Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Xue Yang comes to, jaw aching, on his back, on a stranger’s bed. It’s the taste in his mouth that drags him into wakefulness, his dick half-hard and untouched in his pants. There’s music playing somewhere, something muffled with a driving beat. His fingers come away slick from the corner of his mouth, the smell lush and musky. A sense-memory chases after it: smooth plump folds, his own breathlessness.

He spares a thought for Haoxuan, good for you. But this isn’t how their tradeoffs are supposed to go. Or rather — Haoxuan doesn’t tend to drop him off the deep end. He’s focused, driven, hard-working, doesn’t take unnecessary risks. Xue Yang’s heart rate kicks up. Neither of them can control when the handoff happens; something just runs its course, and the other one takes over. At least that’s how it is now. All Xue Yang knows is that a change is coming, and Nie Huaisang says the travelers from the jianghu are here to stay.

It’s not the most disorienting place Xue Yang has woken up, in this life or the last. The room isn’t giving him much, though: low lighting, impersonal furniture, curtains drawn. It’s not a hotel, and it’s not someplace someone really lives. He sits up, anxiety careening through him. A toilet flushes in an en-suite bathroom, followed by a running faucet.

Xue Yang can convincingly pass as Haoxuan with people who don’t know him. He’s not expecting Wen Qing to saunter out of the bathroom.

Before he corrects himself, before he reminds himself that she’s not Wen Qing, not even buried deep, he thinks: She looks happy. In fact, she’s looking smug and a bit wobbly in the legs. Wen Qing could have used a good wringing-out in Qishan. She’d treated Xue Yang for some of the same ailments she’d tended to in Wen Ruohan. Xue Yang was more resilient, more adapted to demonic cultivation — it never laid him flat like it did the old man. He’d looked up at Wen Qing’s sour, sad face while she stuck him full of needles, smiled at her, flirted with her, offered to repay the favor. “That’s not how you pay doctors,” she’d say tightly.

The actress drops onto the mattress beside him and smiles, her lips bold red even in the dim light. She’s so little, without all those robes to shield her. “Thanks for the ride,” she purrs, her eyes dancing. “I should have been chasing you for years.”

Xue Yang never bothered to learn any of their names, beyond the Yi City cast. He has no interest in any of them, disconnected from their other selves. While he’s smiling back at her, he’s cursing inside, wishing Haoxuan could bring him up to speed. At least Xue Yang tends to be alone when he drops out — Haoxuan can handle waking up on a rooftop or two.

She’s so gorgeous, and she’s looking at him so hungrily. Xue Yang bites his lip, still damp and delicious with her. He might as well keep Haoxuan on her good side. “Anything you want,” he says, smirking back. “I’ve got more on offer.”

Wen Qing eyes his pants. Deftly, she unbuttons the top and unzips halfway down, enough to give herself room to palm him through his underwear. His breath catches. The heat of her hand promises something he always wants. His hips curl up into it, but Wen Qing merely strokes him idly with her thumb.

“That’s not what we agreed, but…” She draws back. “Come find me in an hour and I’ll consider it.”

Xue Yang’s eyes widen. He whines, without planning to. “You’re so mean.”

She stands up, straightens her very tight, very short skirt and winks. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Xue Yang groans, but lets her go. He sucks his tongue, chasing the taste of her again, weighing whether to placate his eager cock. The music outside keeps intruding, keeps him on edge. Haoxuan did not mention that he’d be coming to any parties. They’ve both had other things on their minds, like how long they’ll be switching like this, and who would be left standing if the switching ever stopped.

A fist at the door, pounding. “Hey! Anyone in there?” The knob rattles. “Is this locked?”

Every muscle in Xue Yang’s body goes taut. He knows that voice. He casts about, frantic for an exit or a hiding place, but there’s just the bathroom and a child-proofed window. Maybe the interloper will move along if he doesn’t respond. Xue Yang wishes, desperately, that he was armed. Even a knife or a dagger would do.

The door opens, and a head pokes into the room. Nie Mingjue catches Xue Yang hastily zipping and buttoning his jeans. He grins knowingly, so freely that his eyes nearly disappear. “Oh, don’t mind me, bro. Take your time.”

Nie Mingjue is barefaced, his hair close-shaven. It makes him look more like Ji Li, like Huaisang, than should be possible. Xue Yang hops to his feet. His jaw wants to clamp tight now, his body flooded with adrenaline. But he knows that if he’s getting out of this, it’s by walking, not running.

“I thought you were in Shanghai,” he says.

However he picked up that Nie Mingjue doesn’t like Beijing very much, it seems to land. “Meetings,” says Nie Mingjue cheerfully, rolling his eyes. “Yu Bin did me a solid, timing this thing.”

Another voice rings out over the music. “Who’s that?” Jin Zixuan tumbles into the hallway, beaming past Nie Mingjue’s shoulder. “Haoxuan!” he belts, and slings an elbow around Nie Mingjue’s neck, a bottle in one hand.

Xue Yang has no idea how well they all know each other. He strolls toward the door. His way out is so close. “Hey!”

Jin Zixuan tilts his head. It’s amazing how loose he gets without that stick up his ass. “What’re you doing in here?”

“Oh, she left first,” he says dryly, and Nie Mingjue and Jin Zixuan cheer. Two sets of huge hands pound his back and pull him into the hallway. I cut off your head with your own sword, Xue Yang thinks, glancing at Nie Mingjue. I learned so much from experimenting on you. I loved every minute of it, and I did in the dungeons of Jinlintai. His eyes dart to Jin Zixuan. Even before I helped kill your father.

Last summer, it was possible, even easy to see when the actors weren’t themselves. Xue Yang spotted Nie Huaisang across a wide courtyard thanks to how the young master stared when no one else was looking. One day on the Yi City set, Xue Yang was lounging in the shade, whittling with a dull prop, daring the knife to bite him. Lan Jingyi bustled by with one of the other juniors, both of them deep in some lighthearted nonsense. Xue Yang caught Lan Jingyi’s eye as they passed; the little disciple’s face tightened, and he hurried the other along. Now, though, they’ve all had months to practice hiding. Xue Yang has no idea how much of his past has followed him to this place. Who else knows that he’s here right now too?

Jin Zixuan tugs on Xue Yang’s sleeve. “Bud,” he says, focusing intently. “Buddy, you are frowning.”

“Thinking too hard,” Xue Yang quips, wryly. “I should stop that.”

It’s a good, in-character answer. Jin Zixuan claps him on the shoulder and rocks him, his expression both mocking and sincere. “Haoxuan. I am glad to see you here.” Nie Mingjue chortles supportively and guides Xue Yang into the corridor.

“Well,” Xue Yang says, with a hopeful chuckle. “Good party, right?”

“Yeah, but like — you, man. I heard no one’s seen you in like, months!” Jin Zixuan pounds him on the back. “It’s good you’re here, we were getting worried!”

The two of them shepherd Xue Yang toward the music, chattering past him. Xue Yang gets it now: this is a cast party, at a hip loft apartment that no one owns. Clusters of familiar faces baffle him. There’s Luo Qingyang laughing at fucking Su She, who’s somehow cool and collected and confident. Lan Jingyi and Jin Ling are chugging beers and crowing to Jiang Yanli. She’s startling, dazzling, attractive as hell in dramatic makeup and an off-the-shoulder sweater. Xue Yang blinks hard, twice, at Wang Lingjiao mixing cocktails for Nie Huaisang and Ouyang Zizhen. He turns his face away, his breath quickening. He doesn’t want anything to do with Nie Huaisang, not here, not ever.

Nie Mingjue and Jin Zixuan are still boxing him in. “Are Yibo and Xiao Zhan here yet?” Nie Mingjue asks.

“No. You want to know how you’ll know when they are?” Jin Zixuan plasters on a shit-eating grin and cries, “Zhan-ge! Zhan-ge! Didi ai ni! Zhan-ge!”

Nie Mingjue cackles, and Jin Zixuan dives in, play-smacking him with imaginary sleeves. Xue Yang extricates himself. He has to find his shoes so he can flee.

For a place with so few interior walls, it’s bafflingly mazelike. Xue Yang bumbles down narrow new-build hallways, breathing deep. He’s been so good. There’s no reason anyone here would hurt him or break the peace. And he has to look after Haoxuan. This isn’t just his body anymore.

“Xue Yang!” someone roars behind him. “My favorite henchman!”

He turns, the hairs on his neck prickling, his knees bent as if he has somewhere to run.

It’s Wen Chao, his scalp buzzed short, his smirk firmly in place, a cigarette in one hand and a half-empty tumbler in the other. He points, menacingly, with the cocktail. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Xue Yang pouts; he remembers this jokey dynamic from filming. He can never quite get it right. Teasing the daozhang is one thing, but faking rudeness to someone you don’t like is always a trap. “Sucks to be you, I’m just leaving. Ah!” He squirms as Wen Chao tucks him close in a one-armed hug.

“You fell off the face of the planet,” Wen Chao says. “Check your messages more! When are we getting hotpot together?”

“Maybe if you’re paying,” he retorts, and Wen Chao throws his head back to bray.

“Are you really leaving?” He gestures back toward the main room. “I thought your boys hadn’t arrived yet.”

“My boys?” Xue Yang knits his brow. He could only mean— “Wait, they’re coming?”

Wen Chao shrugs one shoulder. “Lulu got a message from Bowen that they were in a car.” He huffs. “You’d think they were—”

Xue Yang tunes out the rest of it. His brain races, this new information clasped between his teeth. It’s fraught between him and the others; Xiao Xingchen refuses to be alone with him, so they only ever encounter each other in stilted chance meetings, when he comes through while they’re with Haoxuan. Song Jiyang won’t talk to him at all, while Bowen has attempted a series of baffled, mature conversations about their relationship and how Xue Yang used him. For his part, Xue Yang far prefers Song Lan’s grim hostility.

He'd been honest in the moment when he finally got Xingchen back. He was so happy just to see him. He'd have done the same again in a heartbeat, even if it meant they would never meet after. But more and more, Xue Yang itches and strains against the premise. He’s in exile. He can’t stomach that. It’s hardly worth being here if Xiao Xingchen won’t see him.

Abruptly, Wen Ning blocks the way out of the hallway, towering. He half-supports Jiang Wanyin under the arms. Wen Chao trails off.

“Hey, you’re good with babysitting,” Wen Ning begins. There’s nothing lost or innocent about his face — his two usual states, at least while they were all in Nightless City.

“Nope!” says Wen Chao, who turns on his heel and abandons his favorite henchman.

Jiang Wanyin giggles, then narrows his eyes sternly. “Xue Yang,” he slurs, and wags a finger. “A demonic cultivator…”

He doesn’t need this, he doesn’t need this. But Song Jiyang might be on his way. Xue Yang could talk to him here, at this party, where he can’t escape so easily. There are private rooms. Maybe Xingchen can hear it from Jiyang that Xue Yang has repented and just wants to make things right.

Now if ever is the time to keep his cool and stay focused. He surveys Jiang Wanyin and grimaces. “How gone is he?”

Wen Ning hefts Jiang Wanyin into a small side room, to deposit him on a couch. “Dumbass,” he says fondly. “He just needs to eat something, but everyone’s always on a goddamn diet.” He claps Xue Yang on the shoulder. Haoxuan’s friends keep doing that. “We’ve got about ten kilos of Korean fried chicken on the way. Look after him until it gets here?”

For years, Xue Yang did terrible things to the Ghost General underneath Jinlintai. Wen Ning could endure so much. It was mesmerizing. Xue Yang glances down at Jiang Wanyin, sprawled on the couch, happy and relaxed. He knows what Jiang-zongzhu did to cultivators like him. “I was looking for—”

“Great! Thanks, man!” Wen Ning vanishes. Like a sucker, Xue Yang makes himself take a seat. It’s what Haoxuan would do, and he really needs to be Haoxuan right now. Immediately, Jiang Wanyin stretches and cuddles up next to him.

“I’m fine,” he says contentedly, his eyes closed as he smiles. “But I do want to talk to you.” He enunciates: “Xue Yang.”

“I think you’re mistaken, boss,” Xue Yang says, automatically.

“You forget…” Jiang Wanyin holds up one finger; his eyes cross as he works to focus on it. “You forget who I spent most of filming with.”

Xue Yang doesn’t care. “Whatever you say.”

Jiang Wanyin slides off his shoulder. His head drops into Xue Yang’s lap, while he lets his feet dangle off the end of the couch.

Xue Yang is responsible for this man right now, at least in theory. He lets his attention wander. Jiang Wanyin hums a showtune to himself, drumming his fingers on his stomach. Xue Yang’s palate can still sense the base notes of pussy. If he concentrates, he can almost smell it, sharp-musk-warm-wet. Was she bare, trimmed or was there a full bush? He wonders if he can convince Wen Qing to sit for a repeat study.

He jerks, startled. Lan Xichen is curled up in an armchair in the far corner, staring into the middle distance. He gives no indication that he knows the two of them are there.

Jiang Wanyin frowns. “What, what’s wrong?”

“We have company,” Xue Yang says, quietly. As if he were really entertaining the idea of talking with this boy.

Jiang Wanyin cracks open one eye and lifts his head. He waves a hand and drops back against Xue Yang’s thigh. “Oh, don’t worry about the tea stuff, he knows.” He scrubs his nose. “But I really do want to talk to you. About Song Jiyang.”

Xue Yang’s eyebrows rise. He’d so much rather think about eating out. “What about him?”

Jiang Wanyin looks up at him from his lap, his face screwed up with concern. It’s so open and earnest, uncomplicated by anger. “I feel bad,” he says, “about the Yunmeng Shuangjie. About Yanli.” He studies his fingers, touching one after another to his thumbs. “I didn’t bleed at all. Not even a little. But they’re here. And. Don’t they deserve their brother?”

How tiresome. Xue Yang has never been anyone’s agony aunt. Action has never been a problem for him. At least Jiang Wanyin will forget this conversation altogether, if he’s drunk enough. No need for Xue Yang to hide as much.

“Please explain to me,” he says, “why I would help you bring in a man who spent years trying to hunt me down and torture me to death.”

“Oh, uh.” Jiang Wanyin grimaces. “Well, I’d be asking Jiyang, I guess, and not you. I just don’t know Jiyang that well.”

“Jiyang’s not that scary,” he drawls. “Why not talk to your shixiong about it?”

“Jiyang did it on purpose.” Jiang Wanyin frowns again. “A-jie told me.”

Xue Yang looks away, toward Lan Xichen again. The First Jade of Gusu looks half-drugged with exhaustion. He’s pretending with all his might that he’s alone in this room. Meng Yao used to get so smug about how wonderful he was. Lan Xichen’s repute as a swordsman sounded more fun. Maybe when they were all armed and at their peak, Lan-zongzhu could have been goaded into fighting dirty. Xue Yang likes to watch formalism break down. Something much more interesting is always underneath.

He’ll never get that fight now, most likely. Too bad.

“Much as I’d like the Yiling Laozu to like me,” he says at last, “I’m going to tell you not to do this.”

Haoxuan shouldn’t have done it, anyway — let him in, conjured him, summoned him, whatever. When Xue Yang first came to, yanked out of nothingness into a body again, he was certain he’d been vaulted into his punishment, dragged back into his life with no hope of correcting it. That day he’d attacked Bowen was embarrassing now, but Xue Yang couldn’t blame himself. It had taken weeks to stomach it all, and that was with Haoxuan talking him down in their common void. After he started lingering in Haoxuan’s body, Xue Yang would sit in the makeup chair, staring into the mirror as someone removed his wig. His hair, his ornaments, his braids, just — gone, detached, as if they weren’t part of him.

Joke’s on Haoxuan: now Xue Yang will be inside him, part of him, forever. He never knows when he’s coming or going, when he’ll be in control of himself fully, when he might just wink out of existence. No one knows the rules for this stuff. No one has told him whether Xue Yang staying means Haoxuan fading out. Neither can sustain it forever, though. The constant whiplash of fronting gets exhausting; it’s wearing them both thin, which means trouble no matter what.

Still in his lap, Jiang Wanyin purses his lips. “Guo Cheng says it’s temporary,” he says, dubious. “No offense, I guess. Wouldn’t it—?”

“Lan Jingyi,” Xue Yang sneers, “is lying to you. You don’t get to take it back.”

“…oh my god,” Jiang Wanyin mumbles, in English. He arches off the couch, as swiftly as though he’d been slapped, the gears visibly working behind his eyes. “Wait, then that means — who is Zhan-ge when—”

“Don’t care,” says Xue Yang, and shoves Jiang Wanyin off him to stand up. There’s no point to this. His brain is roiling now too. The last thing he wants is to tend to someone else right now. Let Lan Xichen worry about this drunk actor.

Jiang Wanyin grabs his wrist. “You can’t leave,” he says. “I need to sober up.”

Xue Yang looks down at his charge. He glances at Lan Xichen, whose attention is off in the clouds; he shifts his body anyway, so it’s blocking that line of sight. Xue Yang crooks two fingers into his palm. Before Jiang Wanyin can jerk back or react, he pours qi into Jiang Wanyin’s forehead, right at the liver acupoint between his eyebrows. Burning up whatever he’s guzzled takes only a moment or two; Jiang Wanyin’s face gets even stupider as it does: bug-eyed, stunned, gaze clear and startled.

Xue Yang curls his lip. He pats Jiang Wanyin on the cheek. “Enjoy the chicken,” he says, and prowls out of the room. His mouth has gone sour now. No one follows him.

It’s possible to hide in a churn of people. Xue Yang wanders, carefully, brushing off anyone who tries to stop him. His chest feels tight, among these half-strangers with names he hasn’t learned. It tastes akin to his alone years in Yi City — as if he’s lost them all before anything has happened. He draws his brows. This can’t be his melancholy. What’s it to him if any of these nerds miss him?

There used to be such a strong boundary between Haoxuan and himself. It’s rotting away, he thinks, and that scares him too. Little things that aren’t his are coming to him more and more: a terrible craving for broccoli, a vivid joy at the smell of asphalt. Xue Yang can wear another man’s face and disguise himself for years at a time, but those were his choices. He was always in control. He was always himself. This is something scarier, something he’ll have to study to stop.

An unmistakable whine cuts through his ruminating: “Ge-geeeeee!” Xue Yang perks up. That’s Song Jiyang, already socially loose from the sound of it. Xue Yang has been lingering in these side halls for long enough. It’s time to draw Jiyang away and ply some persuasion. Xue Yang strains for the voice over the din again. He takes a step toward the big room.

An arm thuds into the wall, blocking his way. Xue Yang’s eye roves over the muscular forearm, the sculpted mound of the pisiform bone at the wrist, the toned bicep. Fuck, he’d liked fucking this man. He slips on a bright and Haoxuan-y smile. “Bowen, hey, I—”

Song Lan glowers down at him. His anger simmers, radiates, practically resentful energy in itself. So much for that ploy. Xue Yang shows a little more of his teeth. “Fancy seeing you here,” he croons. “I thought you didn’t like fun.”

“I’m looking after Jiyang,” Song Lan says flatly.

There’s still no cheaper and better fun than keeping Song Lan fuming. Xue Yang bats his eyes. “Why, what’s up with him?”

Song Lan’s mouth thins. “Just stay away from him.”

He pouts. “Song-daozhang, if I don’t go mingle with my closest costar, everyone’s going to notice.”

“They’re not,” says Song Lan. One eyebrow twitches, in a distinctly Bowen-ish way. “Nobody cares about you, Xue Yang.”

Now his lower lip wobbles. “Haoxuan cares about me.”

Song Lan snorts. “Then I wish he could be at this party.”

Should have gotten here earlier, he thinks. He says instead, “You should try having more fun, Song-daozhang. It won’t kill you. Even if it did, you know that’s not such a big deal.” Xue Yang crows to himself, to see Song Lan stiffen like that. This, at least, is dependable.

He leers, conspicuously. “Aiyo, Bowen is so much more fun than you. Live a little, Zichen.” One hand darts to Song Lan’s hip, quick enough to graze and squeeze it. “And cut me some slack. Bringing you back was my apology to you too.” He tugs the skin under one eye and sticks out his tongue with a cheeky grin. Song Lan’s hand curls into a fist, his nails scraping against the wall. Xue Yang ducks out and dances away.

If that was ill-advised, at the very least, it lifted his mood a little. The music has picked up again, the backbeat thumping. It seems to have energized the room; the laughter is louder, the gesticulations bigger. The surreal array of faces from his first lifetime has shuffled again. Xue Yang grabs a can of something, a prop to let him stand against a wall and scan the room. He should be able to find Jiyang. That face is all he ever hopes to see, from one moment to the next.

The can turns out to be soju, beneath a smothering peach additive. It’s a smack to the head, and Xue Yang can’t decide how he feels about it. While he ponders the mess of flavors, he looks up and across the living room. Directly in his sights stands Nie Huaisang, staring right back at him.

Nie Huaisang was never on Xue Yang’s radar, and he’s got to admire him for that. That doesn’t mean he has to like him. When Nie Huaisang lifts his own bottle, the slightest of smiles playing at the corners of his mouth, Xue Yang scoffs and tosses back the soju.

A thin figure blocks his field of vision, sweeping in as if from above. “There you are!” Song Jiyang exclaims. Xue Yang startles; he must be getting slow and soft. Jiyang smiles at him, his eyes thin and cold, and Xue Yang panics a little. He’s never seen that look on either Jiyang or Xingchen. There’s something cruel and furious undergirding it. His back bumps against the wall as Jiyang crowds him close. “Come on,” Jiyang says blithely, and pulls on his hand.

He catches a glimpse of Nie Huaisang again, his lips a wry twist as he returns to his beer. Jiyang leads him down another corridor, full of determination. It could be sweet, Xue Yang supposes, if he were given to sweetness and Jiyang didn’t smell like murder underneath.

They stop at the back of the apartment. A sliding glass door behind them opens onto a balcony. Xue Yang should have a saucy remark, a way to open up the duel, but instead, Jiyang plants himself, standing too close.

“Imagine you showing your face here,” he says, quietly. There’s no one in sight, and Xue Yang wouldn’t be surprised if no one had followed. It had looked enough like he was on his way to be ravaged — would that it were true.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Xue Yang retorts. He looks Jiyang up and down. He might be as drunk as Jiang Wanyin was; Song Lan must not be looking after him very well. “What’s got your balls in a twist?”

Jiyang laughs. It sounds awful. “Oh, nothing much.” He smiles, close-lipped. “Do you know how humiliating it is to do something life-altering for someone, even if you can’t confess your stupid crush on him?”

Xue Yang thins his mouth. “That doesn’t sound like my problem.”

“Fuck you, shut up.” Jiyang looks away; he shakes his head. “And now I might—” his voice cracks, “disappear because of it. Because of you. Because you wanted him back.” He steps closer, close enough to fist Xue Yang’s shirt. His eyes are red. “What the fuck, Xue Yang. What did we ever do to you?”

Xue Yang isn’t doing it on purpose. He can’t control when he comes and goes. For the past month, ever since learning that there’d be no fading out, that Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan were here for good to keep him in line, they’ve all been flailing for answers. Nie Huaisang had nothing to say about Ji Li, and none of the other actors wanted to talk about it: too private, too embarrassing, too dangerous, too devastating. Xue Yang can feel how scared Haoxuan is, a headlong, animal fear that never rests. He hates it. He likes Haoxuan, and he shouldn’t be feeling like this.

Jiyang’s expression is a mess, his mouth wavering, his whole face unsteady. “I keep getting these flashes,” he says, miserably, “of you and Xingchen fucking.” He wets his lips, staring now at Xue Yang’s mouth. “Nothing visual, of course, but I can feel it.” A hand slides onto his inner thigh, fingers pressing gently without touching anything. Jiyang bows his head, his face nearly to the crook of Xue Yang’s shoulder. “Hear it,” he sighs. “Smell it. So intensely.”

Under any other circumstances, Xue Yang would be climbing all over him. Jiyang pulls back, so Xue Yang can see the sad set of his mouth, the heat in his eyes. His hair hangs off his forehead; Xue Yang wants to push it back for him, even if it’s the wrong color, the wrong man. “So now I know what that’s like too,” Jiyang mumbles. He swallows. “Do you know—how much I want to—”

They’re both so dumb and vulnerable like that. They deserve it, when someone small and sparkling crashes in, tearing Jiyang off Xue Yang and shoving Xue Yang toward the sliding doors. Xue Yang stumbles, catches himself.

“Go find Bowen-ge,” snaps Little Blind, half-shouting at Jiyang. She’s shrink-wrapped in a short strapless dress, armored with mermaid-shaded sequins. Her hair floats around her head, a cloud of extensions, elaborate twists and decorative clips. Jiyang gapes, first at her, then at his feet.

“Did you hear me?” Little Blind rounds on him; he backs away. “Go find Bowen-ge, or whoever you’re here with.” She shoves him, and doesn’t wait for him to leave before turning her ferocious glare on Xue Yang. Neither he nor Jiyang resists when she hauls Xue Yang through the sliding doors.

The night air on the balcony hits like falling from a height: humid, smoggy, windless. It clears his head. Xue Yang peers through the glass doors at Jiyang’s retreating back. Little Blind plants herself between them, her jaw set. “What the fuck did you do to him?”

“Nothing!” he hisses. She punches him, even after he puts his arms up in protest. “Hey, ow!”

“Jiyang might be a baby dumbass, but you didn’t do nothing to him, Xue Yang.” She crosses her arms and cuts him off. “Obviously it’s you. Haoxuan wouldn’t drive him to do that.”

Chen Zhuoxuan never bled, even if her A-Qing was uncanny and close. She never set out to befriend Xue Yang to contain him either. If he tried to call her Little Blind, she’d curse him out with astonishing inventiveness — off-scene, it was her real name or nothing at all.

He’d never admit how comforting he found her. He might have liked to see Little Blind again. It’s undiluted, Xue Yang’s memory of her blood spurting when he’d cut out her tongue, of Jiangzai punching the breath out of her when he’d driven the blade through her lung.

“I needed to talk to him.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “He found me first.”

“Talk to him about what?” She scowls at him. “What are you here for?”

“To talk to him!” he snaps, gesturing toward the empty hallway. “Nobody will talk to me anymore!”

She scoffs. “Do you know how many people here have told me how glad they are to see Haoxuan again?” Her eyes narrow. “I would love to see Haoxuan again too.”

Xue Yang opens his mouth, ready to rip into her. Zhuoxuan lifts her chin. After a moment, his shoulders slump. “You’re not afraid of me,” he says, a bit stupidly.

She laughs. “I’m absolutely afraid of you, but I know you’ve got a leash on. Thank fuck for that.” She looks away, out over the rooftops. City noises drift up, punctuating the muffled music and laughter from the party. Zhuoxuan takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m sure you did something to deserve that too. Get your head together or someone’s going to kick it in like you deserve.” She reaches for the door handle, but whirls to face him. “Don’t follow me in.”

Xue Yang doesn’t want to go back inside. He’s tired, in a way that Haoxuan says he should be too young for. Maybe tonight just isn’t meant to be yet. After all, he has years to get good with both the daozhangs, however much he’s aching to climb inside Xiao Xingchen’s life again.

He’s old enough and has been dead enough to know he should clear his head instead of fighting until it feels better. People take walks for this sort of thing. Haoxuan’s shoes are still inside. Xue Yang doesn’t want to thread his way back through the party. He sucks his teeth, considering.

He has practice, at least, with this. He’s spent any number of nights up above Beijing. The city doesn’t look right to him, but if he pretends, it feels right. No one here looks up expecting to see a person.

He hops over the balcony railing, both arms spread, and drifts down to the street. Concrete and gravel bite into the soles of his feet. He hisses a little, but the pain is already receding. He starts strolling, pushing through the last of it. If worse comes to worst, he’ll snatch some flip-flops from a vendor somewhere.

This neighborhood is far afield from the ones he and Haoxuan usually haunt. He weaves and meanders as much as a man in socks can, sometimes toward the hutongs, sometimes through alleys and past hulking new builds. The residential streets are quiet, the business lanes cheerfully bustling. His mind goes a little quieter.

It was easier to vanish in the jianghu. Xue Yang likes a lot about this world, but he misses being able to slip through the cracks. He’s been awake for some of Haoxuan’s publicity work. Photoshoots are fun, and it’s all silly enough that he doesn’t get worked up, but the constant need to make people remember you exist, for money, feels irredeemable. You need to disappear every so often, so you can become the person you’re supposed to be — no longer injured, or allied with a new benefactor, or. Or in love with the stupid daozhang who finds you by the side of the road.

His noisy brain settles. The walk is working. That means there’s nothing to mask the quick, precise footfalls he can hear overhead, hard to hide without a silencing talisman.

Xue Yang stayed alive as long as he did because he stopped being an idiot at seven years old. He has an exquisitely tuned sense of when he’s being hunted. He’s always waiting for it. This feels right, of almost everything he’s experienced tonight — after all, who is Xue Yang, if there isn’t anyone out there who wants to kill him?

He picks up his pace. That should be behind him. He’s a new man, when he’s front-facing. He hasn’t killed anybody, and he hasn’t lashed out at anyone from his past. There should be prize money for that. His mouth goes dry, in a way it wouldn’t if he had Jiangzai with him. Up above, a figure dashes across the rooftops. Nobody’s decked out in color-coded robes here — there’s no way for him to tell who it could be at this distance.

Panic starts to overtake him, like a fucking child, like an amateur.

He wants to stay here. No one’s allowed to take him out now. He wants to live, he wants to — he’s gotten this chance, he’s — it’s not even his body. It’s—

Xue Yang flickers. He can feel himself whiting in and out. He grinds his teeth and pumps his legs. It’s his life’s work to survive this sort of thing. He can’t leave Haoxuan to this threat, he’s just a dumb—

The balls of his foot pound onto the concrete. He comes to in motion, his heart already racing. Debris bites at his unshod feet; he gasps and stumbles, but he won’t stop. He can’t.

Haoxuan’s last memory is Meng Ziyi’s glorious wetness in his mouth. He has no idea why he’s running, why he’s panicking, why he’s alone somewhere unrecognizable in Beixinqiao.

Some lizard-brain instinct was pushing Xue Yang to flee, and it still has its claws in him. This is far from the first time Xue Yang has dropped him in the middle of trouble. He’s woken up on rooftops, at rough bars, at least once sore and sweating next to Bowen.

Panting, Haoxuan ducks into an alley, then behind a dumpster. The footfalls of his pursuer cut out abruptly; a moment later, he hears a soft, surefooted landing close by.

Haoxuan peers out from behind the dumpster; his pursuer is tall, about his height, dressed in unobtrusive but fashionable athletic wear. Haoxuan ducks back out of sight, his eyes huge.

It’s Wang Yibo chasing him — Yibo, who definitely flew quietly down from the rooftop using qi.

Haoxuan pinches the bridge of his nose. Whatever Xue Yang did to deserve being chased, Yibo isn’t moving like he’s already been in a fight. Haoxuan can reason with Yibo. They spent all kinds of time being rigged up into cranes together. Surely Yibo understands what Haoxuan’s been through, going through. This has to be a misunderstanding.

He circles around the dumpster, his hands already up. “Hey, it’s just me—”

Yibo’s face is cold and collected, his posture immaculate. He’s closed the distance between them without a sound. Haoxuan freezes; time slows to 60 frames per second. Yibo gestures up the sleeve of his jacket. With a sweeping motion, he pulls Lan Wangji’s sword from thin air.

It’s nothing like being cornered on a film set. The tip could graze Haoxuan’s Adam’s apple if he moves a hair’s breadth the wrong way.

Bichen doesn’t waver. Bichen is absolutely not a prop. Haoxuan — has no idea who he’s looking at right now. That might be Lan Wangji reaching into an inner pocket of his Adidas windbreaker and drawing out a talisman. He sends it shooting through the air, where it plasters itself to Haoxuan’s chest. An instant later, it flashes green and drops to the ground.

His pursuer meets his eye and nods to himself, elegant and understated. Then his sword hand drops, and he grins. “Sorry about that. Had to check who you were.”

All the tension that was keeping Haoxuan upright falls away. A cold sweat crashes over him; he has to prop himself up on his knees. “What the hell!” he shouts. “You couldn’t have just said something?”

Yibo waves a hand over Bichen; the sword vanishes. It’s a qiankun pouch. Yibo has an actual working qiankun pouch on him. “Not that sorry,” he says calmly. “You were definitely Xue Yang when I found you.”

“You could have just talked to him too,” Haoxuan snaps. His breath comes in deep, gulping gasps now. “What would you have done to him, huh? Chopped off my arm again?”

He’s shaking, not just hard, but all over. He has to crouch to keep from leaning against the dumpster or simply falling down. Tonight was supposed to be a night off from all this. All he’d wanted was to be with his friends, to get brave about what he wanted while he still could. All he’d wanted when he took this job was to work, to do good work that he was proud of, that captivated him.

He needs things to be simple and clear again. He needs Yibo to look at him like Yibo alone would.

Yibo’s mouth thins, in a way that doesn’t belong to him. “You’ve got a golden core.”

“What?” Haoxuan runs both hands through his hair. “Shit,” he whispers. “I mean, yes, I do, but I don’t — I wasn’t there for whatever he did. What did he do? Oh god, oh fuck.”

One highlight of his talent reel is his comic ability to messy-cry at the drop of a hat. Haoxuan gets a lot of work on its merits. The real thing is horrible. It leaves him light-headed and queasy and snotting, and he can never stop it. It just has to run its course.

Yibo doesn’t wait that long. While Haoxuan’s still sucking in fast, shallow breaths, he squats next to him and lays a hand on his shoulder. It startles Haoxuan into stillness.

“Zhan-ge’s at a place pretty near here,” he says, not unkindly. “Why don’t you come talk with us?”

The Didi brings them to a well-hidden restaurant, tucked several alleys deep. Haoxuan thinks he understands how fame makes a person larger than life, but he’s never seen authority make someone invisible. Yibo strides with one arm held behind his back, a habit rather than an affectation. Goosebumps prickle over Haoxuan’s arms and neck. The gesture leaves him unsettled, uncertain.

Yibo sweeps past two hostesses in exquisitely hip qipaos. They eyeball Haoxuan, with his puffy face and dirty socks, but one glance from Yibo and they step aside, demurring.

There’s a small private room upstairs, with seating on the floor, and of course, there’s Xiao Zhan, caught up in scribbling something. Haoxuan hasn’t seen him since the wrap party last fall, but he looks more like himself, in an undefinable way. His whole face brightens when he sees the two of them enter. “Hey, Haoxuan! Come in, come in! How are you?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. He feels ridiculous now, small and exhausted and shabby. Some unspoken dialogue passes between Yibo and Xiao Zhan, a circuit totally closed to the outside world. Haoxuan waits for Yibo to choose a seat; he takes one opposite Xiao Zhan, straight-backed and self-contained, leaving Haoxuan to fold himself between them.

“You look like you could use some fortification.” Xiao Zhan reaches for the teapot and a fresh cup. “Are you hungry? Can we get you a drink?”

Numbly, Haoxuan nods. He’s never actually been alone with either of these two, not in makeup, not on set, not during rehearsals, not even in the restroom. Everyone had an idea that something was going on during filming. That they were uncommonly, uncomfortably close was self-evident. Xue Yang was sure they were fucking, either as themselves or their characters. He’d laughed Haoxuan off when he’d suggested asking them for help. “What help?” he asked, too lightly. “You know what they both did to me.”

It’s impossible not to like Xiao Zhan, though. It isn’t just that he was older — his time working in the real world seemed to make him steadier. Idol training hadn’t scrubbed or strained that; Xiao Zhan always seemed kind and genuine and safe. Still, if the makeup crew or social media staff or PAs weren’t surrounding him, then Yibo was always close. He’d barge in, loudly joking or begging for attention or just lurking, his eyes fixed on Xiao Zhan, too intense.

Haoxuan wonders now, how much of that was really Yibo, or whether Lan Wangji was simply missing the mark trying to imitate him.

Xiao Zhan fills the silence. He pours and pushes the teacup toward Haoxuan. “So, Zhuocheng called us. He was freaking out about sobering up by cultivation. Not his own, obviously.”

Haoxuan can’t answer. Xiao Zhan leans back a little. “Nobody could find you, but no one had seen you leave. Jiyang and Bowen wouldn’t say anything, and Zhuoxuan actually came to your defense.” His mouth twitches with a rueful half-smile. “We had to take precautions. Apologies, but we didn’t know who we were dealing with.”

Haoxuan slumps. He stares at the tea and the spread of doodles all over the tabletop. “I didn’t hurt anyone,” he says, as though he believes it. “What do you want with me?”

The keenness in Xiao Zhan’s face doesn’t soften, but it does become impossibly kind. “It sounds like you need some help, didi. We didn’t realize you were this far along.”

Haoxuan swallows. He glances at Xiao Zhan, alive and electric with something intangible; at Yibo, calm, assured, utterly present. This is easier with the others, who telegraph their personalities so clearly. Jiyang treats him differently than Xingchen; Bowen looks at him differently than Song Lan; Ji Li laughs more than Nie Huaisang. “Who am I talking to?” he says quietly.

Xiao Zhan’s eyes crinkle. “Who do you think?”

Quietly, Yibo says, “Wei Ying.”

“Spoilers!” Xiao Zhan taps Haoxuan once with his ballpoint pen.

This is it. This is what’s in store for Haoxuan and his friends, and it’s all his fault. His co-stars are gone, totally erased. Jiyang and Bowen are going to vanish, which makes Haoxuan a kind of murderer himself. The thought curls around his throat, a little garotte no one else can see.

Tonight, earlier, he’d made a beeline for Meng Ziyi. The bass of Yu Bin’s deliberately shitty playlist was the tick of a clock. Haoxuan was so determined to keep talking with her, leaning closer and closer with their vodka sodas. “Let me,” he murmured against her ear, deep in his register, his eyes dark. Meng Ziyi bit her lip, searching his face. “Let me,” he asked. Since school, he thought. I’ve been a little in love with you since school.

When she straddled his collarbones, her underwear looped around one ankle, he thought, finally. He thought, I waited too long. He thought, please remember me later, please please—

“Hey, hey hey hey, okay. Haoxuan.” Xiao Zhan rests one hand on Haoxuan’s arm; he lifts his head, so embarrassed to be all cracked open again. Xiao Zhan smiles. “Cry if you need to. But it’s still me. I’m not gone. Neither is Yibo. Nobody got taped over.” His mouth twists. “If you’re not both too young to get that technology reference.”

Yibo huffs. “Ancient,” he murmurs, and that glint in his eye — that’s recognizable.

“Didi.” Xiao Zhan rubs Haoxuan’s arm. “You’re feeling grief. You’re carrying grief. It’s so hard, I know. I know. But you’re not ending.” He doesn’t move away. “Can I show you something? It’ll make you feel better.”

His words catch up with Haoxuan. He nods and sniffles thickly. Xiao Zhan twirls his pen and digs up a fresh piece of scratch paper. “Okay. Think of a ball of some sort.”

“Make it a football,” Yibo says, bone-dry. Involuntarily, Haoxuan laughs. His real legacy, right there.

Xiao Zhan scoffs. “Too complicated, I’m not drawing that.” He sketches out a sphere. “A ping-pong ball. One half is black, one half is white.” He draws a vertical line down the middle, giving it dimension, shading it into a half-moon. “Do you get it? Two colors, one ball. If you rotate it so one color is facing you, the other is still there. Sound familiar?”

Haoxuan glances at Yibo; his gaze is fixed on Haoxuan, stolid. It bores into him. Haoxuan swallows. He dabs his face with a napkin.

Xiao Zhan keeps narrating. His pen dashes across the image. “Okay, now spin the ball on its axis. It’s still the same ball, it’s still got both colors on each side. But now that it’s in motion, the colors blend. The ball is.” He wrinkles his nose. “Gray. Should have chosen better colors. But now it’s a whole new thing, still with its component parts. Are you following?”

All his life, Haoxuan has been quick and dexterous with words. He always read high above his grade level, and he can talk at length about anything that obsesses him. Xiao Zhan is talking in pictures, though. It’s intuitive, on a certain level, like the synesthesia-void of emotions, but Haoxuan also can’t quite make it make sense. It sounds — too promising, somehow. Too good to be true.

His tight jaw and knitted brow must be eloquent enough. Xiao Zhan wiggles the pen between his fingers. “Here’s a static example: ink. Paper. Two different, separate objects.” He taps the sketch of the rotating sphere. “Ink goes onto paper. This creates a painting. That’s a new thing entirely, but it’s still ink and it’s still paper. You can’t separate them again, though. There’s no reversing it without destroying both.

“Let’s do one more.” The pen glides over the paper again. Xiao Zhan draws two parallel cords of rope. “These begin life as two separate objects,” he says, adding detail along each strand. “But then they’re woven together. One rope, two different origins. Each end is the true beginning of the new cord. The new rope can do things each separate rope couldn’t. Nothing is lost. But everything changes.” He looks up from his sketches. “Does that help, Haoxuan?”

The subtle emphasis Xiao Zhan puts on his name makes him a little woozy. He hesitates. “You don’t switch anymore?” he says, finally. “You don’t lose time?”

Xiao Zhan — he works now, to think of him as Xiao Zhan — shakes his head. “Not since last summer. We were in it every single day for what, five months? Six? So I think that accelerated the process.” He grins, radiant, at Yibo. “Watching Lan Zhan try to be Yibo never gets old, though.”

Yibo doesn’t break eye contact, like Haoxuan isn’t even there; he bobs his head and sings under his breath, “Oh wait ‘til I do what I do, hit you with that ddu-du ddu-du du.”

They’re not going to tell him this story, not now. But Haoxuan thinks he sees how it went: Xiao Zhan falls in love with Wei Wuxian, just like Haoxuan entwined himself with Xue Yang. Yibo falls in love with Xiao Zhan, and Lan Wangji emerges on the tide of loving Wei Wuxian too.

They seem to be making it work.

Haoxuan bends his neck. He worries his thumbnail against the edge of the table. “So, it… gets easier?”

Yibo hums. “The narrative had different truths for each of us.” His attention focuses sharply on Haoxuan. “Your role was designed differently from ours.”

Xiao Zhan clucks his tongue. “Back off him.” But his face also goes serious, more drawn, and Haoxuan shivers. “You will have to square up with Xue Yang before you both settle. You won’t stop switching until you’re both on the same page about how to go forward.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Will Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen be enough to keep you in line?”

Haoxuan opens his mouth. They’d all agreed to keep that between them — or at least, he and the daozhangs had. He still has to say it, even as he slots it together. “You know about that?”

Xiao Zhan’s eyebrows crook now. “Nie-xiong told me, after it all happened.” His mouth thins, bemused. “He’s very used to getting his own way.”

“He’s been no help at all,” Haoxuan mutters. “Which, figures.”

“Well, we’re here now. You’ve got us until we head to Yu Bin’s party.” Xiao Zhan tilts his head. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

Haoxuan pauses. His brain fizzes, with possibility, with a future suddenly unfolding. They’re both expecting something earnest from him. He licks his lips. “Where did Bichen come from?”

Xiao Zhan laughs, while Yibo narrows his eyes. “Look at you.” Xiao Zhan giggles, and glances sidelong. “Should we tell him?” Yibo glares, and Haoxuan finds himself not withering. Staring back, with something like defiance, interest.

Xiao Zhan bites his lip, lifts his eyebrows at Yibo. “He’s going to figure it out,” he says, unapologetic.

In one smooth motion, Yibo stands up. Haoxuan watches his gestures closely, but he can’t quite parse what he’s doing. Lan Wangji’s sword appears once again. Yibo sets it between them on the table and sits down.

“I know it’s a qiankun pouch.” Haoxuan scoots closer, leaning on his elbows. “Where’s it drawing from?”

Something crackles along the back of Haoxuan’s neck, its own answer. Xiao Zhan’s movements are crisp, confident; he reaches into thin air and pulls out a dizi — Chenqing, the dizi of the Yiling Laozu. Haoxuan’s eyes go wide. It must have come from the void, the place where he and Xue Yang can meet. What’s real there can be brought into this world, then. His curiosity surges up into every part of him: an electric hunger to test, to experiment, to find a limit and shatter it.

“Does that.” He licks his lips, then chews for a moment. “Does that work here?”

He sees Xiao Zhan’s mouth move, but the room is going quiet around him, slow and honeyed. Haoxuan’s limbs go heavy and numb. From one instant to the next, he’s simply not driving his body anymore. He’s a bystander, though he can still see Xiao Zhan’s mouth curl. Their eyes stay locked on each other. Panic jolts through him, but Xiao Zhan simply twirls the dizi.

“I hope you heard my little lecture,” he says, a new carelessness to his voice. “I don’t particularly feel like going over it again.”

Xue Yang smiles, props his chin in his hands, his elbows on the table; Haoxuan feels him do it all, but cannot influence his own body’s movements. “Wei-laoshi,” Xue Yang drawls, “this humble admirer didn’t know you cared.” He glances down at Bichen and sharpens his smile. “Look who’s also joined us,” he purrs. “I remember you.” He reaches for the scabbard, as if to stroke it. Lan Wangji snatches the sword and presses it to his chest, the flat set of his mouth and eyes deadly.

Haoxuan races to trace all this implies: Xue Yang isn’t surprised to be here, nor has he missed a beat in the conversation. He has been present since he dropped Haoxuan, running, in the middle of that alley. Panic shudders through Haoxuan. He can also feel Xue Yang’s mood. It’s coiled, cautious, cornered — but prepared.

Unruffled, Xue Yang settles back into his cute pose. He nods toward the dizi, the blade. “Was this bait?”

“An invitation.” Wei Wuxian keeps up his friendly demeanor. “Since we’ll be seeing a lot more of you going forward.”

“I’m honored.” He telegraphs a look around the empty dining room. “No need to bring anyone else?”

Wei Wuxian smirks. “No one else worries me like you do.”

Xue Yang laughs. “I know when to take a compliment. All right. Scare me straight, gege, if you can.”

Wei Wuxian tilts his head. “Do I have to? You’ve already got so many minders. I just wanted to get a read on you.”

“Ah yes, how death and resurrection change a man.” Xue Yang allows himself a languorous stretch. No one’s fooled by his unconcern, but then again, everyone at this table knows he’s always performing. Haoxuan itches with the impulse to play with his own long hair. “This is your second time, isn’t it?” Xue Yang raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you here to tell me about what you owed Mo Xuanyu? He put a curse on you.”

“Haoxuan’s a good kid,” says Wei Wuxian softly. “What do you think you owe him?” He searches Xue Yang’s face.

“Wei-qianbei, Yiling Laozu,” says Xue Yang, equally quiet, equally controlled, “I’m amazed that you of all people are here to tell me that dying means ending. And I know what you know about me from filming, but don’t think that means you understand me, then or now.” He looks from one to the other. “Friends, esteemed hosts, what’s your point? You can’t use a sword on me, and you’re not going to threaten me in any other way. Things don’t work like that here.”

Lan Wangji speaks up. “What have you brought with you here? What did you leave behind? What have you allowed to end?”

His mouth twists. “That’s not always my choice, is it.”

Wei Wuxian holds up a hand. “We’re just here to talk.” Warningly: “Lan Zhan.”

Xue Yang cants his head, lets the silence stretch. “Hanguang-jun, you yourself understand how deep feelings alter what you’ll let yourself accept. Are the rest of us not real to you in the same way?”

Wei Wuxian levels a probing look at him. “I know you’ve got practice living a quiet life.” His voice remains deceptively soft. “Haoxuan’s worked hard. Don’t screw things up for him.”

“You don’t know the first thing about how I do or don’t relate to Wang Haoxuan,” Xue Yang sneers. “What do you want from me? Shall I be grateful for the Yiling Laozu’s attention, fawn all over your brilliance and nut when you call me didi?”

Wei Wuxian laughs and twirls Chenqing again. “Now you’re just being ungenerous.”

Xue Yang makes a dismissive gesture. “You’re an idol now. I don’t know how he’s changed you.”

Lan Wangji bristles, but Wei Wuxian shrugs. “It’s no worse than being the whole world’s enemy. That changed me too.”

“I don’t buy it,” Xue Yang says. “It’s almost summer again, and you’ve waited this long to do the right thing? Have you talked to Lan Jingyi or my daozhangs or Nie Huaisang about this merging?” He crosses his arms, which doesn’t stop him from becoming more animated. “Why haven’t you told everyone? Why keep it to yourselves? What excuse do you two young masters have? Do you know how scared people are?”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes go wide. “Whoa. Where was this Xue Yang all along?”

“Don’t mock me, little prince of Yunmeng.” Xue Yang’s lip curls. “You’re right. Haoxuan is a good kid. I know how to look after my own. Better still, I actually know who my own are.”

“Unlikely,” growls Lan Wangji, and Xue Yang springs to his feet. Haoxuan can only watch as Lan Wangji grips Bichen harder, and Wei Wuxian flings one arm in front of his chest, to hold him back.

Xue Yang lets his grin slide slow over his face. “Fuck you, Hanguang-jun.” His eyes flare. “If I had a sword, I’d make you sweat for the first and only time in your life. Don’t think you’ve seen the best of me. You haven’t.”

His intention is to make a dramatic exit. Haoxuan can feel him rise and twist to go, but their body stays planted. Xue Yang retreats inward, toward him, and Haoxuan can watch him coming.

He stares, inasmuch as he can, from his perch inside his own self. Xue Yang has never admitted to caring about him before, much less liking him or even acting in his interests. Slinking past, Xue Yang’s consciousness winces. Ugh, he seems to say, don’t talk to me about it.

Haoxuan reels; the room slots back into place. His body is his again. He pitches forward and grips the edge of the table. “I saw all that,” he stammers. His breath comes fast, his heart racing. “I was there for all of that. That’s never happened before.”

Rather than expressing anything like shock or urgency, Xiao Zhan puffs out his cheeks as he slowly exhales. “Oh boy, he’s deep in it.”

Yibo hums. “Close.” His face relaxes into something concerned, if Haoxuan cares to parse the microexpression. “How are you?”

His skin buzzes, his ears ring, his hands are still shaking. Haoxuan slumps, staring into the middle of the table. “Um.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I really thought hard about just staying home tonight.”

Xiao Zhan brightens. “Good thing we all came out, then.” He taps the tabletop. “Speaking of, we should get going, if you’re good to come back with us.”

It feels too fresh, too soon. Haoxuan can’t keep track of his own center of gravity. “I don’t — should I?”

“Your shoes are still there, right?” Xiao Zhan jerks his chin at Bichen, pointing with the tassel end of the dizi. “Hey, put that away. They’re not going to let you bring it in the car.”

Yibo grumbles, but he sweeps one hand over the sword, and it’s gone.

Yu Bin’s party is such a short ride away. Haoxuan only has to sit squashed between Yibo and Xiao Zhan for a few minutes, their bodies pressed amiably against his. The two of them completely refrain from play-fighting or in-jokes. Xiao Zhan chats at the driver, and Yibo is mostly buried in his phone. The strangeness of this proximity roils Xue Yang. Haoxuan can feel him wrestling with a kind of rage and longing. It leaks into him: on his right, the man who’d vanquished his body once; on his left, the genius on whom he’d pinned his last hope.

Someone’s already waiting at the elevator, his impeccable poise giving him away as much as his fashionable palm frond button-up. Xiao Zhan skips a pace, grinning, and calls out, “Jin-zongzhu!”

Zhu Zanjin can never turn off that he’s a dancer. He swivels toward them, his hands clasped behind his back. Immediately, his whole face changes, his brilliant smile bracketed by those iconic dimples. “Ah, so we’re all fashionably late tonight?”

“Right on time, right on time!” Xiao Zhan pulls Zanjin in for a breezy but earnest hug with no hesitation, no indication that Wei Wuxian accounts for any judgment at all. Haoxuan hangs back as Yibo greets Zanjin, as if Lan Wangji hadn’t laid waste to Jin Guangyao too.

Zanjin turns his attention to Haoxuan, his smile eager, unforced. “I didn’t think I’d see you here!” he says. Xue Yang flinches, throughout their whole body.

There had been a time when he and Meng Yao had been something that passed for close: two ragged children with contemptible beginnings, finally allowed to thrive. For a time. At a price.

This isn’t Meng Yao, though. This is someone who’s really his friend. When Haoxuan doesn’t answer, Zanjin drops his eyes, a little embarrassed. He spots Haoxuan’s dirty socks. “Ah. Weird night?”

Haoxuan shakes himself out of it. “Definitely not boring.” He lets himself grin back and shrugs. “I have made some good decisions tonight.”

The elevator dings and slides open. Xiao Zhan holds the door as all of them step aboard.

“I really do hope we’re not too late.” Zanjin heaves a sigh. “Haikuan’s been messaging me all night. Then he dropped off an hour ago. I think he might be in a fugue state.”

Xiao Zhan smirks. “It’s very gallant, you coming to his rescue.” Yibo glances at him and smiles at his feet.

The elevator opens directly into the apartment. The party is still going strong, and no wonder — Yu Bin would never allow things to wind down before midnight.

While the others toe off their shoes, Haoxuan stands to the side, taking everyone in. There’s Lulu perched on the arm of an overstuffed chair, playing with Zhuoxuan’s hair; Zhuoxuan is melting beneath Lulu’s fingers. (“I’m a misandrist, but you’re okay, I guess,” she’d said to him early in rehearsals. He’s missed Zhuoxuan so much.) There’s Ji Li — probably, more or less — fake-boxing Yizhou’s ribs while Yizhou tries to hold a conversation with Feng Cong. There’s Meng Ziyi sagging against Yu Bin, her face so bright and open when she laughs.

Xiao Zhan and Yibo sweep together into the living room; Guo Cheng lifts up both arms and shouts, “Hanguang-jun!” His face is fully alight. Yibo smirks and offers him a cool high-five.

Haoxuan doesn’t have to give up any of this. He’s going to persist. Xue Yang can have it too: a community, a future that goes and goes.

Across the room, he feels someone staring. He searches it out, and lands on Jiyang. He looks solemn, hangdog, a little worse for wear. Haoxuan knits his brow. He waves, awkwardly, and mouths, “It’s me.” Jiyang’s face goes tight, and he dips out of sight, his shoulders drawn. He looks embarrassed. Haoxuan doesn’t know what for, but Xue Yang scoffs somewhere inside him: He should be.

There’s nothing to wait for anymore. Haoxuan doesn’t want to see anyone suffer. He wants to find all of them, everyone who’s synched up and bled, to say that there’s no countdown, there’s no ticking time bomb. Maybe he’ll do it here, late into the night while they’re all in one place. Maybe he’ll rope Xiao Zhan and Yibo into it. They owe that much to the cast.

Hey, he thinks. This new truth bears him along. Hey. Nothing is ending.

It’s me. It’s me. He weaves through the party, to follow Jiyang, to find Xingchen.

It’s me. I have something to tell you.