Work Text:
“The good die young, Wanyin.”
Huaisang looks so upset after saying those words that Jiang Cheng’s heart physically aches. All he wants to do is throw his arms around Huaisang and rub the pain away.
But he’d be the first to know that it won’t do anything.
-----
Earlier that day, Yunmeng Jiang had wrapped up a two-day conference to discuss trade and local affairs. While it hadn’t been on the level of a Discussion Conference, it had still involved the major sect leaders on the country’s east, including, of course, Chief Cultivator Nie. Naturally, Jiang Cheng had thrown the customary banquet and had spared no expense in playing the gracious host.
But he had also made plans, for after all the other sect leaders went home. Dinner featuring the finest ingredients—for real, this time—that Yunmeng can offer. Huaisang’s favourite musical troupe, commissioned to play all night. Colourful glass lanterns hung all around Lotus Pier, designed to cast a shimmering glow over Yunmeng’s ponds and lotus flowers; the perfect accompaniment to a romantic night-time stroll.
But while Jiang Cheng is many things, a sadist is not one of them. By the third course of dinner, it had been painfully clear that Huaisang was not enjoying himself. Jiang Cheng had cancelled the rest of their meal and sent the musicians away.
He had asked Huaisang what was bothering him.
And that had been Huaisang’s answer.
And, well, what can you say to that?
-----
“The good die young,” Huaisang repeats unhappily. Dark circles sit around his eyes in stark relief against his pale skin, and Jiang Cheng has to wonder how long Nie Huaisang has been suffering. The last time they met had been just a few weeks ago, and Huaisang had seemed completely fine. Even during the conference, he had seemed fine.
“My mother died young,” Huaisang continues. “My father died young. My brother died young. And you know what they say. The good die young.”
Huaisang looks directly at Jiang Cheng then, and the weight in his gaze is so heavy that it is all Jiang Cheng can do to stop himself from flinching and looking away. “I’ve now lived longer than all of them. Da-ge died exactly today, fifteen years ago. And every year, around this time, I always wonder: What would he think of me now?”
Jiang Cheng feels like the entire lotus seed pod is in his throat. Huaisang looks so distraught in front of him that he has no idea what to say or do. It’s not that he’s disappointed that Huaisang didn’t enjoy his efforts. It’s not that at all. He just wants Huaisang to be happy. He’d do anything to make Huaisang happy.
But what can you say at a time like this?
“If it would have made you feel better,” he begins, haltingly, “we—we could have postponed. The conference, I mean. Not tonight. I don’t care about that! I mean, we can just do it again, when you feel—”
Nie Huaisang cuts him off with a laugh. When he takes Jiang Cheng’s hand, it is with a surprising softness.
“Wanyin. If I took time off for every significant death anniversary, I would be even more useless of a Sect Leader and Chief Cultivator than I already am.”
You’re not useless, Jiang Cheng wants to say. But the expression on Huaisang’s face has dried up the words in his throat.
If Jiang Cheng took time off every year to mourn everyone he knew, he’d only work half the year. They all would. It’s a function of age, and their inherited line of work. Cultivation is dangerous, and the older you get, the more loved ones you have to grieve. At some point, you just have to keep going. Jiang Cheng learned that lesson a long time ago.
“None of us are good people,” Jiang Cheng eventually says.
Except, maybe… no, not even him.
Anyway. This isn’t about him.
“None of us are good people,” he repeats, with more conviction this time, before pausing again to figure out what he wants to say. “All we can do is try our best.”
To lead our sects. To live with ourselves. To protect our loved ones.
“And I have no doubt that Chifeng-zun would know that you have done exactly that.”
Jiang Cheng, too, is trying his best right now. He is not, shall we say, experienced at talking about people’s emotions and problems. What would A-Jie say at a time like this?
“Do you want to…”
The words fall from his lips before he can think better of it. Really, is there even anything he could suggest that would make Huaisang feel better at a time like this?
A few more seconds of thinking results in nothing, and he is forced to continue his original train of thought.
“If you want it to be just the two of us. We could go for a sword ride? We could visit the Yubi Forest, go to that grove you love…”
Jiang Cheng desperately, desperately hopes that some part of what he’s trying to say goes through to Huaisang, because hell, he’s not even sure how to put it in words.
But Huaisang considers it. He considers it so visibly and for so long that Jiang Cheng mentally starts making plans for their unexpected night out, one that will have knock-on effects for his duties tomorrow. He starts drafting the instructions he’ll have to leave for his chief disciple. It’s taken almost two long decades, but he finally has dependable disciples he can trust to take care of Lotus Pier for a few days.
Eventually, Huaisang comes to a conclusion. Jiang Cheng is already ready to say yes.
“A-Cheng.” Huaisang’s voice is gentle and warm. It’s almost as if his outburst earlier had never happened. “I think I would actually like to lie in your arms while reading a story. Shall we retire?”
Jiang Cheng is mentally drafting somewhere in between his fifth and sixth set of instructions before Huaisang’s words fully sink in.
Oh. Well. Never mind, then.
“Are you sure?”
Huaisang smiles up at Jiang Cheng, and it’s like an orchid flower opening in bloom. “Yes. I’m sure. I want to be in your arms. Embrace me.”
This is… this has to be illegal. Jiang Cheng’s heart skips, and for a moment he feels fifteen again, totally overwhelmed by the vision of beauty in front of him.
Then the moment passes and Jiang Cheng awakens from his stupor. But though he’s regained control over his faculties, his feelings are stronger than ever. Every cell in his brain just wants to take care of Huaisang, the best he can. Heavens, he loves this man so much.
Huaisang’s cheeks are pink. He coughs, though that only focuses Jiang Cheng’s attention on his blush even more, and holds out a hand.
“Come, Wanyin. Take me to your quarters.”
Blood rushes through Jiang Cheng’s face at those words and he’s pretty sure that the tips of his ears are glowing in the lamplight. Still, his mother didn’t raise a barbarian, and he stands and takes Huaisang’s hand in his own. Huaisang’s fingers melt into his grip as he too rises, and they fall into an easy matching rhythm, making their way to Jiang Cheng’s inner quarters together.
“Still,” Jiang Cheng muses as they walk, “I didn’t think you were a voracious reader of Yunmeng literature. I always thought that you liked the northern style of literature more.”
“The northern style is better.” Huaisang agrees so quickly and easily that Jiang Cheng has to bite back the instinctive urge to defend Yunmeng that’s already bubbling up his throat. “It’s prettier. More evocative, with a real rhythm to the words. But I don’t forget my roots… Jiang-xiong.”
A mischievous smirk briefly flits across his face, animating the parts of his eyes that aren’t sad and tired. Once again, it’s like seeing the old Nie Huaisang again, from back when they were still children. It makes Jiang Cheng feel wistful, nostalgic for a past that can never be relived.
Then Nie Huaisang ruins the moment so thoroughly with his next words that it has to be some kind of talent.
“You do remember the literature I dabbled in when we were studying at the Cloud Recesses, do you not?” His smirk has widened into a full-on grin now, and some of the mischief has found a home in his gaze, staking its claim in between the sadness.
It does look good on him. But the tension growing between Jiang Cheng’s brows prevents him from enjoying it fully.
“You have some talented disciples in the same tradition,” Huaisang continues. “Some of the stories in their past few anthologies even have some, ah, quite familiar archetypes! Almost like the writers based them off someone they admire greatly! And as a past participant of that, ah, subculture, I have to do what I can to support the future generation?”
Nie Huaisang’s eyes are full-on twinkling now. And if Jiang Cheng is understanding his meaning correctly, he wants to stop hearing what he’s saying. Immediately.
“So I picked up their latest anthology. And I had a little peek inside, you know, when the trade discussions were getting boring. There’s some really good stuff in this one. Some stuff that looks… fun.”
Nie Huaisang wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully. Jiang Cheng briefly contemplates pretending not to see.
“It wouldn’t hurt to try.” The edges of Nie Huaisang’s doe eyes turn down, and his gaze turns pleading. “Please, A-Cheng?”
And it works. It always works. Jiang Cheng acquiesces immediately.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he snaps, though it’s without bite. “You’ve still got some more persuading to do to get me to fully go along with this. And besides, who wrote this anthology anyway? Not a disciple of mine? They certainly have a lot of time on their hands.” Time that could be spent training or studying.
“A gentleman never snitches on his sources,” Huaisang replies in a sing-song, and the weight of their sins lies on their shoulders, even now, like a winter cape. If Jiang Cheng hated Huaisang it would be so easy to turn that phrase against him and bring up all the times he has done exactly that.
But Jiang Cheng does not hate Nie Huaisang. In fact, he is in love with him, and Huaisang knows that, which is why he let his guard down and let those words slip from his lips in the first place. And because Jiang Cheng loves Nie Huaisang, all he does is listen to him chatter on in the most barely veiled of euphemisms until they reach his inner quarters. They undress, Huaisang shamelessly ogling Jiang Cheng the entire time, and settle in on his bed.
And Jiang Cheng holds Huaisang until the latter falls asleep. Huaisang’s hand that is holding the anthology stretches out, and the anthology dangles precariously from his long fingers off the edge of the bed. But otherwise, Huaisang’s expression is relaxed, and he sleeps, peacefully, curled up in Jiang Cheng’s arms.