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“You’re sure you’re warm enough?”
“Jiang Cheng, I am fine. You do remember that I have snow back — that I have experienced cold weather before, do you not?”
Jiang Cheng’s hand twitches at his side as he fights the urge to tighten the laces holding Lan Xichen’s wool cloak. “Don’t blame me if you get sick, then.”
Lan Xichen looks down and his cheeks turn the slightest pink. He does not fight the smile when he says, “I would not dare, Sect Leader, nor would I let anyone cast such aspersions against you should I take ill. I promise, I am wholly responsible for my actions.”
“Alright then.” He steps aside and gestures to Lan Xichen. “If you’re ready?”
Lan Xichen nods to Jiang Cheng and steps into the hall outside Jiang Cheng’s suite of rooms. He had been surprised — and absurdly pleased — to receive the invitation to visit Lotus Pier to celebrate the Snow Moon Festival. Jiang Cheng mentioned in a previous letter that he wanted to bring back some traditional Jiang Sect holidays and festivals, something to give his people fun.
Not that you Lans would worry about that, Jiang Cheng added at the bottom of the letter, but if you wanted some diversions, consider this an open invitation.
The Snow Moon Festival was the first opportunity Lan Xichen had to take Jiang Cheng up on his invitation. Held during the first full moon after the new year, it seemed to be, as far as Lan Xichen could tell, mainly about finding pleasant ways to keep warm. He had spent the better part of the morning asking questions of the older women who worked in the sect library while Jiang Cheng was occupied in a meeting. He learned that, between “special friends,” as one of the women put it, it was traditional to exchange an intimate gift of clothing, something that would touch the receiver’s skin. Gloves were the most common item exchanged, but there were other “options,” she said with a lusty wink.
“... so I thought we could take a walk around the market first, then go out to the Moonrise Pavilion. I made arrangements to...Lan Xichen? Are you alright?”
Lan Xichen smiles at him. “That sounds lovely,” he says. “I was hoping to bring back gifts for Sizhui and his friends.”
Jiang Cheng nods. “I’ll take you around to all the stalls. And if you get hungry, if you see anything at all that you like, just say. I can’t wait to get some yuanxiao. Yanli always made some for Wei Ying and me when we were younger.” Though Lan Xichen is, by now, as familiar with the turning paths through Lotus Pier, Jiang Cheng places his hand at the small of Lan Xichen’s back and steers him along the path to the market.
“Will your sister be joining us for the festivities?” Lan Xichen asks, ignoring the frisson of heat he feels at this unexpectedly public contact.
“Didn’t my brother tell you? We’ll soon have a new niece or nephew.” Though his tone is calm and even, Lan Xichen catches the fierce joy in Jiang Cheng’s expression before he marshals his emotions and becomes the stoic sect leader again.
“How wonderful!” Lan Xichen replies. “I shall have to send a note of congratulations.”
Jiang Cheng smiles at him again, like a flash of starlight. “In the morning,” he says, taking Lan Xichen’s arm. “Tonight is for us—to honor traditions.”
Lan Xichen looks away to hide the blush he feels creep along his cheeks. “Of course,” he says, studiously ignoring Jiang Cheng’s matching blush. “I am grateful to honor these traditions alongside you.”
“Yes, well,” Jiang Cheng begins, clearing his throat, “let’s go before the crowds descend and pick over everything. Oh! Hang on.” He tugs at Lan Xichen’s sleeve and indicates a shadowed corner between two low wooden buildings at the edge of the market, somewhere they’ll be out of sight of the steadily-growing crowd of Yunmeng citizens coming in to celebrate the festival.
Lan Xichen looks back at Jiang Cheng, a flicker of concern passing through him as he notes the sect leader’s serious expression.
“What is it?”
“When we’re in the market, don’t, er, don’t worry if I, that is to say, if you find a stall you want to linger at, don’t worry if I leave you there a moment.”
“Leave me?”
Jiang Cheng looks down and fidgets with the tassel of the bell hanging from his sash. “No one will cheat you or anything.”
“The thought never crossed my mind,” Lan Xichen says, hoping to ease whatever anxiety was working through Jiang Cheng.
“What I mean is, if I’m standing there with you, it might be...awkward.”
“Oh.” Lan Xichen steps back from Jiang Cheng, putting more space between them. “Oh, I see. Of course. I would not want—“
“No, no, hang on a minute. That’s not—“
“To unintentionally give the impression that—“
“A-Huan!” Jiang Cheng blushes hard, but he forges ahead when he’s certain he has Lan Xichen’s attention. “It’s not you. I don’t mean that at all. It’s, well, it’s me.”
“But I…”
“It’s been nearly ten years, you know.” His voice drops low, and Lan Xichen leans closer. Jiang Cheng takes a breath and offers him a rueful smile. “They trust me, now, but they still don’t much like me.”
“They?”
Jiang Cheng waves a hand towards the bustling market. “Them. My people.”
“A-Cheng, I—“
“It’s fine!” Jiang Cheng interrupts, voice brittle and bright. “As long as they trust me. A leader shouldn’t be friends with those who must do his bidding anyway. I only mention it because I want you to have a good time tonight, and it will be easier if I step aside from time to time, so you don’t get caught up in any awkwardness.”
“Jiang Cheng, I assure you, the only thing I want, or need is—“
“Dumplings!” A genuine smile lights Jiang Cheng’s face.
“That is not what I — but you are right, of course.” He sighs, then smiles at Jiang Cheng. “I would very much like some dumplings. If you care to lead?”
On another day, he would have noticed it sooner, but Lan Xichen is enchanted by the Snow Moon market, smitten with the strings on strings of white paper lanterns, each decorated with warm blessings and wishes for the seasons. The dumplings Jiang Cheng brings him are some of the best he’s ever tasted, delicately seasoned, flavor bursting in every bite.
True to his word, Jiang Cheng disappears now and again as Lan Xichen explores the stalls, looking for souvenirs. He always reappears at Lan Xichen’s side before he is more than five steps away, insistent on carrying all the things Lan Xichen purchases, ever the gallant host. The warmth from this gesture distracts Lan Xichen as much as the array of goods that artisans from all across Yunmeng have brought, but as he browses the fifth stall of the evening, he begins to notice a coolness from the people sitting behind the table of exquisitely painted wooden fans. He retreats behind his most diplomatic persona, offended on Jiang Cheng’s behalf. If they cannot see how he cares for them, the love of his home and people that flows through every action, then the problem is with them, not with their young Sect Leader. He selects a cedar wood fan for Huaisang, and when he hands over coins to pay for it, the old man in charge of the shop holds onto his hand a few moments longer than necessary, muttering something about keeping promises and not hiding from those most dear. Lan Xichen holds to the shield good manners has always afforded him and bows, leaving the man and his two very large, very stern sons to stare past him at Jiang Cheng. To his credit, Jiang Cheng only nods at them before steering Lan Xichen to a new section of the market.
“Have you found everything you need?” he asks, shifting items until he can easily hold Lan Xichen’s purchases.
“There is one more item I must acquire,” he replies. “It is rather important,” he adds when he notices a trace of irritation in Jiang Cheng’s expression. He feels a stab of sympathy as irritation is replaced with tiredness. He did not want to believe Jiang Cheng’s declaration earlier, but seeing the pointed glares and hearing the whispers that followed, he was determined to find the perfect gift for Jiang Cheng, hoping that it might ease a little of the sting that leading the Yunmeng sect seemed to carry.
“Of course.” Jiang Cheng looks around, his gaze settling on an empty table near a cluster of food stalls. “Take all the time you need. I’ll go sit over there.” He nods to the tables. “When you’re done, we can grab some food and head down to the Pavilion.”
“I would like that very much,” Lan Xichen assures him. “I will try to complete my errand swiftly.”
Jiang Cheng gives him the ghost of a smile. “Whatever you need is fine with me.”
Lan Xichen circles the stalls five times before he sees it. The stall has escaped his attention until now, tucked in a corner between a large stall full of books he ignored because he did not have time to browse and a stall with finely made leather goods. It is this stall that first catches his attention. He thinks perhaps he might find something practical there, perhaps an arm guard for archery, something that will fulfill tradition, something that touches Jiang Cheng’s skin, but also something useful that, should he be wrong about the shape of Jiang Cheng’s feelings towards him, would still be a worthy gift for a powerful sect leader. He hesitates over two different choices when a gust of wind shifts the curtains between the stalls to reveal the third, a stall little more than a table with a stout canvas awning. A clear-eyed old woman sits at the table, which holds a half dozen pairs of plain knit gloves, each dyed a serviceable dark color. The chill that comes on the wind sends a shiver through Lan Xichen and he reaches for the gloves at the far right end of the table.
He expects coarse, sturdy wool and is taken by surprise as his calloused fingertips caress a fine, soft fabric. In the light cast by a trio of oil lamps hanging from a beam, he can see the fiber has been dyed a deep purple, the color of the top of the sky as the last of the sun’s rays dissipate on a hot summer night. Without thinking, he brings a glove to his cheek and runs it across his skin, raising a trail of goosebumps as he imagines these gloves on Jiang Cheng’s sturdy, capable hands, as he imagines those hands tracing up and down his skin, his arms, his sides, his—
“I’d really rather you did not fondle the merchandise,” the woman says, her voice dry as bleached bone in the desert. “At least not until you’ve paid for it.”
“I am so sorry,” Lan Xichen stammers, face aflame. “I apologize for my untoward behavior. I wanted, that is, I hoped to—“
“We all know what you hope, Master Lan,” the woman says. She doesn’t look angry, but a powerful desire to please this woman, to be found worthy rises in a tide that threatens to consume him. “It’s not a question of hope,” she goes on. “It’s a question of honor.”
“You know me?”
The woman barely stops herself from rolling her eyes, and it is only because of his long years training teenage disciples for his sect that Lan Xichen even notices the disrespectful gesture, and Lan Xichen feels hot anger, righteous on Jiang Cheng’s behalf, flare in his chest.
“Madame, I assure you, whatever may have occurred in the past, whatever grudge you may bear, he holds you, and all of Yunmeng, dearer than his own life, and he—“
“Whatever are you blathering about?” Her face is still stern, but there is something like amusement in her eyes.
“Blathering? Why, Madame—“
“Lai.”
“Madame Lai. Please, may I buy these? Whatever you might think, whatever rumors you may hear, I assure you, the one to whom I wish to gift these is worthy.”
Madame Lai stares at him for a long moment and then, to his great surprise, she bursts out laughing.
“Worthy? You think...you really think…” She clutches her sides as spasms of helpless laughter overtake her. “Boy,” she gasps, “are you really so stupid?”
Lan Xichen drops the gloves onto the table and draws himself up, stern and rigid. “I see I have no business here. If you will excuse me.” He turns and crashes into a solid block of muscle, one of the brutes he encountered at the fan stall. Behind him, firm as a brick wall, seven other equally broad and menacing men cut off his path of escape.
“Master Lan.” He turns back to face Madame Lai. She smiles, but there is a feral edge to the expression. “Do you understand what a gift of this nature signifies?”
“I do.” He means to sound firm, commanding, but the words escape as a whisper. He clears his throat. “Whatever you might think, I think — no, I am certain —I am certain he is worth it.”
Madame Lai looks at each of the men behind him, a silent conversation he cannot read. “You have badly misread the situation, Master Lan. However,” she says, holding up a hand to forestall interruption, “I do believe that we can trust you.”
“Of course you can trust him! You know what sacrifices he has — wait, what?” He looks at Madame Lai, then at the men arrayed behind him, then back at her. “Trust me?”
“Sect Leader Jiang may appear to be tempered steel through and through, Master Lan, but we both know how openly he wears his heart, how deeply his devotion to Yunmeng and Lotus Pier runs.”
Lan Xichen nods when it is clear she expects a response, but he does not know what to say.
“Master Lan,” she says, as though she is lecturing the youngest, dullest sect disciple. “If you betray his trust, if you harm him, if you give him cause to shut away his heart or drown in his devotion, you will not long survive.” She comes out from behind the table and walks right up to him, poking him in the chest with a finger. “If you hurt him, we will kill you, Master Lan, and no one will ever find your body.”
Lan Xichen stands frozen, gaping down at her as the weight of her words settles on him.
“But, Madame, A-Cheng said—“
Madame Lai heaves a deep sigh and dismisses the men behind them with a wave. When they are alone, she leans back against the table, holding the pair of gloves in her lap. When she looks back up at Lan Xichen, her eyes are soft and sad.
“You know Sect Leader Jiang intimately, I believe.”
Lan Xichen blushes furiously, and Madame Lai barks a laugh.
“Not that way, although good for you. He has looked much happier of late, and we wondered. Well, no need to confirm or deny that particular bit of information to me.”
Lan Xichen’s mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping at the edge of a lake.
“I believe you know his heart, Master Lan. You know the foundations of it, set there by an indifferent father and a cruel mother. His sister, gods bless her, tempered it somewhat, and that wild Wei Wuxian has also lent it some strength. But you know, don’t you, what a fragile thing a heart can be.”
Lan Xichen swallows. “I do, yes,” he says.
Madame Lai reaches out to pat his cheek. “Thank you. That’s all I need to know.” She hands him the gloves. “Take these and go. It’s getting late, and Sect Leader Jiang will be wondering where you’ve gone.”
“Madame Lai, I—“
“It’s alright. You take these to him. Give them to him before you return to your home. The rest will fall into place.” She surprises him with a fierce, powerful hug. “But do remember this,” she whispers in his ear as she squeezes him tight, “I keep my promises.”
Lan Xichen returns her embrace. “As do I.”
“Alright, then, off you go. Enjoy the rest of your festival, Master Lan. Look for me whenever you come back. We’ll make sure you’re well looked after at Lotus Pier.”
Lan Xichen bows deeply to her, then turns to go, passing one of the men who looks him straight in the eye and draws his finger across his throat in an unmistakable message. Lan Xichen hurries past, never more relieved to see Jiang Cheng as he is in this moment.
“There you are!” Jiang Cheng holds out a small wicker basket with several sweet sesame dumplings. “I thought you’d given up and gone inside.”
“No, A-Cheng. No, I would not leave you, not without a word.” He takes a bite of dumpling as he collects his thoughts. “I found what I needed,” he says, looking directly at Jiang Cheng. He feels a thrill that he manages again to draw a blush from the sect leader. “You said something about a pavilion. Is it too late to go? Because I would very much like to see it.”
“If you like,” Jiang Cheng says, his voice carefully light. “Come on, it’s not far. Just a bit beyond the market.”
Hiding the gloves in an inner pocket of his robes, Lan Xichen reaches for Jiang Cheng’s arm, linking them, not caring who might see.
“Xichen, I—“
“Take me to the pavilion, please, A-Cheng.”
Jiang Cheng swallows hard. “Of course.”
When they arrive at the Moonrise Pavilion, Lan Xicheng gasps. Hundreds of tiny paper lanterns are strung along the underside of the roof. A low fire burns in a pit in the center. The octagonal pavilion has thin paper walls, enough to block a bit of wind and afford those in the shelter some small measure of privacy, though this late, with the full moon rising before them, there is no one to see. Jiang Cheng busies himself making Lan Xichen comfortable, stacking cushions, stoking the fire to warm them, wrapping down-filled blankets around them. At last, however he sits beside Lan Xichen, tucked against his side.
“Did you have a nice time?” he asks, stifling a yawn.
“I did,” Lan Xichen replies. “It was a lovely festival. The people, too. Fierce and caring and protective, like their leader.”
“Shut up,” Jiang Cheng says, elbowing him gently.
“I mean it.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out the gloves. “These are for you,” he says, “if you will have them.” He puts the gloves on Jiang Cheng’s hands. “If you will have me.”
“A-Huan.”
“Will you?” He traces the line of Jiang Cheng’s jaw with a careful finger. “Will you have me, A-Cheng?”
Emotions too quick to name dash across Jiang Cheng’s face, and no words come, but Lan Xichen finds his answer in the press of Jiang Cheng’s lips to his, truth in the connection of skin to skin.
“You love me?” Jiang Cheng asks when they break apart for breath.
“You are my heart,” Lan Xichen replies. “I cannot live without you. Do you love me?”
“More than I can say.”
Lan Xichen laughs. “Then I suppose you will have to kiss me again.”
So he does.