It was never about kindness.

Jiang Cheng strides down the length of the boardwalk, footfalls heavy on the wooden planks, and shades his eyes to squint across the lake.

The lotuses are gone. Midwinter hasn't been harsh to Yunmeng this year, so the lake hasn't frozen over, just gathered slushy layers of ice beneath the surface. The sky with its gray-white cloud cover gleams too brightly to stare at for long. Jiang Cheng lowers his hand and clasps it with the other behind his back, willing himself not to fidget. To project calm unconcern, as if he's not at all nervous, nope, no sir.

Hello, thank you for coming … It's an honour to have you here again … No, I haven't been waiting long … It's not like I spent three months working up the courage to invite you officially, and a week expecting you to cancel after you said yes …

Yep.

Definitely not nervous.

"Jie! Wait for me!"

"Hurry up already or go bother someone else!"

Two small children in purple robes run down the nearest boardwalk, calling to each other in discordant, high-pitched voices. A few senior cultivators stand talking together three docks over, within shouting distance but not close enough to make out any faces. Somebody's laugh rings out over the water. Jiang Cheng eyes them just long enough to make sure no one's about to pull a cartwheel or break into a recitation of highly explicit poetry – all of which has, in fact, happened before on days when Lotus Pier was supposed to welcome high-profile guests – before turning his gaze back to the lake, dark and smooth as volcanic glass beneath the overcast sky.

("Hanguang-jun, the Jiang clan thanks you for your hospitality. We hope to be able to return the favour in the future."

Lan Wangji, interim Chief Cultivator, stands in the main courtyard of Cloud Recesses with his uncle and brother at his side, there to see off each visiting party at the end of the conference. He responds to this dispassionate farewell with an equally dispassionate nod. Jiang Cheng does not bow, but the rest of his delegation make their final salute of departure, murmuring, "Hanguang-jun."

Jiang Cheng turns to the First Jade of Lan and dips his head in a stiff, but much more sincere show of respect.

"Zewu-jun –" Say something nice. Say something nice. "You'd better not lock yourself in another room while I'm gone."

"I would not dare," Zewu-jun says, straight-faced.

"I mean it. If I ever hear that you've made a hermit of yourself again, I'll come and kick your door down myself. And I won't leave for a whole year if that's what it takes."

"You should not tempt me."

Lan Xichen looks a little better than he did at the beginning of the conference. There are still shadows beneath his eyes, from stress or sleeplessness or both, but he no longer walks as though he's trying to cross a frozen river. Yesterday he even cracked a joke about having switched personalities with his brother, who always used to be the silent one at conferences. "If I'd known how wonderful it felt not to be expected to say anything," he said dryly as he and Jiang Cheng meandered along one of the pine-forest paths of Cloud Recesses, "I would have taken advantage of it years ago. Simply speaking never used to require this much effort."

Jiang Cheng is abruptly aware that they have an audience. Scowling to hide his discomfiture, he mutters, "Right. See you at the next conference," and turns to leave.

"Sooner than that, I had hoped," Zewu-jun interjects, stopping him. "It will be a while before I am needed long-term at Cloud Recesses, and while I have not taken up the rest of my duties – if it would not be too much of an imposition –"

"Have I or have I not already told you that you're welcome at Lotus Pier any time you like?" Jiang Cheng snaps. "If you can possibly be spared, then you might as well visit your nephew's sect at your earliest convenience."

Lan Xichen pauses. "Ah … Would that be Jin-zongzhu, or Sizhui?"

Neither boy technically belongs to Yunmeng Jiang. Jiang Cheng scowls harder. "Either. Both. Whatever. You can take your pick." This is so embarrassing. He doesn't want to know what stuffy-ass expression of judgement Hanguang-jun is wearing, let alone Old Man Lan. But Zewu-jun just offers him a smile, as if this tetchy overture is the best thing he's heard all day.

"Then I look forward to visiting soon. And to finding a way to repay you for your kindness."

"What kindness?" Jiang Cheng scoffs. "It was never about kindness."

"No," Zewu-jun says, after a pause. "I suppose it was not."

Lan Wangji darts a glance at his brother. On Hanguang-jun's other side, Lan Qiren raises his eyebrows but says nothing.)

"Look! Jie, look! Someone's coming!"

The kids are back, and they're pointing excitedly from the boardwalk. Jiang Cheng follows their line of sight. A small boat with a wooden roof has appeared on the other side of the lake, parting the water's surface like a tawny water-bird. The first passenger is easily recognizable: a boatman many years in Lotus Pier's service, sedately moving them along with a paddle. The second is also instantly recognizable, but for completely different reasons. He stands at the prow, noble and dignified, as if to offer himself up as a reflective surface for the hidden winter sun. When he catches sight of Jiang Cheng waiting at the dock, he lifts a hand in greeting.

It takes Jiang Cheng an embarrassingly long time to return the gesture.

(Jiang-zongzhu, thank you for your letter. Things have been quieter since your departure, but I have not missed it as much as I thought I would. I have always preferred the company of friends and family to silent meditation, and in any case, I have had enough of solitude for a lifetime.

In addition to my teaching duties, I have recently been supervising the youngest batch of juniors on their night hunts. It is quite manageable – I eat and sleep regularly, and no one "takes advantage of my work ethic," so please stop worrying about that! I tend to get distracted every now and then, but now my thoughts turn to more pleasant things instead of to bad memories. Particularly our sparring matches in the archery range. I honestly cannot remember the last time I had the opportunity to match myself against a proper adversary like that. And I know you are going to contradict me, so I must forestall you: you are a proper adversary, and one of the best fighters I know. The only reason you have not bested me yet is that I have been learning your tricks all the while you have been learning mine.)

Lan Xichen's robes gleam like trout scales against the dark water. Jiang Cheng takes a deep, steadying breath. He knows what kind of picture he must make, a sect leader waiting alone on his own docks to welcome one of the greatest cultivators alive into his home as a casual guest. But surely, it's his right to dispense with an official retinue when he's literally on his own doorstep. They agreed on the terms of the visit beforehand. It's not to be an official diplomatic visit like the conference. Rather, Jiang Cheng is calling in a favour for the debt Zewu-jun, that gallant bastard, still insists is real and not at all bullshit, before said gallant bastard returns incrementally to his duties as head of Gusu Lan. It's a social call. It's normal. It's nothing to get worked up about.

Not getting worked up about things has never been his greatest strength.

The passenger boat glides slowly up to the docks. Lan Xichen scans the pier, the boardwalk and the carved roof of the nearest building before looking back up at Jiang Cheng. His gaze is warm. "Jiang-zongzhu," he says.

"Zewu-jun." Jiang Cheng gives him a once-over. "You didn't come by sword."

"This seemed the proper way." Lan Xichen steps off the boat as soon as it's close enough. He gathers his robes in one hand and tucks the other formally across his chest, in order to keep the long sleeves from catching on splinters. He touches down on the pier and adds, with what sounds like complete and heartfelt sincerity, "Thank you again for inviting me. It's an honour to be here."

Jiang Cheng scowls. "You thanked me three times already in your last letter. Are you trying to show me up by being so polite?"

"I need no reason to express my gratitude. And in any case," Zewu-jun says blithely, "excessive competitiveness is forbidden."

"Of course it is."

As they turn to walk together down the boardwalk, Zewu-jun lets his robes swish back around his boots. His posture is perfect, his hair immaculately swept back into a silver hairpiece like dew-strung spider silk on branches, and there's a liveliness to his step that wasn't there during the conference: a bright, attentive quality to his gaze as he scans the lakeshore and neat little row of docks. The contrast is startling to Jiang Cheng, who hasn't seen him in over three months.

"Is this your first time leaving Cloud Recesses since your seclusion?"

Lan Xichen sends him a rueful smile. "I see I have become entirely transparent to you."

"No, it's just … you look well. Better, I mean."

Saying even this much is embarrassing, and not just because Jiang Cheng has to fight through all the alternative descriptions he's been hearing for twenty years from every besotted poet and playwright ever to lay eyes on the First Jade of Lan. Before they started corresponding, he couldn't even remember what it was like talking to someone he wanted to be polite to. Now he finds himself drawing on his limited store of social niceties more and more for one man's sake.

If Lan Xichen notices anything halting in the delivery, he doesn't show it. He only says, very simply, "I am."

"Good." Jiang Cheng clears his throat. "Glad to hear it. We can't have overworked teachers. It would reflect badly on the sect."

"Part of the reason you asked me to come, if I understand correctly?"

"Right. You're to substitute for Qin-laoshi. She hasn't had a holiday in …" Jiang Cheng thinks back. Four? Five? Fifteen? "I don't know how many years. We've always covered lessons between the two of us, but lately she and Song-laoshi have been taking the brunt of it. They need a break."

Lan Xichen blinks. "Three teachers for one sect? Why not …" He trails off in sudden, sober understanding. "No. I know why. Please disregard that."

"I personally trained her after the Sunshot Campaign," Jiang Cheng continues, pretending not to have heard anything. "She was the most promising student. I don't think either of us slept in six months. I had Jin Ling, and the sect to rebuild … I needed someone to take the other students at least half of the time, or I'd have dropped dead from exhaustion. Song-laoshi came a few years afterward, when I had the time to train another teacher. The two of them generally take care of core cultivation, theory and talismans."

"And you?"

"I do combat."

"Ah," says Lan Xichen. "I should have known."

"Anyway, you'll be alternating with each of them in turn, depending on how much energy you have. Are you still good to stay for the winter?"

"Of course."

They turn a corner. Jiang Cheng chews on the inside of his cheek before making up his mind to say something. "It must be … strange. Being here."

Lan Xichen doesn't have to ask what he means. "I have not left the mountain, let alone Gusu, since the wedding. So, yes, it feels strange. Do you know the feeling when you wake up after falling asleep in the middle of the day, and for a while it is as though you are still dreaming?"

Jiang Cheng nods.

"It is a bit like that. I was in a fog for so long that … your letters drew me out, I suppose, but it took much longer for me to feel as though I were inhabiting my old life again. And even then it did not quite fit." Lan Xichen falls silent for a moment as they walk. "Is there anything I should know about your junior disciples before I meet them?"

"Nothing I haven't already told you. They can be a handful, but they know better than to not show their teachers respect. They won't be any trouble. At least," Jiang Cheng adds under his breath, "they had better not be. Or they'll be on cleaning duty for a month."

"Do you assign chores as punishment?"

"Extra chores, and yes. Why, what do the Lan do?"

"Handstands," Lan Xichen says ruefully. "Usually one-handed."

"Why?"

"So we can copy out the rules with the other hand."

Jiang Cheng raises his eyebrows. Yeesh. No wonder the Lans are all so strong. His muscles still ache with the memory of their practice bouts in the archery range. Zewu-jun might look like a delicate scholar, but if all Yunmeng Jiang's disciples climbed up on each other's shoulders into a single wobbly people pole, he could no doubt bodily lift them all without breaking a sweat. And look good doing it.

Which is not a helpful train of thought. Jiang Cheng blows a strand of hair out of his face. "That seems a little …"

"Excessive?" Lan Xichen suggests wryly.

"Sure. Let's go with that. You have full liberty to assign my disciples chores and stuff as punishment, by the way. But if you want to have them do handstands, make sure they know how to do it right."

"I will."

"In any case, it shouldn't come to that. My juniors know what discipline is, and the only time they've ever had a bad example to follow is when Wei Wuxian comes around." Jiang Cheng scowls. "He makes them rowdy."

"Perhaps he misses the freedom of being rowdy when he spends so much time at Cloud Recesses."

"Please. He's married to Hanguang-jun. He basically does whatever he wants without repercussions."

Lan Xichen tactfully does not comment on this. After a pause he says, "Jiang-zongzhu … if I may ask –"

He's interrupted by a whirlwind in the form of a small girl in Jiang robes hurtling down the boardwalk holding a kite on a string. Another, smaller girl runs after her, yelling, "Give it back already!"

Zewu-jun steps back to let them pass, and they tear off down toward the pier, too focused on the kite to notice their own sect leader swatting it aside. "You were saying?" Jiang Cheng asks, once they're gone.

Zewu-jun shakes his head. "Never mind. It can wait."

They arrive at the inner courtyard where fifteen juniors in purple robes are lined up, in rows of five, practicing their footwork in weaponless forms. Their instructor comes around to greet Jiang Cheng and inquire about his guest. "I'm sure you know Zewu-jun," Jiang Cheng says. "He'll be filling in for you and Song-laoshi this winter, at intervals." She and Zewu-jun bow to one another. "Is the lesson going well?"

"Well enough," Qin-laoshi grumps. "I suspect one of them started a secret practice club after hours. They're more confident in their forms, but the new ones are turning out sloppy. If Wei-gongzi were here, I'd ask him to find out, but –"

"If there's a secret practice club, he's probably the one who started it," Jiang Cheng says. "He's due back in about three weeks. You can hash it out with him then. Until then" – he raises his voice – "I expect to see improvements."

The juniors are doing a terrible job of pretending not to listen. A few of the nearest ones jump and exchange guilty looks before shifting the positions of their boots on the paving-stones. The instructor, getting the hint, narrows her eyes and half-turns back toward the courtyard. "That's right," she says, allowing her voice to carry. "This level of clumsiness is frankly shameful. If they can't master the bare minimum, there's really nothing to be done for them."

One of the eldest juniors reaches out and lifts his friend's extended right arm, correcting his form. Nobody else dares unfreeze from their positions. Jiang Cheng nods to Qin-laoshi and leads Lan Xichen, who's been watching with faint amusement, through the courtyard and into the main compound.

On his way he stops a maid and asks her to make sure Zewu-jun's guest room has been seen to. "Your quarters aren't ready yet," he tells Lan Xichen once she's gone, "so do you want to have that tour now, or would you rather rest?"

"A tour sounds lovely."

They go to Jiang Cheng's office first, mostly because he wants to tidy his paperwork before devoting the rest of the evening, as is proper, to his guest. Lan Xichen drifts through the room as Jiang Cheng picks up a bundle of letters from his desk and begins to sort through them. Jiang-zongzhu, may this letter find you well … from the village on our shared border … several weeks of haunting …

"I remember this," Lan Xichen says absently.

Jiang Cheng looks up. Zewu-jun has stopped in front of the wooden latticework window to gaze out at the lake, one hand resting lightly on the table with the lacquered box. "I remember this," he repeats, glancing over his shoulder. "From your letters. You talked about pacing around your office and looking out the window, where you could see a mountain-ridge over the east side of the lake." He turns back around. "You said you could not see it without feeling as though it were just a step away, as though if you flew toward it, low over the water, you would reach it in the blink of an eye. But it is half a day's flight from Lotus Pier in reality, is it not?"

Jiang Cheng's jaw drops a little.

Lan Xichen glances back at him, puzzled by the lack of response. "Jiang-zongzhu?"

"You remember that?"

"I …" Now he looks embarrassed. "Well, it – I had a lot of time in seclusion, you see. And afterward. My duties are not very strenuous right now, so I have reread your letters more than once. I suppose I must have learned them off by heart without even noticing."

His fingers rest inches from A-jie's lacquered box. "Zewu-jun," Jiang Cheng says, deeply gratified, "I wrote so much stupid shit in those letters."

"It was not stupid."

"Some of it was."

"I disagree."

"Just – do me a favour and forget everything I said."

"I do not think I will."

"Ugh," Jiang Cheng says. Then, skimming the letter in his hands, in a completely different tone: "Eugh."

"Everything all right?"

"My council's advising me to get married again. They do this every damn week." He throws it onto the desk and opens the next letter. "There's not even any point in reading them. It's a different signature every time, but I'm pretty sure they just copy off each other to save themselves the trouble of coming up with new arguments."

"You have not changed your mind on that score, then," Lan Xichen says, coming to kneel on the other side of the desk.

"No. I don't want some stranger in my house."

Lan Xichen waits for him to put the letter down. "In Gusu," he says, after a moment's consideration, "it is traditional to marry for love."

There's a tactful question hidden in the statement. "Never been in love," Jiang Cheng says shortly, picking up a sheaf of papers and flipping through it. "So it's a moot point."

"Have you never … wanted a partner?"

"What for?"

Lan Xichen opens his mouth, and then pauses, as if trying to work through it for himself. "For comfort," he replies at last, uncertainly, as though he is being asked to repeat hearsay off the street. "Companionship, perhaps. Someone to share your burdens."

"What partner wouldn't become a new burden on their own? If I didn't know how to manage things myself, I wouldn't be leader of this sect." Jiang Cheng stacks the papers upright on the desk so the pages align. "The council can bite me. I'm not getting married."

"Well," says Lan Xichen, "far be it from me to persuade Jiang-zongzhu to do something he does not want to do."

"Good. Pick battles you can win." Jiang Cheng checks the corners to make sure the papers are in order. "That's a lesson we give our disciples. I'm giving it to you for free."

"I thought the motto of Yunmeng Jiang was to attempt the impossible. If I'm going to teach for you, I should begin by practicing your traditions, no?"

There's a sly quality to his voice that makes Jiang Cheng look up. Lan Xichen is smiling one of his sparkling, mischievous smiles, like a man who's just told a riddle. Being on its receiving end is like taking a shot of powerful alcohol. Jiang Cheng opens his mouth to reply, but he's not actually sure what he can say to that, much less how to answer that … that tone.

Lan Xichen leans closer over the table, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. "You know, if you married someone good-looking, you would be able to admire them every day for as long as you wanted."

"There aren't enough good-looking people to go around," Jiang Cheng points out, eyeing him. "Find me someone better-looking than yourself, and maybe I'll consider it. Until then, don't waste my time."

Lan Xichen looks pleased, if a bit startled. "You think I'm good-looking?"

"I also think the sky is blue."

"Forgive my surprise. It is just that – you do not usually make known your opinions on such things."

"I don't usually have opinions on such things." Jiang Cheng puts down the stack of papers. He needs to focus on the argument if he's going to win. "Anyway, beauty is overrated. I have enough useless paintings hanging on my walls. Whoever they are, they ought to be competent."

"Hm," Lan Xichen says. "You are right. If you married someone capable, they would be able to share their skills with you, and the two of you would be stronger together than you would have been alone."

"Then they should be as strong as me or better," Jiang Cheng counters. "Or they'll never be able to keep up."

"As strong as you or better? Well, that narrows the field considerably."

"And they should be from a good family, politically speaking. Someone who'd make Yunmeng stronger than before."

"Of course."

"And virtuous."

"Naturally."

"Courageous, or I'll never respect them. Steady, or I'll have more headaches than I did when I wasn't married."

"I am beginning to see why you will not be satisfied with any of the candidates your council puts before you."

"I expect the best from myself. Why shouldn't I expect the best from this hypothetical partner?"

"Are you sure you're not deliberately making it harder for yourself?"

"You're the one who's trying to convince me getting married is worth the trouble. I just have standards."

Lan Xichen's smile dims a little. "Yes. And you have a right to them. I only …" He takes a breath. "I think what I meant to ask was, are you never lonely?"

Jiang Cheng opens his mouth to say no.

A-Cheng, don't be so hard on yourself! You'll make a wonderful leader, just like A-die. And don't worry about your brother. All he wants is to support you.

Eh, Jiang Cheng, tell me you're not exhausted after practice. Even you can't lie and say you're fine! Our teachers are trying to kill us! Look, I bet I can swim to the far shore faster than you can. That'll teach you to be proud. Get over here and show me how much better you've gotten, come on!

He can't do it.

Lan Xichen waits patiently for him to think of a response. After a minute, he ventures: "If you were married, you would have someone sworn to stand by you until death. That is no small thing."

But Jiang Cheng had someone like that, once. He had Wei Wuxian. And if he could walk away from Nightless City and go on living, it's because he doesn't need Wei Wuxian or anyone else to do his duty with his head held high. "Everyone in my sect is already sworn to stand by me," he says. "And I by them. That's good enough for me."

Lan Xichen holds his gaze for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to pursue the subject. Then he smiles.

"They are lucky to have you."

"And you," Jiang Cheng says, flushing. "The great Zewu-jun, here to teach my humble disciples. Any sect leader would wish for such an honour. I only hope," he adds with a glittering vindictiveness, "that he'll be a little harder on them than he was on me."

"How so?"

"You agreed to teach a few martial arts classes, in the Gusu Lan style."

"I did."

"So I hope I chose well for a combat teacher, seeing as how you nearly lost to me the last few times we sparred."

Zewu-jun raises his eyebrows. "Nearly lost is not lost, Jiang-zongzhu."

"There's a difference to my disciples, I'm afraid," Jiang Cheng snips. But Zewu-jun just smiles knowingly at him over all the scattered papers.

"Are you trying to provoke me?"

"Yes, I am. We're going to fight again, and this time you're going to lose."

The knowing smile becomes a look of polite disbelief. Anyone who says Gusu Lan can't be rude hasn't seen the Twin Jades pull off the most passive-aggressive microexpressions known to man. "What makes you think so?" Lan Xichen asks pleasantly.

Jiang Cheng leans forward. "Because I've figured out your weakness."

"Do tell."

"Why should I? Maybe you'll figure it out for yourself after I trounce you."

"Well," Lan Xichen says, still more pleasantly, "Sandu Shengshou would not speak so if he were not wholly confident in his abilities. I am at your disposal for whenever you wish to make good your word." He dips his head. "Shall we go at once?"

"We'll go as soon as I've fulfilled my obligations as your host, and not a moment before." Jiang Cheng gets up. "Tour first, then dinner. Zewu-jun has had a long journey. I wouldn't want to best him while he was at less than his full strength."

Zewu-jun rises to his feet in a gesture so pointedly effortless that it looks for all the world like a fresh challenge. But he only bows and says, blandly, "As you wish."

They dine together that night, and Zewu-jun's lessons begin the following morning. He's replacing Qin-laoshi first, which means that for the next six weeks the juniors will be learning core cultivation from him in addition to Gusu-style martial arts. Jiang Cheng has to resist the temptation to spy on the first few lessons; Lan Xichen needs to be able to do his job without anyone breathing down his neck. But soon enough his juniors start coming back from their lessons caterwauling about "Zewu-jun!" this and "Zewu-jun!" that, so it must have gone all right. A few of the more impressionable ones even start walking around with one arm tucked behind their backs, like the Twin Jades are known to do, but they're taunted out of it by their yearmates before the week is out.

Jiang Cheng takes great pride in the hospitality of Lotus Pier, so when they both have free time in the evenings – or, more accurately, when he no longer feels like dealing with the paperwork piling up on his desk – he shows Zewu-jun around the lakeshore and the portside town. They go to the market pier and browse through stalls of scant winter produce, bolts of coloured cloth and small arrangements of women's jewellery. Then, if the merchant behind the stall asks about the handsome nobleman accompanying him – which is always the case – Jiang Cheng introduces them.

"A pleasure to meet you," Lan Xichen says with a smile; or, dipping his head respectfully, "Yes, I am afraid I have selfishly borrowed your sect leader from his duties;" or, "No, the honour is mine. What finely woven cotton! You must be doing good business in weather like this."

"Zewu-jun has come prepared himself," the cotton-seller says approvingly, casting an eye over the thicker layers and long sleeves of Lan Xichen's robes. "Does it get as cold as this in Gusu?"

"Much colder. And the climate is not as favourable to growing winter flowers."

This being a reference to the small jar of yellow wintersweet on the table. The cotton-seller, preening, insists that Zewu-jun take a sprig for himself before waving them on. Lan Xichen rolls the wintersweet branch through his fingers as they meander through the market, smiling to himself.

Jiang Cheng glances at him. "What?"

"You all seem so familiar with each other. Do you come here often?"

"When I can. Or when I have a guest that requires entertaining."

The smile vanishes. "Oh, but – you are not obliged to entertain me! I did not realize I may have been imposing on your time –"

"Zewu-jun, it was a joke. You know, those things people make when they're not being serious?"

"Oh," Lan Xichen says, embarrassed. Then, "I make plenty of jokes."

Jiang Cheng scoffs. "No, you don't."

"I do."

"Not plenty."

"Perhaps you ought to be paying better attention."

They walk for a while through the market without speaking, allowing the chatter and calls of ordinary people to wash over them. "You have shown me Lotus Pier as well as the town," Lan Xichen says at last. "Where shall we go next?"

"What makes you think we're going anywhere after this?" Jiang Cheng asks, just to be difficult. "We both have work to do."

"Because I get the sense that you did not have much excuse to do anything fun for yourself before I arrived." Lan Xichen gives him a half-smile. "After all, I am a guest. I require entertaining. Jiang-zongzhu never shirks his duty, especially not as a host."

There's a too-knowing glint in his eye. Jiang Cheng, unable to think of an appropriate response, elects to look away and pretend Zewu-jun hasn't just scored a point on him. "I do have one idea, but it won't work if Zewu-jun still keeps an early curfew."

"Oh, I can be flexible."

"Enough to stay up until midnight?"

"As long as need be."

"Good," Jiang Cheng says. "Great. Then I'll send someone for you at a quarter to ten."

Lan Xichen meets him that evening at the docks of Lotus Pier, swathed in silver-blue winter robes that glimmer under the starlight. Jiang Cheng unties one of the sturdier rowboats from its mooring and climbs in, keeping his balance with a lifetime's worth of practice. Lan Xichen follows suit carefully. Once he has settled himself into the opposite seat, Jiang Cheng takes up the oars and begins rowing them out into the lake. The water behind them parts in dark, glassy ripples, blurring constellations like dissolving sugar in a cup.

Lan Xichen speaks over the quiet lapping of water.

"Are we going to Qinglian Town?"

"Nope."

"Down one of the tributaries?"

"Nope."

Night has fallen completely over Lotus Pier. Jiang Cheng keeps an eye on the distant lanterns at the docks to make sure they're not getting turned around. Then his gaze catches on something else. Lan Xichen is craning his neck up at the stars, and his throat is bared, a little, above the three collars folded tightly over each other in defense against the chill.

Jiang Cheng, despite himself, feels the oars grow slow and heavy in his hands.

He really is extraordinarily handsome.

It's not news, exactly, but it strikes Jang Cheng as unreal that they should be friends now, tonight, in his home, when for so many years they weren't anything but cordial acquaintances. A year ago, when he first sent those letters to the Hanshi, even this much seemed impossible. Now it no longer feels like enough. He wants Lan Xichen to count on him, to confide in him, to give him the gift of his too-rare laughter. He can't freely give those things himself until he knows they'll be returned in equal measure; he is too proud, or perhaps too afraid, to offer what might be rejected. Or worse, not understood to be the mortifying, heartfelt admission that it is: I like you. I care what you think. No one believes I'm capable of laughter anymore either, or that I can be kind, or that I can appreciate beauty, but I wish just one person would see otherwise, and I want that person to be you. So here he is, rowing them out into the lake after nightfall in complete silence. Because that's less embarrassing than the prospect of actually explaining what they're here for.

Once they're in what he roughly judges to be the middle of the lake, he stops the boat and sets the oars across it. Lan Xichen looks up from where he's been letting his fingers trail through the water. "Now what?" he asks.

"Now," Jiang Cheng says, "we listen."

They watch the trail of their passage ripple out and fade.

The lake has that peculiar depth and darkness of a mirror at night. It glitters like the stars are swimming in a cupped handful of water; and it's so quiet, so still, that Jiang Cheng feels something turbulent inside him curl up and settle down.

And then a high-pitched, eerie cry rings out across the lake, as beautiful and otherworldly as a full moon rising fire-orange from beneath the earth.

Lan Xichen says, very softly, "Oh," something between an exhale and a sigh, a sound of wonder. "What is that?"

The echoes die out, and then a second treble cry pierces the silence, and a third, ululating shrilly. "Water birds," Jiang Cheng says, inordinately pleased. He suspected Zewu-jun would appreciate the birdcalls, but it's another thing entirely to see him leaning involuntarily toward the water, as if trying to make out where they're coming from. "Black-throated divers, to be specific."

"They are beautiful."

"You wouldn't have heard them before. They generally only winter here before flying further north."

Another bird trills out from the nearby treeline, a different species this time. The divers fall silent before a few other night birds take their place in the chorus.

Listen, A-Xian. Listen. These birds fly here when the weather turns cold, and make their home here until spring.

It's spooky!

You're right, it is a bit spooky. But the birds aren't afraid, only us. A-Cheng, can you tell your brother why they call out like that in the night?

Yes! They're talking to each other!

Exactly. Whenever one of the birds feels alone, they sing something, hoping one of their friends will hear them. And then if there's another bird nearby, they'll call back to say, "Here I am! I hear you!"

It's a good memory, for once. Jiang Cheng turns toward the lake, drinking in the familiar contours of the surrounding shores and the roofs of Lotus Pier, black against the star-spangled sky. Sensory things, like the music of water birds, tend to bring back A-jie's voice for a while, but they also lose their potency with time. The echoes fade even as he clings to them desperately. One day, those water birds will sing out and he will discover that A-jie's voice has gone silent forever.

"Wanyin," Lan Xichen murmurs, almost inaudibly.

Jiang Cheng's heart jolts without his permission. He looks over at Zewu-jun, more surprised than displeased: the only person who calls him that anymore is Hanguang-jun, and that only accompanied by his family name. But, well. It's not like he'd mind if Zewu-jun wanted to dispense with titles.

But Lan Xichen seems oblivious to having skipped a rule of propriety. He pronounced it thoughtfully, almost to himself, as if he didn't mean to speak Jiang Cheng's courtesy name so much as what the syllables mean together: evening song, or evening lament. He glances at Jiang Cheng, a tiny motion visible only thanks to the silver-glint point of his hairpiece. "I know the poem it comes from," he says. "Your name." When Jiang Cheng doesn't reply, too startled to think what to say, Lan Xichen reaches over the side of the boat and, holding his sleeve back with the other hand, swirls his fingers through the icy water, and recites:

"Chá xiāng qiū mèng hòu / sōng yùn wǎn yín shí."

The words are slow and languid, given the practiced, rhythmic cadence of a man who's been reading verse his entire life. I wake from a hazy nap in autumn, enshrouded by the fragrant aroma of tea leaves; at dusk, I saunter and recite poetry, the pine branches swaying in time. Jiang Cheng hasn't heard this poem in decades, not since he was a child and A-jie recited it to him for this exact purpose. "I thought someone from Yunmeng wrote that," he says, suppressing a strange shiver. "Someone obscure. Where did you even find it?"

"Oh …" Lan Xichen shakes his head. "Somewhere. I think in one of the texts I had requested the juniors bring to me in seclusion. I still remember the feeling it gave me, like being suspended in time. Lonesome, in a way. But beautiful. Melancholic." He pauses. "Like you."

Jiang Cheng frowns. Lan Xichen's expression is difficult to make out in the darkness, and his tone is light, but there's no glint of mischievous eyes. This isn't another attempt at a joke. "I'm melancholic?"

"No, not really. But autumn is the season of courage, and of mourning. Perhaps that is why it reminds me of you. That, and it has your courtesy name in it."

"I haven't thought about it in ages."

"Well, you have had other things on your mind. Not everyone has to know where their name comes from."

"What about yours, then?"

"Mine does not come from anywhere in particular, as far as I know. My mother died before I could ask her why she had chosen this name and not another." Zewu-jun flicks water from his fingers. "I have not encountered it anywhere in our library, the way I encountered yours."

"You haven't looked for it?"

"To be conceited is forbidden. And besides," he adds hurriedly, probably hearing Jiang Cheng draw breath to sound off about how stupid that is, "there are always so many other things to do. I have never had time to do anything but wonder. If my mother had lived, or my father, they might have told me. Shufu says they are the ones who chose courtesy names for myself and my brother. But they did not, so whatever their reasoning was, I will never know."

The bird chorus fades off slowly, intermittently pierced through by nightjar cries and the low, hollow trill of a pecker, like dragging a stick over the trunks of several bamboo trees all standing together. Jiang Cheng thinks of his mother, his father. They taught him pride, and anger, and resentment, and what it meant to bear the Jiang family name, but they never bothered to explain why they named him something so lyrical. "Do you miss them?"

Lan Xichen exhales, the ghost of a laugh. "What orphan does not miss their parents? Or at least the idea of parents? I at least am lucky enough to remember A-Niang a little more clearly; I was not so young when she died. But all Wangji has of her is a memory of gentians, and of waiting outside in the cold."

Jiang Cheng looks at him. "Zewu-jun," he says. He knows when someone's trying to evade answering a question. "Do you miss them?"

There's a silence. Then Lan Xichen says, low, "Yes. I miss them." He bows his head. "I miss them dearly."

Jiang Cheng shifts forward, without thinking, to lay a comforting hand over his.

And hesitates.

The boat creaks.

The moment passes.

Jiang Cheng sits back again, feeling foolish.

Where did the impulse even come from? He doesn't touch people. He can't even remember the last time he wanted to do that – to comfort someone who wasn't A-Ling.

Sure, he embraced Wei Wuxian after the wedding, but embracing Wei Wuxian always comes with the childish reflex to hold on as tightly as he can and never let go. To demand comfort, not give it. When was the last time Jiang Cheng wanted to be gentle with someone who wasn't his dead sister or his baby nephew?

Who apart from them has ever been gentle with him?

Not his parents, who were all but strangers to physical affection. Not Wei Wuxian, whose supreme act of love and devotion estranged them from one another irrevocably, and that after it nearly killed them both. And certainly not Jiang Cheng himself, who has always had little compassion to spare for his own failures and shortcomings.

But Lan Xichen has been gentle with him. Lan Xichen has treated him with kindness and consideration and genuine warmth, not as a distant fellow sect leader but as a friend, and it stirs something in Jiang Cheng that makes him want to return that gentleness a hundredfold. And touch was for all his childhood how he, A-jie and Wei Wuxian showed that they loved each other. The instinct for it never left him, not really. It's just lain dormant for so long that he almost doesn't recognize it for what it is.

Somehow, over the past six-some months, he has come to take solace in Lan Xichen's presence: quiet and familiar, like falling asleep in the house you grew up in, knowing where the wall would be if you stretched out your hand in the dark. The desire to lay his hand over Zewu-jun's just now was just as strong as the desire to hold Jin Ling when he's upset or shove Wei Wuxian when he says something stupid. It's not the first time Jiang Cheng has thought about touching him, but it is the first time he's conscious of it as something that he wants. And even as it occurs to him to wish that he could make such a gesture, like he might have once done for A-jie or Jin Ling, he knows he won't do it. Zewu-jun is his friend, not his family. And the last time he overstepped a major boundary, Zewu-jun stopped answering his letters and nearly didn't come out of seclusion at all.

So instead of physically reaching out, he does what he's always done to try and ease his friend's grief: he shares a little of his own.

"A-jie used to take us out here. When we were younger."

Lan Xichen looks up at him in silent encouragement. Jiang Cheng clasps his hands together in his lap. "She taught us what some of the birds were called. Told us stories about them, why they sound so strange." He nods toward the lake, indicating the black-throated divers with their haunting music. "We had to sneak back in after dark, every time. But we never got caught."

"It sounds as though she took her role as your elder sister quite seriously."

"She did. She was always trying to make us get along. It didn't work," Jiang Cheng says, "but she tried. She loved us." He twists his hands more tightly. "It never really goes away, you know?"

"What?"

"Missing them. How it used to be."

Lan Xichen doesn't reply for a while. There's a hesitant, wavering quality about his silence that suggests he's debating with himself on whether or not to say something. Then he takes a deep breath and sends Jiang Cheng a tentative smile.

"Then how lucky I am," he says, "not to have to endure it alone."

A fierce little kernel of warmth kindles to life in Jiang Cheng's chest.

"No," he says. "Of course you're not alone."

The days slip by quickly after that, with Zewu-jun keeping him company at mealtimes, between lessons and late into the night, when they sit reading quietly together in his office, or when Jiang Cheng chooses to show him a different wintry angle of Lotus Pier. They go to the snow-laden woods where he and Wei Wuxian once learned to use the bow and arrow for hunting, and down each one of the lake's river tributaries, and to the vast hay-meadow always cast in smoke and blood-red light by the setting sun. By the third week, he's become aware of an unfamiliar buoyancy behind his ribcage, one he didn't know he could still feel.

He's happy.

Wei Wuxian's arrival a day ahead of schedule only accentuates the feeling. He finds them in the eastern courtyard, having gotten their location out of one of the juniors, and he and Zewu-jun immediately greet each other as politely and effusively as could be wished for brothers-in-law. Then he catches up to Jiang Cheng and slings an arm around his shoulders. Jiang Cheng tries to shake him off, halfheartedly, but it comes out as more of an elbow nudge, and for once Wei Wuxian leans against him instead of letting go.

Over dinner that night, Wei Wuxian makes a point of asking Zewu-jun about the good behaviour of his fellow disciples. "They're all very bright," Zewu-jun replies, after a thoughtful pause. "And astonishingly driven. I have never met a group of students so determined to improve past what can naturally be expected of their cultivation level."

"Aiyo, I know who they get it from," Wei Wuxian says ruefully, pouring himself another cupful of wine. "But they haven't regressed too badly since the last time I was here, have they?"

Jiang Cheng says, "I don't know why you think your absence makes any difference to them, when you're barely here enough to call yourself their first disciple anyway."

"Oh, my deepest apologies. I had some very pressing business with the Chief Cultivator. You know, my husband? I'm sure you've met before."

"Regrettably."

"Jiang Cheng, you were the one who planned our wedding, remember?"

"So what?"

"So," Wei Wuxian says, "I'm sure that if you really, really tried, you could possibly scrounge up the willpower to show some respect for the man I love."

"I respect him," Jiang Cheng mutters. "I just don't think much of his taste in men."

Zewu-jun chokes on his tea. Wei Wuxian widens his eyes incredulously.

"His taste in men? Jiang-zongzhu, why don't we talk about your taste in men? Should I be congratulating you yet, or what?"

"Shut up!"

"You shouldn't tease me when you don't have a leg to stand on! I'll be the first to admit Lan Zhan could do better, but it's a moot point, because he married me, which means no take-backs. So just attempt the impossible and try not to roll your eyes every time I bring him up, okay?"

"Whatever," Jiang Cheng says. "If he's the reason you can't be here to teach your own juniors, I'll have to write him a strongly-worded letter."

"Write a letter?" Zewu-jun puts in unexpectedly. "Not – how did you phrase it – come and kick his door down?"

An attack from the least likely quarter. Jiang Cheng splutters. "I don't – he doesn't deserve – why should I bother going to Cloud Recesses for him? If he has a problem, he can come over here and say so to my face!"

Wei Wuxian grins. "You have Zewu-jun teaching the juniors now, anyway, so I don't know why you're still unhappy. You know" – turning to Lan Xichen – "I really can't fault Jiang Cheng's taste. As far as I can tell, you're a pretty flawless choice."

"No one can be flawless," Lan Xichen says graciously. "It is easy to work with clay that has already been expertly fired. Whatever progress your fellow disciples have made, they owe only to their previous teachers, Jiang-zongzhu and yourself."

"And to themselves," Wei Wuxian corrects him, grinning even wider. "I'm glad you've settled in, though. It's best if you get used to Lotus Pier in the long term. And it's kind of a relief to know there'll be another competent cultivator here to manage things when Jiang Cheng starts falling asleep on his feet."

He winks at Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng glowers back. Lan Xichen, mercifully unaware of any double meaning, smiles in acquiescence and sips his tea.

There's a knock on the door. Jiang Cheng unclenches his jaw far enough to bid them enter, and a servant appears with his hands already clasped together in front of him.

"This one is sorry to interrupt. There is a disciple missing from the youngest group's quarters, Anya. We have searched everywhere but cannot find her."

Jiang Cheng sits up straighter. "Anya? How long has she been missing?"

"She did not come for the evening meal."

"Have you asked her sister? Zhifei?"

"We did." The servant looks distressed. "She suggested that we speak to Zewu-jun about it."

Wei Wuxian, already half-braced to stand up, pauses in bewilderment. "Zewu-jun?"

Lan Xichen rises from the table. "Do not worry. I will find her."

"You know where she's hiding?"

"Yes, but I cannot tell you where. I am sworn to secrecy." He nods to them both. "Please continue without me. I will send someone to let you know when Anya is back in the dormitories." With that, he sweeps out of the room and the servant shuts the door behind him.

Wei Wuxian sinks to the floor, clearly taken aback. "Huh. Did you know Zewu-jun was in the confidence of our youngest and dearest?"

Jiang Anya is an orphan, adopted along with her elder sister into the Jiang clan after their Yunmeng-born parents died of sickness. The only thing they brought from their old home was a patched-up frog kite and an incurable shyness of everyone at Lotus Pier. Jiang Cheng shrugs. "They all like him. But I didn't know he made friends with Anya."

"Well, Zewu-jun is the most approachable person I know. If anyone can coax her out of her shell a bit, it'll be him." Wei Wuxian taps a finger against his nose thoughtfully. "Do you suppose it's cold up on the roof?"

Jiang Cheng frowns. "What? Why?"

"You can see the whole compound from up there. I want to make sure he gets her back all right. Also, I brought wine." Wei Wuxian produces a couple of jugs stoppered and tied together with string, apparently out of thin air. He waggles his eyebrows at Jiang Cheng in invitation. "What say you?"

"You want to drink Emperor's Smile on the roof?"

"Why not? It'll warm us up. Unless, of course, Jiang-zongzhu would rather go to bed?"

"What? I didn't say –"

"No, no. I mean, I'd understand if you didn't want to. You're getting on in your years, you're basically already a crotchety old man –"

"Give me that," Jiang Cheng says, making a swipe for the jugs. "I'll show you crotchety –"

Wei Wuxian dances out of the way, talking over him. "– so grey and decrepit, not even a jaunty little drinking party can limber up your tired bones –"

"Fuck you! I never said I wasn't coming!"

"Then I don't know what you're making that disapproving face for, when you like Emperor's Smile just as much as I do. Come on, I bet the stars are out by now. It'll be just like old times."

Wei Wuxian falters then, his smile flickering out, as though only just realizing what he said. But Jiang Cheng storms past him and slides the door open, and once he's halfway down the corridor he turns to bark over his shoulder.

"Well? Are you coming or what?"

By the time Wei Wuxian catches up to him, Jiang Cheng has already dropped onto the slanted tiles of the rooftop. The winter air creates what feels like frost-patterns in his lungs; it has to be tasted in sips, like wine, too sharp to be gulped down quickly. When his brother joins him and offers him a jug, Jiang Cheng takes it without a word. The stopper comes off without difficulty. He takes a swallow of sweet, full-bodied liquor.

Wei Wuxian tips his head back and pours a little of the Emperor's Smile into his own mouth. Then, wiping a sleeve against his chin, he puts down the jug and says, "Jiang Cheng … you like Zewu-jun, don't you? As a person?"

That as a person is the only thing that saves him from being summarily shoved off the roof. Jiang Cheng pauses with one arm in midair, his anger – so quickly ignited – suddenly and confusingly snuffed out. If he likes Zewu-jun as a person, then it's about Zewu-jun's merits, not his own weaknesses. "Sure," he says warily. "Who doesn't?"

Wei Wuxian looks at him in earnest sobriety, arms dangling loose around his knees. One of his fingers taps against the rim of the wine jug. "You like having him here, at Lotus Pier."

"I guess."

"You trust him with your disciples –"

"Would I let him anywhere near them if I didn't?"

"– and you don't even get mad when he teases you. It's like you've been close for years, not just … however many months it's been."

"What's your point?"

Wei Wuxian chews on the inside of his cheek, as if thinking very hard about what to say next. Then he says, softly, without looking at him, "Jiang Cheng, ah, Jiang Cheng … if you want him to stay, why don't you just ask him?"

"He's already staying for two months. He can't be away from Gusu longer than that."

"I didn't mean at Lotus Pier. I meant with you."

Jiang Cheng stares at his brother's profile, uncomprehending. He and Lotus Pier are one and the same, aren't they? This is his home and seat of power, and will remain so until his dying day, so what difference could there possibly be?

"You're my brother," Wei Wuxian says quietly, examining the jug as he turns it around and around in his hands. "And I want you to be happy, and … Jiang Cheng, sometimes if you wait too long to tell someone you want them by your side, something will happen and by then it'll be too late. You shouldn't make the same mistakes I did."

"Yeah? Which ones, exactly?"

"Any of them. It doesn't matter. Just don't be an idiot like I was, and tell Zewu-jun how you feel."

"What are you talking about?"

"You want him to stay. As your guest, your friend, your whatever. Don't you?"

Jiang Cheng doesn't reply.

"Then just say so," Wei Wuxian urges. "Ask him to stay for another few months. Ask him to stay forever. I don't see what could be stopping you."

"What world do you live in? He's going to be leader of his sect when he's well enough, and Chief Cultivator after that. He's not staying anywhere except back in Cloud Recesses."

"That's not the point. If Zewu-jun knows you like him enough to want him not to go, then he'll probably tell you he feels the same way, and then the two of you can visit each other as often as you like. You'll be together in spirit even when you're in different provinces. Staying with someone doesn't necessarily mean staying in the same place, just … you know … staying in each other's hearts!"

Jiang Cheng gives him an incredulous look. Then he peers into the jug of Emperor's Smile in his hands. "The fuck did you put in this wine?"

Wei Wuxian groans. "Tian ah, Jiang Cheng! What part of ask him to stay forever do you not understand?"

"The forever part, idiot. Nothing lasts forever."

"Yeah? What about the sun and moon? What about all the rivers and tributaries going into the lake, O Wise One?"

"The sun sets," Jiang Cheng fires back. "The moon waxes and wanes. The water in those tributaries has been running on since the beginning of time." He takes another mouthful of wine. "Nothing lasts forever, especially not people. Immortality is a myth and everyone leaves. That's just the way it is."

There's a fraught silence.

"I guess," Wei Wuxian says quietly, not taking his eyes off his own jug of wine. "People leave, but … sometimes they come back. Right?"

Jiang Cheng, to his horror, feels his vision start to blur. Wei Wuxian looks over at him. "What are you … Jiang Cheng!"

"Shut up," Jiang Cheng says tearfully. "I don't care. Nobody asked you."

Too late.

"Jiang Cheng! Didi!" Wei Wuxian throws an affectionate arm around his shoulders and hugs him close. "I didn't mean to make you cry! Forever things are overrated anyway! Look, the moon waxes and wanes, but its cycle has been the same for thousands of years, hasn't it? It always comes back! And sure, the water in the rivers runs on, but the rivers remain, don't they? That's just what nature is! If you look at things as changing, then even heaven and earth don't last for the blink of an eye. But if you look at them as unchanging, then we along with everything else are eternal." He rubs Jiang Cheng's shoulder a little, comforting. "So why be envious? The moon and water are ours to enjoy for as long as we live. That's the thing about the universe. It's limited, but inexhaustible." He smiles with half his mouth. "Kind of like time, huh?"

Jiang Cheng squints at him through a haze of what are no doubt alcoholic tears. "Since when are you such a philosopher?"

"I'm really not, Jiang Cheng. Dying just … shows you a whole new perspective on life, I guess."

Wei Wuxian moves as if to withdraw his arm, but Jiang Cheng leans into him, mutinously, forestalling the motion. If Wei Wuxian wants to be all mushy, talking about staying in people's hearts, he'll damn well have to deal with the consequences.

And it works: after only a moment's hesitation, Wei Wuxian puts his arm back, more snugly this time, and they both silently take another drink.

Motion flickers in the courtyard below. Jiang Cheng kicks his boot against his brother's leg, making him look down from the stars and peer over the rooftop.

Two figures have appeared from the bluish winter shadows: Zewu-jun, unmistakable in his hairpiece and silver robes, and the little girl he's leading by the hand. He's murmuring to her quietly, pausing every so often to let her answer him in a high-pitched child's voice. They walk up to the youngest juniors' dormitory and stop at the door. Zewu-jun kneels down to look her in the eye, clasping her small hand in both of his as if in reassurance. Whatever he says is inaudible at this distance. Anya throws her arms around his neck in response. Lan Xichen hugs her back, his long sleeves enveloping her like a shield of starlight.

"Oh," Wei Wuxian whispers. "Look at them."

Jiang Cheng, watching transfixed, feels something come lightly down to rest within him. Like an autumn leaf settling quietly onto the surface of a lake, it touches the water, sends out silent ripples, and goes still.

Stay.

The thought is so soft, he almost doesn't hear it.

Stay in Lotus Pier.

Stay with me.

Zewu-jun is the first to let go, gently coaxing Anya back onto her feet and dabbing at her cheeks with the corner of his sleeve. She listens to what he says, nods, and turns to open the door of the junior dormitory. Just before vanishing inside, she looks back at him.

Lan Xichen holds a finger up to his lips. Anya giggles and mimics the motion, as if in conspiracy. Then she disappears inside.

"Well, what do you know," Wei Wuxian says softly.

Jiang Cheng nods. Below them, the First Jade of Lan rises to his feet and casts his gaze around the courtyard, as if to reassure himself that all is well, before turning in the direction of his quarters.

The rest of the Emperor's Smile goes down far too easily after that.

Okay, so maybe he feels real affection for the First Jade of Lan. And maybe he wants to cling to him in the same way he's always wanted to cling to A-jie and Jin Ling and his stupid necromancer brother. And maybe he wishes, because the only person who dares touch him nowadays is the selfsame necromancer brother, that Lan Xichen would break another teensy little rule of propriety and touch his hand the next time he wants to point something out on the lake. Take him by the elbow, perhaps, when asking him to come observe the juniors' progress. You know. Little things. Nothing beyond propriety. Zewu-jun is his first true friend in decades, and the first person since A-jie with whom he wouldn't have minded such a level of intimacy.

But there's absolutely no way to ask for something like this with pride and dignity intact, and anyway, he's not sure Zewu-jun cares for them to be that familiar with each other. More than once, Jiang Cheng has caught him lifting a hand as if to tap his shoulder, before curling his fingers back and saying lightly, "Jiang-zongzhu, if I could direct your attention to that rowboat – I think it's been rotted through by water ghouls," or something equally ridiculous. Jiang Cheng prizes efficiency, and it is not efficient to use twenty words when you could use two words and a shoulder tap.

But whatever. Lan Xichen is probably just too well-raised to feel comfortable touching anyone but direct family. Jiang Cheng is the one who keeps wanting more from people than they'll ever be willing to give him.

The one time he risks making such a gesture himself is when they first spar together in the training courtyard, once the Jiang disciples clear out. After trading a few blows – getting the measure of each other after three months' absence – Jiang Cheng attacks in earnest, claiming the offensive for himself. Zewu-jun parries and evades with his usual grace, as well as a teasing, indulgent air of patience, like he thinks Jiang Cheng's promise to trounce him was all bluster. His mistake. When Jiang Cheng sees the opening he'd been waiting for, he takes ruthless advantage of it, and by virtue of duelling tactics, dumb luck and a very unsportsmanlike tripping manoeuvre, knocks him to the ground. Lan Xichen doesn't get to move an inch before he finds Sandu's steel point at his throat.

He freezes. Slowly, his eyes travel up to Jiang Cheng's face, and holds his gaze in startled understanding.

It's over. Jiang Cheng has bested him.

In all their previous sparring matches, the closest he's ever come to really winning was when they wound up in some kind of stalemate. Zewu-jun never seemed to think less of him for it, or better of himself. He isn't that sort of person. But Jiang Cheng is proud and competitive to a fault, and it's been driving him mad not to be able to beat one man in single combat. To finally have him at the other end of his sword is both thrilling and immensely satisfying. And to see him so sprawled out on the ground – braced on his elbows like an ordinary person, undignified, chest rising and falling with exertion – makes this petty little victory taste sweeter than anything.

Jiang Cheng holds his gaze a moment longer, then tips his chin up with the point of his sword. "Well?" he says, cocking an eyebrow.

"Well done," Lan Xichen says breathlessly. His gaze dips to Jiang Cheng's exposed collarbone, where his robes came undone a little during their fight, and his eyes darken. When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse. "You said that … I would know what my weakness was after you trounced me. But I confess I am quite at a loss."

Jiang Cheng looks down at him, considering. He likes having his sword right where it is, but gloating sounds nice too. So he withdraws Sandu, sheathes it and offers Lan Xichen a hand up. "You leave your left side open when you transition into the swan form."

Lan Xichen takes the proffered hand and allows Jiang Cheng to pull him to his feet, perhaps assuming that this is his apology for tripping him. Instead, Jiang Cheng uses their clasped hands to pull him close and speak into his ear, as if delivering an intimate secret.

"And you don't cheat."

Lan Xichen swallows. "Noted."

Jiang Cheng doesn't second-guess himself until the flush of triumph wears off a few hours later. In the days that follow, Lan Xichen keeps his distance even more stridently than before, as if to make certain there will be no physical contact between them, which forces Jiang Cheng to consider the possibility that he offended him by getting into his personal space like that.

Until he finds out – in the most inconvenient way possible – that Lan Xichen doesn't actually hate having people in his personal space. At all.

He also finds out why Lan Xichen is not supposed to drink, as a matter of practicality and not just principle.

It turns out to be an evening full of revelations.

Wei Wuxian has once again joined them for dinner in Jiang Cheng's quarters, sauntering in with another pair of wine jugs hooked over his fingers and a complaint about the room being too stuffy. He nudges one of the doors with his foot until it lets through an icy tongue of winter air. "– so I think we might have to replace all the latticework paper in the junior dormitories. Jiang Cheng, what do you think? I also want to charm the smaller boats against water demons and the like, leave you a bit of protection before I go back. How often are we replacing them?"

"The smaller boats? Not that often anymore," Jiang Cheng says. "Go buy some paper from Old Man Luo if you want to replace the latticework. We don't have a lot in stock."

"Old Man Luo always charges me through the nose. He'll be nicer if you ask him."

"I can go," Lan Xichen volunteers, putting down his bowl and chopsticks. He seems to have resigned himself to mealtimes full of conversation, but he still makes an effort not to talk and eat at the same time. "Luo-xiansheng and I are acquainted. His prices usually seem reasonable."

Wei Wuxian scoffs. Jiang Cheng raises his eyebrows, half amused and half disbelieving. "What, do you have everyone at Lotus Pier wrapped around your finger?"

Lan Xichen twinkles his eyes at him. "Everyone but you, Jiang-zongzhu."

Fuck. That smile could be its own lethal weapon. Jiang Cheng clears his throat and looks back down, heat creeping up the back of his neck. "Sure. Ask Luo-xiansheng. Make sure to get some delicate timber as well, since whatever we have tends to get water damage. It'll be on the expensive side, since it's winter, but I'll reimburse you."

"Oh, no. There is no need."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"It is my pleasure to help in any way that I can."

"It's not your responsibility to fix up Lotus Pier, it's mine. And his," Jiang Cheng adds with a jerk of the head toward Wei Wuxian, who blinks innocently around a mouthful of steamed fish. "So don't argue with me. As your host, I forbid it."

"Well," says Lan Xichen, after a moment's consideration, "I do not remember saying that I would be a perfect guest."

Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes. "It's never too late to strive for perfection."

"If I did not, I know you would find it in your heart to forgive me. You are not as harsh as you would have people think."

"I don't know what you're talking about –"

"Just as Wei-gongzi is not the terrifying demon his reputation makes him out to be."

Wei Wuxian lifts a finger, chewing. "Actually –"

"Quiet," Jiang Cheng says. "Don't talk with food in your mouth."

"Reputations can be misleading," Zewu-jun continues, gracefully pretending there was no interruption. "You are fierce, and you strive to outdo yourself at every opportunity, but you are not perfect; you cannot be. No one can."

"Not even you?"

"Especially not me."

"Good," Jiang Cheng says. "Great. So be a subpar guest and allow your host to foot the cost of his own repairs."

"The principles of my sect would dictate that –"

"Zewu-jun, just let me pay for the damned timber."

"I have an idea," Wei Wuxian interjects, having dutifully chewed over his food before speaking again. "Let's play a game to decide."

"No," Jiang Cheng says immediately.

"Sounds like fun," Lan Xichen agrees. "What kind of game?"

Wei Wuxian arranges their three porcelain cups in a triangle in the centre of the table. "I'm going to fill two of these with liquor and one with water –"

"No," Jiang Cheng says.

"– and you're both going to choose one with your eyes closed. If you pick the water, you pay. Simple."

"Wei Wuxian –"

"What happens if we both pick liquor?" Zewu-jun asks.

"Then we put off replacing the paper until the juniors start to complain."

Jiang Cheng is not playing along with this. "Do you think you could possibly come up with an even more idiotic way of resolving a problem?"

"Oh, I definitely could," Wei Wuxian says. "But since I'm the impartial third party here, it falls to me to arbitrate. You should take the offer before I give you a worse one."

"You're turning into Old Man Luo."

"Am not!"

"And there's no fucking way you're uninterested. You just want Zewu-jun to get drunk."

Wei Wuxian sends their guest an inexplicably pointed look.

Lan Xichen sighs. "Actually, I can drink without getting drunk. I use my golden core to circulate the alcohol through my body without being affected."

Before Jiang Cheng can so much as open his mouth to say excuse me, what, Wei Wuxian is talking over him. "Hey, Zewu-jun, purely hypothetically – how early do you need to start this cycling process so it works properly?"

Lan Xichen sends him a look of mild inquiry. "Well, it should be a little before I drink anything. Otherwise, the alcohol tends to overwhelm my system too quickly for me to concentrate."

"That must have taken some trial and error to find out."

"Mm."

Wei Wuxian squints at him across the table. Lan Xichen smiles sunnily. Jiang Cheng experiences a sudden and overpowering desire to get up and go to bed. "This is ridiculous," he says. "Wei Wuxian, I'm your sect leader. Zewu-jun, isn't there some rule on Lan An's Wall of Discipline about going against the express wishes of your host?"

"The Wall of Discipline says to be generous," Zewu-jun counters, his smile turning softer as he looks over at Jiang Cheng. "I would like to be generous."

"It also says to be frugal."

"And to win friendships with kindness."

"We're already friends. You don't have to be so – so –"

"Jiang-zongzhu," Lan Xichen says gently, "it is only some paper and timber. Allow me to do this for you."

Jiang Cheng stares at him, not understanding the earnest appeal beneath his words. "Why?"

"Okay," Wei Wuxian says loudly. "You're both being dumb. Jiang Cheng's pride is an immovable object and Zewu-jun's polite upbringing is an unstoppable force. We're not going to be able to resolve this with words. So I'm going to pour for you and you're each going to drink a cup and then we can finally move on."

He gathers all three cups in his hands and sets them on the floor behind him. Then he picks up the water pitcher and liquor jug off the table and waves at them both to turn away without peeking.

Jiang Cheng snorts, but does as he's bid. If it's a choice between taking a shot and continuing this pointless argument, he'll take the alcohol, thank you very much.

Lan Xichen catches his eye across the table. He lifts his eyebrows, barely perceptibly.

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes eloquently in his brother's direction.

Lan Xichen lowers his gaze, lips pressed together against another smile.

"All right all right," says Wei Wuxian, turning around to set three cups of clear liquid onto the table between them. "Close your eyes and pick one. Use your instincts, use your deduction skills, whatever. But if you cheat, I will know, for I am the fearsome Yiling Patriarch who preys on all but the most honourable of cultivators."

"Yeah, yeah," Jiang Cheng says, inordinately grateful for the opportunity to steady himself. "The fearsome Yiling Patriarch, who couldn't tell heads from tails on a donkey."

Wei Wuxian squawks and contorts himself to kick him hard in the thigh. Lan Xichen smirks into his upraised sleeve.

Yeah. Liquor sounds pretty good right about now. Jiang Cheng takes one of the cups without caring what's inside it and unceremoniously knocks it back. The alcohol lights a warm trail down his throat, like he's swallowed a tiny flame.

Wei Wuxian folds his hands together and studies Lan Xichen, who's looking between the two remaining cups with a neutral expression. He must want to pick the water, of course, but there's no way to tell which one that is without cheating and trying to smell one.

At least, that's what Jiang Cheng assumes until Lan Xichen picks a cup and quaffs it with perfect confidence.

Huh.

Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian exchange a glance. Maybe Zewu-jun really does have a method for telling water from liquor on sight.

Lan Xichen swallows, then looks at the cup in his hand.

"Ah," he says. Slowly, slowly, his ears turn crimson. "That was definitely not water."

"Uh oh," Wei Wuxian says.

Jiang Cheng throws him a sour look. "Satisfied?"

"Jiang-zongzhu, what do you want me to say? I've resolved your argument, fair and square."

"You've resolved the problem by saying 'Let's do nothing.' That's not a solution."

Wei Wuxian spreads his hands. "Sometimes wu wei is the best way."

"No! Inaction is never the answer," Lan Xichen cries out, setting the cup down. "I have paid the highest of prices to learn that lesson! You must not repeat my life's worst mistakes!"

Jiang Cheng's jaw drops. In all the twenty years they've known each other, with one notable exception, he has never, ever heard Zewu-jun raise his voice. Is it really so upsetting to have tasted alcohol, when he's far out of sight of his uncle and the Wall of Discipline? "Zewu-jun," he manages, faltering in his confusion, "it's fine, the rules of this idiot's game aren't your fault."

"But I lost the game!" Lan Xichen wails. "Now your disciples are going to have terrible peeling window-paper until springtime! I am so sorry!"

"You know what," Wei Wuxian says, "I don't know what I expected, but this sure wasn't it."

Jiang Cheng gives him a mutely furious look, one that clearly says, What the hell, Wei Wuxian? It's gotten potent after three decades of practice. But Wei Wuxian's invulnerability to it must not have faded either, because he just shrugs. "I thought he might just fall asleep, like Lan Zhan. Or get super slow and honest. Ah, well. I guess everyone is different."

"Yes!" says Lan Xichen. "Wangji and I are different! But I care for him so much and sometimes I wish I were more like him!"

"You don't need to be like Lan Wangji," Jiang Cheng objects, momentarily too horrified by the suggestion to pay attention to anything else.

"Yes, I do!"

"Why?"

Lan Xichen's eyes widen. "He's so steadfast and loyal! He never, ever gave up on the man he loved! And when he got the chance, he told him he loved him!"

"Sure, after he died."

"And that's my cue," Wei Wuxian decides, getting to his feet.

"It doesn't matter! Telling someone you love them is the bravest thing anyone can do!"

Jiang Cheng looks from Lan Xichen to the now-empty cup in front of him in slowly dawning understanding.

"Zewu-jun, are you – drunk?"

"Yes!" Lan Xichen buries his face in his hands. Then, completely without warning, he breaks into peals of delighted laughter. "It feels so funny! It's like I'm full of bubbles!"

Jiang Cheng slides the remaining cup across to him. "Here. Drink this."

Obediently, Lan Xichen reaches for it. Wei Wuxian says, "Oh, no. Nope," lunges across the room, swipes it off the table and tosses it back. Jiang Cheng makes an outraged noise in the back of his throat.

"What the hell, Wei Wuxian? He's drunk, he needs water!"

Wei Wuxian spreads his hands helplessly. "What water?"

Jiang Cheng stares at him, incredulous. Then he grabs Wei Wuxian's arm and wrestles the empty cup out of his hand. By the time he brings it to his nose and catches a whiff of liquor, Wei Wuxian is already at the door and rambling his goodbyes.

"Oh, look at the time, gotta go, you'll thank me later! Byeeeeee!"

"Wei Wuxian!" Jiang Cheng roars, leaping to his feet and brandishing the empty cup. "Get your ass back here, you lying, shameless excuse for a demonic –"

But it's no use: he's long gone. An insistent tug on his sleeve cuts Jiang Cheng off mid-tirade, and he looks down into Zewu-jun's flushed and bright-eyed face.

"Jiang-zongzhu, you must not shout! It's not good for you!"

"Yeah?" Jiang Cheng asks. "You know what else isn't good for you? Alcohol, apparently. Ta ma de, how can you get drunk off of one shot?"

"It runs in the family," Lan Xichen says miserably. "But you know it does not work when you shout! It's not scary, just endearing! No wonder Wei-gongzi does not listen to you!"

"Excuse me?"

"Jiang-zongzhu, come look at the moon with me! It must be really beautiful tonight!"

Lan Xichen stands without any visible difficulty and makes for the open doors leading outside, onto the boardwalk. Jiang Cheng gets there first and slams them shut. "You can't go outside," he says firmly. "You're not dressed for it, you'll catch your death." And if someone sees the First Jade of Lan acting like a hyperactive child, there will be a world of embarrassment in store for him tomorrow.

Lan Xichen makes a petulant face and reaches around him for the doors. Jiang Cheng plants himself in front of them, blocking the way. "No," he says.

Lan Xichen reaches around the other way. Jiang Cheng pushes his arm down. "No."

Zewu-jun beams at him. His expression is wholly unguarded thanks to the liquor, his cheeks red as if in the heights of passion. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking – if he's thinking – when he lifts his hands and settles them on Jiang Cheng's waist.

"Jiang-zongzhu, you are so stubborn! You should learn to compromise every once in a while!"

It is a difficult thing, for someone who has never been touched in such a way, not to stand paralyzed in shock, or pleasure, or fear, or some confusing mixture of the three. Zewu-jun's grip is strong and sure on Jiang Cheng's waist, his hands warm even through four layers of winter fabric. Jiang Cheng wonders fleetingly if Zewu-jun is using him for balance, and it is this thought and this thought only that allows him to regain his senses. "Maybe," he says, pushing him back by the forearms, away from the doors. "But you yield too much. You've got to learn to stand your ground."

Lan Xichen slips his arms more snugly around Jiang Cheng's waist. "You'll teach me how, right?"

"If you ask nicely."

"I can be nice!"

"I know. Keep moving."

"Jiang-zongzhu, you are so strong! I wish I were more like you!"

"What's with you tonight, wanting to be this person or that person? You're already strong," Jiang Cheng grumbles, steering him back toward the table. Lan Xichen links his hands behind Jiang Cheng's back, enfolding him in the circle of his arms. It turns their walk into more of a shuffle. "Stop trying to make other people lean on you all the time. Lean on someone else for a change."

Zewu-jun sways forward, into him. "Like this?"

The corner of Jiang Cheng's mouth turns up. "Yeah," he says, softly. "Just like that."

A delicious, languorous warmth is spreading through him. It must be a dozen different kinds of inappropriate, by anyone'sstandards, to allow himself to be handled so boldly and intimately by the upstanding first son of another sect, but Jiang Cheng can't bring himself to care. This is what he's been craving all these months. Possibly all his life. Lan Xichen's embrace is the sweetest, most intoxicating elixir in the world, better than honey, better than wine, and if it were anyone else, he would never have tolerated it. His pride wouldn't have, at any rate. But Lan Xichen is a person he actually likes, so as far as he's concerned, Lan Xichen is allowed to hug him whenever he wants for the rest of eternity.

The problem is, of course, that Lan Xichen is drunk off his ass. He'll be horrified by his own behaviour once he sobers up. Jiang Cheng has a responsibility toward him as his host and his friend, and if he doesn't damn well act like it and put a stop to this, Lan Xichen won't be able to look him in the eye for another three years. "We need to get you back to your quarters," he says, thinking of the shortest possible route between this room and the guest wing. "Can you be quiet long enough?"

If Lan Xichen understands him, he shows no sign of it. Instead he says, conversationally, "You have a very wide mouth!"

Jiang Cheng's thoughts stutter to a halt. "I … what?"

"It's fetching!" Lan Xichen lowers his gaze to Jiang Cheng's mouth, contemplative. The drunken yelling seems to have abated. "Sometimes I look. But only sometimes. It's against the rules to covet things!"

Covet … his mouth? No, that can't be right. "Start making sense," Jiang Cheng says impatiently. "If you keep your voice down, we can get you back without anyone noticing what state you're in. As long as you walk straight –"

"I know the other poem, you know."

"Poem? What poem?"

"The one with your name," Zewu-jun says. "Your birth name." He inclines his head so that every word becomes a puff of warmth against Jiang Cheng's lips. "I wanted to tell you before, but I thought you would not like it. May I tell you now?"

Jiang Cheng's stomach lurches. Oh, this is so very, very inappropriate. "All … all right," he manages.

"Promise me you will not be angry," Zewu-jun breathes. Then he shifts to a more comfortable grip around Jiang Cheng's waist and takes a breath. "Yún kuò yān shēn shù," he murmurs, and tilting his face to whisper into the vulnerable gap between Jiang Cheng's collar and his ear, "jiāng chéng shuǐ yù qiū."

Jiang Cheng shudders. He couldn't have suppressed the motion if he'd tried. Zewu-jun's breath on his throat – his own name, spoken so secretly – it's indecent. It's the most pleasurable thing he's ever felt in his life.

"You –" he begins, strangled, and stops. This is not something he ever thought he'd have to be ready for. Ghosts, he can handle. Fierce corpses, he can handle. There is nothing living or dead on this earth that can intimidate him. So why does he feel suddenly fifteen years old again, meeting the splendid First Jade of Lan in a sunny classroom? Why does he feel like that wide-eyed fledgling all over again, scrambling to find his footing, too aware of his own inexperience?

They need to get Lan Xichen to bed this instant, before he does anything else to make Jiang Cheng lose his mind. "Okay," he says, swallowing past the dryness in his throat. "Listen, you know what? Let's go look at the moon."

"But you said you did not want to!"

"I changed my mind."

Lan Xichen buries his face in Jiang Cheng's collar, muffling his voice. "You do not like the poem."

"No, it was – it was nice." Damn him, it was more than nice. But that's going on a long list of things Jiang Cheng plans on taking to his fucking grave. "But Zewu-jun, you're drunk. Otherwise you wouldn't be acting like this. So I'm going to take you back to your quarters –"

"Mm." Lan Xichen rests his cheek against Jiang Cheng's shoulder.

"– and you're going to lie down –"

"Mmm."

"– and I'll send someone with tea for whenever you wake up. But you need to let go of me first, understand?"

"Mmm."

"Zewu-jun!" Jiang Cheng pats his back, gentle but rousing. He can feel himself starting to bear more and more of Zewu-jun's weight. "You're not falling asleep, are you?"

"Nooooo …"

"You can't fall asleep standing up, do you hear me? What have we learned about Lotus Pier? It's just as cold in the winter as Cloud Recesses. You need a real bed."

"Yes," Zewu-jun mumbles. "The world is hard and cold … But Jiang-zongzhu is soft and warm."

Tian ah. Jiang Cheng's resolve cracks, and he leans forward, tentatively, to rest his forehead on Zewu-jun's shoulder.

One minute. Just … one minute, to see what it would be like. There is nothing he wants more, right now, than to gather this man in his arms and lose himself to an embrace he didn't think would ever be forthcoming, but the longer they stay here, the more difficult to manage Lan Xichen is likely to become. They need to move so Jiang Cheng can return to his own quarters and have himself a nice little meltdown over whatever the hell just happened. But not yet. This might be the first time in twenty years – the first time in his life – that he's ever felt so … so quiet.

So tethered.

He squeezes his eyes shut, counts down from three, and breaks the silence. "Come on. I know a good place to moon-gaze from."

He lets go of Lan Xichen's shoulders and detaches those capable hands from his waist. Lan Xichen makes an inarticulate noise of protest. "Come on," Jiang Cheng repeats gruffly, and pulls him from the room by the wrist.

Returning Zewu-jun to his quarters is about as successful a venture as he expected. Even completely sloshed, the First Jade of Lan gracefully keeps his feet, but he holds on to Jiang Cheng's elbow the whole way and makes an excited outburst every thirty seconds. Shushing does little to dampen his exuberance. The few late-night servants who catch them pause in mild surprise, but they're too good at their jobs to let show more than passive, cursory interest in whatever their sect leader has been doing in Zewu-jun's company. Jiang Cheng knows they'll be discreet. Still, he sets a brisk pace that provides his guest with no further opportunity to redisplay any drunken sentimentality and give them both another reason to be embarrassed in the morning.

Lan Xichen allows himself to be pulled down the last corridor and deposited peremptorily in front of his rooms, but when Jiang Cheng slides the door open and gestures at him to go inside, he stops, wide-eyed in realization.

"Wait! The moon! What about the moon?"

"I don't know if you noticed," Jiang Cheng says tartly, "but there isn't a moon tonight. The sky's clouded over."

"You said we would gaze at the moon together!"

"That was a ruse."

Lan Xichen looks crestfallen. "So you tricked me?"

"I guess?" Jiang Cheng wasn't actually aware beforehand that there wasn't a moon – he was planning on pointing it out to Zewu-jun on their way to his quarters. But he's unsure if logic will be worth anything to this bizarrely animated version of his friend.

"And," Lan Xichen says, "you lied."

He no longer looks crestfallen. He looks disappointed. Jiang Cheng, staring back at him, feels the long-dormant panic of failure coil in his gut. Lan Xichen is at the top of the list of living people he does not want to disappoint. "I … I'm sorry," he says, "but –"

"I thought you would never lie to me." Lan Xichen leans on Jiang Cheng's elbow where he's still holding onto it, bringing them nearly nose-to-nose. He doesn't seem to notice how close they are. "I thought you would never trick me. Not you. Not you."

"I won't," Jiang Cheng says vehemently. "I swear it."

Zewu-jun searches his face with drunken sincerity. "Are you lying again?"

"No!" Jiang Cheng knows where this is coming from, but that almost makes it worse. How many years did it take him, after Wei Wuxian's betrayal, to trust anyone at all? "Zewu-jun –" he begins, and breaks off, scowling fiercely. It is crucial that Zewu-jun knows this, to get through to him. But how? "Lan Xichen, listen to me. I will never trick you. I will never lie to you. I don't care how drunk you get or how much I think it's for your own good. Understand? Friends don't lie to each other. If you ever think I'm trying to trick you, you leave and never speak to me again."

"But I do not want to leave," Lan Xichen says in a small voice.

"Then don't. Stay," Jiang Cheng says, recklessly. "Stay as long as you want. We can go moon-gazing for real once you've sobered up."

"Really?"

"Really. We can go listen to the water birds again, if you want. I could show you what Lotus Pier looks like in spring. You could … you could even stay for the harvest. Longer." Selfish, selfish, selfish. But Jiang Cheng has gotten to keep so few people over the course of his life that he is loathe to give Zewu-jun up now, even to Cloud Recesses. Even to power. Even to duty. "You don't ever have to leave if you don't want to."

Lan Xichen peers at him gravely, like a magistrate with a first-time witness. Jiang Cheng lets him. He's still holding Lan Xichen by the wrist, his fingers wrapped around the thumb joint. The contact no longer feels like a brand – it's too little, too weak, not scalding enough. A strong, steady heartbeat pulses through his fingertips. When he exhales, it fogs against Zewu-jun's parted lips. "Oh," says Lan Xichen, surprised. "You are warm," and removes one hand from Jiang Cheng's elbow to his shoulder. Then he presses himself close against him, chest to chest. "Why did you not say so? It is so cold."

Jiang Cheng's heart swells with something he can't name. Longing, perhaps. The desire to reach up and touch the exquisite curve of that jaw; to reach up and cradle it in the palm of his hand, and watch those darkly laughing eyes slide shut in sleep. "I know," he says. "I'm cold too."

"I could remedy that," Lan Xichen whispers.

And for just a moment, the world goes very, very still.

Once, when Jiang Cheng was fourteen and still learning to ride a spiritual sword, he took it up above the treetops around Lotus Pier, determined to practice on his own and beat his brother in their next "improvised" race. But the wind was strong, and there had been rain a few hours before, and his boots slipped on the steel. He lost his balance. What came afterward – a chaotic, bruising fall through the pines, and a landing that probably broke bones – didn't frighten him so much as that single teetering, vertiginous moment when he knew he was falling but couldn't do a thing to stop it. The swooping sensation of his stomach bottoming out – the limitless expanse of overcast sky – the world like a bowl poised to lurch over the edge of a table and shatter – that's what he feels like, now, with both feet planted firmly on the ground. That's what he feels like, with the distance between them yearning to be closed like a held breath yearning to be released. There is nothing else – no other memory – to which he can compare the overpowering desire to surge forward and kiss Lan Xichen on the mouth.

And not gently.

The time between them holds suspended like a swooping owl mid-flight. Then all at once, Jiang Cheng regains his sense of reality, his sense of propriety, his sense of self, and leans backward out of temptation's way. "Get inside," he says.

Lan Xichen blinks. "Already?"

"Yes, already." There's a mortifying flush spreading down Jiang Cheng's neck, and he doesn't know why. Whatever that was – it was just his imagination, right? Just the alcohol? The natural effect of Lan Xichen's stupid perfect face? "Lie down. Count to one thousand." He pushes Zewu-jun back by the shoulders. "And don't come out until sunrise."

Zewu-jun, bewildered, lets himself be ushered across the threshold. "But –"

"That's an order," Jiang Cheng says sternly.

Then he slides the door shut between them, and latches it.

Silence falls.

For a long, long time, nothing happens. He stands there, head spinning, as those words replay in his head over and over again.

I can remedy that. I can remedy that.

Damn Zewu-jun and his dreadful tolerance for alcohol.

When half an incense stick's time has passed and he shows no signs of emerging, Jiang Cheng takes a deep, calming lungful of icy air, and turns on his heel to walk away.

He's going to find Wei Wuxian and wring his neck.

In a fog, he finds a servant who informs him blandly that Da-shixiong has departed once again for Cloud Recesses. Jiang Cheng's aggravation lasts exactly as long as it takes him to remember everything Wei Wuxian has so far insinuated about him and Zewu-jun, and realize that now at least he can compose himself before he has to face his brother again.

It's stupid, but up until this point, he has never seriously paid attention to any of it. Jiang Cheng, if this is your first courtship, I have to know about it! Jiang Cheng, you'd better get used to Gusu fare as soon as possible! Jiang Cheng, should I be congratulating you yet, or what? Wei Wuxian spouts nonsense like that every single day. Those preposterous innuendos are irritating precisely because they're nonsense, and because they come from Wei Wuxian, and Jiang Cheng has only limited patience for either of those at any given time. He'd never be so foolish as to develop feelings for someone. He'd never expose his own vulnerable underbelly like that, nor willingly put himself at risk of ridicule and disappointment. Not for anything. He's had enough of rejection for a lifetime. He's had enough of competing for affection and approval. Wei Wuxian doesn't know what he's talking about, as per usual.

And it doesn't matter anyway, because Zewu-jun doesn't … He'd never …

What did he tell Jiang Cheng before, at the cultivation conference?

They say the Lans only love once in a lifetime.

Well, that's that.

Whatever once existed between Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao, it wasn't ordinary friendship. That much is obvious. The horrific rupture of their bond at Guanyin Temple made it plain how closely entwined they once were, both with Nie Mingjue and with each other. That anguish will come first in Zewu-jun's heart for the rest of his life. Jiang Cheng knows this much, at least, from personal experience.

But it doesn't help.

When he reaches his own quarters, he locks himself inside and slumps back against the door. After staring blankly at the opposite wall for an indeterminate stretch of time, he groans and drags a hand down his own burning face.

So what if Lan Xichen is a shamelessly affectionate drunk? It's just an extension of his natural open-heartedness. So what if Jiang Cheng keeps thinking of whispered words at his throat, that fearless grip on his waist, and of the hands that clutched him, attuned both to the guqin and the sword? Anyone would, if they were born into a gentry family where propriety was law. He's far more shaken by his own impulse to – to –

No. It doesn't bear thinking about. There are rules he can bend and lines he can cross, but some things are unforgivable, especially for a sect leader. He could no more have kissed Lan Xichen than struck him across the face. It would have been just as much an insult and a violation. All he can do now is go to sleep and pray to every god he knows that Zewu-jun remembers absolutely nothing in the morning.

Jiang Cheng falls asleep only after hours of restless tossing, unaware that somewhere, in a dark, inner chamber of his heart, a candle has been quietly lit against the night.

Alas for him, Lan Xichen awakes the next morning remembering everything.

Everything.

The windows are black in the early midwinter twilight. Slowly, disbelievingly, he sits up in bed and stares down at his own bare hands, which only hours before had rested – had been permitted to rest – on Jiang Wanyin's charmingly slender waist.

"Oh," he whispers, "you idiot," and buries his face in his hands. Outside, streaks of red appear in the sky as the sun rises inexorably up toward the horizon, as if to say, get up, get up, you cannot hide.

Get up, get up, the world won't wait.