Chapter Text
Jiang Cheng thought he had had it pretty good.
He was a second year of law student at Mingde University. He had good grades (mostly) He had a amazing girlfriend. A best friend who supported him in his choices. A brother and sister who helped him through is highs and lows. Parents who were present (ish. he couldn't say anything more about his parents)
So, yeah, pretty good.
Jiang Cheng thought all that as he made his way to the café him and his girlfriend usually went to in their lunch break.
As he drew closer, he caught a glance of his girlfriend, Ling Mei, on their usual table as he passed by the door. Though this time, she wasnʼt tapping her fingers on the table. She was on her phone, completely engrossed at something Jiang Cheng couldnʼt see.
Weird, why isnʼt she looking at the door?
Damn you Jiang Cheng! Itʼs not a big deal, you crazy bozo! You'd do that to, just—just brush it off.
He shook his head, remembering he still had to go inside.
The chimes on the door whistled as he opened the door, eagerly looking at Ling Meiʼs table, but she didn’t even look up from her phone.
Still, undeterred, Jiang Cheng snuck behind her, placing his hands over her shoulders and leaning close with playful energy.
“Howʼs my darling doing?”
Ling Mei turned her head, flashing him that sweet smile she always had. The one that made him fall for her. It was so mesmerizing that he didnʼt notice the way she offed her phone.
He almost swooned when Ling Mei turned her head and smiled at him, the scent of her strawberry shampoo hitting his nose. That was, until he noticed the way she'd flicked her phone screen off with practiced haste. A reflex. A guilty reflex.
“Sorry, babe,” she said, patting the seat beside her without meeting his eyes. “Just finishing up something for class.” The lie slid out too smoothly, like a rehearsed line from a play Jiang Cheng hadn’t been cast in. He sat anyway, letting his bag slump against the chair leg with a thud that sounded louder than it should’ve.
The café hummed around them—the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of other students—but between them, silence stretched like a taut wire. Ling Mei tapped her nails against her phone case, a staccato rhythm that made Jiang Cheng’s teeth ache. He recognized that tell. She only did that when she was nervous.
“So,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “how’s that poli-sci paper going?”
Ling Mei blinked, as if she’d forgotten he’d asked about it last week. “Oh. Fine.” Her gaze flicked past his shoulder, toward the door. Jiang Cheng followed it instinctively, catching a glimpse of Lan Xichen slipping in, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd effortlessly.
His entrance gave Jiang Cheng an idea of what to talk about.
“Oh, babe, did you hear about Xichen-geʼs breakup with Jin Guangyao? I heard from Huaisang that Jin Guangyao left him to be with Lan Xichenʼs best friend, you know, Nie Mingjue? The captain of the basketball team. And hereʼs the twist MeiMei,”
He leaned even closer, ready to spew gossip about the person who was just a few feet away from them.
“Turns out, A-Yao had been switching at dating Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichenʼs since they all got into high school,” Jiang Cheng finished, grinning. He expected Ling Mei to gasp, maybe clutch his arm in scandalized delight—but she just nodded absently, her eyes tracking Lan Xichen as he ordered at the counter.
Jiang Cheng had to admit, it made him jealous, the way Ling Mei’s gaze lingered on Lan Xichen. It wasn’t the first time he’d caught her staring—just last week, she’d abruptly stopped mid-sentence when Xichen walked past their study group, her pen slipping from her fingers. But now, with the breakup gossip hanging between them, her distraction felt sharper, more deliberate. Jiang Cheng swallowed the knot in his throat and nudged her knee under the table. “Earth to MeiMei,” he teased, forcing a lightness into his voice. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen him before.”
Ling Mei blinked, finally tearing her eyes away. “Sorry,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—another nervous habit. “I was just… thinking about how awful that must be for him.” Her voice dripped with sympathy, but Jiang Cheng wasn’t buying it. Not when her fingers had curled tighter around her phone, thumb brushing the screen like she was itching to check something.
Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes, doubt creeping up.
But before he could call her out, Lan Xichen walked up to them, holding a tray with two fizzy drinks—one strawberry, Jiang Cheng’s favorite, and one peach, Ling Mei’s usual. “May I join you?” he asked, his deep voice smooth and unhurried.
Jiang Cheng blinked. Since when did Lan Xichen pay attention to their drink preferences? “Sure,” he muttered, shifting to make space. Ling Mei, however, straightened up so fast her elbow knocked over the salt shaker. “Of course!” she chirped, her voice suddenly an octave higher.
Lan Xichen set the tray down and took the seat opposite them, his long fingers wrapping around his own untouched glass of lemonade. “I couldn’t help overhearing about my recent… predicament,” he said, glancing at Jiang Cheng. His expression was unreadable, but his lips quirked slightly—amused, not offended. “I would like to clarify that Jin Guangyao did not leave me in an unsightly manner. We simply realized we were not compatible.”
Jiang Cheng raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t the version Nie Huaisang had spun, complete with dramatic whispers about midnight texts and betrayal. But then again, Huaisang thrived on embellishment. Before Jiang Cheng could respond, Ling Mei leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “That’s so mature of you, Xichen-ge,” she cooed. “Not everyone handles breakups with such grace.”
Jiang Cheng felt a pout grow on his own face at Ling Mei's sickly sweet tone—she never called him "mature," not even when heʼd spent three nights straight helping her rewrite that disastrous philosophy paper. Across the table, Lan Xichen sipped his lemonade, unfazed by the thick syrup of admiration in her voice. His gaze flickered briefly to Jiang Cheng, lingering just long enough for Jiang Cheng to notice the odd warmth in it before he set his glass down with deliberate care.
“It is nothing commendable,” Lan Xichen said, his fingers tracing the condensation on the glass. “Relationships require mutual effort. When that effort is no longer present, it is kinder to part ways.” He spoke as if reciting from a textbook, but his eyes—those damnably perceptive eyes—stayed fixed on Jiang Chengʼs face. It made his skin prickle, like Lan Xichen was peeling back layers with nothing but a glance.
“Sounds like you handled it well, huh Xichen-ge?” Jiang Cheng commented nonchalantly, but inside he was a seething mess.
How dare you try and steel my girl, HUH?! Iʼd really like to punch you right now! Forget about being my childhood friend, when it comes to my girl, all the days you spent pushing me on the swing-set when we were kids donʼt matter!
Jiang Cheng wanted to yell, wanted to flip the table and storm out—but he clenched his fists under the table instead, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah, yʼknow, I think what you need is rebound sex,” he said, sharper than intended. “Someone to take your mind off things.”
Lan Xichen’s ears turned red, and he looked visibly uncomfortable at Jiang Cheng’s suggestion. His hands figgeting with the hem of his sleeves. “That—that will not be necessary,” he said, voice clipped, though Jiang Cheng could swear he saw his throat bob. “I have no desire for such distractions.”
Jiang Cheng arched a brow. Lan Xichen wasn’t the type to lie, so it was probably true—but that reaction? Suspicious. The flush creeping up his neck, the way his fingers kept twitching like he wanted to bolt. “Fine,” Jiang Cheng drawled, leaning back in his chair. “But you can't just brood forever. People will start thinking you're turning into your brother.”
Ling Mei, who had been sipping her drink with an air of forced disinterest, suddenly perked up. “Oh, Lan Wangji is also so… composed,” she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “But you’re right, Jiang Cheng—brooding isn’t healthy.” Her gaze flickered to Lan Xichen, then away just as quickly, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him for too long without blushing. Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened. He knew that look. He’d seen it in the mirror when he first realized he was falling for her.
Lan Xichen, however, didn’t seem to notice Ling Mei’s admiration—or if he did, he was expertly ignoring it. Instead, his eyes drifted back to Jiang Cheng, lingering a moment too long before he cleared his throat. “I do not brood,” he said, voice softer now, almost apologetic. “But I appreciate the concern.” There was something unreadable in his expression, a flicker of hesitation that made Jiang Cheng’s pulse stutter. Since when did Lan Xichen hesitate?
The café buzzed around them, laughter and chatter filling the awkward silence that settled over their table. Jiang Cheng drummed his fingers against his thigh, debating whether to push further or let the subject drop. Before he could decide, Ling Mei leaned forward, her voice dripping with faux innocence. “You know, Lan Xichen, if you ever do want company, I’m sure there are plenty of people who’d be happy to… distract you.” She glanced at Jiang Cheng, as if daring him to react.
Jiang Cheng’s eye twitched.
Bitter thoughts swirled in Jiang Cheng’s mind like sediment at the bottom of a stirred cup.
Was Lan Xichen already back out there after his breakup? The thought shouldnʼt have mattered—but it did! It because he was stealing his girl—right?
Thatʼs why Jiang Chengʼs pulse hammered against his ribs, why his fingers curled tighter around his cup until the cheap plastic creaked. Ling Meiʼs words hung between them like bait, and Lan Xichenʼs silence stretched just long enough to be deliberate. Jiang Cheng wanted to grab him by that pristine collar and shake him until answers fell out. Who was he looking at like that? Why did his stupidly perfect lips keep parting like he had something to say—only to close again?
Lan Xichen exhaled, slow and measured, as if recalibrating. “I do not require distractions,” he repeated, softer now, gaze never leaving Jiang Chengʼs face. “But thank you for your offer, Ling Mei.” The formality was a blade—polite, precise, cutting her out without a single raised voice. Ling Meiʼs smile stiffened, her fingers tightening around her straw. Jiang Cheng almost pitied her. Almost.
“Letʼs not keep on talking about poor Xichen-geʼs depressing break up. How about your volleyball game? I heard from Wangji that you guys destroyed the other team,” Jiang Cheng said, deliberately steering the conversation away from Lan Xichenʼs love life—or lack thereof. He couldnʼt stomach another second of Ling Meiʼs simpering, or worse, Lan Xichenʼs infuriatingly calm deflections. The sooner they moved on, the sooner he could figure out why his chest felt like it was being squeezed every time Lan Xichen looked at him like that. Like he was trying to solve him.
Lan Xichen blinked, momentarily thrown by the abrupt shift. “Ah—yes. It was a good match,” he said, fingers finally stilling against his cup. “Though I would not say we destroyed them. The final score was close.”
“Modest as always,” Ling Mei sighed, resting her chin on her hand. “Youʼre always so humble, Lan Xichen. Itʼs one of the things I—” She caught herself, cheeks flushing as she glanced at Jiang Cheng. “One of the things people admire about you.”
Jiang Chengʼs grip tightened on his coffee. People. Right. He could practically hear the unspoken “me” in her sentence. The worst part? He couldnʼt even blame her. Lan Xichen was admirable—stupidly so. The kind of guy who held doors for strangers, remembered birthdays, and somehow made even the most mundane stories sound interesting with that smooth, unhurried voice of his. Jiang Cheng had spent half his childhood trailing after him, half in awe, half in petty resentment. Some things never changed.
And he didn’t even mention the fact that Lan Xichen was practically his childhood therapist, well, before Nie Huaisang came along (shout out to the guy btw). Jiang Cheng rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the weird tension coiled in his muscles.
“Yeah, who doesnʼt admire Lan Xichen?” he muttered into his cup, the words bitter on his tongue. The irony wasnʼt lost on him—here he was, stuck between his girlfriendʼs blatant infatuation and whatever the hell Lan Xichen was doing with those lingering glances.
Lan Xichenʼs fingers twitched again, like he wanted to reach across the table. “You flatter me too much,” he said, directing the words at Ling Mei, but his eyes—warm and a little pleading—stayed fixed on Jiang Cheng. “I am only myself.”
“Thatʼs the problem,” Jiang Cheng shot back before he could stop himself. The words hung between them, sharp and unexpected. Lan Xichenʼs breath hitched, just slightly, and Jiang Chengʼs stomach lurched. Shit. That came out wrong. Or maybe right. He wasnʼt sure anymore.
Ling Mei, oblivious to the undercurrents—or choosing to ignore them—giggled and nudged Jiang Chengʼs arm. “Jealous, are we?” Her tone was teasing, but her grip on his sleeve was possessive. Jiang Cheng wanted to recoil. Instead, he forced a laugh, rough around the edges.
“Of course not,” he lied. “Just stating facts.” He wasnʼt jealous. He couldnʼt be. That would imply he had something to lose, and right now, staring at Lan Xichenʼs stupidly perfect face, he wasnʼt sure what that something was. His girlfriend? His pride? His sanity?
Lan Xichenʼs expression softened, something unbearably fond flickering in his eyes. “Jiang Cheng,” he started, then hesitated—a rare stumble for someone who always seemed to have the right words. The café noise swelled around them, filling the silence with meaningless chatter. Jiang Cheng held his breath without meaning to.
Then Ling Meiʼs phone buzzed, shattering the moment. “Oh! My study groupʼs starting early,” she said, scrambling to gather her things. She paused, biting her lip as she glanced between them. “You two will be okay here, right?”
Jiang Cheng barely resisted the urge to snort. “Weʼre not kids, Mei. We can survive a coffee date without supervision.” The words came out harsher than intended, but Ling Mei only smiled, quick and bright, before leaning in to peck his cheek.
“Donʼt be late for dinner,” she whispered. Jiang Cheng opened his mouth, just about to ask for a goodbye kiss—but she'd already turned away, waving at Lan Xichen with an exaggerated flourish. “Bye, Lan Xichen! Text me if you change your mind about needing company.” The wink she tossed over her shoulder was so blatant Jiang Cheng nearly choked on his own tongue.
Lan Xichenʼs smile remained polite, but his fingers tightened around his cup. “Good luck with your studies,” he said, voice perfectly neutral. The moment Ling Mei disappeared through the café door, his shoulders slumped—just slightly—as if heʼd been holding his breath the entire time. Jiang Cheng watched him, irritation prickling under his skin. Why did Lan Xichen look relieved? Was Ling Meiʼs attention really that unbearable? Or was it something else?
“So,” Jiang Cheng said, dragging his thumb along the rim of his cup. “You gonna text her?” The question tasted sour in his mouth, but he had to know. Had to hear Lan Xichen say it outright.
Lan Xichenʼs cup hit the table with a soft clink. “I will not,” he said, voice so quiet it nearly drowned in the caféʼs hum. His fingers traced the rim, slow and deliberate, as if mapping the edge of something far more fragile. “I have no interest in Ling Mei. I never have.” The admission should have been a relief—so why did Jiang Cheng feel like the floor had tilted beneath him?
“Bullshit,” Jiang Cheng muttered, crossing his arms. “Sheʼs been throwing herself at you since we sat down. And you—” He gestured vaguely at Lan Xichenʼs face, where that infuriatingly patient expression hadnʼt budged. “You just let her.”
A flicker of something—hurt? Amusement?—passed through Lan Xichenʼs eyes. “I did not encourage her,” he said carefully. “But it is not my place to dictate her feelings.” He paused, thumb pressing into the side of his cup hard enough to dent the foam. “Just as it is not my place to dictate yours.”
Jiang Chengʼs breath caught. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Before he could demand an explanation, Lan Xichen leaned forward, close enough that Jiang Cheng could see the faint scar above his eyebrow—a childhood relic from when Jiang Cheng had accidentally knocked him off his bike. “But if you are asking,” Lan Xichen continued, softer now, “I would much rather have your company than hers.”
Jiang Cheng’s cup slipped from his fingers, hitting the table with a dull thud. Coffee sloshed over the rim, pooling in the saucer like spilled secrets. He didn’t move to wipe it up. Didn’t even blink. “What?” The word came out strangled, as if Lan Xichen had reached into his chest and squeezed his lungs.
Lan Xichen didn’t flinch. He never did. Instead, he nudged a napkin toward Jiang Cheng with two fingers, his gaze steady. “You heard me,” he said, and there it was again—that unshakable calm, like he hadn’t just dropped a grenade between them. “We have been friends for a long time. I value your company more than most.”
Jiang Cheng snatched the napkin, scrubbing at the spilled coffee with more force than necessary. “Don’t give me that crap,” he muttered. “You’ve been staring at me like I’m a fucking puzzle all afternoon. Cut the cryptic act.” The napkin tore under his fingers, leaving shreds of paper clinging to the wet saucer.
Lan Xichen exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “I do not mean to be cryptic.” He hesitated—a rare thing for him—before reaching across the table. Only to get another napkin, Jiang Cheng told himself, but then Lan Xichen’s fingers brushed his wrist, lingering just a heartbeat too long. Jiang Cheng froze. “It is not that I have any wrong intentions, I simply wish to talk to someone about my former relationship,” Lan Xichen continued, voice smooth as honeyed tea. “But if you do not wish to listen, I will not impose.”
Jiang Cheng relaxed a little—this, at least, made sense. Lan Xichen just needed to vent about his breakup, not whatever bizarre emotional labyrinth Jiang Cheng had been spiraling into. “Alright, go for it! Vent!” He waved a hand dramatically, knocking over a sugar packet. “Tell me why your ex was an idiot.”
Lan Xichenʼs lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “A-Yao is not an idiot,” he said, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass. “He is a smart man. Too smart, perhaps.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful, like he was weighing each word before letting it slip free. “But we wanted different things. There is no villain in this story, only... mismatched expectations.”
Jiang Cheng scoffed. “Mismatched expectations? That's the most Lan Xichen breakup summary I've ever heard.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Come on, give me something real. Did he cheat? Was he clingy? Did he—” He gestured vaguely. “Not appreciate your... talents?” The second the words left his mouth, Jiang Cheng regretted them. Heat crawled up his neck. That sounded way too suggestive.
Lan Xichenʼs ears turned pink, but his expression remained composed. “I do not think that is relevant,” he murmured, though his throat bobbed when he swallowed. “But no. A-Yao was... attentive.” The pause was infinitesimal, but Jiang Cheng caught it. His imagination immediately supplied a dozen scenarios—none of which he wanted to examine too closely.
The café noise swelled around them, a burst of laughter from the next table drowning out Jiang Chengʼs awkward cough. He grabbed his cup, gulping lukewarm coffee just to have something to do with his hands. “So what, then? If he was perfect, why'd you break up?”
Lan Xichenʼs fingers stilled. “He was not perfect,” he said softly. “And neither am I.” There was something raw in his voice now, a crack in that polished facade. “He wanted someone who could match his ambition. Someone who would... prioritize him above all else.” His gaze flicked up, meeting Jiang Cheng's for a weighted second.“I could not do that.”
Jiang Cheng’s fingers tightened around his cup again, the plastic protesting under his grip. He didn’t know what to do with Lan Xichen’s confession—with the way his voice had dipped, quiet and vulnerable, like he was admitting something far heavier than a simple breakup. “Prioritize him above all else?” Jiang Cheng echoed, brow furrowing. “What, like—drop everything for him? That’s insane.” The words came out sharper than he intended, but the idea rankled him. Since when did Lan Xichen, of all people, owe anyone his undivided devotion?
Lan Xichen’s thumb brushed along the rim of his glass, leaving a smudged trail in the condensation. “It was not an unreasonable request,” he said, so measured it made Jiang Cheng want to shake him. “A-Yao deserved someone who could give him that. I simply... could not.” His gaze drifted past Jiang Cheng’s shoulder, toward the café window where afternoon light slanted across the floorboards. “And it just so happened that Mingjue-ge was more than willing to step in. In truth, I am very happy for them.”
Jiang Cheng already knew that, but hearing it from Lan Xichen was just sad It was very widely known that Lan Xichen, Nie Mingjue, and Jin Guangyao were the campus golden trio—they still were, surprisingly, the three were still in good terms, which made Jiang Cheng confused as hell. If he were Lan Xichen, he would have hated Nie Mingjueʼs guts—but he wasnʼt Lan Xichen, so he didnʼt understand.
Jiang Cheng watched Lan Xichenʼs fingers trace idle patterns in the condensation on his glass—long, elegant fingers that never seemed to fidget unless he was truly unsettled. Right now, they moved with deliberate slowness, like he was choosing each motion carefully. Jiang Chengʼs throat felt tight. “So what, you just... stepped aside?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended. “Let Mingjue have him?”
Lan Xichenʼs exhale was barely audible. “It was not a matter of letting,” he said, gaze still fixed on the window. The light caught the curve of his jaw, softening the sharp line of it. “A-Yao made his choice. I respect it.” He turned back then, meeting Jiang Chengʼs eyes with startling directness. “Would you not do the same?”
Jiang Cheng’s mouth went dry. The question hung between them like a dare—one he wasn’t sure how to answer.
Would he step aside? For Ling Mei?
The thought should’ve been absurd, but the way Lan Xichen was looking at him—steady, patient, like he already knew the answer—made something hot and prickling crawl up Jiang Cheng’s spine. “Hell no,” he snapped, fingers digging into his thighs. “If someone wants my girl, they can fucking fight me for her.” The words tasted like a lie even as he said them.
Lan Xichen’s lips curved—just slightly—like he’d expected that response. “I see,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair. The sunlight caught the silver of his ear cuff, glinting sharply. “Then we are different in that regard.”
Jiang Cheng scowled. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re just too nice for your own good.” He kicked Lan Xichen’s shin under the table—half playful, half testing—and was rewarded with a quiet huff of laughter. The sound loosened something in his chest, despite himself.
“Perhaps,” Lan Xichen conceded, rubbing his leg where Jiang Cheng’s shoe had connected. His fingers lingered there a moment too long before he folded his hands neatly on the table. “But I would rather lose gracefully than cling to something that is not meant for me.”
Jiang Cheng stared at Lan Xichen, something twisting in his gut at those words—so calm, so final. “Not meant for you?” he repeated, voice cracking halfway through. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.” He knocked back the rest of his coffee like it was something stronger, the bitterness searing his tongue. “Since when do you just—accept things? Since when do you not fight?”
Lan Xichen’s fingers twitched against the tabletop, the only betrayal of whatever storm was brewing beneath that serene surface. “I fight when it matters,” he said softly. “But some battles are not worth the cost.” His gaze flicked up, holding Jiang Cheng’s with an intensity that made his breath hitch. “Would you cling to someone who does not want you?”
The question perplexed him.
Why ask me that?! I guess Iʼd fight if I knew they still wanted me, but—
Jiang Chengʼs thoughts stuttered to a halt as Lan Xichenʼs gaze lingered, heavy with something unspoken. The caféʼs hum faded into white noise, leaving only the sharp tap of Jiang Chengʼs fingernail against his cup. "Thatʼs not the point," he muttered, suddenly fascinated by a chip in the table’s veneer. "If you love someone, you donʼt just—"
"Let them go?" Lan Xichen supplied, voice feather-light. His thumb brushed the rim of his glass, smearing the condensation. "Sometimes love means recognizing when you are not what they need."
OH cut the iconic lines! I just know that if this guy wanted to be in the acting industry, heʼd be drowning in awards by now. Maybe just show a little weakness, huh?!
Okay, okay, maybe that was a little too mean—but Jiang Cheng couldn’t help it. Lan Xichen was talking like he’d rehearsed this speech in front of a mirror, every word polished to perfection. It was infuriating. “Spare me the fortune cookie wisdom,” Jiang Cheng snapped, shoving his chair back with a screech. “You’re not some tragic hero in a romance novel. You’re just—” His breath hitched as Lan Xichen’s expression flickered, raw and unguarded for half a second before smoothing over again. “You’re just you.”
Lan Xichen’s fingers curled around his glass, knuckles whitening. “I know,” he said, so quiet Jiang Cheng almost missed it. “That has always been the problem.”
Jiang Cheng didn’t know what to say to that.
So they sat in silence.
All that entertained him was his own thoughts. Jiang Chengʼs gaze flicked to the clock above the café counter—its hands stubbornly inching forward while Lan Xichen remained motionless, his fingers now laced together as if in prayer. The silence stretched until it became a third presence at their table, thick enough to choke on.
Jiang Cheng cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud. “So.” He drummed his fingers against the tabletop, the rhythm uneven. “You’re really just... fine with it?” The question spilled out before he could stop it, rough-edged with disbelief. “Mingjue and Jin Guangyao, I mean.”
Lan Xichen’s shoulders lifted in the barest shrug. “I would not say I am fine,” he admitted, gaze drifting to where Jiang Cheng’s fingers still tapped restlessly. “But I am... adjusting.” His voice softened on the last word, fraying at the edges like worn fabric. “It helps that Mingjue-ge is happy. And A-Yao deserves that.”
Jiang Cheng scoffed, kicking Lan Xichen’s ankle again—this time with less force. “You’re ridiculous.” The words lacked their usual bite. “Who cares what they deserve? What about you?” His pulse stuttered as Lan Xichen’s head tilted, sunlight catching the silver in his hair.
A slow blink. Then—“I will be alright.” Lan Xichen’s lips curved, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I always am.”
The café door chimed, admitting a burst of laughter from a group of students. Jiang Cheng seized the distraction, jerking his chin toward them. “We should go.” He stood abruptly, chair legs scraping against the floor. “This place is getting crowded.”
Lan Xichen followed without protest, gathering their discarded cups with practiced efficiency. Jiang Cheng watched his hands—the same ones that had steadied him after childhood scrapes, that had passed him tissues during his ugliest crying sessions—now stacking disposable lids with meticulous care.
Outside, the autumn air bit sharper than expected. Jiang Cheng hunched his shoulders against it, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Where’s your coat, idiot?” he grumbled, eyeing Lan Xichen’s thin sweater.
Lan Xichen exhaled a quiet laugh, breath misting in the cold. “I did not anticipate staying out so long.” His elbow brushed Jiang Cheng’s as they fell into step, the contact fleeting but deliberate.
Jiang Cheng didn’t pull away.
They walked in silence past the library, its windows glowing amber in the gathering dusk. Jiang Cheng’s phone buzzed—Ling Mei’s name flashed on the screen, followed by a string of heart emojis. He thumbed it off without reading the rest.
“You should reply to her.” Lan Xichen’s voice was neutral, but his stride hitched almost imperceptibly.
Jiang Cheng snorted. “Why? So she can ask if you’ve texted her yet?” He kicked a pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement. “She’s been obsessed with you since freshman orientation.”
A pause. Then—“I am aware.” Lan Xichen’s fingers flexed at his sides. “But she is your girlfriend.”
The words hung between them, weighted. Jiang Cheng’s steps slowed. “Yeah,” he muttered. “She is.”
Somewhere ahead, a streetlight flickered on, casting long shadows across Lan Xichen’s profile. Jiang Cheng caught the exact moment his expression shifted—something fragile surfacing before being schooled back into calm.
“What?” Jiang Cheng prodded, nudging Lan Xichen’s shoulder. “Spit it out.”
Lan Xichen stopped walking. When he turned, the streetlight haloed his silhouette, gilding his eyelashes in gold. “Do you love her?”
The question baffled Jiang Cheng beyond his wits.
LAN XICHEN!!!!! why? Just why! He cried in his mind. Why do you need to know?! HMMMMM?! DO I LOOK LIKE I DONʼT KNOW?! Jiang Chengʼs fingers twitched at his sides, the cold suddenly more biting than before. “What kind of question is that?” he muttered, staring at a crack in the pavement like it held the answers.
Lan Xichen didn’t rush him. He never did. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, the streetlight catching the curve of his ear cuff—a gift from Jiang Cheng years ago, though neither of them mentioned it now. “It is a simple question,” he said, voice so damnably gentle. “Do you love her?”
Jiang Cheng's throat tightened. "We've been dating for two years," he deflected, kicking at the pavement again. The pebble skittered into the gutter, lost in shadows. "Isn't that answer enough?"
Lan Xichen exhaled—a slow, measured thing—as if Jiang Cheng had handed him a puzzle with missing pieces. "Duration is not the same as devotion." His hands, usually so still, flexed once before settling into the pockets of his slacks. The fabric pulled taut across his thighs, and Jiang Cheng pointedly looked away.
The streetlight above them buzzed, flickering like a failing heartbeat. Jiang Cheng scowled at it, as if the light's instability mirrored his own. "What do you want me to say?" he snapped, sharper than intended. "That I'm head-over-heels? That I—" His voice cracked, betraying him. Ling Mei's laugh echoed in his memory—bright, practiced, never quite reaching her eyes when aimed at him.
Lan Xichen stepped closer, his shadow merging with Jiang Cheng's on the pavement. "I want you to say the truth," he murmured. The scent of sandalwood—subtle, expensive—drifted between them. "Even if it is inconvenient."
Jiang Cheng’s pulse roared in his ears, loud enough to drown out the distant chatter of students leaving the library. The truth? What truth? That he’d spent the last six months counting ceiling cracks during dates with Ling Mei? That her laughter had started to sound like a recording? He opened his mouth—to deflect, to lie—but Lan Xichen’s gaze pinned him in place, patient as a spider waiting for a trapped fly to tire itself out.
A gust of wind sent dead leaves skittering between them. Jiang Cheng watched one catch on Lan Xichen’s sleeve—brittle, brown, clinging desperately before drifting away. “Truth is overrated,” he muttered, rubbing his arms against the chill. Or maybe the way Lan Xichen was looking at him, like he could see straight through the cracks in his armor.
Lan Xichen’s fingers twitched toward him before retreating. “Not to me,” he said softly. The streetlight caught the silver in his hair, turning individual strands luminous. For a wild moment, Jiang Cheng imagined touching them—testing if they felt as cool as they looked.
His phone buzzed again. Ling Mei’s name flashed, followed by three more heart emojis. Jiang Cheng swallowed hard, the screen blurring in his vision. “She’s... nice.” The word landed like a lead balloon between them.
Lan Xichen didnʼt respond immediately. Instead, he reached out—slowly, telegraphing every movement—and plucked Jiang Chengʼs phone from his slack fingers. The screen lit up with Ling Meiʼs latest message: Dinner at 7? Wear the blue shirt I like ;>
Yes my lady! Of course I will wear the blue shirt you like for dinner— Jiang Chengʼs fingers twitched, halfway to snatching his phone back when Lan Xichen thumbed the screen off without replying. The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.
“You did not answer my question,” Lan Xichen murmured, tucking the phone into Jiang Chengʼs coat pocket himself, fingers lingering near the fabric. His breath clouded in the cold air, mingling with Jiang Chengʼs.
Jiang Chengʼs throat worked. “Because itʼs a stupid question,” he managed, but the protest lacked heat. The blue shirt—Ling Meiʼs favorite—was stuffed in the back of his closet, untouched since their last fight. Heʼd worn black instead, just to spite her.
Lan Xichen exhaled, shoulders slumping minutely. “Very well.” He stepped back, putting careful distance between them. The streetlight carved shadows under his eyes, making him look exhausted in a way Jiang Cheng hadnʼt noticed before. “I will not pry further.”
And just like that, they parted ways.