just inside the threshold, unable to ignore the feeling that he was entering a paradox. The terror of half the cultivation world, the living legend everyone described as a madman, a walking danger, a demon with a flute… he had a tavern. And it served soup. The thought caught in Lan Xichen's mind like a leaf caught in a current: inexplicable, tenacious, inevitable.
Nie Mingjue, on the other hand, resembled someone who expected every object in there to turn into a weapon at any moment. His eyes swept around the room in short, controlled movements, as if seeking confirmation that the world had not gone completely mad. He found none.
The people sitting at the tables didn't seem the least bit bothered by them. A woman was cutting radishes with the precision of someone who has done it all her life; an old man drank slowly, as if each sip was a ritual; two boys were laughing as they tried to steal pieces of meat from each other's bowl. And at the center of that small, ordered chaos was her, Wen Qing, with an apron tied around her waist and a gaze so sharp it could sharpen a knife. As soon as she saw them, she froze for half a second: enough to make them understand that she had recognized them, too little to make them believe that she was happy with their presence.
"No," she said immediately, without even coming closer. “Whatever you two came here to do, no.”
Lan Xichen bowed slightly, a courtesy that spread like a flexible branch in the wind. “We came in peace, not to cause trouble.”
Wen Qing looked at him without blinking, as if she were analyzing his statement under a microscope. “No one comes in here saying they have bad intentions,” she muttered, and went back to cleaning a table with movements that seemed like hidden warnings. “Then they look for trouble, and it’s up to me to fix everything.”
Nie Mingjue couldn't help himself. “We just want to talk to Wei Wuxian.”
Wen Qing wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist, tired but determined, yet it wasn't even quite noon. The tavern was already full, the smell of soup and broth mingling with that of fruity wine, and the occasional sound of children running between the tables added a perfect note of chaos to that little world. As if that wasn't enough, two imposing figures were standing there near the entrance, ZeWu-Jun and ChiFeng-Zun, the two most famous and feared cultivators in the entire cultivation world, with the posture of sect leaders who know they have the entire universe in the palms of their hands. Wen Qing watched them for a moment, his eyes narrowed to slits as he tried to filter out the blinding light of the too-direct sun. It was clear that Jin Guangshan had sent them, not to achieve any result, but in the hope that Wei Wuxian would be crazy enough to take them out.
“I don’t know where he is this morning,” Wen Qing said, his voice firm but with a hint of exasperation that betrayed his patience, “have you checked around? Maybe he's feeding the geese." The sentence came out almost as a warning, a delicate warning like a leaf slowly falling onto a surface of water. She hoped, that Wei Wuxian in the back wouldn't make too much noise, that he wouldn't let the absurd vitality that animated him show, and that Wen Ning wouldn't suddenly decide to come out to serve the customers.
Nie Mingjue, standing next to Lan Xichen, felt his chest tighten as if someone had placed an invisible rope around his ribs. He knew that every step they took in that tavern was like walking a suspended bridge between reality and madness, between the legend they had studied and the real man who, apparently, took care of broth, wine, and radishes as if nothing were happening. Lan Xichen, on the other hand, breathed slowly, trying to absorb that mix of absurdity and normality: Wen Qing's methodical serenity, the children laughing and running between the tables, and above all the palpable anticipation of meeting Wei Wuxian.
It was the moment when legend would cease to be legend, and Lan Xichen, as he gazed into the back of the tavern, felt that something irreversible was about to happen, something that would change not only the world's perception of Wei Wuxian, but also their entire idea of what it meant to seek him, find him, and bring him back into the arms of reality.
Lan Xichen smiled impeccably, the kind you wear when the situation is so absurd that a minimum of formal grace is required to keep from letting your forehead fall onto the nearest table. His eyes slid into the tavern and spotted two empty seats, miraculously remaining so despite the din, the running children, the clattering bowls, and the irresistible aroma of soup that climbed the walls like a stubborn perfume determined to conquer the entire building. “No, but we can wait for him here,” he said with the reassuring calm he used in desperate diplomatic situations. “We haven’t had lunch yet… have we, Nie Mingjue?”
He turned to his friend, and what greeted him was Nie Mingjue's blank, terrified gaze, fixed on some indefinite point in the room, as if there lay the answer to all his existential questions—or perhaps an invisible danger. When Lan Xichen called out to him, Nie Mingjue turned around like a man who had just discovered that he had entered a parallel dimension where Wei Wuxian ran a respectable business. He would rather face a horde of ferocious spirit beasts than sit there, but it was too late now.
Lan Xichen suppressed the urge to laugh and continued in a clear voice, bowing to the room as if greeting an invisible royal court: “If there is no objection, we would like to try something.” No one objected, because no one was listening; everyone was too busy living their lives in that tavern that seemed to breathe, laugh and chatter like a living creature.
He then approached the two empty seats carefully, moving like someone walking through a trap field, because with Wei Wuxian everything had the potential to be a disaster or a pleasant surprise, and often both at the same time. Nie Mingjue followed him with the stiffness of a soldier led into battle without armor, each step heavy and reluctant, as if the floor had suddenly become suspicious.
Once seated, the smell of the fruity, warm, sugary wine surrounded them like a promise of peace or doom. Lan Xichen observed the tavern with a new attention, almost fascinated: the place was simple, lived-in, full of laughter, and had that strange magic that is born only when someone has put their heart—and too much enthusiasm—into something. There were fabrics hanging out to dry near the back, a vase of crooked flowers in the center of the counter, and a child running back and forth with an empty tray pretending to be a hero.
Nie Mingjue, on the other hand, seemed to be sitting on a cushion full of thorns, his hands clenched on his knees and his gaze fixed as if he were ready to leap to his feet at the first note of a suspicious flute. And just then, as the buzz of the tavern mingled with the clatter of dishes and voices, Lan Xichen felt something simple, almost moving: the certainty that he was finally understanding something fundamental.
Wei Wuxian hadn't gone mad. It wasn't hidden among corpses or surrounded by dangerous barriers. It was here, among the people, with a tavern that smelled of home, where children ran and the elderly smiled. And as a thread of hope opened in his chest like the first ray of sunshine in the morning, Lan Xichen smiled without being able to stop himself: yes, it would be possible to bring him back.
Wen Qing watched them as they sat down, as if considering whether two sect leaders could cause more damage than a group of hyperactive children with dirt on their hands. As Lan Xichen placed her neat sleeve on the table, she took a deep breath, like a healer seeing two complicated patients arrive before noon. Then she dried her hands on her apron and said, "All right, you can wait for him here. But don't ask any strange questions, don't touch anything shiny, and if you hear a noise coming from the back... it's none of your business."
The tone was typical of an older sister who knows perfectly well that her brother is doing something stupid, but no longer has the energy to stop him.
Lan Xichen nodded with a gentle smile, as if she were being advised on the rules of tea rather than survival in a mysterious territory. Nie Mingjue, however, remained rigid, still keeping that undefined point in his sights, as if he feared that at any moment a chicken might run across the tavern shouting "Jin Cultivators!" or Wei Wuxian could emerge from the floor with a pot on his head.
"So... what do we eat here?" Lan Xichen asked in a calm voice, straightening his sleeves in front of him and trying to ignore Nie Mingjue's bewildered gaze.
“Lotus root soup, very spicy,” Wen Qing replied without hesitation. "And fruity wine. We have nothing else. Don't ask, don't insist, it's just the way it is."
Lan Xichen nodded, as if he had been offered the banquet of the century. Nie Mingjue blinked, unable to understand how one of the most feared figures in the cultivation world was living on radishes and sweet wine.
Wen Qing started to leave, but before going back into the back room, she turned around for a moment, looking at them with the expression of someone who knew perfectly well that something was about to happen. "Ah... if you happen to see Wei Wuxian around before I find him, don't tell him anything important. Not until he's finished cooking. Stress ruins his soup."
Lan Xichen smiled kindly. "Of course." Nie Mingjue looked at him sideways as if he had just heard the most irresponsible sentence of the century. The back door opened, letting out a wave of scented steam and an indistinct sound, something between a whistle and an off-key singing. Then the door slammed shut, as if something had tried to get out. Lan Xichen stiffened slightly, Nie Mingjue tensed his back as if he were facing a thousand-year-old demon.
Wei Wuxian burst out of the back room with the energy of a gust of wind blowing in through open windows without asking permission. He had an apron tied around his waist, too clean for his black robes with red edges that looked like they had fought at least three battles against the rebel soup; a visible stain stood out on the apron, like a personal signature that followed him everywhere. Wen Qing watched him advance and, for a moment, prayed that the floor would open beneath her feet: she had just declared to two of the most respected sect leaders—and, coincidentally, the ones sent by Jin Guangshan—that she did not know where Wei Wuxian was. And now that man appeared right in the center of the room as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He completely ignored the incredulous looks of Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue, walking with the lightness of someone who lives in a world where problems and authority simply flow by the side of the road. He stopped in front of Wen Qing, with a raised eyebrow and the scandalized expression of an innkeeper whose daily routine is being disrupted. "Wen Qing, we're out of wine! And I can't find Uncle Wen or his supplies. How should we serve our customers now?!"
Wen Qing closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in like someone fighting the temptation to punch fate itself. She knew it, she had felt it coursing through her bone marrow: Jin Guangshan had sent them, and everything was going exactly as she feared. Yet there was Wei Wuxian, completely unaware, more concerned with the fruity wine than the two sect leaders sitting in the hall.
Lan Xichen watched the scene with his heart thumping in his chest, as if a small light had been turned on at that very moment. Wei Wuxian was truly like that: spontaneous, chaotic, brilliant in his selective inattention. Nie Mingjue, on the other hand, remained motionless, with the expression of a man who suspects he is the victim of a scam.
Wen Qing opened her eyes and stared at Wei Wuxian with the resigned look of someone who sees an earthquake coming and knows she can't stop it. "Wei Wuxian... we have... guests," she looked at Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue.
Wei Wuxian followed the direction of his gaze, turned to the two men at the table, and for a moment even stopped breathing. Then he smiled, bright and completely out of place, as if he were seeing two old friends who had happened to be there. "Oh! ZeWu-Jun! ChiFeng-Zun! What are you doing here? Have you ordered yet?" And as he spoke, the stain on his apron glistened in the sunlight like a direct insult to the rules of Gusu.
Lan Xichen stood up with a smile brighter than the sun itself, bowing elegantly, revealing his satisfaction: the mission, which until a few hours earlier had seemed like an impossible mountain to climb, suddenly seemed simple, almost banal. There was no need for begging, no bending of the knees, or watering of the eyes, all he had to do was show respect and a little kindness, and the rest would follow. "Wei-gonzi! How nice to see you well!" he said, completing the bow while Nie Mingjue remained petrified in his place, his jaw clenched and his gaze turned away as if the sight of that chaotic young man could kill him with the energy of his smile alone. Lan Xichen could barely contain a laugh as he continued, “Wei-gonzi… no, we haven’t ordered, but if you don’t mind joining us for this lunch, you would do us the honor.”
Wei Wuxian blinked, looking first at the other empty seat, then at Lan Xichen, who was watching him as if ready to kneel before him, and finally Nie Mingjue, who was staring at the table with a statue-like rigidity, and smiled in a way that seemed to be asking Wen Qing for help. "Save me, why didn't you warn me before? These people don't just want to eat, they want to drag me away."
"Oh, ZeWu-Ju, I'd love to... but you know," he said, with a smile that threatened to make his cheeks cry if it were possible, "I have a lot to do here, maybe another day. I'm not in the mood for chit-chat today." He gestured delicately toward Lan Xichen, inviting him to sit down. "I'll bring you meat and vegetables, a pot of our best tea, and wine—not the fruity kind, which is sadly sold out, but we do have some local wine."
Lan Xichen, however, had no intention of giving up. “Wei-gonzi,” he said in a soft, firm voice, coming close enough to grasp his forearm and guide him lightly but firmly toward the empty seat. Nie Mingjue watched him as if he were going mad, unable to understand how Lan Xichen seemed ready to drag this rebellious young man by force, and at the same time perfectly understanding his impetus.
Lan Xichen continued, with a smile that tried to balance persuasion and authority: “I will pay for every minute you remain still. I understand the inconvenience, but we are here talking among old friends.” It wasn't just a facade of courtesy, it wasn't just a game of diplomacy. Lan Xichen wanted to bring him back into Lan Wangji's arms, to observe up close the young man his brother seemed to be in love with, and at the same time satisfy a very personal curiosity: to understand what Lan Wangji saw in that man so chaotic, unpredictable and irresistibly alive.
Wei Wuxian continued to smile, a smile that wavered between feigned submission and pure amusement, as Lan Xichen gently pushed him toward the empty seat, as if he were guiding a small hurricane dressed in black and red to sit on an imaginary throne.
He was terrified, but he seemed calm, because in reality he had no intention of talking to them, and the mere idea of a serious conversation made him feel as if someone had started a small fire under his chair. But Lan Xichen, with the unshakeable conviction of someone who has already decided that nothing and no one will stop him, did not let go; it didn't seem like a simple "no" would be enough to dissuade him. Wei Wuxian, resigned, sat down, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity that lasted less than the blink of an eye, because he was now officially trapped in the absurd triangle of politeness.
He wouldn't go back, he couldn't, not so much out of duty or fear, but because he had finally found a place to call home. A small tavern in the mountains, where days passed between wine, radishes, and impromptu chats, where chaos was organized and people needed his help.
That was enough for him, and he would never admit it out loud, because part of him wanted Lan Xichen to continue to believe that he was difficult to win over, to convince, to bring into line. So, sitting down, he decided he would give them a hard time, enjoying himself silently, ready to overturn every implicit rule of that formal lunch.
Wei Wuxian looked at him for a moment, his eyes sparkling like crazy stars, making the world around him seem less orderly and impossibly more fun. Lan Xichen, sensing that light that only Wei Wuxian could ignite, understood that the situation was in his hands: all it took was a small smile, a gentle push, and that lunch would become something more than just a meal.
Nie Mingjue took off his boots in the inn room, his head still a little shaken from the lunch he had just had, trying to piece together what could be described, without hesitation, a disaster. The inn, with its single room and two beds, had been a lifeline to their survival, though Nie Mingjue suspected that Lan Xichen was too busy thinking about his brother's heart to notice the obvious signals at Nie Mingjue was sending him.
Not that Nie Mingjue hadn't noticed how Lan Xichen stared at him when he thought he wasn't being watched, and a little shiver ran down his spine at the thought that the boy had been in love with him since they were children, but that he was so busy that he neglected him made him smile bitterly. “I should have listened to A-Yao’s advice,” he muttered to himself, “I should have kissed him and if he wasn’t into it… at least I could have blamed it on my drunkenness.”
Lunch had been a complete disaster, and every detail came back to Nie Mingjue like a series of little hammer blows. Lan Xichen was there, in his inner tunic, trying to dab the stain of wine that had fallen on his outer tunic in the basin that the innkeeper had brought with far too much patience for a man who had just suffered utter chaos. Wei Wuxian had turned every attempt at conversation into a minor accident: one word, a laugh, and a glass would end up on the table or directly on Lan Xichen, as if the wine were an extension of his personality.
A little boy, A-Yuan, had taken Wei Wuxian as if he were his mother, curling up around him like a kitten hungry for attention, and Wei Wuxian had started proclaiming that he was his son, laughing and making Lan Xichen pale as he believed it, stammering almost in tears: “He… is he Wangji’s son?” Nie Mingjue, for his part, wanted to bang his head repeatedly on the table, while Wen Qing, with the calm of an angel and the absent-mindedness of a clumsy cat, spilled the potato soup on the floor and simply said “Oops,” as if nothing had happened.
And Wei Wuxian, of course, hadn't had to be asked too hard: he had managed to disappear with A-Yuan in his arms, the little one waving goodbye to Lan Xichen from Wei Wuxian's shoulder as if he were on a ship leaving for a long journey. And Lan Xichen, seeing him, had an expression that was a mixture of terror, emotion and something that dangerously resembled an emotional collapse.
Nie Mingjue watched him as he tried, unsuccessfully, to understand how his friend had gone from the composure typical of cult leaders to pure panic in just a few minutes. Lan Xichen's eyes were shining, and the more the child waved his hand at him, the more he seemed convinced he was witnessing an unresolved family drama. “Nie-xiong… Nie-xiong, look at him! He has big eyes! And… and maybe he looks a little like Wangji! Can't you see? It's not… it's not impossible…”
It took all the patience, the long, painful patience that only years of friendship and brotherhood forged in battle could grant him, to keep Nie Mingjue from banging his head against a pillar . Instead, he began to speak as if he were explaining something very simple to a very emotional child. “Xichen. Breathe. Lan Wangji is not…” He paused for a moment, searching for a diplomatic way to say it. “He’s not the type to… desecrate anyone.”
Lan Xichen stared at him as if that sentence were a grave offense to his imagination. “But… what if that had happened? Maybe… maybe they were alone once… and Wei Wuxian never told him! Or Lan Wangji was afraid! Or… or Shufu wouldn't have accepted a child… and now that little one is—”
“Enough.” Nie Mingjue raised a hand, already tired at the memory of the disastrous lunch. “Lan Wangji is no Jin Guangshan. He doesn't go around… sowing children throughout the hemisphere.” Lan Xichen nodded slowly, as if trying to process a personal betrayal. Then he muttered, with a determined and totally irrational air: “If there’s even a chance… even a chance… I have to go to Gusu. Lan Wangji deserves to know. And if Shufu doesn’t accept the child… then I will. I’m the sect leader, damn it!”
At that point Nie Mingjue seriously reconsidered the idea of banging his head against the table. Not out of desperation—out of survival. To interrupt that train of thought before Lan Xichen deconstructed the entire cult society with a delirium born from a spilled lunch. “Mingjue...We have to go,” Lan Xichen said as he quickly stood up.
“No. No, no, and no again.” Nie Mingjue grabbed him by the shoulders and made him sit down. “We’re not going anywhere. You’re not going to upset Gusu because Wei Wuxian decided to play mother to a child.” Lan Xichen opened his mouth to retort, but Nie Mingjue cut him off: “And above all, you’re not giving Lan Qiren a heart attack by coming home shouting ‘Wangji has a son.’ I won’t be complicit in this.”
Lan Xichen paused. He inhaled. He inhaled again. Then he whispered, as if his dignity were draining away along with the last shred of common sense: “…But he did look a little like Wangji, admit it.” Nie Mingjue closed his eyes. And at that moment he understood that, most likely, Wei Wuxian had won that battle without even knowing it had started.
Nie Mingjue, before taking off his boots and flopping onto the bed, had made sure that Lan Xichen had no access to scrolls, ink, or anything that could turn into a furious writing plan. Now Lan Xichen seemed totally absorbed in rubbing the wine stain off his blue robe, as if that were the most important thing in the world, and Nie Mingjue sighed, tired and a little disappointed.
It wasn't because there was only one bed in the room, but for that simple absence was a huge absence. No scent of flowers or sandalwood floating in the air and enveloping him like a silent caress, no Lan Xichen's faint aroma that seemed capable of slowing time and making him breathe as if the world had just begun, no Xichen's warm arms trapping him between dream and waking, no Xichen's small, reassuring weight against him, that pressure just enough to tell him wordlessly that the chaos of the world could wait, that the problems and the rush and even Jin Guangshan and the clan disputes could evaporate for a moment and leave him simply there, alive, enjoying the other's presence.
Every free inch of bed screamed his absence, and Nie Mingjue felt suddenly blind and deaf, as if the world had forgotten it existed except for that emptiness and the stupid, childish, and irresistible desire to have Lan Xichen in his arms, tight, warm, real, alive, impossible to grasp but making him tremble with an absurd, absurd, and mad sweetness, so much so that he wanted to run back to the night before, to the moment he had pretended to be asleep just so he could hold him, and laugh and cry and hold him again until he forgot even how to breathe.
The night before, Nie Mingjue had deliberately remained in the room, motionless like a watchful shadow, a silent thief who wanted to steal nothing except a fragment of Lan Xichen, a sigh, a breath, anything that would make him feel close without being noticed. He waited patiently, as if every second were an eternity to be stretched out, waiting for Xichen to fall asleep and grant that fragile opening of vulnerability, that moment in which every little vibration of the body, every light breath, every imperceptible heartbeat, became an invisible thread that tied him to him.
Feeling that warmth, that minimal yet reassuring weight, was like holding a piece of sky in your hands and, for a moment, forgetting the tiredness, the tension, all the chaos of the world. Nie Mingjue's heart was beating like a drum too big for his chest, he felt his hands trembling slightly, as if it were something forbidden yet necessary, a sweetness so exaggerated that it made him blush even in the dark.
And he remained there, staring at the sleeping outline of Xichen, imagining he could hold him in his arms all night, until dawn decided the world had to become real again, until he stopped breathing almost in sync with him, as if his entire life were compressed into that silent, perfect, stupid moment of closeness. Now, however, the separate bed loudly screamed its absence: every free inch was a reminder of what was escaping him, and Nie Mingjue felt a mixture of frustration that made him rub his face in his hands like a child caught in a fault, thinking how stupid it was to want so much something so simple, something that was only called Xichen.
It had been the best awakening of his life, and the memory of that warmth and closeness still made his heart beat too fast. Maybe he was truly in love, or maybe it was simply the effect Lan Xichen had on him, and the thought of that innkeeper placing another bed in the room made him grumble.
Nie Mingjue wished it were just one bed for Lan Xichen and him again, that Lan Xichen's arms could fill the space unhindered, and that the entire world would shrink to that perfect moment of calm and confusion, where time could stand still and no one would disturb the fragile order between two hearts too stubborn to admit how much they longed to remain close.
Nie Mingjue stared at him as Lan Xichen, intent and with a frown on his face as if he were deciphering the secret of the universe, tried to tidy up his dirty tunic and the mess from the lunch he had just had. He thought of Wei Wuxian, who, with a sly smile and a completely disinterested air, seemed to have decided to ignore the entire world, and Nie Mingjue couldn't tell whether it was fury, stubbornness, or simply amusement. He couldn't understand why the man didn't say straight out that he didn't want to talk, what he was avoiding, or if he was even avoiding anything at all.
Wei Wuxian had made a mess of the Wen, carrying them off in such a dramatic and uncontrollable way that one could almost see the air vibrate and the mountains sigh under the weight of his legend. Every word Jin Guangshan had shed about him, every tale of corpses brought back to life and curses cast like poisonous flowers, was a blade of absurdity that should have made anyone shudder… yet Nie Mingjue knew, with a nagging intuition, that beneath all this chaos lay an invisible coherence, a code that only Wei Wuxian himself knew. Nie Mingjue would not harm someone who grew radishes or washed the floor of a tavern; his gestures, however exaggerated and loud in the eyes of the world, were his way of keeping life intact, of protecting those who could not defend themselves.
Yet Nie Mingjue felt that the truth was much bigger and more complicated than what was seen: Wei Wuxian seemed to have a path all his own, going straight ahead, ignoring everyone and any unwritten rules.
Jin Guangshan had spread terrifying stories about him, tales of curses, corpses, and resurrected armies, and even though it all reeked of falsehood, Nie Mingjue could not completely ignore caution. Jin Guangyao had warned them: “There’s no truth to what my father says… there were no cultivators there except Wen Qing and Wen Ning… before Wen Ning… well, you all know.” Yet, Nie Mingjue's mind raced between possibilities, suspicious and cautious, as he watched Lan Xichen bend slightly to lift the hem of his robe, his eyes shining with commitment and the infinite patience that only Lan Xichen knew how to possess.
Nie Mingjue had to admit, reluctantly, that that chaos, that stubborn man, made him feel incredibly alive. And if the truth remained hidden behind Wei Wuxian's silences and smiles, well, at least there was Lan Xichen beside him, so incredibly serious and determined, so completely unable to see how adorable he was in his commitment, that Nie Mingjue suddenly felt willing to endure any madness just to spend a little more time with him, even if it meant having to deal with a demon dressed in black and red.