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It’s funny because Jiang Cheng remembers floating. The clouds are wispy and white; the yellow sun shines with violent delight. His body is weightless; it drifts aimlessly through the vast blue sky. A cold, dead heart lies still in his chest, and he watches indifferently as the sky changes from golden dawn to murky dusk. Day after day, year after year. Summer follows spring, then fall and winter come in quick succession. Vibrant flowers wither into green grass. Yellowed leaves blanket the Earth before white frost smothers it into a frozen wasteland.
Above, Jiang Cheng floats. Coldly. Callously. He feels nothing, wants nothing, cares for nothing. The flowers die batch after batch, but Jiang Cheng stays. Endlessly. Eternally. He is a god. He is immortal, everlasting—divine.
Until he isn’t.
It starts with a trickle, a drop of awareness that forms in some unknown, dark recess of his mind. The drop turns to a stream, then a stream to a shower, then a shower to a rainstorm—an endless downpour that drowns Jiang Cheng under its weight.
Suddenly, he can’t float anymore. Isn’t weightless. His body plummets through the air, sinking like a rock in water. The wind rushes up to meet him; Jiang Cheng tastes ash on his tongue.
A breathe later, and there is no sun. No clouds. No mist.
Jiang Cheng tilts his head up, squinting. Above him lies the vast blue sky, miles and miles beyond his reach.
Jiang Cheng looks down at his tattered robes and clenched fists, and damningly—at his two feet that stay firmly rooted to the green grass below.
A heartbeat flickers to life between his ribs.
Human.
He is damningly human.
***
The first time he lives, he is a sickly young man with pale skin, white as valley lilies. He stays with his mother in a rundown little cottage on the outskirts of a village, with lame legs too weak to leave his bed. Mother hates his sickly appearance. They were poor enough without having an extra mouth to feed—and besides—food was wasted on a cripple anyway.
So instead of food, Jiang Cheng’s mother yells at him for looking half dead. He’s too pale, she complains. So pale he might as well be half dead, she tells him.
His face is ghastly, black hair falling in sheets around his face. Draped in a white robe, he looks terribly like White Impermanence. It disturbs his mother, so much so that her fists rain like hail across his ghostly body, pudgy fingers digging into the soft flesh and leaving purple bruises in its wake. Jiang Cheng counts the days by measuring the way his skin fades from dark purple to muted yellow as the bruises slowly wane.
Time feels thick, like honey dripping drop by drop from a spoon. Jiang Cheng lays there, day after day in his bed. Endlessly, eternally, like he was suspended in amber, forever frozen. But it’s not the same. The vast sky looms above him, suffocating him under its weight. He hates his lame body, loathes his earth-bound feet even more so.
It comes then—almost as a relief—when it all ends.
The village sacrifice. Every year there is one. Every year someone is dragged from the village to a nearby city, and killed before the alter of its temple. To appease the gods they say. To bless the village.
Jiang Cheng would laugh if he wasn’t so eager to die.
Appease the gods? These fools.
Humans are like crawling little ants, slight and fleeting. Jiang Cheng only has the misty clouds and west wind for company, only sees the endless sky around him. Humans are too small, too trifling, too transient. They build their cities like ants constructing colonies. The wars they wage, the empires they build—they rise and fall in the same breath.
Jiang Cheng is immortal. Eternal and divine remember? How could he care for the death of a triviality? Another human, another sacrifice. They all bleed together into one terrible symphony.
But if believing in the gods is what it takes for them to finally kill Jiang Cheng, well then who is he to stop them? If he had it his way, he would’ve died a long fucking time ago. Anything to put him in contact with Meng Po so he can figure out just what the hell is going on.
There’s only one small, hitch to his otherwise perfect plan. Fucking Wei Wuxian. And Lan Wangji, and Lan Xichen. Ok, maybe instead of one small, hitch there’s three big ones.
Those fools won’t leave him alone.
He remembers them—an endlessly long time ago he would have called them his friends. A jug of wine in their hands, his head resting on Lan Wangji’s shoulder; Wei Wuxian’s roaring laughter coupled with Lan Xichen’s soft chuckles.. They were solace from his spiteful mother and indifferent father, from a cold home and even colder family. Jiang Cheng remembers Lan Wangji’s sword, glinting in the moonlight as Bichen parried Suibian, Wei Wuxian ducking and darting under Wangji’s lunges. Beside them lounged Jiang Cheng, his hands clutching a calligraphy brush and painting lazy strokes of ink across paper. He can still hear the echo of Lan Xichen’s xiao ringing through the hollow rocks that surrounded their courtyard.
Friends. Because Jiang Cheng would sooner kill himself than act on the ache which furrows in his chest that hopes—terribly, stupidly—for something more. Greedy, his mother always called him, and Jiang Cheng knows, deep in gut, that someday the greed will kill him. He wants, aches, hopes.
When Meng Yao appears, it’s like a slap across the face, a knife that digs and burrows its way into an open, festering wound. Jiang Cheng watches him bat long lashes, smile soft and coy, place a shy hand on Lan Xichen’s arm—and just like that—hook, line, sinker; Jiang Cheng doesn’t stand a chance. But Jiang Cheng is ever his mother’s son, jealously and hate are etched into him the same way his tendons and bones are fixed to his body. He watches and seethes, alternates between feeling sorry for himself and cursing Meng Yao.
Death comes like a relief, when it at last happens. Jiang Cheng cannot stand seeing Wei Wuxian’s hateful face, Lan Wangji’s frigid eyes, and that cold, fake smile that dimples Lan Xichen’s cheeks.
It’s liberation. A release. Surrender.
Unfortunately for him, his life is one big cosmic joke and he hasn’t even made it halfway into his first reincarnation before he gets the unfortunate pleasure of meeting his estranged friends lovers…aquaitences again.
It starts with this: Wei Wuxian sneaks into his room one night. It is pitch black, the day before their village’s annual sacrifice, and Wei Wuxian brings a knife. For a moment, Jiang Cheng is almost relieved. Is this how he will die? Perhaps he can drink Meng Po’s soup after all. But the knife doesn’t slice through skin, Jiang Cheng doesn’t feel the blood gushing from his veins, and there is no cut across his throat. The blade goes, instead, through the ropes that held him hostage, tying his body to the bed.
His hands are suddenly free, his muscles loosen, and there is a terrible, static sensation, like tiny needles prickling under his skin.
“Come on,” Wei Wuxian whispers furiously under his breath, “We need to hurry. The others are waiting.”
Jiang Cheng shoots him a blank look. Given his very real desire to die, it seemed rather counterintuitive that he would let someone save his life.
A frustrated noise slips past Wei Wuxian’s pursed lips. He turns to the window, voice raising to a loud whisper. “Lan Zhan!” he calls, gesturing frantically at Jiang Cheng, “He’s not moving!”
Barely a minute later, the window to Jiang Cheng’s room is being gently pried away and Lan Wangji enters in all his blue-robed, white ribboned, cold-faced glory, eyes just as icy as they always were.
He turns toward Jiang Cheng, pausing briefly to frown at the bruises that still peak from underneath Jiang Cheng’s raggedy nightgown. “Come,” Lan Wangji intones gravely, holding out his hand.
So self-assured is the look on his face—as if he thinks Jiang Cheng couldn’t possibly want anything other than to take his hand—that Jiang Cheng feels the sudden urge to sink his nails into Lan Wangji’s perfect features, and claw them right off.
He settles for narrowing his eyes instead. “Why would I go with you?” Jiang Cheng asks, scoffing and knocking Lan Wangji’s hand aside.
“You will die,” the bastard replies, brows furrowing at Jiang Cheng’s nonchalant expression. “Come now.”
Jiang Cheng snorts. “What’s my death got to do with you?” he challenges, voice mocking. “I thought we agreed to each mind our own businesses and stop playing hero. Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment behind this midnight venture or anything, but well, the idea of me escaping the day before I’m set to die seems rather unpleasant. I’ve waited ages for this. Excuse me if I’m not inclined to ruin my final moments in your less-than-desirable company.”
“Are you insane?” an incredulous voice asks—and ah, that is Wei Wuxian—“Do you know what they’ll do tomorrow? They’re going to drag you to that temple and butcher you alive!”
Jiang Cheng shoots him an unimpressed look. “Lucky for me, being butchered alive is right up my alley,” he responds, laughing coldly. “Now if you gentleman could please leave—”
“Jiang Cheng, this is no joke,” a stern voice admonishes him. Fucking Lan Xichen. Always trying to play the damn saint. This would be a lot easier if Jiang Cheng could get his powers back, because then he can just smite these fools on sight.
Instead, he’s forced to roll his eyes—a poor recompense. “I’m not joking,” he grits out, voice thin.
“But we”—and this time it’s Lan Xichen again—“We want to—”
Jiang Cheng glares. He constricts his throat and tightens the sides of his mouth to form a ball of thin, clear, mucus on the tip of his tongue. A moment later, and Jiang Cheng forces it out—spit airborne and soaring until it at last lands with a soft splat on the floorboards in front of Lan Xichen. “Get out,” he growls, “I won’t ask a second time. Your sick faces are fucking revolting.”
They don’t try to persuade him again.
***
Amidst a bustling city of lights, a hallowed temple towers above the straw-thatched rooftops of the village below, its golden pagoda roofs reaching towards the heavens like outstretched hands in prayer. In front of its main entrance, a frenzied crowd drags a young man in tattered robes up the smooth limestone steps of the altar and chains him down before a large Buddha carved from rock and covered with gold.
Tightly held torches illuminate the alter, the golden glow of light casting flickering shadows across the contorted faces of the crowd, their mouths twisted by fervor and righteous indignation. They surge forward like a tidal wave, grabbing the young mans arms and twisting until a sharp snap rings out across the alter.
Sandwiched between the crowd, a man in white pushes his way towards the fallen body. A boy in black calls out a name. A youth in blue reaches out with shaky hands. Someone screams, someone swears. But they are drowned by the roar of the surging crowd.
“Die,” the swarm chants, raining sticks and stones down on the young man’s soft, smooth flesh until all that’s left are bloody indents and deep, purple bruises. A sword is brought out, and quickly sliced across the man’s throat, sticky blood dripping down its blade. The woman who kills him turns quickly, sword held out triumphantly before her, wide grin on her face as she faces the cheer of the crowd. She kicks a foot out, and the body rolls—once, twice, thrice—before stopping with a dull thud against the marble pillars that support the temple.
A breath, the barest hint of a heartbeat—and silence.
Jiang Cheng is dead.
***
Meng Po doesn’t give him the soup. She offers every one of the souls rushing past him a warm bowl filled with her own special brand of oblivion—all while forcing Jiang Cheng stand there in wait. He watches as wispy shadows flood towards the old crone, some snatching the soup from her hands, others gently thanking her as she hands it to them. Whatever the means, all of them drink.
He stands, defeated, as Meng Po passes bowl after bowl, his own fingertips passing through them like shadow. His hands are like smoke; his body a weak fume.
Cursed, Meng Po pronounces him, because he killed himself. Because Jiang Cheng can torture and maim all he wants, but poisoning oneself is where heaven draws the line. As if Jiang Cheng’s current predicament wasn’t enough evidence of his damnation, here too, he finds himself stuck. Damned to remember, damned to never drink. Nothing like divine punishment to ruin Jiang Cheng’s life.
Naihe Bridge looms before him like his personal purgatory. Weathered and worn, the wooden planks sag beneath his weight. Running along its sides, stretched precariously above a yawning chasm, is a thin, plaited rope that threads between the boards, barely holding the creaking beams together. A whisper, a hiss, and the rope frays at its edges, humming with tension.
Jiang Cheng is suddenly very heavy, not longer just mist and air. It’s like a thick, heavy shackle has coiled itself around his ankle, its weight pulling at his limbs. Ten quick steps become five measured ones, then turns into one creeping drag of his feet. A breath becomes harder and harder to take, the air thick with suffocating tension. By the time Jiang Cheng arrives, at last, to the end the bridge, he’s drowning. It’s like he’s covered in sticky, wet mud, almost syrup-like. The dirt seeps into his chest and snuffs the life from his veins. He can’t hear his heartbeat anymore.
“Go,” Meng Po calls from the other end, “Hurry up and reincarnate. Don’t be so stupid this time and get yourself killed again. I don’t want to see you for a long, long time.”
Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “Or you could just decide to do your job, you old hag, and give me the damn soup,” he offers back. “Promise we’ll never meet again.”
“Keep dreaming,” Meng Po hoots, thrusting up a candid finger.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t even dignify that with a response. He turns, foot pausing right at the threshold. One more step and he’s off the bridge; one more push and he’s going to reincarnate as some poor schmuck in a downtrodden village, probably piss poor and half insane. Jiang Cheng knows how this goes. He’s going to meet those three hunks of meat as their hateful reincarnations, he’s going to fall in love again, and it’s going to end in cold, hard tragedy. Just like it did the first time. Heaven loves playing these types of cosmic jokes on Jiang Cheng.
Jiang Cheng might have a mild preference for choking in the bedroom, but he’s not a full-blown masochist. He doesn’t enjoy having his dignity trampled by three men and a simpering whore. He reaches a hand out. And oh this is such a bad idea. Never let it be said Jiang Cheng didn’t have heart though.
“Don’t!” Meng Po cries, as if she knows what he plans on doing. She probably does—the old bat is far too sensible for her own good.
Fuck her.
Jiang Cheng closes his eyes.
He takes a fortifying breath. No better time than the present right?
He flings himself off the bridge.
***
When Jiang Cheng wakes, he wakes in the temple. There is a terrible pounding in his head like someone took his brain and trampled all over it. He remembers dying, can still feel the sticky blood running down his fingers and the sharp pain blooming across his chest. The hard thud of his body against cold marble, the bruising kicks that sank into soft underbelly—it infuriates him. Rage coils in his gut like a tightly wound spring.
How dare they.
Jiang Cheng is a god. A god. And they killed him—stomped over his body and spat on his corpse—just like that. Like he was nothing. Him, a god. Nothing.
Something terrible rushes through him, his vision tunnels, and his feet stand of their own accord. Jiang Cheng can barely register through the red haze clouding his sight. His hands tremble, fingers twitching under a sudden wave of bloodlust. For a moment—one terrible lapse in judgment—Jiang Cheng feels that old itch start festering in his gut. What if he just kills them? Slits their throat and crushes their bones? What if he reminds those pesky humans of the worthless ants they are?
No no. Meng Po would kill him. The heavens would probably damn him again. No. He can’t. It’s beneath him. He won’t.
The trudge back to the temple is silent. His face is pinched, a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth. The minute Jiang Cheng see that thrice-damned temple though, his eyebrows furrow and a spectacular scowl mars his face. One step after another, he slowly drags his weary feet through the temple’s main gate. Here, Jiang Cheng pauses, eyes closing as he breathes the stiff, stale air. There is nothing hallowed or holy about the bloodied halls that snake through the temple’s expanse, only a permeating chill that starts from your chest and spreads to your bones.
From it’s place at the front of the alter, a towering Buddha glares down at him, jeweled eyes clouded with judgment. It hasn’t changed at all; time no match for hard rock and stone. Jiang Cheng remembers the same eyes, same critical stare from seventy years ago when he died on these same grisly steps, slut, whore, bitch echoing in his ears like a hot metal brand across the chest.
No one dares call him a whore now. It is blissfully, blissfully quiet. Only—he is still pitifully human, chained and shackled by the imperfections of his own mortality. A spot of dust mars his left cheek, blood cakes beneath his fingernails; his hair is a tangled mass and a three-day-old stubble grows stubbornly along his chin. Imperfect. Damningly human.
He is like a faulty sword, rusted and weathered by disuse.
He lifts his chin to peer up at the vast sky above him, beautifully perfect, yet miles above his reach. He belongs there, amidst the pure white clouds and the golden rays of the sun—an eagle soaring above the endless expanse of the world below.
Instead, he is stuck here, walking among the wretched ants—achingly, achingly human.
He feels the simmering rage flowing through his veins, festering in his gut like poison. Humans are dirty, dirty things. The last ones he met stabbed his head on a pike and gutted his throat. Stupid fools. He’s going to kill them all, watch every last one of them crumble and wither to dust. He’ll crush their organs and string the entrails from their bodies, mutilate them until there is nothing left but bone and blood. Every bruise, every cut, every stab—he’ll pay it back tenfold. Because he is Jiang Cheng; he is a god.
Some god he is.
Mother’s voice rings in his ear. Heaven does not hate. Because heaven is perfect, because the perfect do not concern themselves with the negligible, because if Jiang Cheng is the hawk that soars above the clouds, then humans are the ants that crawl the beneath the dirt.
Because he is perfect. The perfect do not feel.
Jiang Cheng sucks in a sharp breath.
Fuck that.
He wants them dead. He’s going to slit their throats and watch in violent delight as they choke on their own fucking blood. He’s going to rain hell on these pesky humans.
He just needs to get back to heaven to do it.
***
It turns out, there is, in fact, a slight hitch to his plan. Said hitch comes in the form of two annoying men, dressed head to toe in blue and white, with the ugliest ribbon Jiang Cheng has ever seen wrapped tightly across their foreheads.
They carry thin, sleek swords with a hideous rendition of a cloud carved along the hilt. Faces set in an expression of utmost pretentiousness, they walk towards him like two peacocks with tail feathers open on full display. Behind them trail a coalition of equally as pompous, junior ribbon wearers, just as ugly and stupid-looking as the two men in front.
They all come to a stop in front of Jiang Cheng, with the juniors fanning out in a circle around him and the two ringleaders inching closer to him.
One of the men sports a soft smile, and the other a bland look of utter disinterest. Jiang Cheng likes the bland one immediately. His face is tall and regal, completely cold and closed off. Features carved from smooth jade, eyes like pools of still water—he peers down the bridge of his nose at Jiang Cheng. Disdain is clear on his face.
Honestly, mother would be proud of this one. He would make the perfect god, has the fuck off I’m better than you look totally mastered.
A spark of interest flickers to life in Jiang Cheng’s stomach.
Then the man speaks.
The interest promptly vanishes.
“You are Wen,” he intones icily, nodding a grave head at Jiang Cheng’s red attire.
Jiang Cheng looks down.
A deep crimson hugs his body and gold thread creeps up the hem of his robes, framing his silhouette. At his side, a black sash sways back and forth, silken strands woven with threads of silver fiber. The edges of his clothes are worn and frayed, large swathes of cloth missing like a patchwork of puzzle pieces. Mud coats his shoulder and clings to the ends of his hair.
He looks like he hurled himself into a pigsty and rolled around in the mud and grime alongside dirty hogs and filthy livestock. Really, he could pass for a boar.
But the man had called him a Wen. Was that supposed to be an insult?
Jiang Cheng blinks dumbly. “I’m what now?” he asks, brows furrowing.
“Wen,” the cold man repeats, nostrils flaring in annoyance.
“What’s a Wen?”
The man looks at Jiang Cheng like he’s stupid.
Ok. Wrong question then.
“Who are you?” Jiang Cheng asks instead, arching an unimpressed brow. He lifts his chin, features smoothing into one of cold indifference. Two can play this game. Jiang Cheng’s been trained to be an asshole his whole life. He’s a god, remember? He’ll be damned if he lets a pesky human beat him at his own game.
The man just stares at him. A moment passes, and the man huffs softly under his breath before spinning around with a dismissive wave of his sleeve—Jiang Cheng swears he even saw him roll his eyes before he turned.
Well he’ll be damned.
Maybe this guy is also a god. Jiang Cheng mentally files away the sleeve move to recycle later.
“I apologize,” the smiling man starts, a sheepish grin on his face—and Jiang Cheng startles hearing his voice—he forgot there was another guy— “Please forgive my brother’s rudeness. Wangji is shy with strangers.”
Jiang Cheng snorts. “Shy?” he echoes, pointing a disbelieving finger at this Wangji. “What part of that looked shy to you? Did you miss the part where he huffed at me? Shy? No, I think your brother is anything but shy. Are all of you humans this blind?”
The smiling man looks at him weirdly, features twisted into something Jiang Cheng can’t quite decipher. He exchanges a meaningful look with Wangji, before turning back to Jiang Cheng and putting both hands together in a low bow. “Apologies young master, we just came back from a nighthunt so Wangji has been a bit tense. My name is Lan Xichen, this is my brother Lan Wangji.”
Jiang Cheng waves a dismissive hand at them. Oh, he’s so mastered Lan Wangji’s sleeve move.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re both very important people. Is this the part where I introduce myself, or are we skipping formalities this time?”
Lan Xichen hums. “If you’d like to share.”
Jiang Cheng shrugs. “No, not particularly.”
There’s a brief pause before Lan Xichen haltingly inclines his head. “Very well. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but Young Master Wen seems a little lost.”
Jiang Cheng sighs. “Sharp observation.”
Lan Xichen’s eye twitches.
A slight flare of his nostrils is the only thing that betrays his frustration, because a moment later, his eyebrows smooth and an even smile creeps back onto his face. “May I ask,” he begins, slowly and carefully, jaw carefully relaxed to avoid grinding his teeth, “If Young Master Wen needs any help?”
Jiang Cheng arches a brow. “Why? Is Mister Lan offering to be my guide?”
“Gusu can—” Lan Xichen starts, but trails off when he’s met with two identical glares.
Jiang Cheng wheels toward Lan Wangji. “Why are you glaring?” he accuses, frowning. “He’s your brother isn’t he?”
“Ridiculous,” Lan Wangji huffs, turning his glare towards Jiang Cheng. Damn he’s good. Jiang Cheng isn’t one to give up though.
“What do you mean ridiculous?” he exclaims, bristling. “If your brother asks dumb questions, shouldn’t you bear half of the responsibility? Who knows if his stupidity is hereditary or not.”
Lan Wangji’s face darkens with fury. “You—” he starts, voice low and seething, and Jiang Cheng tilts his chin up loftily, relishing the way Lan Wangji’s scowl deepens.
Unfortunately for Jiang Cheng, he doesn’t get to see if Lan Wangji is capable of turning purple from rage or not, because before the latter can even flush a dark red, Lan Xichen quickly chimes in. “Young Master Wen I don’t mean to offend,” he rushes to placate, “Our sects are friendly, and Gusu means no disrespect. I apologize if my words have upset gongzi.”
Jiang Cheng sniffs, haughtily. That was more like it. Stupid Lan Wangji. He’s lucky Jiang Cheng doesn’t smite him on the spot.
Wait—what did Lan Xichen call him? Young master? Did Jiang Cheng manage to reincarnate into a rich second generation after all? He thought for sure that he was filthy and destitute, but had he in fact managed to swindle his way into becoming a wealthy lord? No, Jiang Cheng was getting ahead of himself. His luck was never this good.
“What did you call me? Young master?” Jiang Cheng asks, “Do you know me?”
Lan Xichen shoots him another strange look. “No, we aren’t familiar Young Master Wen. But judging from your robes, you must be from Qishan.”
“Qishan?” Jiang Cheng echoes, confused, “Is Qishan my home?”
Lan Xichen nods, “I assume it must be. Though it seems like Young Master Wen has lost his memory. Would it be alright for one of our healers to examine you?”
Jiang Cheng scoffs. “No need. It’s obvious I lost my memory. Don’t need a healer to tell you that.”
Lan Xichen inclines his head, shoulders stiff with barely concealed frustration. “Very well then. If you would like we can escort you to the border of Qinghe, but after that I’m afraid we cannot go any further without trespassing on Wen territory.”
“Brother…” Lan Wangji murmurs, displeasure clear in his voice. He gives a minute shake of his head.
That fucker.
Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes. For a moment, yes sits on his tongue—damningly he wants to tag along. Spite is a powerful motivator, and the thought of seeing Lan Wangji’s hateful face twisted with displeasure tantalizes him almost enough to agree.
Almost.
Like hell he’s going to ruin days—days—of perfectly good sunshine in the company of that coalition of stuffy Lans. No, desperation looks rather pathetic on him. Jiang Cheng may be a lot of things, but he’s certainly not desperate.
“It’s alright,” he mutters eventually, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ll find my way back myself.”
***
He doesn’t, in fact, find a way back himself. Shortly after Lan Xichen and his obnoxious little brother leave, another group finds Jiang Cheng.
A boy in crimson robes, the exact shade as Jiang Cheng’s own, with so much gold trim along his sleeve that it bordered just on the edge of ostentatious. Long, dark hair wound down his back, pulled into a sleek, high ponytail and secured with a polished jade ornament. His face was sharp and angular; his cheekbones high; his lips thin.
His eyes—originally narrow—widen with glee at the sight of Jiang Cheng. “Second brother!” He cries, rushing forward.
As he skids to a stop before Jiang Cheng, his hands reach out, wrapping themselves around Jiang Cheng’s shoulders. “Second brother where the hell have you been? My men have been looking everywhere for you!”
Jiang Cheng coughs, tries to detangle himself, but the kid’s got the grip of a fucking octopus. A few moments of unsuccessful wriggling later, and Jiang Cheng resigns himself to his fate. Clearing his throat, he turns to the overgrown toddler in his arms. “Uhm,” he so eloquently begins, “Who exactly are you?”
The kid gapes at him like he just grew another head. “Are you serious? You really don’t remember me? I’m Wen Chao! Chao-er!”
“Right. Chao-er. Chao… like the character for dynasty?” Jiang Cheng squints. That doesn’t help at all. He scratches his head. “What the hell is a Chao-er supposed to be?”
Wen Chao reels back, scandalized. “What is a Chao-er?” His voice goes high with offense. “I’m Chao-er! Your brother! Have you seriously forgotten me?!”
Jiang Cheng gives him a long, flat look. “Yes.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Wen Chao demands, shaking Jiang Cheng’s shoulders. “I’m literally your brother! We came from the same fucking sperm!”
Jiang Cheng blinks. “No,” he muses, not sure whether to be amused or offended. “We very much did not.”
“Are you sick?” Wen Chao ignores him. “Did you hit your head? You can’t seriously have forgotten me, right? Are you really making me deal with Wen Xu and Wen Ruohan by myself?”
Jiang Cheng rubs his temple. “Did you just ask me four questions in one breath?”
Wen Chao huffs. “You’re throwing me to the wolves here, of course I’m going to ask questions! Father’s going to kill me for real this time.”
Jiang Cheng arches a wry brow. “Will you be silent corpse then?”
Wen Chao purses his lips. “Fuck, ok,” he sighs, dragging a tired hand down his face. “You really don’t remember. That’s ok. I’ll fix it. I’ll cut that useless Wen Ning open if I have to. Don’t worry. Let’s go back home first, and I’ll make Wen Qing help you.”
“Wait,” Jiang Cheng holds up his hand, “Wait, wait, wait—what do you mean go home?” he asks incredulously. “Look as riveting as this conversation has been,” Jiang Cheng pauses, unable to stop himself from letting out an amused snort, “I think I’ll skip the part where you start interrogating me with more questions. You’ll have to forgive me. I won’t be joining you.”
Wen Chao narrows his eyes. “Sorry second brother, I’m also doing this for your own good.” He motions a little to his left, and Jiang Cheng can barely manage an indignant gasp before his eyes start sliding shut, muscles relaxing as his body slumps to the ground.
Wen Zhuliu’s fingers leave his pulse point.
“Don’t worry second brother,” Wen Chao mutters under his breath. “I’m going to have Wen Qing turn you into a pincushion. You’ll remember me in no time.”
Predictably, Wen Qing doesn’t manage to fix his memory.
***
It takes three days into Nightless City for Jiang Cheng to realize why Wen Chao liked him so much.
As it turns out, Wen Ruohan is a rather violent man, with a particular penchant for beating his children. Especially small and willowy Wen Chao, who sniffles more than he speaks. Honestly, Jiang Cheng can’t remember a day when Wen Chao wasn’t covered in a patchwork of bruises. Sometimes he showed up with fingerprints across his throat, other times with a whip lash spanning his back, occasionally there were even palm imprints marring his cheeks.
Every time, without fail, he sneaks into Jiang Cheng’s chambers. Dragging his bloodied body and tattered robes behind him, he staggers into Jiang Cheng’s room, making it only as far as the bed before collapsing into the sheets—sagging like a marionette whose strings have been cut. He doesn’t say anything. No whimpers, no tears, no cries, just lies there and breathes in the crisp smell of clean linen.
Maybe it’s just to remind himself that he’s still alive. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know what else to do. Or maybe it’s just because his face is already pressed there regardless.
Whatever the reason, Wen Chao never says, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t ask. Their routine is simple: Wen Chao comes to Jiang Cheng when he’s hurt, and Jiang Cheng will treat his injuries. There’s medicine and gauze under his bed, pills from Wen Qing stuffed into his dresser, and fresh clothes for Wen Chao to change into.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t know why he helps Wen Chao either. Maybe he’s gone soft. He’s not Wen Chao’s original second brother; he has no obligation to help this stupid kid with an ego too big and a brain not big enough. Damn it, he shouldn’t even be wasting his time with this pesky little human.
Because that’s what Wen Chao is. Human.
Be it selfish desire or rational consideration, Jiang Cheng shouldn’t be helping him. But whether it’s the yellowing bruises on his back or the arrogant tilt of Wen Chao’s chin—or worse—that unflinching grin on his face—something keeps Jiang Cheng rooted to his spot, lathering layer upon layer of bitter-smelling medicine. Maybe it’s because Wen Chao worships Jiang Cheng; maybe because he trusts Jiang Cheng—or maybe it’s that look on his face: like Jiang Cheng was safe—like he was good.
Whatever it is, it keeps Jiang Cheng from leaving.
And so, when Gusu Lan sends out invitations to attend their lectures, and Wen Ruohan, in his infinite wisdom, orders Wen Chao to pack up and make his way to Cloud Recesses, Jiang Cheng—ever the dutiful, ever the practical son—volunteers to tag along. Because who else is going to stop that brat from making a complete fool of himself?
Wen Chao is still young. He doesn’t need to meet Meng Po yet.
***
Jiang Cheng is a week into lectures when he decides that he’d rather carve his own ear off than listen to Lan Qiren’s godawful sermons any longer. It’s not even a lesson anymore; the old coot spends his hours alternating between criticizing the secular world, and droning on-and-on about righteousness. And his nephews! That thrice-damned Lan Wangji was even worse! Just as stuffy and haughty as the first time Jiang Cheng had the misfortune of meeting him.
Jiang Cheng was going to turn into a monk at this rate.
His only source of entertainment is that black-robed youth—Wei Wuxian, he heard Wen Chao call him. It’s truly a mystery how anyone could hate Lan Wangji more than Jiang Cheng, but somehow Wei Wuxian manages it.
Even Jiang Cheng is impressed by some of his buffoonery. Throwing paper wads at Lan Wangji’s far-too-hittable back wasn’t very awe-inspiring, but inebriating the almighty Lan-er Gongzi absolutely gave Wei Wuxian brownie points in Jiang Cheng’s book. The look on Lan Qiren’s face alone when he found his beloved nephew roaming Cloud Recesses, piss drunk and searching for chickens, made it worth suffering through the day’s lectures.
“Commendable,” Jiang Cheng sniffed, nodding his head imperiously at Wei Wuxian, when they met in class the next morning. “I very much enjoyed seeing Lan Wangji make a fool of himself yesterday. Admirable how you sacrificed yourself towards such a great cause.”
Wei Wuxian sighs, a delighted twinkle in his eye as he places a dramatic hand across his forehand. “I’m glad someone here appreciates my dedication. Old man Lan was so harsh with my punishment. 500 copies of their rules? My fingers almost fell off!”
Jiang Cheng nods in agreement, “A regretful situation indeed. I’m not sure how Wei Gongzi managed to survive afterwards.”
“Pure hate Jiang Gongzi” Wei Wuxian says sagely, “It’s pure hate.”
“Truly inspirational Young Master Wei,” Jiang Cheng praises, “Have you considered giving lectures in Teacher Lan’s stead?”
“Unfortunately the Lan sect doesn’t know genius when they see it,” Wei Wuxian laments, woefully shaking his head, “I’m afraid my head might no longer be attached to my body should I bring my wonderful insights to the classroom.”
Jiang Cheng sighs mournfully, “Then I suppose there’s nothing to it. Those pretentious snobs won’t listen to reason. Don’t let their reputation fool you. Old man Lan is definitely an alcoholic behind closed doors.”
“Why Jiang Xiong!” Wei Wuxian cries, throwing a delighted arm around Jiang Cheng’s shoulder—which is promptly shrugged off with a disgusted glare from the owner of said shoulder—but, undeterred, Wei Wuxian continues, “I knew you were going to be excellent company from the moment I met you! Thank god Cloud Recesses has the two of us. As enlightened gentleman, it is our sacred duty to piss these Lans off as much as possible!”
Jiang Cheng nods. “Indeed Wei Gongzi, we must complete our mission to utmost perfection. Now if you could just keep your grubby paws away from me…”
Wei Wuxian laughs. “Aww Jiang Xiong, don’t be so stiff! You’re so pretty my hands couldn’t resist!”
Jiang Cheng shoots him a flat look. “Kindly resist then or I’ll do myself a favor and forcefully detach your hands from your body.”
Wei Wuxian gasps, clutching his hands dramatically to his chest. “Jiang Xiong!” he cries, pretending to be hurt. “I’ll have you know my hands are a national treasure! Absolute perfection! And you want to remove them? I’d rather you carve my heart from my chest!”
“I’d be happy to remove your vocal cords instead.”
“But Jiang Xiong!”
“Call me your xiong again and I’ll take off a finger,” Jiang Cheng deadpans, fingers itching towards his sword. Wei Wuxian must have some situational awareness, pitiful as it may be, because the oversized toddler takes the hint and quickly changes the subject.
***
The thing about Wei Wuxian is that he has absolutely no sense of self-preservation.
Jiang Cheng has observed this clinically, over the course of several weeks, the way a scholar observes a particularly baffling natural phenomenon. Wei Wuxian will do anything. Will say anything. Will walk up to Lan Wangji—Lan Wangji, who has the resting expression of a man actively considering violence—and poke him in the ribs just to watch his eye twitch. Will steal Emperor's Smile from Lan Qiren's private stores, get caught, copy five hundred lines, and then do it again the following week with the cheerful recidivism of someone who has genuinely not processed the concept of consequences.
It is, objectively, a disaster.
Jiang Cheng also finds it objectively fascinating.
It starts, as most things in Jiang Cheng's life start, with an argument. Specifically: Wei Wuxian steals his notes. Not borrows. Steals. With full premeditation, in broad daylight, with such audacity. Jiang Cheng arrives to the morning lecture to find his seat occupied, his notes missing, and Wei Wuxian three rows back, diligently copying from pages that are not his, using a brush that is not his, with the ink from the inkstone that is not fucking his.
"That's mine," Jiang Cheng says.
Wei Wuxian looks up with an expression of radiant innocence. "Jiang Xiong! You're here early."
"I'm here on time," Jiang Cheng says, each word enunciated with deliberate spacing and exercising tremendous restraint. "Give me back my notes."
"I'm almost done—"
"Wei Wuxian."
"—just the section on suppression arrays, Old man Lan went so fast yesterday and my handwriting gets bad when I hurry—"
"Wei Wuxian."
"Done!" Wei Wuxian announces, closing the notes and holding them out with a blinding smile. "See? No harm done. Your handwriting is excellent by the way. Very neat. Almost inhumanly neat, actually, has anyone told you that? It's a little alarming. Normal people's handwriting has personality—"
"My handwriting," Jiang Cheng says, taking the notes back and checking immediately for smudges, "can survive without your editorial commentary."
Wei Wuxian props his chin on his hand. "See, here's what I don't understand about you," he says, "You clearly have opinions about everything. You're clearly paying attention to everything. But you just sit there. Doing your neat little writing. Why don't you ever say anything?"
Jiang Cheng looks at him. "I say things constantly."
"To me! To Wen Chao! But in class you just—" Wei Wuxian waves a hand, "sit there looking like you could solve every problem Lan Qiren poses in your sleep, which I think you probably could, and you never say anything."
"I'm not here to perform for Lan Qiren's benefit," Jiang Cheng says, sitting down and arranging his notes with the precision of someone who would like this conversation to end.
"Then whose benefit are you here for?"
The question lands with the guileless weight that Wei Wuxian specializes in: it sounds so simple but twists something complicated in his chest. Jiang Cheng looks at him sidelong.
"My own," he responds, eventually.
Wei Wuxian grins. Wide and sudden, like sunlight through a break in cloud cover. "See," he says, "that's interesting. That's what I mean. There's something interesting in there." He taps his own temple. "You just don't let any of it out."
"What a tragedy," Jiang Cheng says.
"I think so too," Wei Wuxian agrees, entirely sincerely, which is the most infuriating possible response.
Lan Qiren enters. Wei Wuxian swivels forward immediately, arranging his face into something approximating attention. Jiang Cheng stares at the side of his head for three full seconds before doing the same.
He spends the rest of the lecture ignoring the fact that Wei Wuxian, who has his own notes now, slides Jiang Cheng's back across the table with a small addition in the margins—a rough sketch done with quick brushstrokes, of a man with very neat handwriting and a thunderous frown, with the annotation: second most interesting person in Cloud Recesses (Lan Zhan is first).
Jiang Cheng reads it. He crosses out second and writes first with vicious precision. Then crosses that out too, because he is a god, and he does not need Wei Wuxian's ranking system.
He keeps the note anyway. He doesn't examine why.
***
Lan Xichen finds him in the library.
Stone floors, high ceilings, the smell of aged paper and sandalwood incense. Row upon row of shelves. Jiang Cheng had come here to avoid people. Unfortunately for him, Lan Xichen has the social awareness of a barnacle. He settles across the table from Jiang Cheng with a book of his own and a pot of tea.
Jiang Cheng ignores him.
Lan Xichen opens his book.
Jiang Cheng continues ignoring him.
This proceeds for approximately twenty minutes, which Jiang Cheng spends being very focused on his text and absolutely not thinking about the fact that Lan Xichen is there, which is a thought that requires Lan Xichen to be there in order to have, which means he is thinking about it, which is—fine. It's fine.
"Young Master Wen," Lan Xichen says eventually, in the same tone he uses for everything, mild and warm "I don't believe you've been in the library before."
"Incredible observation Young Master Lan," Jiang Cheng says, not looking up.
"Of course." A pause. Pages turn. "Are you finding everything you need?"
Jiang Cheng gives him a long, flat look.
Lan Xichen receives it with a smile of absolute equanimity.
"I am literate," Jiang Cheng says at last. "So yes."
Across from him, Lan Xichen inclines his head as if this is a perfectly reasonable answer.
"I'm relieved to hear it."
Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes before turning back to his book, flipping another page with more force than necessary. The text swims irritatingly before his eyes, dense lines of commentary regarding indecent conduct and proper restraint. Lan Wangji had recommended it to him with the sort of grave sincerity that suggested he genuinely believed Jiang Cheng might enjoy it.
Lan Wangji was deranged. And hypocritical. And not fucking slick if he thought Jiang Cheng couldn't read between the lines of indecent conduct and proper restraint. Who was he kidding?
"Have our Lan texts offended Young Master Wen in some way?," Lan Xichen observes after a moment, "Young Master Wen seems very upset with them."
Jiang Cheng looks up sharply.
Lan Xichen is still smiling into his tea.
"...Do the Lan Sect rules include regulations on page-turning?"
"There are over three thousand rules," Lan Xichen says thoughtfully. "Statistically, probably."
A pause.
Then, against Jiang Cheng's will, the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s gone immediately of course.
Lan Xichen grins. "I'll thank Young Master Wen," he says, "for confirming my brother does, in fact, know how to make friends."
Jiang Cheng stares at him in horror. "We are not friends. I hate that bastard."
"Mm."
"We've spoken perhaps four times. And all four times was for me to cuss him out."
"Four is an impressive number for Wangji."
Jiang Cheng opens his mouth, then closes it again because annoyingly, that is true.
Lan Xichen lifts his tea cup with serene composure. "The last disciple who voluntarily spoke to Wangji for this long almost married him."
Jiang Cheng chokes on air.
***
"Jiang Xiong! I'm so glad I caught you today! Your argument yesterday with Lan Qiren about resentful energy was some truly incredible work!" Wei Wuxian says, appearing at Jiang Cheng's elbow like a particularly clingy limpet.
Jiang Cheng doesn't look up from his bowl. "He was wrong, and it wouldn’t do for him to pass those misconceptions onto impressionable young minds.”
"You called him an old fart to his face"
"Well he is one."
"He went purple Jiang Xiong!”
“Call me xiong one more time and I will kill you.”
Wei Wuxian slides into the seat across from him. "Well Lan Qiren is the most eminent cultivation theorist in the Lan sect," he says, and there is something in his voice that sounds, strangely, like delight, "Usually people don't disagree with the old geezer."
"Yes, well he's eminently wrong," Jiang Cheng mutters, scrunching his nose up in disdain. "He's been working from the same foundational texts for damn near forty years, and not once has he questioned their underlying assumptions. The conclusion he drew in today's lecture—" he stops. Looks up. Wei Wuxian is watching him with both elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, with the expression of someone watching something genuinely wonderful. "What."
"Nothing," Wei Wuxian says. "Keep going."
"I'm not humoring you."
"I know, I know Jiang Xiong. But please! I have no one else to talk to this about."
Jiang Cheng clears his throat. There's no reason to respond. And goddamit Jiang Cheng is becoming soft, but well—"The framework is wrong," he says, clipped.
"I think so too," Wei Wuxian says.
Jiang Cheng looks at him, surprised. "You do?"
"I've been thinking about it for months. The way resentful energy disperses after death, it doesn't follow the pattern Lan Qiren describes. There's definitely something else happening." Wei Wuxian says it easily, lightly, the way he says most things, but underneath the lightness, there is something focused and sharp and entirely unlike the chaos he presents to the world. "I just haven't figured out what yet."
Jiang Cheng stares at him for a moment.
Wei Wuxian stares back, cheerful and unguarded.
"The dispersal pattern suggests the energy isn't fully dissipating," Jiang Cheng says, slowly, watching Wei Wuxian's face. "It's just finding new attachment points."
Wei Wuxian's eyes go sharp. "Yes," he says, leaning forward. "Exactly. Which means the standard suppression methods are—"
"Addressing the symptom," Jiang Cheng says
"Not the source," Wei Wuxian finishes.
The dinner hall noise continues around them, indifferent to the way Wei Wuxian is looking at him with an expression Jiang Cheng hasn't seen on his face before. Eyes bright with frenzied delight.
"Jiang Cheng," Wei Wuxian says.
"Don't," Jiang Cheng warns.
"I was just going to say—"
"Whatever you're about to say, shut up."
Wei Wuxian grins, incandescent. "You're the most interesting person I've met in years," he says anyway, because he has never once in his life done what he's told.
Jiang Cheng looks at him for a long moment.
"Well obviously, who else could be more interesting than me?" he says.
Wei Wuxian's grin cracks into a real laugh—startled, genuine—and Jiang Cheng picks up his chopsticks and returns to his food, and resolutely does not smile, because he is a god, and gods do not smile at humans just because the humans are occasionally—
Interesting.
Fine. Fine. He can admit that much.
To himself. Internally. Where no one can see it.
He resolutely does not smile.
***
Lan Wangji, Jiang Cheng decides after extensive observation, is the most comprehensively annoying person he has encountered in any lifetime.
Not because he is unpleasant—though he very much is. Also not because he is stupid—he is, in fact, devastatingly competent at nearly everything he attempts, which is its own category of infuriating. And not because of the disdain, which Jiang Cheng actually respects on a technical level, having deployed it himself for several thousand years.
No. The thing about Lan Wangji is that he's so fucking quiet it's honestly unnerving.
Jiang Cheng notices this on a Thursday, during a practical session in the training grounds. He is demonstrating a sword form, nothing formal, just correcting Wen Chao's stance for the eleventh time, because Wen Chao's footwork is an ongoing catastrophe—when he becomes aware that he is being watched.
Lan Wangji, across the courtyard, is not looking at him. Is very deliberately not looking at him, in the way that people are very deliberately not looking at things they are looking at.
Jiang Cheng finishes the correction, sends Wen Chao off to practice, and crosses the courtyard. He stops beside Lan Wangji.
Lan Wangji doesn't acknowledge him.
"My eyes are up here," Jiang Cheng says.
A pause.
"I know," Lan Wangji says.
“Do you know it’s common courtesy to look at people you’re conversing with?”
Lan Wangji sniffs imperiously and doesn’t respond.
"Right so," Jiang Cheng says. He shifts his grip on his sword, moves to Lan Wangji's left. "Come at me."
Lan Wangji looks at him for the first time. His expression is its usual closed-off blankness, but his eyes, his eyes are doing something evaluative. "Why," he asks.
"Because you’re pissing me off," Jiang Cheng responds. "And if we don’t start sparring then I’ll probably have to give in to my more homicidal tendencies.”
Lan Wangji comes at him.
He's good—of course he's good, he's Lan Wangji, he was probably practicing sword forms in the womb—but Jiang Cheng has the particular advantage of being a genetically superior supreme being—did he mention that he was a god? And three exchanges in he's at Lan Wangji's left, pressing the angle, watching the rear foot start to shift—
Jiang Cheng’s sword meets Lan Wangji’s neck. “Good match,” he says, good naturally.
Lan Wangji is looking at him again. "Mn.”
Which is, Jiang Cheng will later understand, Lan Wangji for good match, and also possibly for I am reassessing my position on you, and also possibly for several other things that Lan Wangji does not have the vocabulary to say aloud.
They stand in silence for a moment.
"Wei Wuxian," Lan Wangji says, apropos of nothing.
Jiang Cheng arches a brow at him.
"He speaks of you," Lan Wangji murmurs, "Frequently."
"Complaining, I assume," Jiang Cheng snorts.
"No," Lan Wangji says.
Jiang Cheng thinks about the dinner table. The sharpness behind Wei Wuxian's brightness. You're the most interesting person I've met in years.
"He’s irritating," Jiang Cheng says finally.
"Mn," says Lan Wangji, and for one terrible moment Jiang Cheng thinks he sees the corner of his mouth move.
***
Now normally Jiang Cheng wouldn’t spare Wei Wuxian a second thought, but he quickly realizes that Wei Wuxian is most decidedly abnormal (clearly dropped on his head one too many times as an infant)—and thus, Jiang Cheng is stuck entertaining the bastard after Wei Wuxian decided a few conversations were enough to cement them as friends. Friends, Jiang Cheng’s ass. He’s lucky Jiang Cheng hasn’t drowned him in a toilet yet.
“Cheng Cheng!” Wei Wuxian whines, hanging off Jiang Cheng’s arm. “You should come to Caiyi Town with me! This is the first break we’ve had from lessons in ages, and it’s the perfect time to try that new noodle place.”
Jiang Cheng’s nostrils flare and he quickly shakes off the hand clinging to his wrist. “Fuck off!” he cries, “Whose going to Caiyi Town with you? Go find someone else.”
“But—” Wei Wuxian starts, before letting out a delighted gasp. He grabs Jiang Cheng’s hand again and drags him forward, much to the latter’s chagrin.
Jiang Cheng tries to detach himself, but Wei Wuxian, heedless of his plight, yells out, “Zewu Jun! And Lan Zhan! Where are you two going?”
Lan Xichen offers a polite bow, “Young Master Wei! I see Young Master Wen is here too. What a delight! Wangji and I are going to deal with some water ghosts in Caiyi Town. Would the two of you like to tag along?”
“Xiongzhang,” Lan Wangji murmurs, wrinkling his nose in displeasure. But before he can get another word in, Wei Wuxian jumps to agree.
“Yes of course Zewu Jun! It would be Cheng Cheng and I’s honor to join!”
Jiang Cheng clenches his teeth so hard he thinks he might break a molar. “Call me that one more time,” he whispers, seething, “and I’ll happily feed your corpse to the water ghosts.”
Wei Wuxian gulps quietly, quickly plastering an aggrieved expression on his face. “Jiang Cheng,” he whines, “Does that mean if I don’t call you Cheng Cheng you’ll come with us to Caiyi Town?”
If looks could kill, Wei Wuxian would be dead twice over. Jiang Cheng is quite certain Lan Wangji’s eyes are also shooting daggers their way.
He huffs, contemplating for a moment before eventually agreeing. Call him petty, but the prospect of annoying Lan Wangji was too good to pass up, even if it meant spending his afternoon in Wei Wuxian’s less-than-ideal company.
“Let’s go then,” he murmurs, but no sooner has he taken a step forward, that another hand latches onto his wrist. Jiang Cheng jerks his head, eyes ablaze as his other hand reaches for his sword.
“Which fucker—” he pauses, curse dying on his tongue.
Wen Chao’s face stares back at him. “Second brother,” he whispers, brows furrowing, “Should I sic Wen Zhuliu onto them?” he asks, gesturing at the duo of Lans and Wei Wuxian. “Did they blackmail you or something?”
Jiang Cheng arches a brow. “You think anyone could blackmail your second brother and still keep their head attached to their body?”
Wen Chao’s face contorts with confusion. “Then why are you going to Caiyi Town with them?”
Jiang Cheng lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I would rather eat my own toenail than spend more time with those three-eyed, toad-faced, beanstalks. But what can you do? You have to grace the lowly ones with your presence every once in a while. Boosting morale and all that.”
“Wow second brother, aren’t you a saint,” Wen Chao drawls sarcastically. “And here I thought you might be making friends.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jiang Cheng waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t do friends.”
“I know, that’s why I thought you were possessed. I figured it was a resentful spirit talking.”
“You foolish brat. Call me possessed one more time and I’ll turn you into a spirit myself.”
Wen Chao holds his hands up in surrender.
Another win for him, Jiang Cheng thinks, nodding his head in satisfaction. Another reason why he liked…had a mild fondness for Wen Chao. That kid knew when to back off. Unlike a certain useless trio. Pesky humans—as if they could win a dispute against him.
Jiang Cheng sniffs imperiously. “Well then,” he murmurs, sparing a brief glance at the others before wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Shall we get going?”
Naturally, Wen Chao tags along.
***
It’s a waterborne abyss. Because of course it fucking is. God forbid Jiang Cheng’s life be normal for once.
On his left, Wei Wuxian is calling out instructions in a frantic voice, and to his right, the two brothers are slashing away at the ghosts floating in the river. Behind him, Wen Chao shrieks as a resentful spirit catches the ends of his robes in between its blackened fingers, kicking at it furiously and scrambling back when it eventually releases him.
Jiang Cheng reaches for his sword, ready to slice off a ghostly finger or two, but suddenly the boat rocks, haphazardly tipping towards one side. Water rushes in, and Jiang Cheng watches in horror as the water level slowly rises, more and more resentful tendrons attacking their boat.
“Watch out!” a voice calls from behind him, and Jiang Cheng turns just in time to see Wen Chao push him away as a ghost hurls itself out of the water, gnarly hands reaching for the spot where he had just been standing.
Immediately, more hands shoot up, latching onto the bottom of Wen Chao’s robes again and pulling him into the water. A splash, and that foolish human disappears into the murky lake, eyes wide and terrified. “Second brother!” Wen Chao manages to cry, before he gargles and is pulled beneath the water.
Jiang Cheng freezes.
For a moment, he is confused. The boat rocks as more ghosts latch on, but Jiang Cheng’s head is fuzzy, static ringing in his ears. He watches the empty spot where Wen Chao once stood, eyes glazed and distant. Somewhere in the recesses of his thrice-damned memory, he hears an echo.
“Gege! Did you bring me loquats? You know I like those best!”
“Idiot! Who has money for loquats? Eat your mantou.”
“But gege! You promised me!”
“Ok, ok, I got it. I’ll bring it to you next time.”
“Next time teacher will beat our ass!”
“Since you know it, why would you still ask me to bring you loquats? Idiot!”
“Gege! Stop being so mean to me! You’re so grumpy, how will you ever find a wife like this?”
“You brat! Keep talking about I’ll break your legs!”
"Gege, haven't you forgotten? We're both gods! How can you break my legs?"
The boat lurches, snapping Jiang Cheng out of his reverie.
A split second and Jiang Cheng moves. He doesn't decide to. That's the thing—there is no deliberation nor moment where he weighs the cost of one stupid human child against the considerable inconvenience of drowning in a ghost-infested lake. There is only the empty spot where Wen Chao was standing, and then there is water closing over his head, cold and black and absolute.
Underwater, everything is muffled. The shouting from above becomes a low, indistinct roar. The light fractures into pale, diffuse shafts that barely penetrate the murk. Around him, the waterborne abyss moves, its resentful tendrils trailing like octopus tentacles, inky black and furling forward. Below him, sinking with the graceless momentum of a mortal body with mortal lungs and a mortal's pathetic threshold for oxygen deprivation, is Wen Chao.
Jiang Cheng grabs him by the collar.
The waterborne abyss latches onto his foot, and there is a brief, undignified tug of war in which Jiang Cheng wins on sheer spite alone, because he is a god—a god—and he will not be bested by waterlogged resentment in a lake that smells like rotting algae. He kicks, hard, at a shape that reaches for his ankle. It disperses. Another takes its place. He kicks that one too, hauling Wen Chao upward with one arm while the other slices through the water, lungs beginning to register the crushing pressure above him.
He breaks the surface.
Wen Chao breaks it a second later, gagging and coughing as he grabs at Jiang Cheng's arm, fingers digging in with white-knuckled desperation. "Second—" he starts, then descends back into coughing.
"Shut up," Jiang Cheng says, which comes out considerably more winded than he'd like. "Breathe."
"I'm–I am breathing—"
"You’re gargling,” Jiang Cheng deadpans as he looks up to see that their boat has drifted. Wei Wuxian is leaning over the edge waving his arms frantically. Lan Xichen is dealing with two ghosts off the port side, while Lan Wangji, expressionless as ever, has already dispatched three and is making his way toward them with the particular air of a man deeply unimpressed by everyone in his immediate vicinity.
He reaches down and holds his hand out for Jiang Cheng to grab.
Jiang Cheng looks at his hand for a half second—deeply annoyed and pondering the merits of homicide—and grabs it, because he is wet and tired and Wen Chao is still attached to his arm and this is not the hill Jiang Cheng is choosing to die on today. He has already died on enough hills in this lifetime. Literally.
They are deposited onto the boat in a graceless heap. Wen Chao immediately rolls onto his side and continues his enthusiastic evacuation of the lake from his respiratory system. Jiang Cheng sits, dripping, and stares at nothing in particular, and waits for his heartbeat to slow.
Above him, Wei Wuxian is saying something—probably something idiotic—but the static is still there, low and persistent, humming just beneath the surface of his thoughts. It sounds like a child's voice. It sounds like loquats and mantou and a question about marriage that Jiang Cheng has apparently answered before, in some other body, in some other lifetime, that he has absolutely no business remembering because Meng Po is supposed to prevent exactly this sort of thing and honestly, her quality control has been catastrophic lately.
He looks at Wen Chao.
Wen Chao, who is now sitting up, river weed in his hair, an absolutely spectacular bruise forming along his forearm where the ghosts grabbed him, looking at Jiang Cheng with an expression that is uncharacteristically quiet.
That's the only word for it. Wen Chao is never quiet. Wen Chao is loud and obnoxious and always talks around the specific absence that Jiang Cheng's generally hostile demeanor tends to create around him. He’s silent now. He’s silent and his face is doing something that Jiang Cheng doesn't have a name for, or perhaps has a name for but isn't willing to deploy, because naming it would require acknowledging it, and acknowledging it would require examining the static, and examining the static would require—
"Second brother," Wen Chao starts, which Jiang Cheng promptly interrupts with: "You're going to say something," Jiang Cheng tells him, "that I'm going to find very annoying."
Wen Chao's mouth curves. "You can't swim that well."
Jiang Cheng's eye twitches spectacularly. "I am," he says, with great offense, "an exceptional swimmer."
"You were like a dead fish. Your arms were doing this—" Wen Chao makes a motion with both hands that is deeply unflattering and almost certainly exaggerated.
"I was maneuvering," Jiang Cheng says, at a volume that makes Wei Wuxian flinch from six feet away. "There is a difference. And if you say another word about my arms I will push you back in."
Wen Chao laughs. It cracks a little in the middle. He reaches up with one waterlogged sleeve and pushes the hair out of his face. A river weed falls off in the process, and suddenly he looks so, so young. Like that wispy echo Jiang Cheng had heard underwater, Wen Chao’s voice threaded through some part of his memory buried deep and half forgotten. Gege. As if Jiang Cheng had been someone's brother before. And maybe that is what it means when Wen Chao shows up at Jiang Cheng's door with a new bruise and an old grin. When he insists on tasting Jiang Cheng's food first just in case someone drugged it, which is idiotic because poison would kill Wen Chao far before it killed Jiang Cheng. When he falls asleep during the lectures and Jiang Cheng lets him copy his notes, which is absolutely a tactical decision because a drowsy Wen Chao is an even more obnoxious Wen Chao and Jiang Cheng has limited patience for the obnoxious ones.
It is an unbearably human feeling, wanting to be someone's something. He resents it enormously. He nurses the resentment the way he nurses a jar of wine—carefully, devotedly, checking every so often to make sure it hasn't run dry. But all the while, without his permission, without his acknowledgment, that cold dead heart between his ribs has started to develop an inconvenient flutter.
Like a bird learning, for the first time, that it has wings.
Wen Chao leans sideways a degree or two, not enough to actually rest his head on Jiang Cheng's shoulder but enough that the intention is legible, and Jiang Cheng doesn't move away, which for them has always been as good as an embrace.
Above them, the sky is very blue.
***
News of a war reaches Jiang Cheng seven months after his return from Cloud Recesses. Wen Ruohan's orders come down through the ranks written in a hand that permits no argument and delivered by men with faces that have been carefully arranged into blankness. Jiang Cheng reads his copy twice. Sets it down. Reads it once more.
He thinks about the Lan juniors he'd seen in Cloud Recesses, young and proud and absolutely insufferable in their white ribbons. Thinks about Lan Qiren's droning voice, about Lan Wangji's cold profile, about Lan Xichen's careful smile.
Thinks about Wei Wuxian's stupid laugh.
Then he picks the order back up and carries it to Wen Chao's chambers, because Wen Chao is always the last to hear anything, and Jiang Cheng is scared he'll do something terribly stupid if he doesn't know.
He finds Wen Chao at his desk, sharpening a blade. The scrape of whetstone against steel fills the room in a careful, even rhythm. He doesn't look up when Jiang Cheng enters.
"I already know," Wen Chao murmurs, worrying his bottom lip.
Jiang Cheng sets the order down on the corner of the desk. "Then you know it's a bad idea."
"Father doesn't ask me what I think."
"Father doesn't ask either of us what we think," Jiang Cheng agrees. He pulls out the chair across from Wen Chao and sits, which is the kind of thing he has apparently started doing—sitting in Wen Chao's chairs, drinking Wen Chao's tea—terrible things really.
Wen Chao looks up. In the lamplight his face looks older than seventeen. There are shadows under his eyes that weren't there seven months ago, and a tightness around his mouth that has nothing to do with his usual bravado. He looks, Jiang Cheng thinks, like someone who has been slowly ground down at the edges. He looks like someone who is afraid.
Jiang Cheng folds his hands. He is trying, very hard, to be the cold indifferent god he was raised to be. He is trying to look at Wen Chao the way he looked at all the others—the faces that blur and bleed together, the lives that wink out and are replaced—as something trifling. Temporary. Below him.
Wen Chao sets down the whetstone and looks at him with eyes that are still, somehow, earnest.
Jiang Cheng looks at this stupid human child. This stupid, loud, bruise-collecting, liver-worrying human child who clings to Jiang Cheng like a limpet and flings himself in front of waterborne abysses.
The flutter in his chest does something awful.
"Do not" Jiang Cheng says, very slowly, very carefully, as if each word costs him something, "do anything stupid."
Wen Chao's brow furrows. "Father ordered—"
"I know what father ordered." Jiang Cheng’s voice comes out sharper than he intends. "And I'm telling you—me, not father, not the order, me—that you are not going to do anything stupid. You're going to keep your head down. You're going to stay behind the line. You're going to be, for once in your catastrophically ill-considered life, boring."
A beat.
"Second brother," Wen Chao says, slowly, "are you–are you worried about me?"
"I'm worried about the strategic liability of having you run headfirst into a sword," Jiang Cheng denies immediately.
Wen Chao stares at him.
Jiang Cheng stares back.
"Second brother," Wen Chao says, and his voice has gone very soft, with that particular quality it only gets when he's about to say something that Jiang Cheng absolutely won’t like, "second brother, I think you actually like me."
"I think," Jiang Cheng says, standing abruptly, chair scraping against the stone floor, "that you should run headfirst into a concrete wall. Goodnight."
"But second brother—"
"Sleep," Jiang Cheng orders, from the doorway, not looking back, because he is a god and gods do not need to look back. "We leave at dawn."
He hears, just before he pulls the door shut, the soft sound of Wen Chao's laughter.
***
Jiang Cheng is not there when it happens.
That, he thinks, is the cruelest part. The part that heaven must have planned specifically for him, stitched into the fabric of his punishment with careful and deliberate hands. Because if Jiang Cheng had been there, he would have—
But he wasn't.
He was three li east, cutting down a formation, when the sound reaches him. A choking scream, half squawk really, but so terribly familiar that Jiang Cheng feels his blood freeze to ice in his veins.
He runs toward the sound. He is a god, remember? Immortal. Divine. Descended from something so far above the petty sufferings of the mortal world that those sufferings should bounce off him the way raindrops bounce off stone. He runs until his lungs are burning, because he is also damningly, achingly human, and his feet remember the ground, and his chest remembers the flutter.
He finds them in a clearing. Lan swords, mostly. But Wei Wuxian's silhouette too, black against the grey sky, and something cold and deliberate in the way they all stand that tells him it was not incidental. Was not the random violence of war.
Was a choice.
Wen Chao is on the ground.
Jiang Cheng stops.
The world stops.
He doesn't remember crossing the space between them. Doesn't remember his knees hitting the earth. He only knows that Wen Chao's face is turned toward the sky, and his eyes are open, and they are still somehow—still, even now—earnest.
"Second—" Wen Chao starts, and it costs him enormously. Jiang Cheng can see what it costs him. "Second brother, I told you to—I told you to stop worrying—"
"Shut up," Jiang Cheng says. His voice comes out completely level. He doesn't know how. He doesn't know who is producing it, this steady and even sound, because every part of him that was capable of steadiness has just cracked open like water spurting from a geyser, splintering out from the center, fracture lines running to every edge. "Shut up and stop talking. You're fine. You're going to be fine."
Wen Chao laughs. It's barely a sound. "Second brother," he says, "you're such a bad liar."
"I'm an excellent liar," Jiang Cheng tells him, which is true, which has always been true, which is the only true thing he can think to offer right now. "Now stop—stop doing that—"
"Beyond the western sky," Wen Chao says, very softly, and Jiang Cheng's breath stops. Because he knows those words. Has always known those words. They live in the oldest part of him, carved there before this body, before this lifetime, before the first of his reincarnations. "Beyond the western sky, way past the clouds and mist—"
"Don't," Jiang Cheng says.
His voice cracks.
He doesn't have a voice anymore after that, only the space where one used to be.
"There's Nirvana, right?" Wen Chao asks, and his eyes are still open, still looking up at the same vast sky Jiang Cheng once lived in. "Gege always said there's Nirvana."
Jiang Cheng presses his hands down hard, harder, uselessly. The warmth is going out of Wen Chao's face the way warmth goes out of a room when the last coal has died—gradually, and then all at once.
"You're not going there," Jiang Cheng says, and his voice is wrong, completely wrong, scraped hollow and raw. "You're not going anywhere, you idiot, I told you to stay behind the line—I told you to be boring, why can't you ever listen to me—"
"Second brother," Wen Chao says, peaceful as a man lying in summer grass. "I think you actually—"
He doesn't finish.
He doesn't have to.
Jiang Cheng already knows.
He stays there for a long time, on his knees in the dirt of a clearing that smells of blood and pine, with his hands pressed flat against his little brother’s prone body. Above him the sky is the same as it has always been—vast and blue and perfectly indifferent—and Jiang Cheng hates it with everything he has. Hates the sky. Hates the clouds. Hates the cold and the divine and the perfect. Hates himself, most of all, for the flutter that hasn't stopped even now. That is still going, even now, like a bird that doesn't know yet it has lost the thing it was learning to fly toward.
He becomes aware, gradually, of the figures behind him.
Of white robes. Blue robes. Black.
He doesn't look at them. He can't yet. If he looks at them right now, with this thing cracked open in his chest and every fracture line still raw, he will do something that even Meng Po won't be able to overlook.
He presses his knuckles to his mouth.
He breathes.
He counts the breaths the way he once counted bruises—watching the color shift, waiting for the fading.
The fading doesn't come.
Jiang Cheng stands. He turns. He looks at them—Lan Wangji, and Lan Xichen, and Wei Wuxian—and his face is perfectly, terribly still.
"Congratulations," Jiang Cheng says, and his voice comes out cold, cold the way the sky is cold, cold the way stone is cold, cold the way he was before he was damningly human and the flutter started. "You've made an enemy today."
He doesn't shout. He doesn't weep. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to.
He walks past them into the grey of the morning, and the silence he leaves behind him is the loudest thing any of them have ever heard.
***
“A-Chao, what do you think is beyond the western sky?”
“Silly gege. Of course its Meng Po’s soup and the Naihe Bridge, what else would it be?”
“Stupid A-Chao, of course it isn’t! Have you been listening to my stories at all? Foolish boy. Don’t you know? Beyond the western sky, way past clouds and mist—there’s a little place in the horizon. Above is the vast blue heavens, below is the green speckled Earth. A-Chao do you remember what it’s called?”
“Gege, I forgot.”
“Nirvana, A-Chao. We call it Nirvana. Beyond the western sky, they say there’s Nirvana.”