Chapter Text
Lan Xichen doesn’t know who he is, these days.
For most of his life, he’s been an intermediary, a peacemaker: the one whose job it is to smooth things over. His uncle and brother are both such strong personalities that, for all Xichen is technically nephew to Lan Qiren and elder brother to Lan Wangji, he more often feels like a middle child caught between them. When shufu is unyielding, it’s Xichen’s job to find and translate the concern beneath his rigid words, so that Wangji can feel valued; when Wangji draws a boundary, it’s Xichen who verbalizes the unspoken context, so that shufu can feel respected. This is the line Lan Xichen has walked since the age of nine, when their mother committed suicide and Lan Qiren tried to limit Wangji’s mourning of her. Xichen’s quiet grief went unacknowledged, sitting spiked in his throat like a half-swallowed sea urchin. Easier to kneel by his uncle’s chair and explain that Wangji needed more time than to admit that he did, too; easier to let Wangji crawl into his bed at night and sob against his shoulder than to say he couldn’t sleep alone, either. What is Lan Xichen for, if not to build bridges? What is his place in their family, if not to hold it together?
So it has always been – and so, he assumed, it would always be. Until one night, without any warning, Wangji spoke up after their weekly family dinner and said, as calm as a captain staring down a brewing storm, “Wei Ying and I are together.”
The resulting argument was beyond even Xichen’s powers to mediate. Lan Qiren has never liked Wei Wuxian and firmly disapproves of romantic or sexual entanglements of any kind, marriage being a lone if grudging exception. Partly this is due to the tragedy of Xichen and Wangji’s own parents, but mostly, Xichen suspects, it’s because Lan Qiren is a misanthrope who had his heart broken once and has loathed the idea of emotional vulnerability ever since. That the heartbreaker in question went on to become Wei Wuxian’s mother certainly didn’t help in this particular instance, but even had his brother’s beloved sprouted fully-formed from under a radish leaf instead of appearing three years ago as Wangji’s first year college roommate, Xichen doubts that the evening could’ve been salvaged. Lan Qiren called Wangji irresponsible, shameless, dissolute; he called Wei Wuxian a bad influence, a distraction, and a reprobate. Wangji remained uncowed, and when Lan Qiren pushed the issue to breaking point – “So long as you associate with him, you will not be welcome in this house!” – Wangji had stood, bowed curtly to their uncle, and replied, “Then you will not see me again.”
He left with Lan Qiren still yelling at him. Xichen stayed for long enough to tidy away the dinner things and to hear out their uncle’s anger, but when the time came to play his role – to somehow, impossibly, soften Wangji’s defiance into a palatable shape – he found that, not only couldn’t he do so, but the prospect of trying made him feel sick to his stomach.
“Wangji should be free to love,” he’d said instead, to his uncle’s outraged astonishment – and then he’d left, too, already phoning Wangji on his way out the door to offer him and Wei Wuxian his unconditional support.
“Thank you,” Wangji had replied, as choked up as Xichen had ever heard him, before launching into what was, for Wangji, an extraordinary monologue on topics they’d never discussed before: his attraction to men, the steady development of his feelings for Wei Wuxian, the glorious realization that those feelings were reciprocated, and his determination to live openly and honestly as himself.
“I’m happy for you,” Lan Xichen said, and meant it with his whole heart – or at least, he thought he did. Wangji has been through so much in his life: what sort of brother would Xichen be, to begrudge him a loving partner? So when their phonecall finally ended, Xichen thought at first that his tears were the joyful kind; that he was happy for his brother. It wasn’t until he was sobbing uncontrollably, tearing at the collar of a dress shirt that felt tight enough to choke, that he realized he wasn’t happy at all, which only made him cry harder. He ought to be happy; why wasn’t he happy?
He sobbed himself into a panic attack, kneeling beside his couch with his face half-pressed to his trembling arms. His thoughts kept chasing themselves in circles: What’s wrong with me? Why do I feel like this? He didn’t know, and by the time he was finally capable of steering his exhausted, wrung-out body into the shower, he was no closer to an answer.
That was three months ago. Xichen is fine now, obviously – he tells himself this every morning, as he stares at his baggy-eyed reflection in the mirror – but he misses the weekly family dinners, which ceased entirely after a single, abortive attempt at continuing them without Wangji. His uncle spent the entire time lecturing Xichen about how marriage ought to be a level-headed partnership: a contract founded on the mutual advancement of both families and the raising of children. Anything more would only diminish your spiritual energy, sap your concentration and distract from a cultivator’s work, which was ever-more important in a modern world that so often valued fleeting novelty ahead of tradition and piety.
Xichen endured for as long as he could, the food bland and rubbery in his mouth, until it was time to leave. He thanked his uncle mechanically, apologizing in advance for his lack of availability next week – a lie, though Lan Qiren didn’t recognize it as such – and hasn’t been back since. Instead, he’s thrown himself into his work for the Cultivation Bureau, making a special point of taking on as many after-hours callouts as he’s offered. Caiyi Town has been a functional city for well over a century; with so many people pressed together, it’s far too easy to slip through the cracks in death as well as life. Xichen dispels restless spirits that turn up in nightclubs, hospitals, warehouses; he plays Inquiry for addicts, hit-and-run victims, the very old and the very young. He keeps in touch with Wangji, smiling through the twist in his chest whenever his brother texts a selfie of him and Wei Wuxian or updates him on their doings, but otherwise, he’s more disconnected from family than he’s ever been before.
It’s not weighing on him. Why should it weigh on him? He was useful when Wangji and shufu were trying to have a relationship, but now that they’re not, he isn’t. His uncle stopped calling two months ago, which was frankly a relief, and though Wangji has been so deeply immersed in his new relationship that they’ve barely seen each other, in some ways, he’s more open than ever. Xichen’s apartment, like his life, is not suddenly empty, no matter how much it feels that way: only one small thing has been removed, and if he ever starts to feel ungrateful for what he has, he need only listen to the plucked strings of his guqin as a dead child fished from the river describes her murderer to understand his fortune.
It therefore comes as a shock to return home from work one evening – late, as has become his new normal; hours past the strict 9pm bedtime with which he and Wangji were raised – to find his brother pacing worriedly in his kitchen, an uncharacteristically silent Wei Wuxian seated at the table.
Xichen’s pulse spikes in sudden fear. “Wangji? What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Xichen,” says Wangji, voice thick with distress. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Xichen stares at him, confused. “Tell you what?”
“That you were struggling,” says Wangji. He swallows hard and walks to Xichen, hovering like he wants to hug him but isn’t sure it’s allowed. “I’m so sorry, xiongzhang. I should’ve been making time for you, not leaving you all alone.”
Xichen smiles, the expression cracking across his face like splintered glass. “Wangji, I’m fine. I don’t know what’s brought this on, but –”
“Zewu-jun,” says Wei Wuxian. His grey eyes are sad, tone gentle despite his interruption. “Look around. Are you really fine?”
Xichen opens his mouth to protest, but the words die on his tongue as, for the first time in months, he allows himself to register the state of his apartment. Something clenches in his chest. Like Wangji, he’s always been a neat person (was forced to be a neat person, some inner voice whispers bitterly), but he’s been working so much lately and at such odd hours, it’s just been easier to let his routines slip. Chores he ordinarily completes once a week – vacuuming, changing his sheets, wiping down the counters, cleaning the bathroom – have gone unperformed for months; he’s been doing occasional laundry, but he’s been too tired to fold away the clean things like he usually would, leaving them piled on his bedroom chair. He hasn’t been cooking much, either – it’s all felt too hard, and he keeps forgetting to grocery shop – and take-out containers have piled up in the fridge, on the counters, the table. There are dirty dishes in the sink, stray glasses left out, and more empty bottles of wine in the recycling than he cares to acknowledge. Drinking alcohol isn’t new for him, per se – unlike Wangji, teetotalling was one of shufu’s rules that Xichen dispensed with early in his own university career – but his tolerance is low, and he usually only has a glass or two a week. But all his extra work has upended his sleeping routines, and a little wine makes him pleasantly drowsy; makes it easier to pass out alone in the bed he’s never dared share with another soul without having to sift through uncomfortable thoughts and feelings.
“Wangji,” Xichen croaks, and the word comes out as plea and apology both. “I’m not – I didn’t –”
Wangji steps up and hugs him hard. “I’m sorry,” he whispers fiercely. “Please forgive this inattentive brother.”
Xichen tries to reply, but what comes out instead is a wrenching gasp. He hugs Wangji back, arms shaking at the encircling comfort of being held, and presses his face to his brother’s shoulder, crying for the first time since the night Wangji broke with their uncle.
“What’s wrong with me?” Xichen chokes out. “What’s wrong with me, Wangji?”
“Nothing,” his brother says fiercely. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.”
Xichen doesn’t believe him. Can’t. He shakes his head blindly against the curve of Wangji’s shoulder and cries himself out, a mirror-image of the way he used to hold Wangji when they were children. At some point, Wangji steers him to the couch and they sit down together, his brother rubbing circles against his back as Xichen rests his head in his hands. Wei Wuxian moves in his peripheral vision, but Xichen has no energy to spare for him.
“You’ve been working too hard,” says Wangji firmly. “Jiang Cheng told Wei Ying about all your extra shifts; even he was worried for you.”
“And believe me,” Wei Wuxian puts in, “Jiang Cheng never worries about anyone.” He snorts. “Or, well – he actually worries all the time about everything, but mostly he just yells about it. Taking the time to tell me in a normal voice and asking that we check in on you? That was new.”
Xichen nods dumbly, tears finally starting to peter out. “There’s leave I haven’t taken –”
“Take it,” Wangji says. “I’ll call the Bureau tomorrow.”
Xichen shuts his eyes and nods, head tipping back onto Wangji’s shoulder. “I’m so tired, didi,” he whispers.
“Wei Ying is getting fresh sheets for you,” says Wangji. “Go shower, and then you can go to sleep.”
Xichen feels a sudden pang. “And then you’re leaving?”
Wangji makes a small, hurt noise and presses a kiss to Xichen’s temple. “No, xiongzhang. We’ll stay in the guest room.”
“Thank you,” Xichen rasps, and lets himself be shepherded into the bathroom.
He showers in a daze, almost brought to tears all over again by the simple courtesy of the clean towel and fresh pajamas that Wangji brings him. By the time he stumbles into his bedroom, Wei Wuxian has stripped the old linens and replaced them with clean sheets, while Wangji is methodically folding away his neglected laundry.
“You don’t have to do that –”
“I want to,” says Wangji. He walks over, puts a hand on Xichen’s shoulder and nudges him gently into bed. “Sleep.”
Xichen passes out the second his head hits the pillow. He sleeps more deeply than he has in months, without the ache of unsettling dreams, and wakes, cotton-mouthed, to the scent of brewing tea and the gentle patter of voices. Panic lurches through him until he remembers both Wangji’s presence and his promise to arrange his leave of absence. He shuts his eyes briefly, struggling not to be overwhelmed. Cultivators are always at risk of emotional burnout, and it’s something the Bureau takes seriously. Small wonder Jiang Cheng decided to intervene. Xichen will have to thank him, once he works past the sick, sour feeling of shame that such intervention was needed in the first place.
Heavy-limbed, he makes his way first to the bathroom and then the kitchen, where he freezes at the sight of Wangji and Wei Wuxian murmuring together, hips and shoulders touching as they lean against the counter. They’re smiling as they sip their tea, and Xichen is suddenly filled with an emotion so foreign and powerful that he can barely breathe around it.
He must make some noise, because they both look up, Wei Wuxian falling silent at the sight of him.
“Xiongzhang,” says Wangji, straightening. “Did you sleep well?”
Xichen nods, skin buzzing. A distant part of him notices that they’ve cleaned his whole apartment, and he wants to be thankful for it – is thankful, will be thankful – but his heart is raw as an open wound, and all at once, he realizes that what he’s feeling is anger.
He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it prompts Wangji and Wei Wuxian to exchange a silent, meaningful look, at which Wei Wuxian puts down his teacup, presses a kiss to Wangji’s cheek and says, “Thank you for hosting us, Xichen-ge. I have an appointment to get to, but I hope you’ll come to dinner soon!”
“Of course,” Xichen manages, and somehow doesn’t flinch at the sound of the front door closing in Wei Wuxian’s wake.
Silence falls between the brothers, as deep and heavy as snowfall. It stretches out for endless seconds, until Xichen sighs and forces himself to take a seat at the kitchen table, watching as a wary Wangji sits down opposite.
“I’m angry,” Xichen says. A small, incredulous laugh seeps out with the words. He’s never been an angry person – not like Wangji, not like their uncle – and feels sickened by the admission; by the fact that he feels it at all.
“I’m sorry, xiongzhang.” Wangji bows his head. “I should’ve told you about Wei Ying ahead of time, not sprung it on you –”
“No,” says Xichen, sharp enough that they both flinch. Xichen shakes his head, unable to meet his brother’s gaze. “I mean. That would’ve been nice, too, but it’s not – that’s not why I’m angry.” He stretches his fingers on the tabletop, thumb rubbing against the wood. “I’m angry,” he says at last, “because you both threw me away. Not – not literally, I don’t mean you abandoned me. I mean –” he huffs, the sound jagged as he stares to the right of Wangji’s head, “– what I am, my whole life, it’s always been about balancing you and uncle. I… translate you to each other. When he pushes, when he wants too much, I have to be perfect. I tell you how much he loves us, and I tell him about your duty, your hard work, your success. When you want space, I intercede. When he wants commitment, I soften it. And I don’t – I’ve never let myself exist outside of that, Wangji. I couldn’t.”
He feels wild as he says it, heart beating as he finally confronts the shock in his brother’s eyes. “That is my place in this family. I hold you together. I hold us together. And I thought that meant something. That you valued it, at least. That you understood that it wasn’t – that I had to be like that, for all our sakes, even at my own expense.” He swallows, throat tight. “And then, in one night, you threw it away. So easily, you both threw it away! And I’m not – Wangji, I’m so happy for you, I need you to know that I mean it; I don’t begrudge you choosing happiness for an instant. But it hurts.” He makes a noise on the edge of tears, hand scrubbing across his face. “It hurts so much that, in that moment, neither of you thought of me. My whole purpose, and I didn’t matter at all.” He laughs, the sound brittle and ugly. “Should I never have tried? Would all of us have been better off if I’d let the two of you hate each other earlier? And now I don’t – I feel like I’ve lost both of you, like there’s nothing left –”
“Xichen –”
“– because the truth is, you’ve never needed me. You’re both so much stronger than me, and I don’t – I don’t know what to do, who I’m meant to be if I’m not helping us stay a family, and it feels like everything’s meaningless, like I’m meaningless – do you know how much of my life is only like this for uncle’s sake? I work at the Bureau because it’s what he wanted; I’ve never even tried to date because he disapproved of it; I never moved away because you needed me here to cope with him, but you didn’t, and he doesn’t – he doesn’t care, he’s horrible, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him –”
Xichen makes a wrenching noise and suddenly Wangji is there again, hugging him tight round the shoulders as he sobs into his hands.
“Xiongzhang,” Wangji rasps, “I’m so sorry. Please, you’re not meaningless. I need you; I’ve always needed you. We’re family. You and me, we’ve always stood together. You’ve done so much for me, I’m so – you’re my shield, Xichen. Listen.” He squeezes Xichen’s shoulders, forcing him to look up. “Whatever strength I have is because of you. When I was small, if you hadn’t been there… I think he would’ve broken me, Xichen. He would’ve turned me into him, and I’d have thanked him for it, because I wouldn’t have known any better.” Wangji’s eyes are wet, and the sight of it pierces through Xichen’s grief like nothing else in the world. “That I know myself at all – that I could allow myself want Wei Ying; that I was someone he could want in return – that’s because of you. You taught me what family means, not uncle. And I’m so, so sorry that I ever let you think it didn’t matter.”
Xichen lets out an astonished, snuffling laugh and pulls Wangji into a proper hug. They end up migrating to the couch, more tactile with each other than they’ve been in years. Xichen still feels shaky, but a weight’s been lifted from him, and as their conversation eases back into simpler subjects – when he ought to come to dinner (soon), what to expect from Wei Wuxian’s cooking (spice), what he might do with his three weeks of leave (whatever he wishes) – he slowly starts to breathe again.
They’ve just reached a sort of gentle equilibrium when Wangji bites his lip and says, hesitantly, “What you said before… have you truly never dated?”
“Never,” says Xichen, smiling sadly. “Uncle was… stricter with me, about such matters. I had to set an example for you.”
“But you –” Wangji falters, clearly trying to find the right words, “– you… experience desire?”
Xichen freezes, flushing hot and cold as everything he’s always forced himself not to be comes bubbling up through the cracks in his composure. “Yes,” he whispers. “But. But I wasn’t as brave as you.”
Wangji inhales sharply, squeezing Xichen’s hand. “You mean –?”
“I like men, too,” says Xichen, and briefly whites out at the admission. Ears ringing, vision wavering. It’s like putting his soul on a platter. His own voice, when he speaks again, sounds tinnily distant, as if he’s on a speakerphone in traffic. “I think. When uncle – when he didn’t want me dating. I just. You know?”
“I know,” says Wangji softly. “It never occurred to him. He only cared that we didn’t look at women –”
“– and that made it easier.”
“Mn.”
“But also –”
“Also,” Wangji whispers, “so much harder.”
“Did you,” Xichen starts. Stops. Starts again. “Before you were with Wei Wuxian, had you ever –?”
“Yes,” says Wangji. The tips of his ears turn pink. “Not a relationship. But. Physical things.”
Xichen shuts his eyes. “It’s too late for me, surely. I can’t – how could I – who could I trust with that?”
“It’s not too late. It’s never too late. And,” says Wangji, unexpectedly wry, “in some respects, it is easier to experiment with strangers. Disappointing them carries no risk, and all you can do is learn.”
Xichen lets out a startled laugh. “Is that so?”
“Mn.”
“I’ll consider it,” he says, and exhales in quiet relief when Wangji changes the topic.
Later, once he’s showered and dressed, his brother takes him grocery shopping, helping to restock his pitifully depleted fridge. Xichen pauses in the toiletries aisle to pick out a new toothbrush, and when he turns back, a packet of condoms and a bottle of personal lubricant have appeared in his cart.
“Wangji!” Xichen splutters, blushing to the roots of his hair.
His brother blinks guilelessly. “Yes, xiongzhang?”
Xichen imagines saying I’m not ready for that, only for Wangji to reply that it’s better to be prepared. The prospect is mortifying along several different axes, not least of which being that he wants to be ready – wants to be the sort of person who’d already be ready – and, well. Preparedness is, as the Wangji in his head has already pointed out, important.
Xichen sighs. “Nothing,” he says, and pretends not to notice when Wangji airily adds a four-pack of tissue boxes, too.
Once they’re back at the apartment, Wangji insists on staying for long enough to make a batch of soup, which he boxes up and stores in the fridge for Xichen’s future use.
“You don’t need to fuss so much,” says Xichen, flustered at being so thoroughly mother-henned by his little brother.
“Yes, I do,” says Wangji.
Eventually, though, his brother does leave, if only due to certain pre-existing commitments – he and Wei Wuxian are looking for a new, shared living arrangement and have realtors to meet – leaving Xichen alone with a tidied apartment, a newly-stocked fridge and an aching sense of jealousy. Sighing, he lies down on the couch and pulls out his phone, thumbing through to his email for long enough to confirm that his leave has indeed been approved, complete with a brusque request from Jiang Cheng to look after himself. He puts down his phone and stares at the ceiling.
Now what?
After an indeterminate amount of time, his phone buzzes. Xichen considers ignoring it, then sighs and picks it up.
And blinks, nonplussed, as he stares at the text he’s just received from Wei Wuxian.
So, it reads. How do you feel about dating?