Chapter Text
Lan Xicheng and Jiang Wanyin have been married for nearly three weeks.
The courting period and clan negotiations and compatibility charting took several months prior to their marriage, of course. Madame Yu would only ever agree to the most harmonious — or rather, advantageous — of unions. Somehow, Lan Qiren and the Lan elders had not only agreed, they very much encouraged the courtship. It was all done by the books, which was to be expected from the cosmically terrifying alignment of Madame Yu and Lan Qiren’s strictness — so the months of courting involved lots of long letters and written exchanges as both young men pursued their studies, proper gifts and poetry that displayed their sophistication and knowledge of culture, and absolutely under no circumstances allowed for any private meetings.
Whenever Jiang Wanyin travelled to meet Lan Xichen in the Cloud Recesses, Wei Wuxian was to accompany him — and whenever Lan Xichen travelled to Lotus Pier, he was tailed by his younger brother, Lan Wangji. (Needless to say, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji quickly became the sources of Jiang Cheng’s greatest frustrations, making pitiful moon eyes in each other’s directions while Jiang Cheng and his future husband could only sip tea and talk cultivation. Lan Xichen, on the other hand, never seemed bothered by their presence. He must have really enjoyed the tea.)
Then there was the elaborate wedding ceremony, which lasted an exhausting two weeks, because it had to abide by both Jiang and Lan clan traditions. The union between two of the most prominent cultivation clans was bound to be an extravagant one, of course. At least it was in Yunmeng — the week was full of song and dance and debauchery. (On the third night, Jiang Cheng made the mistake of running into Wei Wuxian’s room to ask for help with tying his ceremonial bells. He was met with a shriek and Wei Wuxian’s flushed face, lipstick smeared across his cheek. Later that night, he could have sworn Lan Wangji’s lips looked unnaturally red. But some questions are better left unsaid.)
In Gusu, things were done differently. It seemed that every waking hour had to be dedicated to meditating this, paying tribute to that. On their third visit to the ancestral shrine in the cold springs, Jiang Cheng did nothing but steal furtive glances at Lan Xichen’s perfect profile and broad shoulders. He shuddered. At Lan Qiren’s pointed look, Jiang Cheng sat up straighter. “Just embracing all this… spiritual energy… shufu.” Staring determinedly at the memorial slate, he missed the gentle shake of Lan Xichen’s shoulders and the way he bit his lips, lest any laughter slip past.
Needless to say, once all the pomp and circumstance was all over, Jiang Cheng was restless. On their final wedding night, when they were at last allowed to be truly alone together, finally sharing a private space, a private moment between only the two of them, Jiang Cheng was so nervous he couldn’t remove his wedding robes. When Lan Xichen — his husband! it felt so strange to say — had reached forward and gently helped him out of the heavy, intricately embroidered layers, Jiang Cheng’s skin felt so hot he was sure he would burn to a crisp.
But not once did Lan Xichen touch him. No gentle caresses, no accidental brushes, not even so much as an awkward attempt. When they were finally in their inner robes, laying on the bed, Jiang Cheng felt as if he would vibrate out of his own skin. Lan Xichen smiled at him, said good night, and then turned on his side and slept.
In the weeks since then, Lan Xichen has been nothing but kind and courteous. The arrangement that both clans had agreed upon was that the newlyweds would spend eight months together, alone, free from any clan duties. There was a lovely simple house not far from the rest of the Lan complex, surrounded by a thrush of bamboo. When it came to deciding where they would stay, Jiang Cheng very firmly insisted on Gusu, much to his new husband’s amusement. (Whatever implications it had aside, Jiang Cheng simply did not want Wei Wuxian or his mother meddling in his marriage for as long as he could avoid it.)
Every day, they wake up together. They practice cultivation together — no, not like that — with practice forms, old scrolls, new talismans. Lan Xichen likes to go on walks, so Jiang Cheng accompanies him on quiet strolls through the bamboo forest or lively mornings through Caiyi town. Lan Xichen also likes to write poetry, so he writes and Jiang Cheng watches his expert brushwork on the paper. He brings Jiang Cheng fresh flowers, peels loquats and other fruits for him after lunch and dinner, discusses challenges and mysteries of their work as cultivators with Jiang Cheng like he has the same expert knowledge as any of the legendary sages. Every night, they sleep in the same bed, under soft silken sheets. Lan Xichen smiles at him, says, Good night, Wanyin, and then he turns on his side and goes to sleep. He’s a gentleman, he’s perfectly perfect.
It makes Jiang Cheng want to tear his hair out.
It’s on one such night that Jiang Cheng snaps. Whatever control that was still hanging on by a tenuous thread suddenly vanishes into thin air, and he sits up in their shared bed after a long day of poetry and koi fish watching and buying beautiful handicrafts from Caiyi merchants. Lan Xichen seems to feel the bed shift and turns back around to look at him, confused.
“Is it me?” Jiang Cheng says bluntly.
“What?” Lan Xichen blinks. He sits up. Moves closer to see Jiang Wanyin’s face, because it’s dark in the room with only the moon casting any light. At this distance, he can finally see his husband frown.
“Is it me, I said,” Jiang Cheng says again, this time growing more short tempered. “Lan Xichen, we’ve been married for almost three weeks now.”
“Yes,” Lan Xichen says, not only confused but cautious now. (After all, the Jiang clan elders did warn him that Jiang Wanyin inherited his mother’s temper.) “That is true.”
“Then how come,” Jiang Cheng snaps, “you haven’t even tried to have sex with me once?”
No answer. Jiang Cheng flushes, his bravado faltering. Shame creeps into his shoulders and he wants to duck beneath the blankets again.
No, Jiang Cheng, he tells himself, you are not going to do that. Face bright red, he continues:
“All you ever do is read me poetry and take care of me and — I — it’s — sweet. But it’s been three weeks and we didn’t even have sex on our wedding night and you don’t kiss me, you never even try to touch me, and — and I just — I mean, is it me? ” A tiny voice that’s been there as long as he can remember mocks him — is it me? — before it laughs meanly. Jiang Cheng almost misses Lan Xichen’s quiet breath.
“No, it’s not you,” he says softly. “Well…”
Jiang Cheng looks at him, feeling worked up and a bit angry and vulnerable all at once.
“Wanyin, the only reason I haven’t touched you is because I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
Jiang Cheng balks at that.
“Wh-what do you mean? We were supposed to have sex on our wedding night and we didn’t even do that! And we’ve been sleeping together every night since, you’ve had plenty of chances—”
“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen interrupts gently, “you were trembling like a leaf that night. Forgive me if I thought you weren’t interested.”
Jiang Cheng scowls. “I was nervous!”
Then, courage building again, he continues despite his burning face: “We’re — you’re my husband. We’re — you know — we’re supposed to be having sex right now. We were supposed to consummate our marriage on our wedding night.”
“We’re not supposed to do anything, Wanyin,” Lan Xichen corrects him, not unkindly.
Jiang Cheng swallows. Is this a rejection? Is he being rejected right now, by his own husband?
“I don’t want to lay with you because you think that’s what we’re meant to do,” Lan Xichen says, a very beautiful frown on his face. Jiang Cheng gnaws his lip. “I only want to do this if you want to do this, Wanyin. Do you want to do this?”
Do you want to do this? Do you want to do this? The question echoes in his head, bouncing off the corners and fading into thin air, settling into his bones. When was the last time someone asked him what he really wanted? Jiang Cheng doesn’t know where to even begin.
“...Yes,” he finally says. Lan Xichen doesn’t look convinced.
“Really,” Lan Xichen says, voice a tad dry.
“Yes!” Jiang Cheng snaps, bordering on huffy. I’ve wanted to do this for weeks now, please stop making me say embarrassing things!
“I didn’t know that,” his perfect husband says with a perfect smile, wry and clever and too elegant to be outright sly.
A long, awkward silence stretches on. Jiang Cheng wants to say, fuck it, nevermind, forget we ever talked about this and resign himself to a life of monkhood, courtesy of his husband who will never touch him.
But then Lan Xichen adds, “You know, you’re not very good at communicating. Or expressing what you want.” At Jiang Cheng’s protest, he says, “I think I’m allowed to say that, after being your husband for three weeks.”
Jiang Cheng stammers and grips the sheets in his fists angrily — embarrassedly. “I — what the hell are you talking about?”
“For example,” Lan Xichen says, “I always peel loquats for you after lunch. You’ve never asked for loquats. But still every day I peel them, and you eat them all, and once they’re all gone you seem surprised, like you want more. That’s why I know you love loquats. Not because you say you do, or because you ask for them.”
Jiang Cheng opens his mouth. Closes it. He’s going to die a tragically young death of mortification, it seems, because Lan Xichen is still not finished.
“And when we went to Caiyi, I saw you eyeing the fruit stands, but you never asked me to buy any for you. I know you like beautiful craftsmanship, too, because of the way you always linger at those shops.”
“I have my own money,” Jiang Cheng insists. “I was going to buy it myself—”
“But I’m your husband, Wanyin, and I like to do nice things for you and make you happy. You need only ask.”
At some point Jiang Cheng does find himself under the covers again, blanket pulled up only to his chest and not covering his entire face because he is an adult, damn it, and he will not hide from his husband. His ears burn thinking about their Caiyi town trip, realizing every time Lan Xichen had swooped in and bought something for him, or asked him what he wanted to eat, or asked him if he liked a little trinket or talisman — so he was watching Jiang Cheng the whole time, then. Jiang Cheng feels his palms getting sweaty.
“Perhaps I should be more clear myself.” Lan Xichen looks him squarely in the eye. “I like you very much, Wanyin. I would like to spoil you in all the ways that a husband should. Won’t you let me?”
It becomes this tense thing between them. It shouldn’t be a heavy question, but to Jiang Cheng, whose self-doubt has been scratched along his skin so deeply it’s made its way to his core, the question feels like a boulder weighing against his chest.
“I suppose,” he says in a small voice.
Lan Xichen smiles gently at him. The weight is lifted.
“Then, husband, tell me what you want. And I will give you everything.”