He’d spent weeks trapped in the orbit of this decision, spiraling around it even though it seemed so painfully simple on the surface. It had been ages since he’d celebrated a birthday with Wei Wuxian — years stacked between them like unread letters. Not since those long-lost days when the three of them were together, bright and careless in each other’s company. Yanli would set a pot of lotus pork soup simmering on the stove, filling the air with warm, rich comfort. They’d crowd around the table, laughter tumbling out easily as they toasted the one person who connected them all, the one who’d arrived and upended their lives in a thousand, tragic and beautiful ways.
Now, though, the years had hollowed the day into something quiet and thin. Another page in the calendar. Still, every year, without fail, Jiang Cheng would pause. He’d send that wish out into the silence — a silent, stubborn birthday blessing, never spoken, never written down. Just a brief flicker of memory and longing before the tide of daily life swept him forward.
But things were different now. Wei Wuxian was back, and there was hope of something new — perhaps even something like forgiveness. All the old wounds, all the ancient dust, hovering between them. What do you give to a brother who’d been gone so long, and come back changed? The idea of buying a gift had never troubled him before; none of them were good at it, so when they were young, they’d settle for birthday punches and wrestling matches instead of presents.
He turned every possibility over and over until finally — finally — he settled on something real. In the days that followed, a shipment set out for Gusu, bearing Wei Wuxian’s name in bold, familiar strokes. Inside, there was a treasure trove: every spice he loved from Yunmeng, each jar a small rebellion against Gusu’s bland, watery fare. Jiang Cheng knew exactly what Wei Wuxian was up against — he’d suffered through those meals, too. If his brother was going to survive in that distant place, flavor was the least he could offer.
Nestled further down was a bowl and spoon, each piece lovingly carved and painted with the lotus of their childhood home. Wrapped beside them, ingredients — the dried lotus pods, the slivers of pork, everything Yanli would have used to fill a cold day with warmth. A recipe for comfort, a piece of home that Wei Wuxian could carry with him, wherever he found himself.
At the bottom, waiting almost shyly, was the final gift: the key to Lotus Pier. Tied to it, a note in Jiang Cheng’s own unmistakable hand. Just a few plain words: Don’t be a stranger. Save a bowl for me. —Jiang Cheng. // happy birthday wwx you punk ass <333
He doesn't know what to do with it. He just has to hold it and try not to cry. There's definitely a few tears that fall into that beautiful bowl, though.
