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They say time is supposed to heal. If you asked Lan Wangji, Hanguang-jun himself, he would probably disagree without even looking up, but this isn’t about Lan Wangji.
This is about Jiang Cheng.
Because what the fuck would Lan Wangji know anymore?
He got his Wei Ying back. Just like that. As if the world hadn’t burned first. As if graves hadn’t been dug and redrawn and dug again. Now he wanders freely, travelling wherever he pleases, like he isn’t the Light-Bearing Lord, like he isn’t one half of the Twin Jades of Lan, like responsibility isn’t something carved into his bones.
He left anyway.
He left with the one person Jiang Cheng spent years hating and grieving and missing all at once, an impossible, suffocating trifecta that never once loosened its grip.
And Jiang Cheng didn’t even get the chance to fix things. Or at least try. Didn’t get the chance to figure out who Wei Wuxian is to him now, if he’s still his brother or just the shape of one having a familiar voice. Before Jiang Cheng could decide whether to forgive, or scream, or break something important or worse shed some tears.
Lan Wangji swept Wei Wuxian up at his side, turned his back on the cultivation world, and disappeared.
Just like that.
Gone from the sects. Gone from the meetings. Gone from Jiang Cheng’s reach.
Gone before Jiang Cheng could say anything at all.
__________
It had been a year since Jiang Cheng last saw Wei Wuxian since Guanyin Temple, since Lan Wangji swept him away, since everything shattered and somehow stitched itself back together without him. He tells himself he prefers it this way. Tells himself that distance is easier, quieter, safer.
And yet, he fucking misses him.
Which is ridiculous. Infuriating. Almost insulting.
Who is Wei Wuxian to him anymore, anyway? A ghost? A stranger wearing a familiar smile? A brother he buried twice and still can’t seem to let stay dead? More importantly, does he even have the right to miss him?
Thinking too much never ends well for Jiang Cheng. It never has. These days it only results in spilled ink across important documents or sharp words hurled at disciples who didn’t deserve them. Not that this is new. Anger has always been easier than grief. Control is easier than honesty.
Still.
When the invitation arrives formal, stiff, sealed with authority his fingers linger just a second too long on the paper.
Annual meetings.
A gathering of sect leaders, old wounds dressed up as civility, resentment hidden behind polite smiles. Jiang Cheng tells himself he’s annoyed by the inconvenience, by the disruption to his routine, by the possibility of chaos.
If he’s secretly stupidly hoping that Wei Wuxian might be there again, well.
No one needs to know.
No one will know.
____________
He sees Jin Ling first, and oh, fuck.
No. No. Jiang Cheng is not getting emotional. He doesn’t do that. It’s the winters of Gusu, nothing more than that. This cursed, damp cold that sinks into the bones, the kind that makes even breathing feel like a personal insult. The shivers are just that. Cold. Disgusting Gusu cold.
He doesn’t speak much with Jin Ling. His nephew is still learning how to exist among men who fought a war before he could even hold a sword properly, older, sharper, far more experienced in cruelty and politics. Jiang Cheng doesn’t hover. Doesn’t coddle. But he stays close enough. Close enough that Jin Ling never has to look around to find him.
They move into the Lan sect’s conference room, all polished wood and suffocating restraint. Jiang Cheng’s eyes betray him immediately, scanning the room without permission, searching for a familiar laugh, a reckless grin, messy hair that never stayed tied properly.
Nothing.
Wei Wuxian isn’t there.
Lan Wangji isn’t either.
The absence settles in his chest like a bad bruise.
He’s directed to a seat beside Jin Ling. Lan Xichen bows politely, serene as ever. Lan Qiren follows and Jiang Cheng nearly scoffs because fuck, even he has mellowed. The man’s eyes are softer now. Less sharp, less condemning. More forgiving.
How unfair.
The meeting begins and drags on endlessly. The same old complaints, the same recycled fears, the same grievances dressed up in new words. Cultivation politics rotting in a neat little circle. Jiang Cheng barely listens. He counts the minutes until he can leave, until he can go home back to Yunmeng, where at least the cold knows its place.
Just as it’s about to end-
The doors open.
Lan. Fucking. Wangji.
And-
Oh.
Wei Wuxian.
They walk in like they haven’t just been absent for a year. Like they haven’t abandoned the cultivation world. Like they haven’t ripped something loose and left it bleeding. They take their seats with infuriating calm, as if one of them isn’t the Yiling Patriarch and the other isn’t Hanguang-jun himself.
As if they don’t belong to the past Jiang Cheng keeps tripping over.
As if Jiang Cheng hasn’t spent an entire year swallowing words he never got to say.
His jaw tightens.
The room exhales in reverence.
And Jiang Cheng feels the bitterness rise hot, sharp, undeniable.
Because of course they come back like this.
Together.
____________
They sit down and Lan Wangji gives a look to the rest of the attendees that states “if you have an issue, suck my dick.” but then again it’s Lan Wangji so he doesn't actually say that.
Jiang Cheng watches.
He hates that he does, but he can’t stop.
He watches the way Wei Wuxian’s hair slips loose, strands falling into his face like they always used to, watches him reach for his red ribbon out of habit, muscle memory and come up empty. The absence is small, insignificant, and yet it lands like a blow.
Then Lan Wangji moves.
He unties his own forehead ribbon.
That damned ribbon.
Jiang Cheng feels something twist sharp and ugly in his chest as Lan Wangji moves closer, fingers careful as he gathers Wei Wuxian’s hair, tying it back with a gentleness that borders on reverence. He fixes Wei Wuxian’s robes next, smooths the fabric at his shoulders, precise and unhurried, as if this is something he’s done a thousand times before.
Since when?
When did they become this close?
Wei Wuxian leans in, murmurs something only Lan Wangji is meant to hear. He laughs softly, too softly and, shameless as ever, tugs at Lan Wangji’s hair like the world isn’t watching.
Jiang Cheng looks away.
Because Lan Wangji lets it happen.
Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t correct him. Just stands there, steady and indulgent, as if Wei Wuxian has always been allowed this much space.
Don’t misunderstand, Jiang Cheng knows things changed after Wei Wuxian came back from the fucking dead. He isn’t blind. He isn’t stupid. Something happened between them in those missing months, something quiet and irreversible.
They’re closer now.
Closer in a way Jiang Cheng refuses to name.
He absolutely refuses to believe in cut-sleeves, refuses to believe that Lan Wangji, of all people, could turn this soft, this attentive, for Wei Wuxian alone.
And yet.
The proof sits right in front of him.
And Jiang Cheng tastes bitterness like it’s always been his birthright.
Lan Qiren scoffs, sharp and familiar, and Jiang Cheng thinks, of course. Some things rot into permanence.
Wei Ying laughs. Loud. Carefree. Too alive.
The sound hits Jiang Cheng like a slap.
Then it stumbles, cuts off too quickly, and Wei Wuxian looks away, awkward, uncertain, just like he used to when he realized he’d gone too far. Like he suddenly remembered himself.
The last time Jiang Cheng heard that laugh was before Wei Wuxian died.
Before he was ripped apart.
Before his body was torn to pieces and scattered like punishment, like spectacle, like the world deciding it had had enough of him.
Jiang Cheng’s throat tightens.
Looking back, Wei Wuxian had already been dying long before that night. Slowly. Quietly. Walking around with a cavern where his golden core should have been. A void Jiang Cheng put there with his own hands, without him ever knowing. His chest burns, a reminder, a gift so sweet it rots him from within.
He wonders, not for the first time, if that hollowing-out is what finally killed him.
If Jiang Cheng didn’t swing the blade, didn’t blame him, didn’t push him out of reach, still stood close enough and maybe Wei Wuxian would'nt have been ripped into a gory tragedy. He pushes the thoughts away, for now at least, after all they always come back.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Wei Wuxian looks up.
Their eyes meet.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t look away.
He doesn’t deserve to.
Wei Wuxian stares back, something unreadable flickering across his face- recognition, maybe, or restraint. Or the quiet understanding of someone who knows exactly where the knife went in and who was holding it.
Lan Wangji’s hand comes up then, deliberate and unmistakable, resting at the back of Wei Wuxian’s head. A slow, grounding stroke through his hair. Protective. Claiming.
As if Jiang Cheng might lash out.
As if Jiang Cheng hasn’t already done worse.
He almost laughs. The sound curdles in his chest.
Wei Wuxian breaks first, looking away like he isn’t used to being the one to retreat. Like he doesn’t know how to hold Jiang Cheng’s gaze without bleeding.
Good.
Jiang Cheng thinks bitterly.
He shouldn’t be allowed to look at him too long, not when Jiang Cheng helped carve the path that led to his death. Not when Wei Wuxian came back whole and breathing, and Jiang Cheng is still standing in the wreckage, hands stained with a past he can’t undo.
___________
The meeting ends soon after, though it feels like an eternity to Jiang Cheng. The room empties slowly, sect leaders dispersing in quiet clusters, resentment packed neatly away for another year.
Jiang Cheng watches Jin Ling without meaning to, eyes tracking him until he’s certain his nephew is fine. He exhales only when he sees him falling in step with a group of Lan disciples. He doesn’t remember their names, never bothered to but one of them had an especially sharp mouth.
Lan Jingyi, was it?
Uncommon for a Lan. Annoyingly so.
“Going back?”
Wei Wuxian’s voice reaches him before Jiang Cheng can leave, casual and light, like he hasn’t spent years being a ghost Jiang Cheng wasn’t allowed to mourn properly.
The nerve of him.
“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng replies flatly. “Unless I feel like freezing to death here.”
Wei Wuxian laughs again, soft this time, like he’s testing whether the sound still belongs to him.
“You should stay. They cook meals with flavour now. I mean, not sure if Lan Zhan… you know…”
“Hm,” Jiang Cheng cuts in, eyes cold. “Aren’t you at home already? All settled in Gusu?”
And- oh fuck.
He really needs to start practicing shutting the fuck up.
Wei Wuxian blinks, the smile slipping just a fraction. “It’s…ah! yeah. I mean, Lan Zhan and I, you know…” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing sideways toward Lan Wangji without even realizing he’s doing it. “Anyway, I’ll see you at dinner. I gotta… settle in.”
Settle in.
The words land wrong. Heavy. Final.
The awkwardness sits thick between them, the pauses, the careful filtering, the way Wei Wuxian suddenly seems aware of every word coming out of his mouth. He never used to be like this. Not with Jiang Cheng. Never measured himself, never hesitated, never softened the edges.
“Where were you,” Jiang Cheng asks flatly, “the past year?”
There. He said it.
Wei Wuxian exhales, like he’s been waiting for the question and dreading it all the same. “Oh. Me and Lan Zhan were just…well, you know. Travelling.”
Travelling.
Like it was a stroll through Yunmeng’s markets. Like it wasn’t a deliberate choice to vanish. Like it didn’t sound suspiciously like freedom.
Jiang Cheng lets out a sharp, humorless breath. “Of course you were.”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, probably to joke, to deflect, but Lan Wangji’s hand finds his sleeve, fingers brushing the fabric with quiet familiarity. It stills him instantly. Grounds him. Wei Wuxian leans into the touch without thinking, shoulder angling closer, as natural as breathing.
Jiang Cheng watches it all.
The way Wei Wuxian turns softer around Lan Wangji. The way his voice gentles, his posture eases, like the world hurts less when Lan Wangji is within arm’s reach.
So this is what he looks like in love.
Good for him.
“Must’ve been nice,” Jiang Cheng says, bitterness sharp enough to cut. “Getting to disappear. Letting everyone else clean up the mess. Letting the dead stay buried.”
Wei Wuxian flinches.
Lan Wangji’s gaze lifts, steady, cool, unreadable, no. Not unreadable, he fucking hates Jiang Cheng, he can see it the indifferent stare, the guarded posture and the subtle hatered, is all too familiar but Jiang Cheng doesn’t care. Let him look. Let him judge. Jiang Cheng has lived with worse.
Wei Wuxian swallows. “Jiang Cheng-”
“Go,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “You’ve got places to be. A life to get back to.”
A person to get back to.
Wei Wuxian hesitates, but sure, then Lan Wangji steps half a pace forward, solid and silent, and Wei Wuxian follows him like it’s instinct.
Like it’s already decided.
Jiang Cheng turns away before the sight can burn itself any deeper.
Because Wei Wuxian didn’t just come back from the dead.
He came back and chose someone else.
And Jiang Cheng is left standing exactly where he’s always been, rooted in duty, resentment, and the bitter knowledge that love, apparently, is something other people get to walk away with.
“See you at dinner?”
Wei Wuxian says it lightly, like it’s nothing. Like the words don’t hang there, unfinished and unfair.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
Lan Wangji’s hand closes around Wei Wuxian’s wrist, not rough, not rushed. Just firm enough to be unquestionable. A quiet claim. He inclines his head in a brief, polite nod toward Jiang Cheng, all impeccable manners and infuriating restraint, and then he turns, already guiding Wei Wuxian away.
As if this is his right.
As if he’s earned it.
And maybe he has.
That’s the part that makes Jiang Cheng’s teeth ache.
Wei Wuxian goes willingly, steps falling into rhythm beside Lan Wangji without hesitation, like he’s always known where he belongs. He doesn’t look back. Or maybe he doesn’t need to.
Jiang Cheng watches them leave until they disappear beyond the doors, the echo of their footsteps fading into Gusu’s pristine corridors.
He stands there a moment longer than necessary, bitterness settling heavy and familiar in his chest.
Because Lan Wangji gets to take Wei Wuxian away.
_________________
Yes, Jiang Cheng stayed till dinner. Sue him. He barely got to see Jin Ling anymore, and if enduring Gusu’s sanctimonious quiet and weaponized politeness was the tax, then fine. He would pay for it. He always paid for it.
A Lan disciple escorted him to his seat like Jiang Cheng might explode if left unattended. The table was arranged with maddening precision, equal spacing, equal portions, equal faces he recognized too well. Cultivators he knew by reputation, by bloodshed, by Wei Wuxian. By everything that had gone wrong. Jiang Cheng fixed his expression into something neutral and decided, with gritted teeth, that he would not be the one to ruin the sacred calm of a Gusu dinner table. Saints forbid.
He was so busy cataloguing old grudges that he didn’t notice Wei Wuxian sitting beside him.
The chopsticks clicking together gave him away. That sound…careless, familiar…like it had every right to exist here.
The meal arrived. Meat slicked with chili oil. An obscenity. A deliberate one. Jiang Cheng almost laughed. Gusu, of all places, indulging Wei Wuxian’s tastes like sweets granted to a spoiled child. He turned his head.
Wei Wuxian looked…fine. Not haunted. Not feral. Not half-starved and running in spite of the way Jiang Cheng remembered. No, he looked settled. Comfortable. Kept.
Lan Wangji appeared at his other side, as inevitable as a bad ending. He placed a separate dish in front of Wei Wuxian with practiced ease, like this was routine. Like he had done it a hundred times. Like Wei Wuxian’s preferences were now catalogued, remembered, honored and most importantly loved.
Absolutely disgusting.
And Wei Wuxian didn’t touch it.
Didn’t even look at it.
Jiang Cheng’s grip tightened around his chopsticks.
This…this was new. Wei Wuxian, who once ate every meal like it was a victory stolen from fate. Wei Wuxian, who treated food like joy was something you had to grab before it vanished. Now he waited. Leaned in. Said something low and private. Smiled.
Smiled like someone who had learned they would not be abandoned at the table.
Lan Wangji nudged the dish closer, gaze steady, patient. Not demanding. Not watchful in the way guards watch prisoners. This wasn’t vigilance. This was care.
Wei Wuxian took a bite only then.
Only because Lan Wangji wanted him to.
Something sour burned in Jiang Cheng’s chest. Not anger. Not quite jealousy. Something worse, recognition. That this version of Wei Wuxian had learned to choose someone else. That the center of his gravity had shifted, quietly, permanently, away from Yunmeng and everything Jiang Cheng had bled to hold together.
Of course he didn’t eat without permission now. Of course he belonged to Gusu. Of course the Lan sect had taken what Jiang Cheng had broken himself trying to protect.
Jiang Cheng looked down at his own food. No special dish. No careful placement. No one watched to make sure he ate.
Good.
He ate anyway, chewing mechanically, forcing it down. Someone had to remain unchanged. Someone had to remember how it felt to sit at a table and realize the person who once ruined meals beside you had learned how to stay and had chosen not to stay with you.
He swallowed, bitterness coating his tongue thicker than any chili oil.
“Food’s good?” Wei Wuxian asked, catching the expression Jiang Cheng hadn’t bothered to mask.
Jiang Cheng stared at the dish in front of him. “How the fuck would you know?”
“Do you have an issue, Jiang Wanyin?” Lan Wangji’s voice cut in, cold, irritated, well as irritated Lan Wangji is capable of sounding, sharpened by years of disapproval. There was no warmth in it, no patience. Whatever affection he possessed was clearly rationed, and Jiang Cheng had never been on the list.
“Hmph. So much for your precious Gusu rules,” Jiang Cheng muttered. “Picking fights at the dinner table now?”
“I don’t see how that concerns you.”
Of course he didn’t. It never did when it came to Wei Wuxian.
Wei Wuxian laughed, quick and soft, like he could still laugh things away. “Ah, Lan Zhan, you know Jiang Cheng…”
As he spoke, he reached over and squeezed Lan Wangji’s hand. No hesitation. No shame. Fingers fitting together like muscle memory. Like this was the most natural thing in the world, like Jiang Cheng wasn’t watching.
Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened. “What will he know, huh?” His voice came out low, biting. “About rules? About restraint? About not taking things that don’t belong to you?”
Wei Wuxian finally looked uneasy. Just for a moment.
“Ah, Jiang Cheng… let’s not” he said gently.
That tone again.
Careful. Pacifying. The tone you used on someone unpredictable. Someone who might embarrass you if left unchecked. Jiang Cheng remembered when Wei Wuxian used that voice with him in private, when it meant I’ve got you. Now it means please don’t ruin my happiness.
Lan Wangji shifted closer to Wei Wuxian, their shoulders brushing. Protective. Possessive in that quiet Lan way. He placed another piece of food into Wei Wuxian’s bowl without a word, watching until Wei Wuxian ate it.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian murmured fondly, smiling like he’d been handed the moon.
Jiang Cheng looked away.
So that was it. Wei Wuxian, who once burned the world down rather than bow, now being fed bite by bite. Choosing to be gentle. Choosing to stay. Choosing someone else again, and this time without regret.
“Relax,” Jiang Cheng said dryly, stabbing at his food. “I’m not going to start a scene. Wouldn’t want to stain the righteousness of Cloud Recesses.”
“Jin Ling seems to enjoy the food,” Wei Wuxian said, changing the subject and Wei Wuxian was always great at everything he did, he is old enough to acknowledge that, but this truly takes the trophy.
Jiang Cheng followed his gaze despite himself. Jin Ling was eating with the fierce concentration of a child, cheeks flushed, posture stiff but earnest. He looked…happy. Or as close to it as Jiang Cheng could hope for.
Maybe if Jiang Cheng hadn’t let Wei Wuxian do that back then, change the subject, soften the moment, move on, he might have noticed the gaping hole forming in his…brother’s chest. Might have understood that some things weren’t anger or stubbornness, but absence. That grief didn’t always shout. Sometimes it was a forced smile and understanding.
“Hm,” Jiang Cheng replied.
The sound felt empty even to him.
The anger he had carried for so long wasn’t there anymore. Not sharp, not burning. He’d spent it. Worn it down into something dull and heavy. He had grieved enough, his parents, his sister, his sect, the boy who used to run ahead of him without looking back. There were no grievances left to catalogue, no accusations that could replace the pain, the sadness.
So what was he supposed to feel now?
Wei Wuxian smiled softly at Jin Ling, warm and filled with so much love, and maybe if shijie was here she would have told their nephew to slow down and take his time but she isn't here and he prefers dwelling about her in the comfort of his room.
Lan Wangji leaned closer, their sleeves brushing, presence steady at his side. A quiet constancy Jiang Cheng had never been offered, not without conditions.
Jiang Cheng looked down at his bowl, he felt exhausted.
The kind that settled in your bones when you realized there was nothing left to fight and nowhere left to go back to.
He picked up his chopsticks again, hands steady. He was used to this, has been for years now.
He isn’t invited here. Not by Wei Wuxian but by his…lover? Is that what they are, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian? Jiang Cheng’s mouth twisted faintly at the thought. Are they betrothed? Married? He wouldn’t be surprised. Gusu did things quietly. Properly. Permanently.
Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have invited him. Knowing him, he probably thinks Jiang Cheng wants him dead. Gone. Left alone with nothing but resentment and ghosts. Jiang Cheng almost scoffed, almost. It wasn’t entirely wrong once.
And that’s fine.
He isn’t ready to speak to Wei Wuxian with any familiarity, not without reopening wounds he has finally learned to live with. And Wei Wuxian isn’t ready to stop walking on eggshells around him, careful and gentle in a way that only proves how far apart they’ve drifted.
Maybe it’s for the best.
Wei Wuxian is here now. Alive again. Happy in a way Jiang Cheng no longer knows how to be. He laughs softly at something Lan Wangji murmurs, leans in without fear, without flinching. Loved openly. Chosen without hesitation.
Jiang Cheng watches it from the corner of his eye, chest aching with something that isn’t anger anymore.
Perhaps this is enough.
Perhaps this, this distance, this quiet, this acceptance is the only gift Jiang Cheng has left to give him.
He lowers his gaze, letting the moment pass.
For once, he does not reach for what he has already lost.
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