#heartbeatthinks

Like—start with the dogs. The only gift his father ever gave him, and Jiang Cheng gave them away. Why? Because Wei Wuxian was scared of them. That’s it. No resistance. No conflict. Just: oh, you’re afraid? They’re gone.

That is the blueprint. That is the foundational dynamic. That is the relationship.

His father resents him, prefers his shixiong. His mother tears him down for not being his shixiong. His sister, bless her, loves both of them—but it’s Wei Wuxian who gets the hand on the shoulder, the soft words, the shared wine. And yet. Jiang Cheng never once chooses bitterness over devotion.

He loves him. That’s the tragedy. That’s the rot. Because he never stops.

Wei Wuxian gets dragged into the Burial Mounds and comes back fundamentally altered, and Jiang Cheng still believes in him. Still gives him room to return. Still duels him instead of executing him outright, still spares him even when the sect is watching. Still tells Jin Ling to be kind to him. Still keeps Chenqing in perfect condition, like a grave he refuses to let crumble. Even when Wei Wuxian’s choices leave him hollowed out. Even when all he has left is silence. He still carries him.

And the thing is—Jiang Cheng’s sacrifices are quiet. He never says them. But we know. We know that when he was captured by the Wens, he let himself be caught. On purpose. Because if he didn’t distract them, Wei Wuxian would’ve died.

We know that when Wei Wuxian said, “I can fix this,” Jiang Cheng believed him with his whole heart. And when Wei Wuxian smiled that soft, golden smile, and said “Don’t worry,” Jiang Cheng didn’t. Because when your entire world is falling apart, and your brilliant, impossible shixiong tells you he has a plan—you believe him. That’s what love is.

And when he disappeared? When he died?

Jiang Cheng never believed it.

He said there was no proof. But it always read like something else to me. Like: “I’d know if he was gone. I’d feel it. He’s part of me. I would know.”

This man spent years believing he murdered the person he loved most in the world. And he still couldn’t bring himself to throw the flute away.

He keeps it hidden. Tucked away. Never used. He doesn’t even look at it unless he has to. But he doesn’t get rid of it either. And that’s what makes him sick.

Because it would be easy to destroy. Burn it. Bury it. Pretend it never existed. Like everyone else did. Like Wei Wuxian did to her.

But Jiang Cheng can’t. And he doesn’t know what’s worse — the fact that he still has it, or the fact that he still remembers how it sounds.

Sometimes, when he’s tired or drunk or too close to breaking, he hears it in his head — the low wail of Chenqing — and he feels like a fool. Like a dog still sitting at the door of a house that doesn’t exist anymore.

He would rather be called cruel. He would rather be hated. But not this. Not this pathetic, rotten tenderness.

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