Chapter Text
This isn’t his bed.
It takes Huaisang a moment or so to realise this, as he drags himself into consciousness. This isn’t his bed and he isn’t alone. It wouldn’t be so much of a problem, really, if it weren’t for the fact that he has no clean robes with him, and a conference to oversee later.
The conference, urgh.
It’s been a horrendous waste of time so far. He can’t bring himself to care about any of the trivial issues that were discussed yesterday. Huaisang stares up at the ceiling, eyes still unfocused. A strand of hair falls across his face, tickling his cheek as he breathes.
He shouldn’t even be at this conference. He should have been able to half retire— become a figurehead in Qinghe and let his far more competent advisors handle anything further afield. That’s what he’d planned for, back then, drawing up lists of trusted advisors, deciding which sects might still be welcome in the Unclean Realm. He’d never wanted to be sect leader; he’ll never want to be sect leader.
And then, at what was meant to be his final conference before he retreated from the world, everyone had decided to make him Chief Cultivator. Ha ha. What a joke.
This is the price he must pay for all his years of perceived idleness— the assumption that he’d make a good puppet, somewhat pretty and thoroughly ineffectual. Someone to boss around and ignore when unneeded. Huaisang relies on being ignored now, on letting these days smear together in a haze of chatter and too much wine. He remembers to read the letters submitted by various sect leaders, occasionally.
If he’s mostly incompetent for a while, perhaps they’ll let him resign.
The sun is only just beginning to rise, but Huaisang should leave before the hallways become filled with servants, preparing for the day’s agenda. There’s always the slight chance that someone will see him leaving Jiang Cheng’s rooms, especially here in Jinlintai, where despite the relatively new Jin-zongzhu’s efforts, gossip is still a major currency. It’s a shame, really, that this has to end so soon, but if Huaisang’s week continues as planned, he’ll be back here again this evening with any luck.
Luck, of course, meaning an exorbitant amount of wine.
He slips out of the sheets slowly, the fine silk soft against his bare skin. There’s a brush of a hand on his thigh, which freezes him in place for a moment and halts his escape. Jiang Cheng has rolled over, unfurled himself from the tight ball he always sleeps in. He’s reaching out with one hand, eyes still closed. But Huaisang can’t stay, and Jiang Cheng will be thankful for his absence when he wakes. There’s no reason for him to be here for a soft morning talk. That isn’t why they do this.
The state of the room— the smashed bowls, the empty wine jars— is enough evidence for that.
What they have isn’t nice. But it’s what they both need. It’s what Huaisang needs at least, and it’s not like Jiang Cheng has ever raised any objections to their routine. Huaisang had instigated this, the first time; his fury over being elected Chief Cultivator burnt away by an evening of alcohol fuelled fucking. But there’s no time to think about any of that; Huaisang has a conference to ignore.
The corridors are blessedly empty. Huaisang doesn’t even cross any servants on the way. They’ve cut down on the number of staff here, one of many things Jin-zongzhu has introduced in an attempt to rehabilitate the Jin Sect’s image. Still, all it’s really done is bring the Jin Sect close to the level of the other major sects; such were the extravagances of his predecessors.
A couple of Nie disciples stand outside Huaisang’s door. They don’t look surprised to see him walking towards his rooms, instead of out of them— at this point they’re too used to his behaviour to even pretend to act shocked about it. Nonetheless, it’s comforting to see them guarding his rooms, if only as it reminds him that he still holds their faith and trust. The Nie Sect is renowned for its loyalty, and its disciples uphold this virtue far better than Huaisang has ever deserved.
Someone has hung the robes he will wear today up over a screen. It makes Huaisang pause; it’s hard not to look for hidden meanings everywhere— for someone trying to distract him, or perhaps to win his favour. If there’s anything the last twenty years have taught him, it’s that very few people are decidedly good.
He certainly isn’t.
He knows better than to hope that one of his disciples did this out of care. Having their sect leader turn up in creased robes would cause the sect even more embarrassment. He’s played the fool for a long time, but he isn’t as witless as most believe him to be. Huaisang shrugs, walking over to the screen. Whatever someone’s reasons for doing so, at least his robes aren’t creased.
He takes his time getting dressed. First slipping off yesterday’s clothing, ignoring the wine stain on the edge of a sleeve, the slight rip of a seam. Then washing— it’s easy enough to request a bath here no matter the hour, something he’s always loved about this place. Huaisang slips under the warm water, letting it envelop him like a blanket. There’s a strange sort of comfort in it, in washing away everything from last night. Destroying evidence. His soap smells of home, shielding him from the persistent floral haze that engulfs Jinlintai. Huaisang drifts in it for a while, letting his thoughts linger on jagged mountain tops, the smell of fresh pine. Images spill through his mind like ink dropped into water, each vibrant for a just a moment before fading to the next.
Reality claws its way back once more with the persistent knocking on the door from a disciple. Huaisang isn’t sure just how long they have been trying to stir him for— it mustn't have been long; nobody had run in to stop him from drowning this time. He feels a loss as the world around him rushes back into focus.
A deep breath, and all is steady once more.
His robes don’t take him too long to put on, they’re no more extravagant than anything he usually wears. The only item that denotes his position is a new guan— strands of metal twisting into a braided pattern. It’s unmistakably Nie; an even more outward declaration of his first and truly only concern when it comes to the cultivation world.
Another, slightly frantic knock at the door signals that it’s time to go. He’ll be late, but not overly so. Incompetent instead of demanding; people will roll their eyes instead of asking why he sees himself as so above them all.
Nobody speaks as he walks with his disciples to the hall. While the disciples that walk alongside him are loyal, they don’t have much to say to him. His deputies are in Qinghe still, trusted with the upkeep of the sect, though Huaisang wishes he could have brought one of them along to make this whole thing a little less of an ordeal. Further down the corridor, the low, distant rumble of conversation begins to intensify— good, the hall seems full, everyone should be ready to start. The sooner Huaisang lets them get all their petty grievances out of their system, the sooner the day can be over.
The first face Huaisang spots as he enters the hall is Wei Wuxian.
It’s strange seeing him here; he tends to stay away from anything even faintly resembling politics these days. Huaisang can’t judge him for doing so, given everything that man has been through— in both lifetimes. It’s a pleasant surprise though; while he won’t be sat close enough to Huaisang to engage in any whispered conversation, there may be a chance for a long overdue conversation over lunch.
A flutter of white robes crosses his vision and in an instant, Lan Wangji is seated beside his husband.
Ah.
That must be why Wei Wuxian is here; how silly of Huaisang to think there might even be the slightest chance of speaking to someone he once called a friend.
He smiles at them both as he passes— a weak, subdued expression. Wei Wuxian responds in kind; his husband does not. With Zewu-jun still in seclusion, his brother must be picking up sect leader duties. For this conference at least— Huaisang’s spies indicate that Lan Qiren is back to doing most of the work while Lan Wangji continues to cavort around the countryside with his husband. It must be nice to run away from everything like that, to discard your duties without a second thought. Perhaps Huaisang should consider entering seclusion himself, given how dull the outside world is nowadays.
A susurration of contemptuous whispers follows him as he walks to the front of the hall. It pauses as he passes each sect leader; they bow, perhaps smile, then go straight back to their gossip once he’s walked a few steps further. Huaisang appreciates the furtiveness of it all— it’s not as if he could do much to stop them if they continued to belittle him to his face, but he’s gratified to see he commands at least a shred of respect.
Well. It might be fear rather than respect, given the rumours that have circulated these past few years, but it’s all the same in the end.
A flash of purple catches his attention, and he turns his head before he has chance to stop himself. It’s Jiang Cheng, of course. He’s dressed perfectly in his usual finery, the only sign of last night’s activities the slight dark circles under his eyes. Though these days, that isn’t evidence of anything in particular. It seems to be his constant state of being. It’s a shame to mar his pretty face, but it’s not like Huaisang can do anything to change it. They suit him, in a way. Or perhaps he’s just used to seeing them.
Jiang Cheng bows, but his eyes stay fixed on Huaisang. The action can’t last more than a few seconds at most, but it’s the most uncomfortable Huaisang has felt during this entire charade of a conference. This man knows him— not well, not quite enough to make Huaisang want to run back to Qinghe and jump in a scalding bath to rid himself of the outside world, but enough to know how Huaisang actually feels. The polite smiles, the small nods; Jiang Cheng knows it’s all fake. He’s seen beyond the facade, as far as Huaisang has let him. He doesn’t comment on it though, he never does, seemingly content to keep it to himself.
Thankfully there’s little time to dwell on such things. The throne at the head of the room now stands before him. It’s less ornate than what was here previously; the amount of gold on it could almost be described as tasteful. It doesn’t stand out as an exception to the decor either— the new Jin-zongzhu (not so new anymore, but it still feels odd to see someone other than san-ge in that role) has spent so much time and effort redesigning Jinlintai. There’s still obvious signs of wealth everywhere, but they’re more refined, far more tasteful. It’s not like little Jin Ling had much of a choice, what with the reputation of his sect in tatters— debts to pay off and people's forgiveness to buy, but he’s done a good job with it. Whether any of this change goes beyond skin deep remains still to be seen.
It’s a shame san-ge won’t see Jinlintai like this. Not that Huaisang will ever regret destroying the man. Still, he can’t help but think that this restrained grandeur would have suited him well. A more understated kind of beauty, fit for someone secure with their place in the world, free from the desire to impress others at every turn. But Jin Guangyao had made his choice. There’s a perverse sort of pleasure in knowing that everything he’d worked so hard to create has been wiped away without much thought.
And here Huaisang sits in his place. Chief Cultivator, the whole room bowing to him, Jin-zongzhu looking up from his seat next to the dais. How things change.
With a flick of his wrist, Huaisang unfolds his fan, and sits back, ready to spectate.
Jiang Cheng is very pretty when he’s angry.
This definitely isn’t the observation Huaisang is meant to be making right now, but there simply isn’t anything about fishing rights that captures his interest enough to do otherwise. Jiang Cheng isn’t shouting, yet at least, though his fists are clenched by his side, and he’s shaking slightly with repressed anger. If Huaisang is honest, he looks very close to crying. If Huaisang is even more honest, he’d quite like to see it; if not here, then when they’re alone. It’s not that he doesn’t like what they have— it’s more than fine, but the idea of getting to see Jiang-zongzhu on his knees, desperately trying not to cry has a certain appeal. Maybe he can suggest it later.
He shakes his head. As if they ever plan anything that happens between them.
He's shaken from his thoughts by the slam of a fist on a table. A pity. Ah, Jiang Cheng’s temper has finally got the better of him and he’s shouting at Ouyang-zongzhu. Huaisang has no idea why reviewing the fishing treaty—fish rights?— no, fish prices— are quite so contentious. Perhaps he should care. Even outside of this role, there is power in knowing what people need, in how to obtain it, even more in how to restrict it. But that seems far too much like the last Chief Cultivator’s style. And nobody elected Huaisang to be like Jin Guangyao.
That being said, these negotiations are going nowhere, and Huaisang is growing bored of them. Looking up, he jumps in his seat when he realises that Jiang Cheng is looking straight at him, jaw tensed, but with an almost pleading look in his eyes.
Huaisang stands, straightening out the front of his robes before stepping down from the dais. He won’t speak until he has everyone’s attention, not wanting to have to say things twice. Thankfully, the fact that he has decided to involve himself renders everyone in the hall speechless.
“Jiang-zongzhu, Ouyang-zongzhu.” He nods to them both, tapping his fan against his brow and pouting slightly. “Forgive me if I’m wrong— we don’t get too many fish in Qinghe, but is there something wrong with the old treaty? Everyone has seemed happy with it for years, so unless something has changed, it should still be okay, right? Unless— oh! Ouyang-zongzhu, are you still annoyed about the Jiang Sect refusing your deal from last year? Ah, but I wouldn’t know about that, really! And I’m sure that isn’t the problem, right Ouyang-zongzhu? If everything is the same, can’t the treaty stay as it is?” There’s a beat of silence before a small undercurrent of murmuring starts up again from the edges of the hall. Ouyang-zongzhu looks less than impressed, but Huaisang isn’t sure he’s ever seen the man look happy, so it’s probably fine.
Jiang Cheng, though, is looking at Huaisang as if he’d somehow found a way to bring his sister back to life.
Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but he looks proud, mixed with something Huaisang can’t quite put his finger on. It’s gratifying, but also more than a little terrifying; that such a simple thing would cause Jiang Cheng to look at him like he’d hung the moon— it is too much. He shouldn’t care that much. Huaisang shouldn’t care that much.
“Fine, that seems fair. Let’s get this over with and signed.”
Oh, Jiang Cheng almost sounds choked up. Huaisang must be imagining things. He’s let his imagination run wild again and now everything is playing into his fantasies. Thankfully, Ouyang-zongzhu makes the wise decision to agree to the terms, quickly dragging Huaisang’s brain back on track, and putting an end to this final day of the conference.
There’s plenty of opportunity before dinner in which to seek out Jiang Cheng, but Huaisang can’t force himself to make the effort. There’s a tiredness building in him— creeping up on him throughout the day, dragging him down in a wave of heavy robes and bright lights, inane smalltalk and whispered insults. It’s a buzzing sort of fatigue, the kind that gives him headaches that leave him in bed all day if he isn’t careful. They were worse as a child, still weak, and with no cultivational power whatsoever, but even now they can overwhelm him if he isn’t careful. He could lie to himself, tell himself that he simply has no desire to interact with anyone here more than necessary, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort; he ends up laid in a dark room regardless, without Jiang Cheng.
A short nap, another bath, and a change of robes later, Huaisang departs his rooms once more. He’s made a weak effort to tidy up, which mostly consisted of throwing everything incriminating behind a screen in the corner. It’s presumptuous to think that Jiang Cheng might find his way there later in the evening, but Huaisang only thinks it polite that he suggests they destroy his rooms tonight instead. Neither of them are footing the bill, but Jiang Cheng might appreciate the courtesy.
He also releases his disciples from their duties for the evening, not wanting them to have to stick by his side. These conferences are meant to be a social event after all, and however insular some might think the Nie Sect to be, Huaisang knows his disciples aren’t all like that. Their idea of socialising is more likely to be dragging people from the banquet to the training grounds to test their skills rather than sitting and gossiping, but there are plenty here that will appreciate that.
Huaisang can’t see the appeal—has never seen the appeal—but he has faint memories of being sat down at the edge of the training grounds in Qinghe, of watching his brother playfight with a hoard of young disciples in a multitude of coloured robes as their father conducted business elsewhere.
No, Huaisang will stay inside, at a banquet with above average food and much better wine. The esteemed Hanguang Jun might be a stick in the mud, but perhaps he’ll calm himself enough to allow Huaisang to speak with his husband tonight. Not that anyone can control Wei Wuxian, but he’s so in love with his husband that everyone else simply fades into insignificance. If Lan Wangji decides to keep his distance from Huaisang, then both of them will.
It doesn’t take long, only a drink or two, for Huaisang to realise that neither Wei Wuxian, nor his husband will be showing their faces here tonight at all.
Instead, Lan Sizhui seems to be representing the Lan Clan, a picture of grace and serenity. The table next to him remains empty. He should have guessed that they wouldn’t show. This may be the most important political event of the year, but what’s politics, or the wellbeing of people other than Wei Wuxian, to Lan Wangji? What does the reputation of his sect— his family— matter when he can sweep the love of his life away from everything without a moment’s notice? He’s probably stolen half the wine from the kitchens and run off to…
Well, it doesn’t matter does it?
Wherever they are, they’re not here, which means any hope Huaisang had of making this night interesting has gone. Yes, he could play his games, do the Headshaker routine, find some gullible people to play off each other, but it all feels so hollow. Mundane. It almost makes him miss the chaos of the post Sunshot years. He could never truly miss that time, when tensions were constantly high and the smallest thing was enough to send his da-ge into a spiral of anger. Nor can he miss the year of outrage and distrust that followed Jin Guangyao’s demise. Things are easier now, in part thanks to Huaisang’s dedication to keeping them that way through complete inaction. But that doesn’t mean he enjoys it.
He pokes at his food with his chopsticks, eventually admitting defeat and setting them down. To his right, Jin-zongzhu sits upright, desperately trying to seem older than his years. It’s a familiar look— one he saw on most his age after Sunshot. But Jin Ling is younger; he stands out next to the much more carefree cultivators his age. He isn’t sat alone, that rowdy Lan disciple, Lan Jingyi, is sat with him, his white robes standing out against a sea of gold. His attempts to make Jin Ling smile, or perhaps to provoke any kind of reaction from him aren’t working. For now, at least.
He forces himself to look away, eyes scanning the room as he sips his wine. It isn’t that he’s lonely— he refuses to think of himself that way— it’s just that when he lets himself think about it, it would be quite nice to have someone to spend his time with. His disciples have stopped joking about a possible marriage. Any lingering hope they had that he might settle down once his revenge was completed has now evaporated. It still took them longer than the Nie Sect elders (a joke of a term really, given that the oldest is only fifty-four), but even the most dedicated among that group have given up on him. Perhaps he just doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore, and imagining a marriage is simply an attempt at alleviating that.
Of course, there’s always a chance the wine has simply made him maudlin.
He allows himself to close his eyes for a moment, soaking in the buzz of conversation around him. When he opens them again, the previously empty table opposite him has gained an occupant. Jiang Cheng is alone there— those of his disciples still in the hall have dispersed, caught in small pockets of conversation. It seems that neither of them has kept the attention of their disciples.
Huaisang looks up slowly, letting Jiang Cheng catch his eye. They stare at each other, neither seeming to want to be the first to look away. Even from this distance, Huaisang can see a faint blush on Jiang Cheng’s cheeks, the way he nervously bites his lip.
Huaisang picks up his wine cup, raises it towards Jiang Cheng, and drinks.
It isn’t a surprise when he ends up in Jiang Cheng’s room again. He’s not sure of the fine details of how they got here. He’d been hinting, trying to keep Jiang Cheng's attention all evening from that moment on, half out of boredom than anything else. But Huaisang is hazy on the details of how he got here.
He’ll blame the wine.
The real novelty of the evening is that they haven’t immediately ended up in Jiang Cheng’s bed. It’s a shame they’ve ended up here instead of Huaisang’s room, after he’d gone to the effort of tidying. But he can’t be too sad about this state of affairs. He leans against the table, looking up at a man desperately trying to keep a stern look on his face while staggering across the room, jars of wine in hand. Jiang Cheng pauses for a moment before sitting down, staring over at the nearby wall, trying to steady himself. He veers to one side as he sits, setting the jars down on the table much harder than intended. It’s almost cute.
The wine is different from that served at the banquet— stronger, less floral. Jiang Cheng must have brought it himself, or perhaps Jin Ling keeps a store here for him. Either way, Huaisang is thankful for the change. Anything that takes his mind away from the Jin for a while is a blessing in his books.
He could make a rule about the types of wine allowed to be served at conferences. A flagrant abuse of power but—
Probably best not to.
He shakes himself from his thoughts, instead focusing on the man opposite him. Even now, Jiang Cheng is attempting to look composed, the model of a successful sect leader. It really is adorable how hard he tries. And it only makes Huaisang more determined to ruin him.
“Are you—” Jiang Cheng coughs, looking awkwardly down at the table. He’s never this awkward when they fuck. “Are you enjoying the conference?”
Huaisang would rather die than admit it, but it’s moments like these that find him missing the conversational skills of Jin Guangyao. Oh, the man was despicable, through and through, but he could at least get through a simple sentence without embarrassing himself. But if Jiang Cheng wants to talk, then Huaisang will talk. Hopefully it’s only a short prelude before the rest of the evening’s activities.
“Oh well, enjoying is such a strong word Jiang-xiong! Everything is so confusing, it takes all my energy just to keep up. And when sect leaders start arguing about the smallest things, well, I hardly know what to do about it!”
He flicks open his fan and lets himself slump forward a little, the picture of exasperation. He’s gifted an eyeroll for his trouble.
“Stop it. Stop this. It doesn’t suit you.”
Blunt and to the point as always. It almost makes Huaisang question whether Jiang Cheng was forced through the etiquette lessons all sect heirs go through. He knows he was of course, their time complaining in Gusu was enough evidence of that; Jiang Cheng must simply willfully discard them all. Just like his brother. He readjusts himself, lets the smile drop from his face as he empties the last of a jar of wine into his cup.
“I assume you’re enjoying it too, given how you’ve looked all day?”
“I look fine! Just because I’m not lounging about, smiling like I haven’t a care in the—” Jiang Cheng pauses, half stood up from the table. He slowly lowers himself back down, refusing to look towards Huaisang. “You’ve made your point.”
Huaisang feels lighter somehow, the air easier to breathe. What could have been the start of a fight, an excuse to shout and bite and let off steam has passed; in its place is something new. Something uncertain, but not unwelcome. He stumbles around the table, towards his companion. It seems like the easiest way to test the waters— if Jiang Cheng wants no part of this, Huaisang is sure he’ll make it very clear. But he doesn’t. Instead, Jiang Cheng leans towards Huaisang, opening a new jar of wine and filling their cups once more. The silence drifts between them, almost comfortable, certainly not uncomfortable.
It’s odd, this thing they have. If a younger Huaisang had been made to guess who might keep his confidence in future years, who might see more of him than anyone else, he’d have never guessed Jiang Cheng. Wei Wuxian perhaps— Jin Zixuan, if only because they’d known each other for years. For a time, it would have been Meng Yao.
Never did he think of Jiang Cheng, who was always too closed off, obsessed with training and bettering himself above all else; a man who could keep a secret for you, only because he’d never ask you about it in the first place. How surprising that that’s just what Huaisang has ended up needing in the end.
The silence is pleasant enough, but it might become stifling soon. Huaisang picks his fan off the floor and begins to tap it against the edge of the table in a slow but steady rhythm. He considers counting in his head, to see how long it’ll take Jiang Cheng to stop him, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort. Huaisang isn’t trying to rile him up; this is purely for his own sanity.
“Is that one of your fans?” Huaisang stops tapping, looking in bemusement to Jiang Cheng. “That you painted. Of course it’s one of yours.”
Jiang Cheng’s cheeks have flushed bright red again. It really is sweet, just how quickly such a stern man can become flustered. Huaisang opens the fan, looking down at the delicate trees inked onto it. It’s an older one, bought on one of his many visits to Jinlintai.
“Ahh, no, no,” he says. “I don’t have time for silly things like that nowadays. You all insist on giving me so much work to do!” He chokes the last few words out, dropping the fan onto the table and reaching for his wine cup. If he moves fast enough, Jiang Cheng might miss the way his hands have begun to shake. He’d wanted to paint a fan like this, one more detailed than this. He’d planned to go out into the mountains for a week or so, observing nature and painting to his heart’s content. And then he’d remembered the last time he’d wanted to do that, and how his brother had said no. He’d tried to beg and plead and then—
“Some things are best left in the past, don’t you think, Jiang-xiong?”
He picks up the jar of wine, drinking deeply. He thinks he sees Jiang Cheng nod in agreement.
This isn’t his bed. Huaisang knows this as soon as he begins to stir, even before he’s had a chance to open his eyes. The room is still dark, and if Huaisang focuses for a moment, he can hear the dawn chorus of songbirds outside. It must be very early then, far too early to be awake, especially after the amount he drank last night. Yesterday’s headache is threatening to attack once more, a throbbing beginning to form behind his eyes. He should probably find some water— attempt to stop it from getting any worse, but the arm around his back is quite tight. Jiang Cheng’s inner robe is untied, slipping off one shoulder in a way that could be described as seductive, if it weren’t for the weird snuffling noises the man is making in his sleep. He looks younger like this, without a constant frown plastered on his face. Huaisang is startled by the sudden realisation that he wants to see Jiang Cheng like this in the daytime. Not only that— he wants to be the one to make Jiang Cheng look this content. It’s possessive of him, wanting to be the only one that sees him this way, but Huaisang has never claimed to be anything else.
He lies there for a while, his only company uncomfortable realisations swirling about his brain. Once or twice Jiang Cheng seems to murmur something— too quiet to make out, even in the peace and quiet. But he doesn’t wake, he doesn’t seem disturbed.
When the first warmth of dawn begins to creep into the room, Huaisang gently lifts Jiang Cheng’s arm up and escapes the bed. He collects up his robes, dressing slowly. He allows himself one last look before sliding the door open.
Jiang Cheng will understand him leaving early; it’s a long way back to Qinghe, after all.