Work Text:
Jiang Cheng is tired.
He is known across the jianghu as Sandu Shengshou, the mad dog, the brother killer.
He is feared, he is scorned, and he is mocked by the masses.
He murders, he tortures, he hates.
He has failed, he has lost, he has risen from the ashes.
So out of all the feelings that battle across the forefront of his inner being, Jiang Cheng allows himself just one: of being tired.
Leaning his entire weight on one knee, one elbow, he massages the spot between his furrowed brow and grits his teeth—a threatening flash of sword white amongst the devastation surrounding him. Wasting bodies, spilt blood still steaming in the night air, hopeless groans from the demonic cultivators left for his worn disciples to handle. For he has truly pushed himself to the limit this time and the energy left thrumming through his veins feels like desperation, frustration, and pain with nowhere to go but within.
And the white flashes of excess electricity does travel. It shoots forth from the forefinger of his dominant hand and a shrill hiss escapes from the edge of Jiang Cheng’s mouth as the shock of sensation travels the full length of his right arm to fill heat throughout his lungs until it escapes as smoke in the air, curling around his exposed jaw and neck.
He shouldn’t have allowed his yang to overtake and explode through Zidian as he had, Jiang Cheng knows. He should not have let him be so consumed by his inner pain, his inner rage. He knows this. A-Niáng taught him better than this, warned him of this happening—not that it ever troubled her, not with her wield on cultivation. It is a flaw only for him to grapple with, and the fight has been getting worse with time. He has not spent the time to explore it further, either.
His only choice for now is to stoop low and wait for the unbearable heat to dissipate and pass, counting his measured breaths, regulating his qi to cycle through his meridians. He severs the magnetizing pull of Zidian’s hold on him until the silver glow fades to a rest around his finger, dormant for now.
A burning sting remains etched across the back of his hand in red veins, however, and Jiang Cheng discreetly shakes his sleeve to obscure the visible effects of overusing Zidian when he hears the approach of concerned steps turning his way.
“Jiang Wanyin,” a low voice tenderly calls, close enough for no one else to hear. No one else calls him by that name, after all. “Are you hurt?”
No one else is so self-assured to kneel before him without a second thought. “Zewu-jun,” he wearily sighs, “Do you think of me so lowly?”
“No,” Lan Xichen answers, and he sounds mildly offended, prompting Jiang Cheng to glance at him. He thinks he sees burning embers within those deep eyes for a second before he notices Lan Xichen examining him closely—much too closely for his liking. He leans back and reaches for Sandu, stabbed into the bloated earth by his side. But the older Sect Leader stops him from standing with a firm hand to his shoulder. “I believe I told you to wait for my arrival. You were reckless to take them on alone.”
Jiang Cheng huffs. He ignores the scratch of his throat, used to the taste of ash. It will fade, as long as he is careful, and he is despite what Lan Xichen might say. “I believe I told you that my disciples need the experience,” he counters.
“So do mine, which is why we agreed to undertake this ambush together,” Lan Xichen pushes back, unrelenting.
Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes just to appear unaffected. “I saw you jump in. Don’t act like I robbed you of anything.” With that said, he brushes aside the other’s hand and rises to his full height. He ignores Lan Xichen’s proximity by his side when he turns to address their scattered disciples. “Wrap things up here. Search for survivors. You lot know what to do.”
“Yes, Zōngzhǔ!”
Continuing on his way, Jiang Cheng tries not to feel surprised when he hears the other Sect Leader falling into step behind him. He exits the clearing to locate the brook nearby in need of relieving his parched throat. He finds a boulder to take his perch upon, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck while Lan Xichen takes his spot, standing at his side.
“Stop your staring,” Jiang Cheng complains.
Lan Xichen predictably ignores him. He has felt his eyes on him the entire night. He normally wouldn’t care, but this night is not a normal one and Lan Xichen knows it, too.
“You’re not well. It has not been long since we last saw each other. What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jiang Cheng dismisses. He doesn’t want to talk about it. “We need to head back and interrogate those fiends, find out who is spreading their methods, why they are amassing, and why they’re getting stronger each time. It’s as if they’re building an army when we aren’t at war anymore, and things should be getting better but everyday we get more requests for help from the villages and—”
“I know, Wanyin,” Lan Xichen interrupts him, and Jiang Cheng glares. Who else would dare to cut his ranting short? But before he can direct his anger at him, he is made to watch as Lan Xichen reaches his hand towards him again, this time brushing his hair away from his face to rub away a smudge from his cheek. “Allow me to help you. I am confident the answers we seek can be found from Inquiry.”
Jiang Cheng arches a brow. “Isn’t Lan Wangji still in seclusion?”
Lan Xichen huffs a soft sigh of his own with a light shake of his head. “You are the one who thinks of me lowly, my friend. Are you forgetting that I am just as versed in the language of the Qin as my dìdi is, if not more?”
“Oh,” Jiang Cheng replies. He did forget for a moment. For much too long the notion of receiving assistance has been a foreign thing and it still is, despite Lan Xichen’s efforts. “Give it a shot, then,” he acquiesces with a careless wave of his hand.
He does not expect it when Lan Xichen suddenly catches his hand from the air, pulling him close to examine. “Wanyin,” he begins.
But Jiang Cheng is quick to pull his hand free. He stands. “Let’s go,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for discussion. The rules of respect and seniority has become a mere sham between the two of them anyway.
Still, he leaves before Lan Xichen can call him out.
༻❁༺
Tired, Jiang Cheng absentmindedly tugs the front of his collar to loosen further around his clavicle. His throat continues to itch like sandpaper, and his honey tea has long gone cold upon his desk. He spins his quill between the fingers of his left hand. He ignores the uncomfortable heat of his right hand.
He shouldn’t scar, he knows. He’s stronger than that. He’s just paranoid. He has enough scars dug across his skin as it is. Getting rid of demonic cultivators always put him on edge. Contrary to popular belief, he receives no joy from it, not even a resemblance of revenge or catharsis. It’s another necessity, another obstacle to the safety of those under his jurisdiction.
He has to wonder when those days of summer peace will return, if they ever will. He wants it to. He wants Jin Ling to grow up with experiences of lackadaisical days made from sprawling around the Pier with lotus seeds in one palm and watermelon in the other. He wants to see Yunmeng return to its bustling joy of large families with their children flying colourful kites in the sky.
Jiang Cheng wants a lot of things, but after a successful night hunt with satisfying results after hours of interrogation, those wants do not torture him away from the realm of sleep. On principal he avoids falling asleep in his office, but tonight is just one of those nights. His physical form is uncooperative. He’s tired of violence, of discipline, of upholding propriety.
He's tired.
He allows his brush to slip from his grasp and idly watches as it clatters, leaving a black and bleeding blotch to his parchment. He is supposed to be penning a questioning letter to the Jin’s for their continued inaction towards the rise of dark arts. Others may find it unsurprising when the status hungry bastards cowered from all out war, but Jiang Cheng just finds it suspicious, shrewd as he is.
If he has the time, he might even investigate as to whether their region is feeling the strains of the growing demonic army at all. A good thing for his nephew, perhaps, but a bad enough sign for Jiang Cheng to think that they have something to do with it. Because if even Nie Huaisang has taken notice of the rise of demonic cultivators, how could Jin Guangshan not? How ridiculous. Their set up of observation towers reminds Jiang Cheng too much of the many outposts the Wen’s had hoped to achieve.
So many loose ties to chase, but Jiang Cheng cannot seem to will himself to picking his brush back up no matter how long the candles in his room burn and flicker.
Tired.
He misses A-Niáng, how she would take care of everything and protect. He misses Jiě, her warmth and her laugh. He misses being surrounded by people who know him. He sometimes even misses the sunny shadow of a brother he used to have before he turned away, towards death and revenge.
Jiang Cheng closes his eyes and allows his shoulders to slump as he steers his thoughts elsewhere. Towards A-Ling. In a few days he can fly to Koi Tower and bring him home.
He might as well confront the Jin’s in person, he considers. But he has been told to wage those battles on paper where ink and not blood acts as their evidence. It is only that he hates all this politicking, deep down in his gut. It requires him to observe and understand all the humanity around him, to communicate and predict and outsmart when he would rather just be. He isn’t suited for it, he decides, when he prefers brute honesty over the veiled lies and is better at trusting his instincts, not penned allegiances.
Someone like Lan Xichen is better at it, he thinks. A natural leader who exudes calm authority and charisma.
Which made him feel strange to have the esteemed war hero at his side underneath the dimness of Lotus Pier’s dungeon, getting blood on his pristine boots of white, that persuasive tone whispering in his ear to say he needed those criminals near death for their souls to respond to his qin. He truly was like a dog, then, performing the dirty work for Lan Xichen in a futile attempt to keep that man away from all this tiresome filth and strife.
It is almost as if he wants something different with the man, but Jiang Cheng does not have the chance to ponder that further when he becomes aware of another entering his office.
He quiets his breaths and slows them to focus his hearing down to the calm strides heading his way. His second in command? But Minzhe knows not to disturb him tonight. An assassin, then. How foolish, he thinks, slowly curling his right hand into a loose fist.
But before he can channel his inner force from the air within his chest to Zidian, a gentle warmth encases his hand into a careful cradle.
Jiang Cheng’s breath completely stills while Lan Xichen produces a thoughtful noise to himself while slowly turning his hand this way and that. Because of course it’s him again. Who else would dare?
Lan Xichen’s focused attention nearly tempts Jiang Cheng into peeking an eye open to find out what he finds so interesting. But a wandering finger slides beneath the sleeve of his robe and the shivery touch to the inside of his wrist makes him stiffen before Lan Xichen hooks the edge of his fingerless gloves and tugs.
Alarmed, Jiang Cheng sits up and tries to push away from his desk but Lan Xichen holds fast.
“Zewu-jun, what are you doing?” he forces out, flustered, breathless. His voice sounds too loud and hoarse within the silent room enclosing them together. He would wince from the harsh sound of it if his eyes were not round and fixed to the serene expression Lan Xichen wears, gazing at him in return from where he is closely perched just beneath the platform of his study.
“Wanyin, I told you earlier,” he begins slowly, softly, holding his stare, “that you need to rest. But here you are, working ‘til dawn.”
Jiang Cheng blinks. Is it already dawn? The mornings of winters are always so deceiving, leaving the fair complexion of the First Jade with only the glow of the lingering candlelight. Perhaps it is already the time he knows the other wakes without fail. “It’s not like I ever listen to you,” Jiang Cheng retorts without enough bite, “nor should I.”
“Yes,” Lan Xichen chuckles softly. His warm amber eyes droop then, focusing once more upon Jiang Cheng’s right hand. He tilts it, palm up. “You do have a soft spot for me, though,” he murmurs thoughtfully, his voice a caress to his skin.
“What?” Jiang Cheng manages. His breath catches within his throat again, watching as Lan Xichen gradually lowers his head as if contemplating where he wants to start: a kiss to his thumb, to his palm?
Not that he has any idea why he is thinking about Lan Xichen and kisses. It is to late in the night for that—too early in the morning.
But he has caught the older male with that hooded look in his eyes before, intensely trained upon him, following him. Focused upon his lips. Distracted, as if nothing fascinated him more than to explore the feel of Jiang Cheng’s flesh beneath the brush of his lips. Which would cause Jiang Cheng to inch away, of course, confused.
He does not understand what motivates Lan Xichen’s attention for him. Surely he has nothing left to offer, now that the cultivation world is content with securing their so-called peace, keeping to themselves. Lines have been drawn, alliances made, and Jiang Cheng simply does not fit into that mold.
He tried that, a year ago. It left him where he is now: weary, alone, robbed of his family save for a nephew, his one hope in life.
But Lan Xichen continues, drawing his attention, voice fond, knowing of his grief and treating him like he always has. He wills himself to not shake.
“It began when you came to the Cloud Recesses as a student, didn’t it. You were carefree back then, well fed and rested. Earnest, trusting…”
“No shit,” Jiang Cheng mutters into his palm. He recalls all those rules he had memorized at fifteen. Not that Lan Xichen ever held him to them.
A soft spot, maybe.
“I do not believe it wrong for me to want to see you like that again.”
Things were easier back then, simple. He used to be naïve, viewing the world in black and white before flames took, burning everything into grey ash.
Jiang Cheng scoffs under his breath, otherwise motionless. Frozen by the way Lan Xichen regards him with so much intent. He doesn’t want to linger on the past with this man, with anyone, not even himself. Not when it grows farther and father away with each second passing.
“We can’t go back…”
“We can only go forward,” Lan Xichen gently agrees, always making everything seem brighter, always bringing light with him, within him. So much so that even Jiang Cheng is not immune to it, feeling more and more relaxed the longer he spends in the other’s familiar presence. It is inevitable. “Together, you and I…”
He cannot help but think that things would not be so bad with Lan Xichen by his side when he feels the first caress of plush lips pressed to the giving pad of his thumb. To the palm of his hand, lingering upon the soft underside of his wrist, and then Lan Xichen’s hand is sliding up his sleeve, under it, to his elbow, revealing more of his skin to caress. Strong, familiar fingers knead into the muscle of his forearm, relaxing him until the arm that wields the power of Zidian and pens letters becomes loose, smooth and warm like well-loved mutton jade.
Everything else forgotten, Jiang Cheng feels compelled when Lan Xichen tilts his face up to meet his entranced stare, lips parted still and inviting, pink from what he’s done. Pink like the tops of his cheeks, his eyes alive and bright, drawing Jiang Cheng in with his stare alone. He swallows thickly, the pinnacle of his throat bobbing.
He feels like he has experienced this before, like bloodlust spreading from solider to soldier, but the energy that charges through him now is much less violent, less desperate. Not like he is moving to survive—but to live.
With Lan Xichen…
The grasp around his elbow drags him closer, and Jiang Cheng allows himself to be moved until their faces are hovering inches away, close together.
Yearning is what he feels now, Jiang Cheng dazedly realizes.
“See,” Lan Xichen murmurs softly, “You are sweet on me, Wanyin. For how long will you deny it, I wonder…”
But Jiang Cheng is hardly listening to him again, eyes sweeping down Lan Xichen’s handsome features to linger upon the part of his lips, the warmth of them he still feels upon his skin. They were tracing his faint lightning strikes of white thin scars, barely visible to the eye but very much there from the start of his right forefinger all the way down the length of his arm to his chest. And if Lan Xichen wanted to see all of it, would he have the strength or pride left to deny him?
Lan Xichen was right. He wasn’t feeling well. He hasn’t felt truly well since his core was fixed, melded to sit whole after being shattered, burned away. He hasn’t felt right in his own skin for so long that he forgets at times, forgetting that his core will never be the same, never truly in sync with his body, with Zidian.
But for a moment he is allowed to forget all of that, the exhaustion melting away with Lan Xichen making him feel so whole and so full that he might burst if he doesn’t do something now to release the fluttering heat building within his chest, fueled by the rapid beating of his heart.
Slowly, giving in, Jiang Cheng leans down to meet him. He breathes. He carefully angles his face, momentarily unsure, but then Lan Xichen tips up to slot their lips perfectly together. Assuredly, as if he has been waiting for bloody wars and sieges to end, as if he has been dreaming of this kiss for years on end. His eyes slip closed, content, pressing closer.
While Jiang Cheng’s breath falters and his eyes frantically blink, not knowing what to really do after first contact, watching Lan Xichen’s features for any clues. It is his first kiss, after all. He is still stunned by how someone of the First Jade’s rank can be so gentle, bringing the tip of his finger to stroke the line of Jiang Cheng’s jaw, tracing the curve of his neck to tease the vulnerable skin over his fluttering pulse.
He does not know how to respond, still staring when Lan Xichen eases back to regard him. Jiang Cheng feels the smile forming upon those lips, watching the twinkling mirth that fills those once-somber eyes. His lulling voice whispers against his lips and Jiang Cheng thoughtlessly obeys. He opens his mouth.
To think that they had just kissed, he has no idea what this is when Lan Xichen runs his soft tongue along the seam of his lips and presses in to coax and claim. Reverently exploring the inside of his sensitive mouth, stroking him and rubbing the roof of his mouth, leaving not a crevice untouched and somehow drawing Jiang Cheng’s tongue into his mouth to suck—he has no idea what this is. It renders him lightheaded and trembling, unconsciously grasping onto the sturdy planes of Lan Xichen’s shoulders to steady himself when he fears that he might lean in and in until he collapses into him.
But Lan Xichen’s hands hold him upright, one hand cradling the back of his scalp while the other drags down the length of his spine before sliding beneath the thick wrap belted around his waist, the heat of his touch permeating the purple cloth of his robes. If anything, Lan Xichen is the one pulling him closer until it is only the wood of his desk that stops him from being seated upon the man’s lap. But that would be improper and—
“Zōngzhǔ?”
Jiang Cheng flinches back, eyes startling open to dart to the knock at his doors and back to Lan Xichen who is watching him again with that look.
“There you are,” he murmurs fondly. “That side of you is still here, Wanyin,” he says with quiet satisfaction, as if they are not about to be walked in upon.
Whereas Jiang Cheng only blushes harder and attempts to extract himself from the other’s fierce hold. “Stop it,” he hisses, before another knock sounds. He stiffens.
“Zōngzhǔ, you are awake, aren’t you? Your rooms are lit…”
“What is it? I told you not to disturb me,” Jiang Cheng snaps, starting to feel an irritable itch return.
“That was last night, zongzhu. This morning, however…”
“He has a point, Wanyin...”
Jiang Cheng sends Lan Xichen another sharp glare. He must be the only one concerned of the ridiculous image they must make, two adult men tangled together and flushed.
“Speak from there, then. What’s so important?”
“The demonic cultivators are recovering well, and…”
Jiang Cheng sighs. “Do with them like usual. To the infirmary, inform the kitchen, then prepare the spare rooms. The works.”
“Yes, zōngzhǔ. Right away!”
He waits for the sound of racing footsteps to move farther away before he releases the tension from his limbs, leaning onto his hands behind him with another sigh. He is starting to feel heavy again, but he remains rather aware of Lan Xichen’s inquisitive stare.
“What?” he spits, blasé. He has no reason to justify his methods. He knows that it is only efficient; dead men are of no use to him. The ones willing to cooperate under his terms, often younger and more appreciative with shelter and warm meals in exchange for loyalty and proper cultivation teaching, do well enough to fill the half empty halls of his Sect.
The others, they sealed their fate the moment they threw their commitment into bolstering resentment and death whilst Jiang Cheng only had enough sympathy to spend on the living.
“This is why you have been rejecting night hunts with me,” Lan Xichen deduces, almost sounding hurt. “You could have told me that you are taking them in.”
“For what reason? If word gets out, it would do no good for the name I’ve built.”
Lan Xichen produces a low sound, genuinely frustrated with him for the first time in a while. “I of all people know you are not cruel, Wanyin. You cannot fool me; you know that.”
“Well, now you know about this, too,” Jiang Cheng replies, coldly turning his face away. He does not enjoy being exposed like this, even if it is before someone he has tentatively placed his fickle version of trust in.
“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen sighs again, perhaps trying to have him look at him again. But he resolutely fixes his gaze towards the distance, a dark corner of his room. “I cannot fathom why you would hide this from me. Nothing would change between us.”
Jiang Cheng scoffs. “It’s already bad enough that you continue associating yourself with me. You’ve seen how quick the tides turn around here. The less you know about what I get up to in the dark the better. You should just stay in the light with the great Venerated Triad—”
“Wanyin, do not tell me that you do not know why I pursue your company,” Lan Xichen interrupts, exasperated.
“But I don’t,” Jiang Cheng quietly admits, glowering at the floor.
Lan Xichen’s perseverance has always baffled him, the man seeking him out wherever and whenever the occasion might be even after the Campaign’s end and their necessary proximity ended with it. Though he was also too flattered to refuse him outright, having grown to admire the older male throughout the time they have known one another. And now that Lan Xichen’s hands have left him, his mind is clear to think that that kiss they shared just doesn’t make sense unless—
“Enough. We will discuss our relationship further after you have gotten your deserved rest,” Lan Xichen decides, interrupting his thoughts, always throwing a wrench into his usual brooding.
Before Jiang Cheng can question him, he spies movement and a surprised yelp leaves him when he is lifted from the floor, delivered right into the unbreakable hold of Lan Xichen’s arms. “What—how dare you—?!”
“Where is your bed located?”
“Unhand me!”
“Ah, here it is.”
Dizzy, red faced, Jiang Cheng has hardly registered the fact that Lan Xichen had just lifted him, made entirely of compact muscles and bones but apparently weighing nothing, when he is unceremoniously placed down again. He blinks and Lan Xichen is standing above him, reaching down to undo the belt around his middle. His hands move too slowly to bat them away. But when he makes to free the purple tie of his top knot, Jiang Cheng finally reacts.
Dropping onto an elbow to shift away from his intimate touch, he sneers, “Zewu-jun, explain yourself!”
With Lan Xichen leering down at him, Jiang Cheng shivers, feeling vulnerable even with his desperate command lingering between them. Because Lan Xichen simply continues to stare, as if drinking the vision on the bed before him with his eyes while he evenly asks, “What would you like me to explain?”
“You… You kissed me…”
Even now that tingling sensation lingers upon his lips, his mouth.
Lan Xichen’s lips curl up. He teases, “Did Wanyin not want me to?”
“I…”
“Why do you think one would want to kiss another, Wanyin?”
He stonily looks away and struggles with an effective scowl. “I asked you first, Zewu-jun…”
“Well, if Wanyin really must know…”
Jiang Cheng blinks, allowing it when a finger comes to the bottom of his chin to tilt his face up. His eyes flare wide when Lan Xichen leans in close. His hand is held again, his left this time.
“You mentioned my Sworn Brothers just now, but it is not brotherhood that I want with you, Wanyin…”
“What, then?” Jiang Cheng nervously asks. If he had known accepting a night hunt with this man would lead to this—
Lan Xichen tenderly squeezes his hand, rubbing the spaces between his knuckles.
“Well, it is what I hope for in the future with you…”
“Just tell me,” Jiang Cheng insists. If he has endured this man’s teasing all for nothing, then how much of a fool is he really?
A mad dog, a killer, insane with grief—
“Perhaps a formal proposal to enter courtship would be more clear.”
“Hah?!”
“No?” Lan Xichen pauses, perplexed for a moment. He lapses into narrating his thoughts out loud, “If a kiss was not sufficient to convey my heartfelt affection for Wanyin, then I would be more than happy to send a collection of poems I have authored throughout the development of our growing relationship, although I was hoping to one day read them to Wanyin myself in a more intimate setting, perhaps on a special occasion such as an anniversary or—”
“Lan Xichen!” Jiang Cheng shouts in embarrassment. “Have you a trace of dignity left?!”
Honey eyes grow round before him, shining as a soft breath voices out, “Wanyin is finally calling this one’s name?” A white sleeve rises to the bottom half of Lan Xichen’s face, below his batting doe eyes, robbing Jiang Cheng of the appearance of his honored blush.
“You…!”
He has witnessed the highly esteemed cultivator engage in such coy behaviour in the past, hiding behind the flutter of pure white silk as if to conceal a shameful expression that Jiang Cheng is somehow to blame for, as if he had spoken a vulgar thing—it baffles him to no end. Who is the man trying to fool? Appearing to him like a delicate flower meant to protect and cherish when he has caught the very man staring with undisguised want within his deep set of eyes on one occasion too many.
Snarling in frustration, Jiang Cheng reaches up to grasp the other by his lapels, yanking him to his eye level, uncaring if he shakes him in the process. Lan Xichen deserves it after stirring him up like this. He’s burning up again, like he was earlier in the night.
He confesses, “You, you drive me crazy!”
Lan Xichen goes with him, seeming to swoon. He softly exclaims, “I feel the same way, Wanyin.”
Then he lowers himself completely to join Jiang Cheng on the bed, fiercely bringing their lips back together.
When Lan Xichen enters his mouth this time, Jiang Cheng makes the effort of returning the deep kiss—that’s what it is, he belatedly realizes—by trying to follow the other’s movements, copying the roll of his tongue. Lan Xichen seems to delight in it from the rumbling sound he produces from his throat, always pressing closer, somehow kissing him harder.
Jiang Cheng thinks that his mouth might bruise, gasping when he feels a nip of teeth to distract him from the nimble fingers that free his hair and cards through it to cascade down his back. His bottom lip throbs with heat despite the tongue that sweetly rubs against it, mollifying his ire. Before he can think of how to respond next, Lan Xichen’s mouth leaves him as he works to remove him of his outer robes.
So Jiang Cheng leans in and caresses with his mouth the sharp curve of the other’s jaw like he has always been tempted to, drawing lower to feel the rise and fall of Lan Xichen’s throat when he swallows. He almost makes his way to the corner behind Lan Xichen’s ear when he feels the older man shiver above him before he pushes away.
“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen exhales roughly, chest heaving. Jiang Cheng slowly blinks. He has never seen the older male like this before, discomposed, not even after the worst battles they’ve fought together. “Wanyin,” he says again, steadier this time, “you must not test me… I came tonight to check on you and ensure that you rest. Now that you are in bed, you should sleep…”
Jiang Cheng arches a brow, incredulous. “You want me to sleep after that?”
Lan Xichen has the humility to appear sheepish. Unconvincingly he says, “Yes, I do.”
Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes. “Perhaps you should write to me about your supposed heartfelt affections if you will not convey them clearly in person like you ought to.”
Lan Xichen droops, hovering above him on his elbows, managing a feeble simper. “Have mercy, Wanyin,” he implores. He speaks into his shoulder, “I only feel that it is a touch presumptuous to speak of marriage as life partners with you so soon when you are clearly in need of rest after how many days and nights you must have spent preparing for today’s night hunt…”
Jiang Cheng falters. Marriage? Life partners? Indeed, he has been much too preoccupied with fostering Yunmeng Jiang that the last time marriage ever crossed his mind had to be during Jiě’s wedding (which Lan Xichen did attend looking quite splendid, but that’s beside the point). Marriage including Lan Xichen will definitely require an extensive amount of time to process when he is not harboring a sleep debt of seventy-two hours.
He hastily thrusts his palm against Lan Xichen’s chest to create some space between them. He tells himself that he is not cowering, but that he is nowhere near the capacity of tackling the concept of marriage right now.
Courtship, maybe.
“Fine. I’ll sleep,” he grunts.
Mercifully, Lan Xichen eases back to sit upon the edge of his bed. “Yes, of course,” he murmurs, and Jiang Cheng decidedly ignores the flash of disappointment that flickers within those honest eyes, as quick as lightning. He allows it when gentle fingers brush away thin strands of hair from his face before Lan Xichen gently wishes, “Sleep well, Wanyin. I hope that with this, you will no longer hesitate to request my assistance. When you are tired, there is no harm in accepting a caring hand.”
“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng wearily replies, closing his eyes. He feels his blanket being tucked around him and the weight of approaching unconsciousness draws closer. He realizes to himself that since he was a mere teenager, he has not fallen asleep in the presence of anyone but the very man still beside him. Hidden in caves, huddled together in tents, and now…
He supposes that this is fine, being regarded as a mere man in need of rest by someone who knows him throughout the long years.
Just a man.