Chapter Text
There was nothing in particular Jiang Cheng could remember that changed his attitude.
No single strike. No one unforgettable insult. No dramatic falling out that played out like a scene from one of Wei Wuxian’s exaggerated stories. Instead, it was the accumulation of a thousand smaller cuts—the yelling, the sighing, the years of being told, directly and indirectly, that he was not enough.
Not enough for a father who didn’t seem to care for him. Not enough for a mother who tried so desperately to carve him into her own rough, unyielding image, as though love and sharp correction were the same thing. And not enough for a sister who, despite all her love and kindness, could only ever press a bandage over a fatal wound. Yanli meant well. She always meant well. But her gentle hands could not mend what was breaking from the inside.
Perhaps, Jiang Cheng thought bitterly, it was all for nothing anyway.
Maybe the thought came to him now because he was being punished again. Dragged, once more, into the wake of whatever foolish thing Wei Wuxian had wanted to do. It wasn’t even Wei Wuxian’s fault—not entirely. The other boy was just… a lot. A storm in human form. And Jiang Cheng, for all his training, was simply tired of being caught in the rain.
At this point, he decided it wasn’t worth it.
Who cares? The question echoed in his skull, cold and liberating. Why does he need to suffer so much to become sect leader? To end up anything like his parents?
The answer came easily, softly, like a blade slipping between ribs.
He would rather die.
But dying was dramatic, and Jiang Cheng had never been dramatic. Wei Wuxian was the dramatic one. So instead of anything so final, Jiang Cheng made a different choice. A quiet one. A selfish one.
He decided he was going to do what he wanted. He was going to live for himself.
And the first thing he did was get a cat.
It wasn’t intentional.
He had managed to escape training that day,an act of quiet rebellion that would have earned him a lecture from his mother and a cold stare from his father. He wasn’t interested in the drills, in the shouting, in the way his arms ached and his heart felt hollow. So he wandered.
The pier was quieter in the late afternoon. The other disciples were still sweating through their forms. The servants were busy with chores. For a few precious moments, Jiang Cheng was alone.
That was when he saw her.
She was small. Barely the size of his palm. All alone, scrambling about on unsteady legs near the edge of the dock, her eyes barely open. A tiny, trembling creature in a world too large and too cruel.
“What are you doing here all by yourself?” he murmured, crouching down slowly.
As he drew closer, he realized she couldn’t run even if she wanted to. Her poor little foot was tangled in a length of fishing line, the thin cord biting deep into the delicate skin.
“Ah, poor thing,” he whispered.
He reached out with careful hands, surprised at his own gentleness. When had he last touched something so fragile? When had anything last trusted him enough to stay still?
The kitten let out a small, pained whine as he began to untangle the line. Clumps of dark fur came away with the blood. The more he worked, the more he realized how badly she was hurt. When he finally loosened the last loop, her little paw hung limply, clearly broken or badly sprained.
“Let’s get you fixed up.”
Jiang Cheng was not a doctor. He had no talent for healing, no patience for the slow, meticulous work of mending flesh and bone. But Lotus Pier had its own healers, and one of them was a girl only a few years older than him.
Yazhu.
She was perhaps thirteen, the apprentice to one of the senior healers, and Jiang Cheng liked her because she expected nothing from him. She didn’t care that he was the sect leader’s son. She didn’t sigh when he was lazy or distracted. In fact, she seemed to enjoy his company well enough, and had taken to teaching him whatever she learned each day—not because he asked, but because she liked explaining things to someone who actually listened.
So, though Jiang Cheng wasn’t a healer, he knew a few things.
He rushed to the healer’s compound, cradling the kitten against his chest. The tiny body was warm but trembling, and he could feel how fast her heart was beating—too fast, like a sparrow caught in a trap.
He found Yazhu in the kitchens, stirring a thick, foul-smelling concoction in a clay pot.
“It’s medicine, before you ask,” she said without looking up.
Jiang Cheng said nothing about whatever sludge she was making. Instead, he stepped closer, and the kitten let out another soft, pained meow.
Yazhu’s head snapped up.
“What happened?” She abandoned her medicine immediately, reaching for the small creature with hands that were already clean and sure. She cleared a space on the table, spreading a clean cloth. “Give her here.”
Jiang Cheng handed the kitten over carefully. “She got stuck in a fishing line. Any longer, and the poor thing wouldn’t have lived.”
Yazhu’s mouth tightened, but she said nothing. She began working, cleaning the wound with gentle precision, picking out bits of dirt and dried blood, her fingers moving in a way that spoke of practice and care.
“Get some goat’s milk,” she said after a moment. “It’s in the back corner. Warm it slightly.”
Jiang Cheng nodded, grateful for something to do. He found the small clay jar, poured a little into a bowl, and warmed it over the kitchen embers. When he returned, Yazhu had already cleaned and bandaged the tiny paw.
“I did what I could,” she said, not looking up from the kitten. “She lost a good amount of blood, but luckily, it will heal. You can provide some spiritual energy to her, though. It will help the bones knit faster.”
Jiang Cheng didn’t hesitate. He placed a hand over the kitten’s tiny body and channeled a thin, steady stream of spiritual energy. It wasn’t much—he was only ten, after all—but the kitten’s breathing immediately mellowed. Her little body relaxed. She even opened her eyes fully for the first time.
Green. Dazzling, jewel-bright green, set in a face of pitch-black fur.
“You know,” Yazhu said thoughtfully, watching him, “if you keep this up, she’ll eventually absorb enough energy to become a spirit cat. Very useful. They can sense danger, hunt ghosts, and even carry messages.”
Jiang Cheng thought about it.
It had never crossed his mind to have a pet again. Not after he’d had to give away his dogs. His father had decided they needed to be gone due to Wei Wuxian’s fear. And Jiang Cheng, who had loved those dogs with a fierce, silent devotion, had watched them be taken away one by one.
He loved dogs. Cats were… fine. But he wasn’t sure he was a cat person.
“Perhaps,” he said, noncommittally.
But as he looked at the small kitten, Peach, he decided suddenly he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away.
That night, long after the sun had set and the pier had grown quiet, Jiang Cheng finally made his way back to the room he shared with Wei Wuxian.
Peach was tucked against his shoulder, wrapped in a small square of cloth. She was still weak, but her eyes were open now, and she looked around curiously at the lantern-lit walkways, the wooden walls, and the soft lap of water against the pilings.
“Where have you been?” Wei Wuxian demanded as soon as Jiang Cheng stepped inside.
He was a scrawny boy of the same age; both of them hit ten that year. He had managed to acclimate to Lotus Pier quickly after being brought here, as though he had been born to run on these docks and climb these trees. He was loud, messy, brash, and wild. Everything Jiang Cheng had been taught not to be.
And yet, Jiang Cheng liked him well enough.
Even if he wasn’t a good trade for his dogs.
“What is that?” Wei Wuxian asked, staring at the kitten.
Peach shrank back slightly, clearly taken aback by the loud voice. Her little claws pricked through the cloth.
“Her name is Peach,” Jiang Cheng said, his voice softer than usual. “It’s okay.”
He pulled Peach from his shoulder and brought her closer to the other boy. She was far from healed, but she wasn’t in pain anymore, more than likely due to the energy he had been passing her all afternoon.
Wei Wuxian approached carefully, his usual boisterous energy dimmed to something quieter, more curious. Peach, mirroring him, stretched her neck forward. They closed the distance nose to nose.
And then Peach stuck out her tiny tongue and gave Wei Wuxian a single, delicate lick on the tip of his nose.
A grin broke across Wei Wuxian’s face, wide and brilliant, the kind of smile that made Jiang Cheng almost forget how annoying he could be.
“So cute!” Wei Wuxian scooped Peach from Jiang Cheng’s arms before he could protest, cradling her against his chest like she was made of glass. “Where did you find him?!”
“Her,” Jiang Cheng corrected automatically. “And I found her near the lake. She was hurt.”
“Aww, aren’t you adorable?” Wei Wuxian cooed, completely ignoring him now, his nose buried in Peach’s dark fur. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Jiang Cheng shook his head and began to undress for bed. He considered putting on his night clothes—the proper ones, the ones a young master should wear—but he was feeling even lazier than usual.
So instead, he plopped down on the bed beside Wei Wuxian, still half-dressed, and let out a long, slow breath.
The mattress dipped. Wei Wuxian was still talking to the cat in that ridiculous baby voice. Peach, for her part, seemed to be tolerating it with surprising patience.
Jiang Cheng closed his eyes.
Then he felt it, a tiny warmth against his side. Peach, squirming out of Wei Wuxian’s arms to settle between them, her bandaged paw tucked carefully against her body. She let out a small, contented sigh.
He slept like that, he and Wei Wuxian and little Peach, the kitten’s soft breaths mingling with theirs, the night outside the window quiet and still.
For once, that was enough.