Chapter Text
After the venom is cured, he wakes up in their bed. They feed him, brush his hair, bathe him, dress him, and kiss his mouth. They hold his waist and keep him close like being too far apart was physically painful, and for just one morning Jiang Cheng doesn’t feel like the world’s out to get him. For just a few hours, everything feels like it’s doable, and that he has plenty of time to do whatever it is that still needs to be done.
Their cabin is small, just big enough for the two of them to live in comfortably. The scent of burning sandalwood incense permeates the entire area, originating from the little desk space that Wei Ying says is for when Lan Wangji is feeling studious. There’s no mess in the cabin, but each person’s little personal items sit here and there, proof of people living there.
As he sits at their little table, a cup of tea prepared especially by Lan Wangji sitting in front of him and the warmth of Wei Ying leaning against his back, holding his waist, Jiang Cheng is afraid.
Afraid of how frighteningly clear he can see himself in their space, how easily their things would make room for his things. Afraid of how warm it makes him feel to think about. Waking up every day to them, trading sleepy kisses just like they had this morning. Dressing, enjoying each other’s company, and returning to his duties as sect leader before blissfully coming home to them again at the end of the day. Being greeted with a soft kiss to his cheek, a warm voice asking about his day. Eating with them, drinking with them, going to bed with them at night.
It’s frightening, how warm and full his heart feels just to picture it.
However, responsibilities are a must, and so Jiang Cheng returns to his sect.
They linger with him at the door, kissing his face and playing with his clothes. Wei Ying more than once tries untying his belt, quietly murmuring into his ear that it'd be nice if they could go back to bed. Lan Wangji gives him a rare smile, letting his fingers run through his hair. When he brings a lock of it up to press a kiss to it, Jiang Cheng thinks the warmth of his heart might burn him alive.
Eventually, he returns home alone, and pretends that the pleasant ache from leaving them is proof enough that he’s wanted.
It’s easy enough to settle back down into work. Mountains of paperwork always wait for him, never diminishing. He’s never in need of something to do, and paperwork doesn’t have a voice to criticize him with. He writes, and he works, and whenever he feels like he might fall apart, the ache in his lower back throbs, as if to remind him that he is capable, and good, and strong. He falls asleep in his office more often than not, desperate to forget (desperate to remember). But with each new day the ache is less and less noticeable, and eventually fades altogether. Like clockwork, Jiang Cheng forgets that he is wanted again.
Days pass in a blur. He does not hear from them.
Not a peep. Any other day, it would be a relief. No news is good news when it’s about that particular couple, but today their silence cuts into him. Their silence is a spoken word, drifting into his mind as he lays there with his head on his desk. He breathes in the scent of dried ink and closes his eyes, trying to give form to the letter he’s received from their quiet. In no specific wording, it calls him an idiot.
“Jiujiu.”
Jiang Cheng opens his eyes again slowly. “Jin Ling. When did you come in?”
“Just a moment ago. Are you sick?” His nephew comes around the desk, his pale hand coming to press against Jiang Cheng’s forehead. The boy frowns, pressing his other hand to his own forehead to compare the temperature. “You don’t feel warm?”
“That’s because I’m not sick,” he snaps, sitting himself up. He slaps Jin Ling’s hand away, huffing. “Why are you here?”
“Well I would’ve sent a letter but you wouldn’t have seen it for months,” Jin Ling whines, waving the sting out of his hand. That’s true, it would have been buried under paperwork. He blows lightly on it, sending Jiang Cheng a pouting look. “Jiujiu, are you going to the sect conference in a few days?”
He scowls. “Sect conference?”
“You don’t remember?! Lanling Jin is hosting this year’s conference to promote good relations! You said you’d go!”
Sect conferences are annoying. And, a quietly ugly voice reminds him, it means those two will be there. Neither of them are sect leaders, but it was well known that the Gusu Lan sect leader, Lan Xichen, was in solitary seclusion—he had been, on and off, for the last five years. At this point, it was just accepted that Lan Wangji would replace him in most public settings and that his husband, Wei Ying, would accompany him.
Something just as ugly as the little voice sparks in his chest, needy and desperate. It feels suspiciously like yearning; He suffocates it, drowns it, beats it to death. He sighs, leaning against his hand. He’s never been one to run away from his misfortunes, even if he’s been known to misdirect them a little bit.
“Come on, jiujiu,” Jin Ling says. His voice has taken on a softer tone. “It will be good for you. One of your disciples told me it’s been two weeks since you’ve left your office. You need some sunlight and human interaction.”
Has it? It feels like only yesterday he’d stepped out to hunt down that freakish creature. Only yesterday he had been fucked within an inch of his life, heavy hands branding his thighs and waist at the same time that the sweetest voice on Earth crept into his mind, making a home for itself there as if it was always meant to. Maybe it’s because he’s been dreaming of that day, reliving it every time his eyes felt too heavy to hold open any longer. Every time he would pass out on his desk, he’d feel the searing phantom touch of loving hands brushing through his hair, enticing him to sleep a little longer.
He takes a moment to evaluate his nephew. Jin Ling is much taller than he was five years ago, having grown into a competent adult in the time where Jiang Cheng no longer saw him as much as he used to. His face is leaner now, his eyes more fitting to his face. He resembles his father mostly, especially now that he’s an adult, but here and there, traces of Yanli are still readily available.
Surprisingly, Jin Ling has turned out to be a rather competent sect leader. He takes care of affairs well, and with a clear, decisive mind. After the first year or so it took him to adjust, he confidently stands on his own even when things get difficult for him. The only fault or so he has is that he never wants to admit when something is too much for him to handle by himself, refusing to rely on anyone. Even if that someone is Jiang Cheng, he’d rather struggle and die than ask directly for help. Instead, he makes it seem like the things he doesn’t want to be alone for are absolutely necessary for Jiang Cheng to attend.
Ah, Jin Ling is still just a child, needing his jiujiu to hold his hand in scary situations. Honestly, knowing that, is there anything Jiang Cheng won’t do for his nephew?
“Alright,” he says, after a long moment of contemplation. “Alright, I’ll go. But put my seat far, far, far away , from them .”
Jin Ling brightens like all the weight's been lifted from his shoulders. “Of course! You don’t have to worry, jiujiu.” Naturally, he knows who ‘them’ refers to without Jiang Cheng ever having to specify. “I don’t want a fight to break out during the conference, either.”
———
His seat at the conference is right in the middle of the second jade of Gusu Lan and Wei Wuxian.
Jiang Cheng tries to catch Jin Ling’s eyes from across the hall and finds his nephew’s eyes are avoiding him at all cost.
If that little bastard dies tonight while no one is looking, would anyone really suspect him?
Jiang Cheng is his nephew’s beloved jiujiu, and he raised Jin Ling himself with all the love and care he could muster. Maybe he relied on tough love a little too much, but it was no secret that Jin Ling saw him as a father figure in his life, or that Jiang Cheng would do anything for him. He taught that boy everything he knew. Raised him as his son and his nephew, just as he should have. He’s already sacrificed everything he had to raise him well even without his jiejie around.
Nobody would suspect him even if he directly poisoned the Jin sect leader right in front of them. Neither would it be out of place if he attempted to strangle him to death, right here, right now. Because everyone would trust that Jiang Cheng didn’t actually want to kill his nephew, no matter the slight, and no one would know how serious he was about it until it was already over.
So why would you betray your uncle like this!! Jin Rulan!!
Across the hall, Jin Ling finally meets his eyes. Whatever he sees in Jiang Cheng makes him flinch. The boy presses his hands together, begging off. He mouths, ‘sorry, sorry,’ waving his hands desperately.
Jiang Cheng would forgive him. Eventually. But for now, he snarls and turns his head away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jin Ling deflate like a kicked puppy.
From his right, someone laughs and leans in close.
“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Ying says through his laughter. He picks up the small jar sitting on Jiang Cheng’s table and opens it. He pours some of the alcohol into the cup sitting beside it, his voice close to Jiang Cheng’s ear. “Did you get into a fight with Jin Ling? Look at him begging off from your anger, haha! Have a drink and forgive him, hm?”
He shoves down the instinct to shy away from him, the sweet saccharine voice that he’s always been weak to against his ear. He picks up the cup, swallowing whatever’s inside it quick enough that nobody will be able to notice how intensely his hands shake. He swallows it quickly just to get his mind onto something else—the burn on the back of his throat, the unique taste only alcohol has, anything else that isn’t the warmth of his shixiong against his side. The cup is loud when he slams it down, and for a second he worries that he broke it.
“Hm?” Wei Ying hums. “It’s good, isn’t it?” His breath smells like alcohol already; Jiang Cheng wants to know how much this new body of his can drink before becoming drunk. Wants to challenge him to a drinking contest the way he used to when they were younger, make bets on who’s going to win even though he knows the answer before they start. Wei Ying always wins drinking bets, and always by a landslide. Because he’s an alcoholic.
(Jiang Cheng worries about his liver.)
Truthfully, the only time he likes to lose is in a drinking game with Wei Ying. He doesn’t have the right, or courage, to do that anymore. Maybe because of the taste of alcohol on his tongue, he lets the nostalgia wash over him.
“Jiang Cheng, did you hear me?” Wei Ying asks, leaning his head on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder.
He can’t breathe.
“No! Shut up!” He snaps, shoving his face off. He doesn’t feel bad about it, even when Wei Ying squawks and falls over, since he breathes a little better.
A delicate-looking hand puts down a small plate with chili peppers down on his table. Jiang Cheng follows the hand up to meet the eyes of Wei Ying’s husband.
“The fuck is this for?!” He snaps. Is he supposed to pass it to Wei Ying or something?! He’s not your messenger bird for flirting! Fuck off! But Lan Wangji just keeps holding his eyes. Boundless.
“You like them,” he says, in that smooth voice of his. Like a dam let loose, memories flood through of that same soft timbre calling him a slut, telling him to open his legs for him, saying it doesn’t matter if he wants to, he will .
Jiang Cheng snaps his chopsticks.
A maid brings him a new pair almost instantly, as if she had been waiting for this moment. Jiang Cheng sends a scathing look to Jin Ling, who must have known he would break his first pair and assigned a specific chopstick maid to watch in case it happens, but is quietly thankful for it. Now he doesn’t have to go through the mortifying ordeal of asking for a new pair. Jin Ling won’t meet his eyes again, pretending to whistle.
The chili peppers taste sweeter than usual.
———
After the banquet ends, Jiang Cheng leaves the hall. Tipsy and pleasantly buzzing, but sober enough. He can barely remember which room he was given, but it doesn’t matter because he gets there eventually. Even if it takes a bit of wandering, the night air is good for him, anyway.
Alone in the hallway, he leans against the wall beside the door to his room. The stone soothes his blazing cheeks as he rests his head on it lightly. It feels nice. He’ll go in once the floor stops spinning, but for now, the cold feels nice.
Vaguely he recognizes the sound of footsteps approaching him. He opens his eyes to peer over his shoulder, finding a familiar white-clothed man approaching him with an expression similar to the stone Jiang Cheng leans against.
“Esteemed Hanguang-Jun,” he says, feeling lazy and warm and languid from the excessive alcohol. It had to have been after eight, shouldn’t it? “Shouldn’t you be asleep by now?”
Instead of answering, Lan Wangji grabs his shoulders, firmly turning him and pressing his back against the wall. The chill seeps into his back even through his robes, making him arch away from the sensation and hiss through his teeth.
“H-hey!” He shoved at Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “What are you doing?! It’s col -
Lips descend onto him heavily, hands still holding his shoulders in their place against the stone. Lan Wangji kisses him like a man starving, pressing and pulling, and even going so far as to lightly bite his bottom lip between his teeth.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand what’s happening. He knows he’s being kissed, he knows it’s Lan Wangji, but he doesn’t understand why. There are too many questions rolling around in his head, mostly half-formed. Lan Wangji is married —why is he being kissed like this?! They’re alone, right?! Where is Wei Wuxian?! Why is Wei Wuxian not here?! Is this alright?! Obviously not!!! Lan Wangji is married —
A warm, wet appendage licks lightly over his mouth. Jiang Cheng can’t help but gasp, and then Lan Wangji is shoving his tongue in. Needless to say, any thoughts he might’ve had fly right out the window.
He whines uncontrollably, reaching around to cling to Lan Wangji’s robes because he knows any moment now his legs will give out. His cock throbs between his legs, hit full force by the heat rolling through him. Almost as if his tongue were directly connected to his dick, each brush of Lan Wangji’s against his own sends a straight shot of all-consuming pleasure directly through his entire body. He’s being loud, anyone could come out from their room just to see what the fuss is about, he needs to be quieter.
About six seconds in, he gives up on that idea. Because there’s a thick, firm thigh being shoved between his legs, and the moment it grinds up against the sensitive places between Jiang Cheng’s legs, his world goes white as he comes. He breaks away from the kiss to gasp, stepping up on his tiptoes to get away from the sensation as his world sparks. The thigh follows him, grinding up even harder.
It hits him so hard it almost hurts, the orgasm slamming through him with the force of a sledgehammer being propelled by gravity. Lan Wangji’s mouth covers his again as he moans, hips jerking instinctively to get away.
All it took was a messy kiss and a little bit of friction and he came, like some sort of teenage virgin being touched for the first time. He whimpers, the shame making his face flush as he goes limp. He falls forward against Lan Wangji once his lips are released, a heavy hand petting down his back soothingly.
They stay like that, entangled, Lan Wangji supporting most of Jiang Cheng’s weight on his thigh as one of his hands pets down the Yunmeng sect leader’s back. The hall is still empty and quiet, save for their shared panting as they get themselves together.
Jiang Cheng carefully picks up the pieces of himself that shattered when Lan Wangji kissed him, and by the time he’s mostly back to himself, he’s being gently let go and set on the ground. He’s not that much shorter than Lan Wangji, not really. A few inches at most. So how was it that he always made Jiang Cheng feel so—small?
“Goodnight, Wanyin.” And then Lan Wangji leaves him in long strides. Supposedly, to return to his husband for the night.
He watches the man go, captive, completely unable to look away even as he slides down the stone wall until he sits. In his chest, his heart hammers a mile a minute, creaking painfully with the strain. Once Lan Wangji has disappeared, he lets his head fall back. He catches his breath, feeling the damp and sticky cum seep into his clothing.
The moon is bright and beautiful like always.
———
In the morning, a messenger from Jin Ling informs him that the conference is supposed to last many days instead of one, and that room and clothing will be provided—if needed—for the entirety of his stay.
———
After Lan Wangji’s…visit, sleep had eluded him the rest of the night. He couldn’t stop thinking. About everything. His memories, new and old. They haunted him like a curse. He didn’t want to think about it, but failed to think of anything else. Before he knew it, the sun rose, and it was time to start again.
The second event is outside. A hunting event of sorts. It’s weirdly reminiscent of the archery competition before the sun shot campaign, but this time there are no overbearing Wens sitting above them, sneering and mocking them. This time, Jiang Cheng is a sect leader, not a disciple. This time, there is laughter in the chatter that he hears, instead of fear and tension.
Neither Wei Wuxian nor Lan Wangji cause any more trouble for him on the second day of the conference. Largely due to the fact that this time, their seats are far from one another like god intended. He’s thankful for this little mercy, if for no other reason than that they can’t see his face or the dark circles under his eyes.
If it weren’t for the sun beating down on his back, maybe he’d even like this particular event. After all, it’s a chance to show off his sect’s skills and strengths. But as fate would see it, the only thing Jiang Cheng can be proud of today is that he hasn’t yet melted into a puddle. Anything else proves to be too difficult to comprehend with the sun in his eyes and cooking him alive.
To his side, Nie Huaisang whines pitifully, lightly fanning himself. His robes were opened as far as modesty and propriety would allow. A sliver of skin even dared to show. Jiang Cheng spares a thought to think, if Nie Mingjue were still around, he might break his brother’s legs for daring to be so shameless.
“It’s so hot!” Nie Huaisang whines. He turns to Jiang Cheng with wide eyes. “How aren’t you collapsing? Your robes are so dark! And you wear so many layers!”
“Isn’t that rude?” He snaps, temper abysmal even more so than usual in the heat. A drop of sweat slides down his forehead. “Mind your business!”
“Don’t be so stiff! Come here, I’ll fan you, too.” He crowds into Jiang Cheng’s space, bringing all his body heat with him, and then a second later a cool waft of air drapes over his overheated skin. He sighs, some of the tension draining from his shoulders without his consent.
“Fuck off,” he says, but it comes out more like a whine than the biting order he had intended it to be. The fan stutters briefly, then continues.
“Wow…” Nie Huaisang murmurs, “You really were hot, weren't you?”
“Who’s hot? I’ll break your legs…” Jiang Cheng snaps again, leaning against his low table for support. He hears himself sigh, some of the fan’s air slipping through the folds in his robes to caress his skin.
“…Brother Jiang,” Huaisang says, after a while, laughing nervously, “maybe you should fix up your robes a little, before second brother Lan and brother Wei stab me to death…”
“Ah..?”
He peeks his eyes open just a bit, lifting his head, to look at the two. Indeed, Lan Wangji and Wei Ying are staring at him. With a fierce kind of intensity at that, as if he just stole the best piece of meat off their plate. Wei Ying has a hand on Lan Wangji’s knee.
Shameless , he thinks, scrunching his nose to the PDA.
Then he looks down, and his soul promptly flies out the window.
Half laid back onto his table, head thrown back to pant like he’d just run a marathon. Robes opened, showing more than just a sliver of his chest. Legs splayed, a little too casual and wide to be appropriate. And Nie Huaisang, flushed down to his neck, sitting almost between his legs with an embarrassed look.
He physically could not sit up fast enough, yanking his robes closed. He could feel his skin heating underneath his cheeks, surely blushing like a maiden for the whole world to see. The shame crawls around in his stomach, scuttling around on his bones.
Unable to find the words to apologize, he stammers out choppy mono-syllabic sounds that can’t even manage to fit together.
“It’s alright, brother Jiang,” Nie Huaisang says, hiding his face behind his fan. Strangely elegant, that. “It wasn’t a bad view.”
“Huh?!” Incredulous, he grabs the lapels of Huaisang’s robes, yanking him in close as he slams his fist down on the table. “What view?! What’s not bad?! Do you have a death wish?!”
Nie Huaisang laughs, “don’t be mad, brother.” He closes the fan he holds with a sharp snap, then presses it into Jiang Cheng’s hand. He pats his hand closed around the fan, a smile on his face. “Here, I’ll give you this, okay? So don’t be angry.”
It takes all his willpower not to snap the fan in half.
He shoves Nie Huaisang away, sneering between his teeth. He fixes his posture at his table, glancing up—almost habitually, to look at the hell couple diagonal to him.
This time, Wei Ying is leaning fully into Lan Wangji’s space. A hand on his shoulder, lips pressed close to his ear as he speaks. His other hand is no longer on his knee, instead settling on his husband’s thigh. Still low enough to be moderately appropriate, but far too high to not put Jiang Cheng at risk of popping a blood vessel. Lan Wangji, on the other hand, sits perfectly still. Obediently, as always, letting his husband run wild. His ears are tinged red.
Both sets of the husband-husband pair’s eyes slide to him at the same time. Half lidded, searing into his soul. Looking for something in him that they know is there.
He flushes, instinctively turning his head away as he snaps the fan open to hide behind.
———
The second night finds Jiang Cheng walking again, through the garden he’d rediscovered while wandering the night previous. It was a fairly new addition to the building, with flowering plants placed along every patch of dirt, trees along the edges that climbed high overhead like a natural canopy.
It had been added in recent years, after Jin Ling became sect leader, in honor of the memory of Jiang Yanli. The boy looks after the garden’s care himself. Maybe not the actual, physical act of watering and nurturing the plants, but Jin Ling was dedicated to only hiring gardeners that were of high renown and skill.
Jiang Cheng had…forgotten it was here. But now that he’s remembered, he remembered everything. Every little hidden nook and cranny, every little symbolism behind the flowers that Jin Ling had spent ages picking and talking to him about, every secret hidden in the branches of the trees. And if he remembers correctly, there’s a gazebo built to the left and around a corner from where he stands.
He’s right.
The gazebo is still as beautifully crafted as he remembers. The vines curl around the intricately carved columns and drape from the tapered edges, swaying in the gentle winds from the East. Moonlight seeps through the branches and leaves just enough to highlight the area surrounding, while lightning bugs float delicately near the grasses.
From inside the gazebo, someone lounges on one of the benches, a long, straight pipe held in their mouth. They pull the pipe away, smoke curling out of their mouth and around their lips sweetly. It’s only when Jiang Cheng steps closer that he sees clearly who it is.
“When did you start smoking?” He asks, surprised. Wei Ying—his hair down, lying messily around his shoulders and curling around his hand as he leans against it, his robes opened lazily and showing a peek of pretty, pink nipple— slides his eyes to look at him. His irises are blood red, but clear.
It reminds him of Wei Ying when he was the ‘Yiling Louzu,’ bloodthirsty and slowly descending into madness. His eyes were different then, swirling with depravity and rage. A shiver drops down his spine. Wei Ying gives him a slow smile.
“A long time ago,” he says, putting the pipe back into his mouth. It makes a soft clacking noise against his teeth, and smoke billows out gently when he removes it. “I don’t do it much anymore, since A-Zhan doesn’t like the taste.”
Before Jiang Cheng can think about it too much, he finds himself asking, “what does it taste like?”
He's an idiot. Wei Ying is going to give him a strange look like he’s grown another head, and then tell him he must have lost it. He's an idiot and a sentimental fool, to believe that a single night and a drunken kiss was enough for him to believe they would be alright with physical intimacy outside of what had already been done.
But Wei Ying doesn’t give him that kind of look. Instead, he takes a slow sweep up and down of Jiang Cheng’s body, the smile still lazily curled into his face. He resembles a cat who just got the cream, or maybe even a panther after a successful hunt.
“A-Cheng,” he says, the pipe on his lips again. “Come here.”
How can he do anything but obey?
His feet take him to the bench Wei Ying lounges on easily, as if he were only waiting for permission to approach. His heart thunders in his chest as he sinks to his knees, eyes stuck on the way Wei Ying’s plump lips hold the pipe between them. He swallows thickly.
It’s easy, and it’s slow. He watches Wei Ying take a slow drag from the pipe, and then those lips and red ruby eyes are descending onto him. He feels his eyes flutter shut as their lips connect, a light touch on his chin tilting his head up for a better angle.
It tingles everywhere that Wei Ying touches. His chin, his cheeks, his lips, and when his mouth is opened through the gentlest of movements, it tingles his tongue, too. The smoke pets around his mouth, lightly brushing everywhere it can reach with the taste of tobacco. Between the smoke, Wei Ying’s tongue reaches to drag against his.
After a moment, Wei Ying pulls back, a thin string still connecting from their lips. It breaks as he wipes his mouth; he gives Jiang Cheng another slow look. The depths of his eyes are incomprehensible.
“Does it taste good?” He asks.
Jiang Cheng doesn't know. The pleasant buzzing in his head could be from the smoke, or it could be from the kiss that just shook his whole world apart. Whether it tasted good or bad, he didn’t know.
“Yeah,” he croaks.
Wei Ying smiles. After a moment’s silence, Jiang Cheng slowly turns and leans against the bench. The slow, deep breaths behind him are more than enough conversation. He pulls a knee up, looking up to the moon.
The smoke hangs around them with every slow drag from behind him. Each breath tastes slightly of tobacco and some kind of spice. A pale hand, thin and pretty, slips around his shoulder and into his lapels. Wei Ying’s fingers rest lightly on the bare skin of his chest, and if he were a dumber man he would think it were even, perhaps, a little possessive. Jiang Cheng is helpless against it.
It’s nothing new for him when it comes to Wei Ying. He's always been a little weak against his shixiong. They fight, and betray each other, they hurt one another. He lets his shixiong do whatever he wants with him—and sometimes that means burning the bridge between them, no matter how it destroys him. So long as Wei Ying is the one asking, he can do anything. Anything . But when the bridge is burned, Jiang Cheng always returns to repair it whenever Wei Ying isn’t looking. Just in case he changes his mind, just in case he wants to come back.
There was only one time he couldn’t repair the bridge. A time when Wei Ying couldn’t come back, even if he wanted to. It’s a memory that haunts him even when he’s well. The mournful scream of a man lost in the wilderness, the loss of what remained of his family in a single day. The blood, the despair, the regret.
He is helpless.
“Where is your husband?” He asks, because the silence is suddenly eating him alive and because he is a coward.
“I already told you,” Wei Ying drawls, his hand slipping a little more into Jiang Cheng’s lapels. “He doesn’t like the taste.”
The hand in his robes slowly draws away, but before he can breathe a sigh of relief, it cups his jaw and gently tilts his head back. He finds himself looking into Wei Ying’s half-lidded eyes, still steeped in deep blood red. They’re smiling at him, with something heated at the edges.
The hand stays resting on his jaw. It’s just as gentle as it was mere seconds ago, but he doesn’t think he could resist it if he tried. Wei Ying’s hair falls around them like a veil, hiding their faces from the world.
“But you like it, don’t you, A-cheng?” He asks, voice lowered to a quiet rumble. “You like the taste.”
The answer is ‘yes’, a very clear ‘yes’. But that kind of answer would reveal something about him that he isn’t ready to reveal. He’s sure of it. He doesn’t know what that ‘something’ is, but he knows it’s important for him to keep it secret.
Wei Ying watches him quietly for a little. When he still doesn’t receive an answer, he sighs. “I see.”
He pulls back just enough to put the pipe between his lips again. It takes just long enough for Jiang Cheng to think about how beautiful he is like this, and then his mouth is gently being plundered. The smoke forced in, the tongue lightly caressing his own. It’s good. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.
When Wei Ying pulls back, he feels unmoored.
“It’s time for you to go to bed, A-Cheng. It’s late.”
———
He gets back to his room on his own, he undresses on his own, he takes his shoes off on his own, he readies himself, and goes to bed on his own. In his single bed, Jiang Cheng stares at the ceiling. His mind feels heavy, clouded in a comfortable fog.
He's not sure how he got back to his room, he doesn’t know how he managed to go to bed. What he does know is that Wei Ying said it’s time for him to sleep.
He closes his eyes.
He sleeps hard, he sleeps well, and in the morning when he wakes, he feels warm.
———
The third and fourth days of the conference had nothing significant to offer. There was a night hunt on the third day, and on the fourth day, there was another banquet, this time with dancers. Lan Wangji and Wei Ying didn’t speak to him even once, let alone touch him. On the fourth day, he collapsed into his bed, drunk off the wine the banquet provided, and slept like a dead man.
On the fifth day, Jiang Cheng wakes with a headache. Not only that, but a suspicious ache in his muscles. He ignores it, calls it a hangover. It’s rare for a cultivator to feel as sickly as he does this morning. In the forty-two years he’d been cultivating, he's quite sure he’s only had a headache maybe once or twice before.
It’s strange, but not strange enough to warrant concern.
He sits on the edge of the bed, exhaustion and muscle soreness making led out of his limbs. He feels as if he hadn’t slept the entire night. It pulls at his eyelids mercilessly, dusting sleep around his eyes when he’s desperate to keep them open.
“Jiang zongzhu, Jiang zongzhu!” A hesitant fist pounds on the door to his room. A disciple, belonging to either him or Lanling Jin.
“What is it!” he snaps, when his head stops throbbing enough to hear himself think.
“Jiang zongzhu, there’s a letter for you. May I come in?”
“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up and come in.” He rubs his head, wincing as he feels something akin to a nail being hammered into his skull. The disciple comes in, holding a letter against his chest, and stops short in the doorway. He’s wearing yellow, he must be a Jin disciple. Which is the only reason a disciple could be this undisciplined in his presence.
“Are you waiting for another invitation?” He sneers, holding his hand out. “Give that to me.”
The disciple flushes deep red, squeezing his eyes shut as he scuttles over. He presses the letter into Jiang Cheng’s hand, then quickly turns away from him. Ashamed of his lack of discipline, surely. Jiang Cheng would have a firm word about it with Jin Ling later. He opens the letter marked with the Jiang clan seal.
He can’t read.
His eyes skim over the letters, but every few words there’s a sharp ache in his head that makes him lose all train of thought. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shakily breathing through the feeling of his skull cracking open.
“Jiang zongzhu everything alright..?” The disciple peeks over his shoulder, concerned for him.
“Be quiet,” he grumbles. He’d like it if he could just have the disciple read the letter, but he couldn’t. Who knows if this particular boy is trustworthy or not? It was a letter sent directly to the sect leader who is away on business, it wouldn’t be anything good…but obviously, he couldn’t read it on his own. He needed painkillers.
He lifts the letter again, squinting at it. The letters on the page all just blur together. In fact, everything is kind of blurry at the moment. His sense of gravity tips.
Oh , he thinks, darkness on the edges of his vision. I’m going to pass out.
———
The bed he lays on is thin and uncomfortable, the sheets permeated with a clean, crisp scent. The room is cool, as though it were autumn instead of spring. The room sways with the scent of medicinal herbs, a slight breeze coming through a window. A little bit away from the bed he lays on, there’s a sound of stone against stone. Most likely herbs being ground in a mortar.
It gives the feeling of a refined scholar, quietly reading in the morning sunrise. Perfectly elegant every time a page is turned, with a straight back and exquisite manners.
He knows, half asleep though he is, that this is not his room. Nor is it the room of anyone that he knows. He's either been kidnapped, which is a horrible decision on the kidnapper’s part, or this is the hospital. He's putting his bets on the latter; Mostly because he isn’t really in the mood to beat some stranger half to death.
His head no longer hurts, replaced instead by a thick, sluggish heat pulsing through his body. It’s a familiar feeling, one that he’d hoped he’d never feel again. For some reason, the venom from the corpse bite must have resurged. His meridians pulse painfully, confirming that thought.
The heat, like before, is centered between his legs. It hurts, though not nearly as bad as this time. He’d still like for it to go away.
A weight settles beside him slowly on the bed, quietly shushing him. Whoever it is gently lifts his head, then settles him down against their shoulder. Their weight and warmth press against his side.
He wants to lash out, he wants to be angry and yell and break their legs for the disrespect, but he can’t. His body refuses to move when he tells it to, won’t listen no matter how he tries. Whatever it is that put him to sleep is keeping him there, only awake enough to hear.
“It’s alright,” the person says. Their voice is familiar. Sticky and warm, like honey. If ever he didn’t recognize that voice, he must have lost his mind. He's only been hearing it every night in his dreams since he was sixteen.
“I’ll take care of you, A-Cheng,” Wei Ying murmurs, lightly petting a hand through his hair. The angle is a bit awkward, but he makes it work. Gentle lips press lightly against Jiang Cheng’s forehead. “I’ll make all the hurt go away, hm?”
A slick hand, scented like the herbs being ground before, wraps around the throbbing place down below. He hears himself gasp more so than feels it, and the soft chuckle Wei Ying gives in reply makes his chest feel warm.
Wh.
What the hell is this?!
Wei Ying, do you just go around grabbing people’s junk when they’re sleeping?! Where is your husband!
Wei Ying’s hand slides slowly up and down over his cock, a soft hum in his ear. Jiang Cheng promptly forgets how to think.
“That’s it,” Wei Ying slides his hand up and down, up and down, up and down. Nice and slow, every time, the slick on his hand making the slide easy. He can feel himself hardening into the soft push and pull of his shixiong’s hand. “A-Zhan told me to take it slow, so we’re gonna do it just like this.”
When he gasps again, against the line of Wei Ying’s throat, the hand pauses to lightly rub the head in slow circles with his thumb. Spreading the sticky fluid, making it nice and shiny. When it strokes him again, it makes a slick squelching noise.
Obscene.
“So pretty for me, A-Cheng,” he murmurs, pressing a sweet kiss to Jiang Cheng’s temple. “Even when you’re sleeping.”
This is so wrong. He’s asleep, damn it! Wei Ying shouldn’t be touching him like this, for more reasons than just the obvious.
But it…feels so good.
The next stroke upwards draws out a quiet whine. The hand twists gently around the head, then strokes down again with more pressure. He feels his hips jolt off the bed.
“Yeah, you need this, don’t you?” Wei Ying murmurs. Jiang Cheng just knows Wei Ying is watching his hand stroke his shidi’s dick, and knows his eyes are lingering on the drippy, needy cockhead. Knows he smiles when it twitches every time he speaks. “Need this so bad. Need to get stroked nice and slow by your shixiong until you shoot it everywhere, get your shixiong’s hand all messy…it’s a shame I can’t put it in me.”
I…in? Put it in? Put what in? To Wei Ying? He could—he could never! But, Wei Ying would let him..? His shixiong would let him put it—even when he’s—
He thinks, vividly, of being allowed to put it inside Wei Ying. Feeling that tight, warm heat around his cock, milking him until he comes inside. He thinks of Wei Ying riding him, the only thing on his body being a thin outer robe that drapes down between his spread legs just enough to cover himself.
Thinks about his hands spreading Wei Ying’s thighs apart to slot himself between them. Thinks about large, elegant hands that don’t belong to him spreading Wei Ying’s thighs, showing him what he’s allowed to have just this once.
Thinks about a soft voice telling him he’s good, that he’s fucking his shixiong so well, he deserves to come inside. He’s earned it, by being such a good boy for them.
Jiang Cheng, promptly, short circuits. He feels his hips jerk, body tensing up as he comes into Wei Ying’s fist, still pumping him slowly all the way through it.
“Ooooh, there it is,” Wei Ying coos, beside his ear. Pride flowers his voice, even as his good, good, so good touch becomes more painful. “That’s my boy, A-Cheng. Good boy. Think you can give me another one?”
He hears himself whine, body weakly squirming to get away from the hand that still strokes his over-sensitive cock.
Deft hands press down onto his hips, holding him down against the bedsheets so that he can’t squirm away. They’re heavy, fingertips pressing into his hips with the intention to bruise, and large. Almost big enough to hold his waist and still have the fingertips touch. He sobs, cock forcefully touched into rising again.
“That’s it,” Wei Ying coos, hand speeding up to a point that makes Jiang Cheng cry out weakly. The slick, obscene, wet noises are louder now. With a pulse of heat flashing through him, he realizes it’s because Wei Ying is using his cum as lube. Stroking him with his own spend. “That’s it, A-Cheng. Just a little more.”
He wants to wake up! He wants to wake up and tell him it’s too much! It hurts! No, no, stop! It hurts! Too much!
“Shixiong asked you to give him one more,” a voice says softly into his ear. It’s deep and soothing, and Jiang Cheng knows it belongs to the one holding his hips down. His Lan Wangji. “So you will.”
He sobs, cock twitching in his shixiong’s grip. He knows he’s trembling like a newborn deer, tears sliding down his still softly shut eyes. And yet he can neither wake nor speak.
“You’re beautiful, A-Cheng,” Wei Ying croons, a tone filled with a soft adoration that manages to crack Jiang Cheng’s heart open a second time. “Crying and trembling like this.”
“Mn, our Wanyin.”
Just like that, he’s coming again. Arching off the bed and whining, the heat punching out of him sharply. It hurts more than it feels good, and when it ends he feels empty everywhere except his heart.
Wei Ying’s strokes slow down to a light feather touch, then slowly drag away. He feels his body collapse against the bed, his entire weight leaning against his shixiong’s chest.
“Such a good boy.” The voice is somehow far away. He’s not sure which one said it, but it feels good. It warms his aching, cold body. When did he get so cold…? Seconds ago it was like the heat was trying to burn him alive, but now he feels like he’d just taken a walk through a snowy pine forest while naked.
He sinks a little deeper into his head when the hands holding him down lift away. A soft voice shushes him again, fingers running through his hair. Vaguely, his thoughts piece enough together to think that it'd better be the clean hand in his hair. Otherwise, there will be a murder, as soon as he can wake up. He wants the other hands to come back. He wants to be held by both of them, at the same time. If they don’t come back, Jiang Cheng might—
“Just a moment,” someone says. “He’ll be back, A-Cheng.”
The reassurance settles him. So long as he comes back, he can wait as long as he needs to. He's good at waiting. Whichever it is, Lan Wangji or Wei Ying, it doesn’t matter. As long as they promise to come back for him this time, he’ll wait for an eternity…
Silence settles around him peacefully. No noise disturbs him, nothing hurts or feels wrong. He feels good. And the warm weight at his side, holding him, brushing fingers through his hair, only makes it better.
He lets himself be moved when a pair of hands rearrange his weight, feeling soft and cloudy enough to not care about what’s being done to him. He knows his shixiong and Wangji will protect him if needed.
A weight settles on the other side of his body, a warm pressure coming around to hold his waist. He’s held on both sides, warmth seeping into him from everywhere he is touched. It’s comfortable. It’s safe.
———
Waking again proves easy this time. His body is languid, but finally listening to him. Wei Ying and Lan Wangji don’t lay on either side of him anymore, their body warmth replaced by a soft, comfortable blanket.
He’s alone again.
It’s enough to wonder if any of that was real, or just a dream he dreamt to satisfy some of the loneliness in his heart.
Hugging the blanket around him, he sits up, sleepy eyes still adjusting to the light. The room he sits in is the same as the one he dreamt of—medicinal smelling and clean. It’s obviously a sick room, now that he can open his eyes and see it. There’s a room divider to both his left and right, blocking him off from what he knows to be other patient beds.
Directly across from him, several feet away, is a table crowded with medical supplies. Tools, herbs, some suspicious goop splattered here and there. At one side of the table is a pitcher full of an unknown liquid and a few empty glasses. Behind even that, a safe distance away is a bookshelf. Each of the dark red-brown shelves are packed full of books, practically overcrowding themselves to manage to fit. He can’t read the titles from here, but assumes they’re medicine books. As they only should be, in a room for medicine.
A door slides open, and then shuts. He can’t see it, it’s hidden behind one of the room dividers, but it doesn’t matter. Seconds later, a man in austere yellowish-white robes and glasses comes around the corner. The man stops when he sees him awake, pushing his glasses up.
“Jiang zongzhu.” The man’s voice is billowy and firm. If the word ‘doctor’ had a voice, this would be it. “It’s good that you’re awake. I’m sure you’re experiencing some confusion. This is the Jin clan’s medical office. I’ve been told to inform you, the matter mentioned in the letter you received was taken care of without issue.”
The man moves to the suspicious-looking table, picking up the pitcher and pouring a clear liquid into one of the empty glasses. The ponytail hanging over his shoulder falls off as he lifts his arm to pour.
“How long was I asleep?” He can raise his voice no higher than a whisper, but it still sounds ragged and coarse to his ears. The doctor hands him the glass and a ball of medicine pillowed in a small, white cloth.
“Take this,” the doctor says, instead of answering him, and then turns back to the table.
He doesn't want to. Who knows what the hell this liquid is? It comes from a table covered in suspicious goop! Just because it’s clear doesn’t mean it’s water, okay!!
Jiang Cheng crosses his fingers, nose scrunched in distaste. He pops the ball into his mouth and swallows the liquid down.
It’s water.
“You’ve been asleep for three days,” the doctor says, pushing his glasses up again. “You collapsed from a surfeit of yang energy. Jiang zongzhu, were you poisoned with an aphrodisiac, by chance?”
His tone is medial, words concise and straight to the point, but it still makes Jiang Cheng flush.
“I...was,” he forces the words out through his grit teeth and embarrassment, “but it was a venom, not a poison, and it was weeks ago. I was told I was already cured.”
“I see.” The doctor has a bitter look on his face, like he’d just bitten into an underripe lotus pod. “Well, whoever told you that doesn’t seem to be very knowledgeable on corpse venoms.”
Jiang Cheng snorts. Imagine saying the grandmaster of all demonic cultivation techniques has lacking information on corpses ? He almost wants to tell him, just to see how this man would respond.
“To be fair,” the doctor sighs after a moment, hands folded behind his back, “it would be more accurate to say they probably aren’t very informed on this particular corpse, as it’s a fairly new development. In the last year or so.”
Right, right, that makes more sense. It’s a special corpse that Jiang Cheng just happened to run into. What next, the doctor is going to tell him there’s no cure? Haha.
“This particular corpse venom doesn’t have a cure, Jiang zhongzu.”
…
Fuck your mother!
“The fuck do you mean it doesn’t have a cure?!” He finds, as he often does, that he’s yelling. The doctor seems unperturbed.
“I mean what I said, Jiang zongzhu.” the doctor pushed his glasses up again, a small crease in his brows. “And I will be happy to tell you how you can delay its effects so long as you lower your voice .” The man huffs, thoroughly unimpressed with him. “As this is a sick room , and you are not the only patient I have.”
Jiang Cheng sneers but, obediently, keeps his voice to an appropriate level. The doctor slides a chair nearby behind him, then sits, looking every bit like the scholar Jiang Cheng had thought of earlier.
“Unfortunately,” he starts, “as I said there is no cure. If the venom persists, it can and will kill you. It starts with an unbearable heat in the body, sensitivity in the epidermis, occasional pain in the meridians, and persists in mere hours into muscle soreness, fatigue, and head-splitting headaches that even aura circulation cannot allay. If left untreated for long enough, it can cause slips in long-term memory.”
“So?” He spits the word out through his teeth, barely resisting the temptation to snap at the doctor again. He knows it’s not the man’s fault, but it would feel good to let go of the restless energy bouncing around in his throat. The doctor sighs at him as if he could see him holding back his temper.
He probably could.
“The only way to delay these effects is to dual cultivate with an accomplished cultivator, the first time.”
He already knew that. That was the whole point. The fuck does he mean the first time. “The first time?”
The doctor nods. “After the first time, the venom will become attached to the aura of the cultivator used to delay it.” he sighs. “Honestly, it would be more accurate to call it a parasite than a venom. After a certain amount of time, the symptoms will flare again until either the host dies or the needs of the venom are met.”
Jiang Cheng stares at him.
“So I just have to deal with this for the rest of my life, then,” he says, monotone. “Sleeping with La--the same guy.” The doctor pushes his glasses up, looking once again like he’d bitten into a bitter lotus pod.
“Not quite,” he says, tone caught awkwardly. “The energy from the dual cultivator acts like a poison to the venom. It craves it, but at the same time, every new dose of it purifies the venom a little more. It should only take a few tries, but who knows how persistent the venom can be...It’s still under investigation.”
He pauses, his mind connecting some dots he otherwise had not thought of. “I don’t feel hot as of this moment?”
The doctor won't meet his eyes. “While you were asleep, Wei qianbei and Hanguang-jun volunteered to...attend to you. We were afraid you would not wake up otherwise. Release without dual cultivation can only temporarily take the symptoms away, but can’t solve the root problem.”
So it wasn’t a dream, then.
…
…
It wasn’t a dream!!! That Wei Wuxian really touched him in his sleep!! Made him come twice in a row!! That…!
Well. He can’t bring himself to be mad about it. It did feel good. Especially after. Especially after.
“Where are they now?” he asks.
———
As the doctor said he would, Jiang Cheng finds Lan Wangji and Wei Ying both in the library. Quietly sitting together, Wei Ying slumped against his husband’s side. Otherwise, the library is empty and—surprisingly, quiet. The only sound is the quiet sound of a page being flipped every minute or so. The orange-laced sun seeps through the window, softly illuminating the seemingly endless amount of books surrounding the two of them, books opened to random pages and lying about haphazardly. It would be a problem if the library weren’t empty, but it were.
As quiet as the library is, Jiang Cheng had assumed Wei Ying was asleep. Yet, standing there in the open doorway, watching them quietly, he sees Lan Wangji lean down a little, to listen.
He hears them whispering, although not about what. Soft, traded words, trying not to be heard by the empty room around them. Then Wei Ying leans up a little, and Jiang Cheng is at the perfect angle to see them kiss. He watches their lips press together in a slow, tired way, and is reminded again that he thinks they are beautiful.
And he is reminded again how that beauty has no place for him.
And he is reminded again that he is too much of a coward to face it.
Quietly, so that he doesn’t disturb them, Jiang Cheng turns away and slips into the darkness.
———
Something cruel squirms around in his heart as he walks away from them. Something that aches deeper than his heart and brings tears to his eyes unbidden. This something, whatever it is, has a soft, but biting voice. It is gentle, and everything it says washes over him like the gentle lap of waves in Lotus Pier.
This cruel thing reminds him that, even if they hate it, they will have to attend to him when he becomes sick. That they will have to force themselves to sleep with him even if they dislike it if they don’t want him to die. It reminds him that they do this for him out of a sense of duty, because his life is on the line, or maybe even a sense of pity. It reminds him that they are too kind to let him rot, even going so far as to comfort him after the act. It reminds him he is pathetic.
He is not wanted.
He is not needed.
He is not loved.
He can’t imagine how disgusted they must be with him, with his heart and his body that yearns for them whenever they so much as look at him. If it is anything close to the disgust he feels for himself, or if it soars high above his own sense of shame, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know how they think of him, if they discuss reassurances about him. If they tell each other it’s only the one time, it is only just for a little, and soon we can forget about it altogether.
This cruel thing gives him a sense of relief, over the fact that they couldn’t leave him even if they wanted, for now.
This cruel thing gives him a sense of anxiety, that they will decide he isn’t worth the strain on their marriage.
Alone in the room that was given to him, Jiang Cheng allows himself to think about useless things. He thinks about, when this is all over with and the venom purged from his system, if they would ask him to stay. He would. He would, and it would bring him only joy to do it.
Being allowed to stay in their home, surrounded by their love, held by their arms. He craves to know what it would be like to come home to them, to find that his scent had mingled in with theirs in their perfect home.
He wants to know what it feels like to wake up with a heart that isn’t shattered around the edges, a heart that is only warmed and whole. He wants to know what it is to stand in the sun and not be burned by its warmth.
They would never, and the cruel reminder of the truth is like an arrow to his stomach, slowly bleeding him out.