#pennyfic

“We’ll keep assets separate,” Jiang Cheng is saying, “and anything else that you want – ”

No exclusivity requirements, the contract stipulates in clear, bold font, but keep all side relationships quiet. Huaisang feels slightly sick.

Why didn’t you just ask Da-ge, he wants to say, if you were going to be this impersonal, if this was really going to be just a paper marriage. Why do you think I volunteered?

How foolish of him, Huaisang thinks, to have believed – however briefly – that he’d been chosen.

“A-sang?” Jiang Cheng says, rousing Huaisang from his reverie. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you listening?”

He looks genuinely concerned, almost like he cares about Huaisang as a person, instead of just a front to help prop up the failing family business he’s been forced to inherit too young.

Huaisang fiddles with the napkin in his lap, takes a sip from his too-cold drink, takes a deep breath. They were friends once, he reminds himself. Aren’t marriages – even those of convenience – built off of communication? He owes it to himself to speak now instead of waiting to be hurt, inevitably, later.

“Cheng-er,” he says, “do you like me?”

Confused is a beautiful expression on Jiang Cheng. If Huaisang is honest, most expressions are beautiful on Jiang Cheng, although that might be because he is absolutely whipped for Jiang Cheng, and has been since they were fifteen and meeting for the first time at boarding school (okay, Huaisang has a thing for grumpy pretty boys. Sue him). They’d been inseparable, then, the four of them: Huaisang and Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying and Lan Zhan. Their friends have been happily settled for years – it was probably just Huaisang’s imagination but he’d always felt Jiang Cheng had the slightest soft spot for him, which is why he had been hoping –

“Like you,” Jiang Cheng repeats, “of course I like you. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“For someone as smart as you are you can be really stupid sometimes, Jiang Cheng,” Huaisang says, and steels himself for the inevitable pain at the end of this plunge. Let Da-ge call him a coward now, “because I like you. I like you a lot, and I don’t mean in a let’s get married for the sake of our respective family images and then part ways like it never happened because we’re friends way. So if this is just business to you let me know now so I can have the remittance for breaking my heart added to the terms and conditions.”

“Oh,” Jiang Cheng says, faintly. He looks like he’s going to add something else, probably something like I wasn’t expecting that, but then he keeps silent, still looking adorably bewildered. Huaisang wants to kiss him.

Instead, he stands up, tosses his napkin to the table. “Yeah,” he says, “if that’s all I’m going to be going now. You can reach me through my agent for any further communication about the contract.” He gives himself a mental pat on the head for keeping his voice steady.

Huaisang takes his coat from the maître d'on the way out of the restaurant, retrieves his keys from the valet with a I’ll get my car myself, thank you and is striding into the basement-level parking lot when a hand closes over his wrist.

Ah, cliches, how wonderful, the voice in his mind that sounds a lot like Jin Guangyao supplies. Shut up, he tells it.

“Wait,” Jiang Cheng sounds a little breathless – as if he’d run after Huaisang, as if he’d actually been afraid of missing him, “wait a minute, A-sang.”

Huaisang turns, schooling his face into a neutral expression. Jiang Cheng looks – nervous, Huaisang thinks. He isn’t sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jiang Cheng nervous – he usually takes everything in stride – but this – his throat bobs, perceptibly, as he swallows, and is he biting his lip? He still hasn’t let go of Huaisang’s wrist.

“What?” Huaisang raises a pointed eyebrow at him.

“You didn’t let me speak,” Jiang Cheng says. His hand is burning a warm brand into Huaisang’s skin.

Huaisang tilts his chin. “So speak.”

There is a muscle twitching in Jiang Cheng’s flawless jaw. “You’ll tell me if I say something stupid,” he says, equal parts belligerent and anxious, so Huaisang nods, heart in his throat.

“Okay,” Jiang Cheng says, and then, “it was never just business for me. I care about you, A-sang, it’s just that I didn’t dare hope – ”

“You’re saying something stupid,” Huaisang tells him. “I’m not signing up to deal with your inferiority complex, A-cheng, you’ll have to do something about it if you really want to marry me.”

A beat, then –

“I’ll add it to the terms and conditions,” Jiang Cheng says, mock-serious.

Huaisang narrows his eyes. “Also – if I’m not misunderstanding – how truly ungentlemanly of you, Jiang Cheng,” with a playful whine, “to try to trap me in a contract marriage like this – were you just going to stay silent about your feelings – ”

He stops – Jiang Cheng has turned the wrist he is still holding and pressed a brief, open-mouthed kiss to Huaisang’s pulse point – gaze fixed steadily on Huaisang’s face.

“I promise to court you properly from now on, Nie-xiansheng,” he says, and there is a note in his voice that makes Huaisang’s toes curl in his shoes.

Huaisang has to remind himself it would not be the best idea to push Jiang Cheng against the wall and show him how he likes to be kissed – they are still in a public space, after all. If someone were to pass by – well, the internet rumor mill would have a field day with the headlines: idol-actor Nie Huaisang caught kissing Jiang Corp heir in underground parking lot, click for pictures! It would definitely throw a wrench into the whole image-rehabilitation aspect of this arrangement.

Instead, he reminds himself that some things are better taken slow – so in the meantime,

The curved tip of his mother’s whip barely grazes his face as she steps back, eyes blazing and mouth tight and furious. He thinks it would have been better had the strike landed.

She looks at him for a moment, then laughs, a low, strangled sound. Then she turns on her heel and strides out of the courtyard in a flurry of robes.

Behind him, Wei Wuxian says, “A-Cheng, I – ”

Jiang Chen does not look at him. “Wei Wuxian, don’t.”

His sister is already leaning next to Wei Wuxian, still on the floor, voice soft and soothing. He is in good and capable hands. There is nothing for Jiang Cheng to offer, so he leaves.

He finds his mother seated at the low table by her bedroom window. Her account books are open in front of her but she is staring, unseeing, at the slowly meandering river flowing past the house. The tranquillity of the scene is lost on her. Her hand is gripped painfully tight around her brush.

She does not look up when Jiang Cheng enters the room.

“Mama,” Jiang Cheng says.

His mother turns her face towards him. “So now you remember I am your mother,” she says, heavy, bitter, and turns the other way. His heart sinks low and his stomach clenches. He approaches slowly, as one might enter a viper’s den. He sets the tea he has brewed on the table.

“Lotus and chrysanthemum, for your health,” Jiang Cheng says.

She continues looking out the window as though he has not spoken.

Jiang Cheng pauses. Slowly, he moves to sit behind her. He slides her heavy buyao pins out of her hair, sets them on the ground. Unwinds her hair from its severely wrapped braids. Her hair is thick and dark and littered with silver. As he combs through the strands he imagines the story behind each gray hair. He and his father are responsible for much of it, and Wei Wuxian for the rest.

His mother is quiet throughout. The silence settles around and over them, thick and heavy. Jiang Cheng braids his mother’s hair and secures it. Her shoulders are stiff.

“This unworthy son is sincerely sorry, Mother,” Jiang Cheng says through the lump in his throat. His voice sounds strange in his ear, muffled, hollow.

They were not blood relatives – and besides, the Yunmeng Jiang Sect Leader, sharp-faced even in repose, is too given to sneering, and frowning, and glaring –

But, every so often, in the midst of conversation (with other people; these days the best he gives Lan Wangji is a tight Hanguang-jun in response to a frigid Sect Leader Jiang):

he will shrug, or perhaps quirk an eyebrow, or punctuate a gesture with an indolent wave of his hand, or – on especially rare occasions smile –

well, in these moments, across the table, Lan Wangji's stomach will plummet to his shoes and he will think,

“You should be allowed to mourn the people you loved,” he tells Jin Ling, gruffly, when Jin Ling – once he has blinked away the tears that spring to his eyes – asks Jiujiu why –

Nobody but he and Jin Ling ever enter the Yunmeng family shrine, anyway. Jin Ling hadn’t even considered – after all, it isn’t as though the Jin Elders will stand for even the faintest mention of the erstwhile Lianfang-zun within the walls of the Jinlintai. Jiujiu, on the other hand, hasn’t had to bother with Sect Elders in years, not since – .

Still, it isn’t explanation enough, Jin Ling thinks. After all, Jiujiu hated(?) resented(?) (these days Jin Ling isn’t sure) Wei-qianbei for years – and then it turned out Xiao-shushu had almost as much to do with why that was as Wei-qianbei ever did.

Jiujiu mutters something about hatred being a lot simpler and more straightforward than love – and then he sighs and takes Jin Ling’s chin in his long-fingered hand,

(Jin Ling is seventeen and a Sect Leader, now, but a look from Jiujiu still floors him and probably always will)

“Ling-er, if you want me to take it away I will,” without any kind of judgement at all –

So Jin Ling chokes back the sob that crawls up his throat and says,

Lately the meetings have been more grating than ever. It is probably because – well. Huaisang used to be able to catch his eye over his fan when Sect Leader Yao was being particularly odious – exchange half-hearted shrugs with a dimpled smile –

He’d won, Huaisang reminds himself. He’d come out the victor. He’d outwitted the cleverest person he’s ever known, so why –

It must be that cultivation conferences were never Huaisang’s favorite places to be, and now he has to endure being lonely on top of everything else.

Why didn’t anyone tell him victory would feel so hollow? How long will it be before he stops waking in cold sweat, the crack san-ge’s neck had made when he’d been dragged into the coffin resonating in his ears?

I never thought you would be the death of me, Nie Huaisang.

Across the room, Lan Wangji is rising stiffly from the chief cultivator’s position, announcing we will now adjourn for the noon meal sounding practically relieved, for Lan Wangji.

Ironic, Huaisang thinks, how he’d brought about Lan Wangji’s eternal earthly happiness and his elevation in the eyes of the cultivation world through his machinations (though he’d also driven his brother into seclusion, to be fair), and had been unable to secure any such joys for himself.

Perhaps if Wei Wuxian were the sort of person to attend cultivation conferences Huaisang might have at least a conversation partner, but Wei Wuxian, like Huaisang, has a particular distaste for this sort of gathering, and unlike Huaisang, is not at all obligated to actually be present.

And then, Huaisang thinks with a slight pang, trailing in the wake of his fellow sect leaders, there is the matter of another erstwhile old friend. The one who is currently several paces ahead of Huaisang, (tall and unattainable), walking with his hands behind his back, head tipped to the side to listen intently to whatever his nephew is whispering into his ear.

See – Huaisang used to have a long-standing agreement with Jiang Wanyin, at cultivation conferences – to meet up after the day’s agenda had been wrung dry – and poke fun at the general state of the cultivation world’s leadership over greasy street-stall food and a several drinks. Late at night and slightly inebriated is when Jiang Wanyin’s dry, sarcastic wit is at its most razor-sharp; their conversations have always been Huaisang’s favorite part of being at a cultivation conference.

Unfortunately, in the months since Huaisang’s decade-long plot had finally run its course, this agreement has quietly fallen through. The worst of it is, Huaisang cannot be sure why.

As far as he is aware, he hasn’t quarrelled with Jiang Wanyin – unless he is mistaken, the Jiang sect leader had been pretty pre-occupied, that night in Guanyin Temple, and can’t possibly have realized the extent of Huaisang’s role in the night’s events. It is understandable, then, that to Huaisang, this new distance that has cropped up between them is especially frustrating. Could it be, he wonders, that Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji had revealed his plot to Sect Leader Jiang? But as far as Huaisang is aware, Jiang Wanyin is still not on speaking terms with the Chief Cultivator or his one-time martial brother.

Lost in his musings, Huaisang runs headlong into Jin Rulan, who has, in the meanwhile, unhooked himself from his uncle’s apron strings in favor of catching up with the Lan sect’s head disciple. As he stumbles backward, Huaisang finds himself on the receiving end of an appraising look from Jin Rulan (he looks down his nose just like his uncle!). He turns away from Lan Sizhui with a murmured give me a moment, A-yuan, and gives Huaisang an appropriately deferential bow, sect-leader-to-sect-leader.

“Sect Leader Nie,” he says, grave, polite (he used to call Huaisang Nie-shushu, once upon a time, Huaisang thinks with a twinge of pain).

Huaisang nods back, crinkles his eyes over his fan. “Sect Leader Jin,” he says, cheerfully. “You look well.”

Jin Rulan takes a step closer, casting a cursory glance around the room. Lan Sizhui is pointedly looking elsewhere.

“I feel I should tell you,” Jin Rulan says, expression frank, straightforward, “I am aware of an obligation I have to return a favor you have done my late uncle.”

Huaisang’s breath catches in his throat. To think he would actually come out and say it, and in such a place! Or perhaps it is because of the place – but if this is a warning, he is doing a horrible job – . The part of Huaisang’s mind that is not absorbed in self-preservation thinks, dimly, that perhaps certain things are in fact passed down, from father to son, like naivety, and a sense of justice.

“I am afraid I must be misunderstanding you, Sect Leader Jin,” Huaisang says, easily, giving Jin Rulan his most innocuous expression, from above his fan.

Jin Rulan smiles. “Rest assured,” he says, a sardonic tone in his voice that, once again, is all Jiang Wanyin, “you are not. But –,” here, he pauses, takes a breath, “ my objective in telling you is to let you know I have in fact decided to let the matter rest.”

Now Huaisang is sure he must be misunderstanding, because none of this conversation is making any sense. “You have,” he says, faintly.

Jin Rulan nods, decisive. “Yes,” he says, “I am not quite sure I will be able to properly forgive you, Sect Leader Nie, but the truth is I have precious few family members left to me. Besides, my jiujiu has assured me that revenge is not a road lightly taken, and that I probably do not have the temperament for it.”

A laugh – rather like a sob – climbs its way out of Huaisang’s throat. “Your jiujiu doesn’t mince words,” he finds himself saying.

Jin Rulan gives him a considering look. “My jiujiu is lonely, too,” he declares, a non-sequitur if there ever was one, “I’d rather he not lose anyone else precious to him, if it is all the same to you, Sect Leader Nie.”

From across the pavilion, Jiang Wanyin – who is caught in what looks like an excruciating three-way conversation with Sect Leaders Yao and Ouyang – turns, as if by some protective maternal paternal instinct. He looks from Huaisang to Jin Rulan, and back. Catches Huaisang’s eye, holds. Gives Huaisang a brief nod. Something bright and painful flares in Huaisang’s chest.

“Thank you, for your magnanimity,” Huaisang tells Jin Rulan – to himself, silently, he adds: perhaps, one day, I will be worthy of it, and then, “and to your point; I think I will go rescue your jiujiu before he embroils us in another diplomatic situation.”

Jin Rulan’s answering smile is blinding.

The feeling in Huaisang’s chest grows brighter.

“Creep,” Huaisang says, stretching. He winces when his neck pops. It seems he is getting too old for falling asleep like this. A shame, considering he is proud of his ability to sleep anytime, and anywhere. “Were you going to stand there all night?”

“Thank you for watching him,” Jiang Cheng says.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Huaisang says, “we had fun. We made clay sculptures – Jin Ling is a budding artist, you know – video called his parents and played board games. There’s leftover stir-fry for you – don’t worry, I ordered in, I’m aware I’m awful at cooking, would hate to poison your nephew, thanks for the show of faith, you traitor.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Jiang Cheng says, in between lifting Jin Ling from the couch (Jin Ling, still asleep, starfishes, curling his arms and legs around his uncle’s neck and torso), “sounds like you spoiled him thoroughly. What sort of person is he going to grow up to be, having his every whim indulged by everyone around him?”

Huaisang follows him into the apartment’s second bedroom, which is a guest bedroom in theory but actually just Jin Ling’s, in practice. Watches as Jiang Cheng untangles Jin Ling from himself, tucks him into the bed. Presses a kiss to Jin Ling’s forehead.

Hypocrite, Huaisang thinks, no-one spoils him like you do.

Feeling a little like he is intruding, Huaisang makes a strategic retreat. Back in the living room, he collects his coat from where it is lying, crumpled on the floor, dusts it off.

“Leaving already?” Jiang Cheng says as he comes out of Jin Ling’s bedroom, drawing the door to a close behind him.

Huaisang, fastening the last button on his coat, looks up. “It’s pretty late, isn’t it?”

Jiang Cheng shrugs. “You could just stay the night,” he says, so casually Huaisang wonders if he knows this is the first time he has offered. See, staying the night? – isn’t something they do.

Then again, neither is babysitting nephews.

“Well,” Huaisang says, “this is shaping up to be a big day for us. You sure I won’t be outstaying my welcome?”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “Huaisang,” he says, “You do know who I am? You really think I’d ask, if that were the case?”

Huaisang says, “ah, he has self-awareness,” before he’s thought it through, “you make a fair point, Jiang-xiansheng.”

Jiang Cheng bristles, pulls his cell phone from his pocket. “On second thought, let me call you a Didi.”

“Aww,” Huaisang pulls an exaggerated pout, “and here I thought you actually liked having me around.”

“Who likes having who around?” Jiang Cheng mutters, scrolling pointedly through his applications.

He stiffens, when Huaisang goes to slip his arms around him. It makes Huaisang’s heart hurt, and he considers pulling back – but a moment later Jiang Cheng relaxes, and even deigns to put an arm around Huaisang’s shoulders, presses his cheek to the top of Huaisang’s head.

Maybe it really is shaping up to be a big day for them.