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Chapter Text

Unlike his brother, Jiang Cheng has never liked the color red. Bright red hawthorn berries leave a sour taste on his tongue, crimson sunsets are tolerated only for the cool nights that follow, and though he’d never admit it, the sight of blood always makes his stomach churn.

Now, it surrounds him on every side.

Wen Ruohan’s hand tightens around his shoulder, the long nails threatening to pierce through skin as he pulls Jiang Cheng down the long hallway draped with the color of blood. Black stone pillars hold up the ceiling above them, each one carved with scarlet flames surging up the sides. Despite being the city that boasts of having no night, these halls are shadowed with darkness, the windows covered with blood-red curtains that stain what little sunlight manages to slip past.

Jiang Cheng stares at the graying boards beneath him, the only spot of reprieve from the sickly pulse of crimson surrounding him. He flexes his fingers against the coarse ropes biting into his wrists, ignoring the sting. He doesn’t know why Wen Ruohan is bothering to keep such a tight grip on him. The idea of running away is laughable, really, what with how they’re flanked with at least a dozen guards.

For now, escape is only a faint flicker in the back of his mind.

And so, Jiang Cheng tries to find reprieve in the faint tendrils of fresh air, the small slivers of sunlight. They’re small mercies after being trapped for heavens knew how long in that rancid dungeon.

They’ve agreed to let him see Wei Wuxian. That’s all that matters, really.

“You know, it’s quite peculiar,” Wen Ruohan says. The gold pieces of his hairpiece glitter faintly in the sparse light as he speaks. “Wen Zhuliu told us he melted your golden core. And yet you still managed to fight us tooth and nail using that famed spiritual whip.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t bother answering. He keeps his face impassive, his head slightly lowered, though his jaw tightens at the mention of his mysteriously restored golden core. He’s half-surprised they haven’t crushed it again, though Wen Zhuliu’s name has been thrown at him more than once, like a knife poised to strike.

The two pairs of boots continue to hit the floor, pressing closer to the door at the end of the hallway. A pair of stone lions stand guard, their mouths open, each bearing a small flame on their tongues.

“Stranger still,” Wen Ruohan continues, “is how when we found Wei Wuxian… there was no golden core to melt.”

His hand pushes open the door.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t immediately understand why the other is still clamped so tightly on his shoulder—until he steps inside.

The smell is what hits him first.

Sickly sweet, metallic, rancid.

Wei Wuxian is in the center of the room, chained to a pillar. His arms are pulled high above his head, the chains looped through a small metal ring. The lower half of his body spills across the floor, legs unmoving, as though they can no longer bear his weight.

Wen Chao stands beside him, kicking at Wei Wuxian’s side in wet, uneven thunks. He stops as Jiang Cheng and his father enter the room, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow, mouth twisting into a grin.

“No.” The word escapes Jiang Cheng’s throat, barely a breath. But Wei Wuxian still hears. His whole body goes rigid—the body that is so much thinner than Jiang Cheng remembers—like a skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of flesh.

A blindfold covers his eyes, and his mouth is gagged with the same red ribbon he once used to tie back his hair. His soft black robes hang in tatters, streaked with grime and blood. The fabric has slipped from one shoulder, revealing the scorched Wen brand seared into his chest.

The only indication that he is conscious, that he is alive, is the faint flare of his nostrils as he struggles to breathe.

Jiang Cheng wrenches himself free from Wen Ruohan’s grip. The man lets him go too easily, as though he’s all too aware of the uselessness of the action. Jiang Cheng doesn’t care. He strides across the room and falls to his knees before his brother, reaching out to press trembling fingers to Wei Wuxian’s lower dantian.

The touch makes Wei Wuxian recoil. He squirms weakly, muffled sounds rising from behind the gag—a protest that Jiang Cheng pointedly ignores.

“Wei Wuxian,” he says. “Wei Wuxian, what did you do?”

For a moment, the only answer is the sickly smell that curls from his brother’s body, sweat and illness and infection.

Then Wei Wuxian just barely shakes his head. His throat works uselessly, cracked lips forming words too faint to hear.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

The words hang unspoken in the air, but Jiang Cheng feels them like a command. Wei Wuxian’s head shifts, as if trying to hide himself, to shield Jiang Cheng from what he’s become. But there’s nowhere to turn.

“Poor little shige,” Wen Chao coos from somewhere beside them. “He didn’t stand a chance.”

Jiang Cheng resists the urge to kick Wen Chao directly between the legs, and merely snarls before returning his attention to Wei Wuxian.

There’s blood pooled under his legs, yellowish infection leaking from a cluster of bright red gashes on his ankle. Then something moves, something that’s white and small, no bigger than his thumbnail. Jiang Cheng stares at it, stares until the pieces click together in his mind and bile rises up in his throat, nearly causing him to gag.

Suddenly, it doesn’t matter what Wei Wuxian might have—what he has done. It doesn’t matter that the room is filled with guards, that Wen Ruohan is standing just a few feet behind him; there are maggots crawling out of his brother's flesh. They squirm, gorging themselves on the decaying body in front of him, as Wei Wuxian's frame continues to shudder.

His brother is alive—and he’s rotting.

“Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng says for a third time, his voice collapsing into a shaking whisper.

His bound hands rise, trembling as they stretch toward Wei Wuxian’s face. Dried bile runs in a pale yellow line down his chin, and Jiang Cheng reaches out to brush it away. The roughened pads of fingers brush against feverish skin… then a sudden wetness spills from beneath the cloth. It slips over Jiang Cheng’s fingertips, tracing a path down Wei Wuxian’s flushed cheek before dripping off his trembling jaw.

“That’s enough,” Wen Ruohan says, his hand once more closing around Jiang Cheng’s shoulder.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t bother looking at him, his gaze still scraping over Wei Wuxian’s shivering body. It feels as though every moment he spends looking reveals a new wound, another broken piece.

His right hand, crushed and mangled, fingers twisted at unnatural angles. The lump of swelling beneath the blindfold, grotesque and straining, as though the bone around his eye has been fractured and is threatening to give way. The flesh around his wrists, rubbed raw until Jiang Cheng can see faint hints of bone.

All this, and he doesn’t even have a golden core to ease the pain.

Jiang Cheng resists Wen Ruohan’s pull for one more second, his bound hands trembling as his finger drags across Wei Wuxian’s heaving abdomen. The strokes are faint, uneven, but deliberate—a message carved in the only way he can.

For a moment, he isn’t sure if Wei Wuxian even registers it through the haze of pain that blankets his body. But then his brother flinches. His body pulls back, weak and shuddering, and his head shakes harder, as though trying to refuse the message he cannot speak against.

The next kick from Wen Chao lands square on Wei Wuxian’s ribs. He convulses once, his body jerking as though trying to cough, but the motion catches in his throat and dies. He gasps—a single, broken sound—and then—

Wei Wuxian’s muscles go slack. He sags against the chains that hold him upright, motionless.

“Can’t even stay awake.” Wen Chao lets out a short huff of annoyance and steps forward. He yanks the blindfold off, then grabs Wei Wuxian’s jaw with bloody fingers, wrenching his face upward into the light. Streaks of blood trail down Wei Wuxian’s face, pooling in the corners of swollen eyes that have fallen shut.

“Isn’t he pretty?” Wen Chao says, his voice an insufferable whine dripping with venom. He tilts Wei Wuxian’s slack face from side to side, as if trying to find the best angle. “He makes an excellent display of what happens to those who defy the rising sun.”

His fingers slip down, moving towards Wei Wuxian’s throat, and Jiang Cheng rips himself out of Wen Ruohan’s grip.

“You bastard, I’ll kill you!”

Jiang Cheng barely gets one step in before he’s jumped by the guards, and wrestled to the floor. He writhes and twists under their grip, snarling like a wounded animal, the ropes that bind his own wrists biting into the skin, as if in retaliation.

Getting you out.

He repeats the words that he traced on Wei Wuxian’s body—

Getting you out.

Over and over, the promise burns in his mind, steady and unshakable—

I’m getting you out.

Just hold on a little longer.

Chapter Text

He takes a breath, and waits for the next flutter of his heartbeat. Each time it’s just enough to send a shudder through his weakened body, jerk him out of whatever thought he’s been trying to focus on.

Water.

Wei Wuxian’s heart flutters again, and he wheezes, before parting his throbbing lips a little wider, trying to pull air around a swollen tongue. His throat is raw, dry as a sandcloth.

Thirsty.

The word lingers in his mind, tangled with half-formed sensations—Jiang Cheng’s fingers pressing against his abdomen, the faint wriggle of maggots burrowing into dead muscle, the stench of his own body.

And the voices.

Early in his captivity, back when he’d had the strength to spew insults and threats, Wen Chao had reached out to slap him, and in retaliation, Wei Wuxian bit him.

He’d almost taken off a few of Wen Chao’s fingers.

Wen Chao hadn’t been very pleased.

It felt like only moments later he was in the bruising grip of hands that dragged him down, down into the bowels of Nightless City. He remembers the sickening heat of the air, the reek of decay, the hollow ache in his stomach as they threw him into a stone pit crammed with the ghosts of Wen Ruohan’s victims.

Wei Wuxian spent three days there, shivering among the corpses, lungs burning as he drew in shallow gasps of air thickened with resentment. Even when his ears rang so loudly that he thought they might burst, the screams still seemed to reach him.

He began to listen. Even without his golden core, years of training had taught him how to feel the energy pathways flowing through both the living and the dead.

And so, Wei Wuxian listened, until he began to pick out individual words.

Hurt.

Lost.

And then, louder. Hungry.

Hunger. Hungry. FEED.

Wei Wuxian listened, he listens, and their hatred seeps into him, slips through every tear in his skin, every breathless gasp. Even now, in this empty hall, it clings tight.

Take us with you, the ghosts whisper.

The faintest stir brushes against his senses, like a breeze disturbing still water, pulls him back to awareness. He feels more than hears the guards’ presence, their slow, steady footsteps echoing faintly through the void of his quiet world.

They’ve kept him blindfolded for days. The constant darkness makes it hard to tell if he’s awake or trapped in some fevered unconsciousness, and at some point he’d slipped over into using other senses. The guards’ qi flickers faintly in his awareness, steady and unremarkable, and the resentful energy clinging to him stirs.

The boots stop.

Fingers dig into his hair, holding his head steady, then, with a sharp tug, the gag rips away from his mouth. Wei Wuxian gasps, pain flaring as the skin of his lips tears away with the fabric. Coppery blood wells up, spilling into Wei Wuxian’s mouth, and he weakly jerks, trying to spit.

“Still alive, huh?”

The second guard snorts.

“Barely.”

The fist in Wei Wuxian’s hair tightens, yanking his head back. A faint whine escapes his throat, sharp and involuntary. His lips throb, the pain pulsing deep into the torn tissue, each beat a cruel reminder that he’s still alive.

Then, suddenly, nothing matters. The cool edge of something presses against his sore lips and water spills into his mouth.

Wei Wuxian gulps immediately, probably swallowing a mouthful of air along with the water, but he doesn't care. It tastes like sweat, like rainwater, but he swallows greedily. The liquid slips down his dry throat and his body begins to tremble with relief.

But he can’t keep up.

The hands keeps his head tipped back, keep the cup tilted, and when his body tries to draw in a breath, he chokes. A jagged cough rattles through his chest, and water spills out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin, slick and cold. More of it drips onto his collarbone.

The guard’s grip tightens, forcing him to keep drinking. He tilts the cup higher, heedless of Wei Wuxian’s choked gasps, and another wave of liquid floods his mouth. Wei Wuxian’s body bucks as he begins to choke, his throat clamping shut.

Swallow, he screams, but his body refuses to cooperate. Each time he tries, another surge floods his throat, leaving him gagging. A strangled sound escapes from the back of his throat as he struggles to breathe, to pull away, to stop it.

They don’t let him.

A different hand grabs his jaw, wrenching his mouth back open, and the water keeps coming. It spills in so fast that it overflows, trailing down the sides of his bruised face. His chest heaves desperately, but no breath comes, only the cold press of liquid forcing its way in.

And Wei Wuxian feels something inside of him crack.

Let us—

The energy pressing against him twists, as if responding to his desperation. For a single moment, it aligns with him, sharp and volatile. Wei Wuxian spits out the water in a sharp burst, a ragged breath tearing through his throat.

Let us out—

The words sear through him as energy surges beneath his skin. Every muscle in his body seizes, tightening painfully. He can feel the resentment pulling at him, like its pulling at the threads binding his sanity together, unraveling it into something sticky and rotten. It burns through his veins, hot and jagged.

But his body is too weak. The power falters, unstable, slipping through his grasp like water through his fingers. It sinks back into the ground, leaving behind a sickening hollow in his chest.

His stomach rebels.

The liquid surges up his throat and bursts from his mouth and nose, bitter and scalding. It hits the stone floor with a splash, leaving him gasping and choking.

The taste, sour and metallic, lingers, the last remnant of the very thing his body still cried out for.

No. No… His thoughts stumble, frantic and hollow. I needed that. I need that.

Cracked lips move, trying to speak, but his throat has turned to a pathway of crushed glass and broken shells. The only sound that comes is a faint, pitiful rasp.

Behind him, the guards laugh.

Wei Wuxian knows the water wasn’t meant to be a relief. It's just yet another form of torture, this time thinly veiled as an act of compassion. Perhaps it would have been an act of compassion—if only he’d been able to keep it down. Perhaps—

The world turns sideways, and Wei Wuxian’s cheek thuds against the cool stone. The regurgitated water seeps into the blindfold, touches the edge of cracked lips. He can feel the dampness there, cold against his fevered skin.

Cold.

It’s too cold.

He wants to be warm, but there’s only cold.

A choked sob slips from his throat, but it's weak, pathetic—barely more than a tremor that leaves his shoulders shaking.

“J-Jiang… Ch-Cheng…”

The ghosts stir in the corners of his mind, trailing their cold fingers up and down his meridians. It’s almost soothing.

Let us—we can help—you must save him—

Wei Wuxian doesn’t respond. He lays there, the fever burning beneath his skin, clinging to his bones, gnawing at the dry, parched emptiness inside him.

The world around him blurs once more, the edges slipping away.

He doesn’t know how much more of this his rotting body can take.

…

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flutter open, his breath hitching in the chill of the air. His eyelashes are matted with tears, his throat raw and throbbing. His entire body aches, shivering faintly as the cold of the stone floor leeches into his skin.

For a moment he isn’t sure what’s woken him.

Then he hears it.

Screaming.

It’s faint, muffled by the thick stone ceiling above, but it’s enough to send a jolt of fear through him. Jiang Cheng scrambles to his feet, ignoring the weakness in his legs and the way his body protests every movement.

The air feels heavier now, carrying with it the acrid stench of burning flesh. Thick, dark plumes spill down the staircase like incense smoke, curling ominously. The heat of it prickles against his skin.

A guard stumbles into view, his screams raw and desperate. He doesn’t make it far before a corpse lurches out of the shadows and drags him to the ground. Jiang Cheng freezes, his heart hammering in his chest as the guard’s cries dissolve into wet, choking gurgles.

Then the corpse bends down and rips his throat out.

Jiang Cheng sucks in a short breath and the corpse lifts its head to look at him, the corners of its lips dripping blood, mouth full of gore. Its skin is gray and waxy, but its clothing, though torn, is still bright—stark white with a red collar, sleeves patterned like the rising sun.

What…

It looks… fresh. But corpses don’t get back up immediately after they’re killed, even if they are poised to become a fierce corpse.

Jiang Cheng takes another step back, his gaze darting away for just a second to try and locate some sort of weapon. At least the cell bars provide some sort of defense. He's barely finished the thought when the corpse lurches forward, throwing its body against the bars with a nauseating squelch. A moment later, it’s clawed its way back to its hands and knees.

Bony fingers with broken nails curl around the lower bars, and its teeth sink into the metal. It pulls with a sort of feral determination, then two bars snap loose. The corpse scrambles away, dragging itself toward the next cell. It’s empty, but it begins the same process, biting and twisting the bars.

Jiang Cheng stares.

Then his breath catches, and he forces himself to move. He drops to his knees and flattens himself against the floor, beginning to push himself through the narrow gap. The jagged edges of the broken bars scrape against his skin, but he doesn’t stop—not when the corpse could turn its attention to him at any second.

He’s lost weight during the long weeks of his captivity, and for once, he’s grateful. It’s left him thin enough to slip through.

Jiang Cheng stumbles to his feet, his legs trembling, and grabs the dead guard’s sword. The cold metal feels unfamiliar in his hand, but it will have to do.

Zidian. I’m coming.

The thought drives him forward, steadying his breath as he runs through the blood-slicked halls of the dungeon. The stench of death clogs the air, thick and suffocating, but Jiang Cheng merely puts an arm over his nose and mouth, trying not to look at the bodies of Wen guards crumpled in pools of their own blood, corpses gnawing at their broken limbs.

The small armory is easy to find, and Zidian waits there, untouched. Jiang Cheng’s trembling fingers close around the ring, and relief surges through him as its familiar energy crackles to life. He slips it onto his finger, and the whip unfurls with a burst of lightning.

The halls are chaos. Corpses slump against the walls, and the frantic Wen scatter as Jiang Cheng races through. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t hesitate. The whip snaps with an electric crack, its light cutting through the smoke and blood, through men and corpses alike.

The room where he’d last seen Wei Wuxian looms ahead, and he bursts through the door—

Silence greets him.

Chapter Text

A large black spike curls from the center of the room. It has punctured directly through Wen Chao’s chest, holding him midair. The man is still, his mouth open in a silent, eternal scream.

Wei Wuxian lies curled on the floor just a few strides away. His shaking body folds into itself as thick black smoke twists and churns around him. It clings to him like a shield one moment, then lashes out violently the next, as if it can’t decide whether to protect him or destroy him.

His eyes are still covered by a blindfold, mouth still gagged with his own hair ribbon, wrists weeping yellowish infection.

Despite himself, Jiang Cheng feels his steps slow. One foot steps in front of the other until he’s able to reach through that prickling black smoke and grasp Wei Wuxian by the shoulder. The air is choked with resentful energy, swirling with strands of killing intent.

“Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng says, his grip tightening. “It’s me. Calm down.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t calm, not really, but the hands that are gripping his head loosen. Jiang Cheng pries them away, wincing at the heat radiating from his brother’s skin.

“Hey, hey. Listen. I’m going to get the blindfold first, okay? Then the gag. Spit out whatever cloth they shoved in your mouth because I am not reaching in there and risking my fingers.”

He keeps up the steady stream of nonsense as his fingers tug away the blindfold. Then Wei Wuxian looks up at him, revealing one eye that is swollen shut and another flickering from gray to red.

“You idiot,” Jiang Cheng says, his hands shaking as he picks at the knot holding the red ribbon in place. “Why did you have to go and get yourself kidnapped?”

As soon as it falls away, Wei Wuxian begins to cough. The rag falls from his mouth and into Jiang Cheng’s cupped hand.

It’s bone dry.

“Ch-Cheng—”

The voice that comes out of Wei Wuxian is almost completely unrecognizable. As if it belongs to some hanged ghost, something dead that’s been dragged back into the living. Not his brother.

“Killed—Cheng—”

“Yeah, well, I'm alive. Stop trying to talk or I’ll break your legs. Shit, you’re such a mess.”

His hands still, hovering uselessly over Wei Wuxian’s broken body. He wants to just haul Wei Wuxian on his back, to take advantage of this strange chaos and escape, but his own limbs are shaking.

“What did you do? What’s going on?” The question slips out despite his protest just a moment ago that Wei Wuxian shut up. He glances around uselessly, wishing he had some water on him to wipe away the blood crusting Wei Wuxian’s cracked lips.

“Th-they said… w-were—kill—y-you—” The voice breaks off into a whimper.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t let him finish. He slips his arms around Wei Wuxian, selfishly, so selfishly pulling the thin, trembling body close. A small trickle of blood drips from Wei Wuxian’s nose, crimson flickers across his eye, and he whimpers again.

“Hey, shhh,” Jiang Cheng says. “I’m not dead, I’m here, I’m alive. I’m getting you out. Didn’t I say I’d get you out? Dummy.”

His fingers stroke over matted black hair—shit, will they have to cut it? He hopes not. The thought feels absurd, but—he—

He pulls Wei Wuxian’s head closer, carefully so the uninjured side rests against his collarbone.

“Dummy,” Jiang Cheng repeats, softer this time.

Sounds begin to filter in around them. Shouting, clashing blades. More screaming. He feels Wei Wuxian’s breath hitch, sees a faint whisper of black smoke curl between his brother’s fingers. The veins on the back of his hand raise.

Jiang Cheng tenses, trying to shift his body so he’s positioned in front of Wei Wuxian, but his own vision is starting to blur around the edges.

Then a flurry of white bursts through the door.

Lan Wangji.

One hand rests under his guqin, the other laid over the strings, black hair flying out around him like some ethereal thing. There’s barely a scratch or speck of dirt on him, as though the chaos doesn’t dare touch him.

Jiang Cheng goes still, pulling Wei Wuxian a little closer.

Lan Wangji hates Wei Wuxian. The righteous Lan sect, with their rules and their path and their disdain for anything that strayed too far from their rigid beliefs.

He places a hand over Wei Wuxian’s, covering the faint curl of resentment. His shoulders bunch up as he stares down Lan Wangji, ready to defend Wei Wuxian if he has to.

“What’s going on?” he asks, his own voice hoarse and raspy.

Lan Wangji’s gaze flicks towards Wen Chao’s corpse, then back over to Jiang Cheng. His expression is as haughty and aloof as always—those sharp, inscrutable eyes, the faint furrow of his brow. But as his gaze lingers, the faintest crease appears between those brows.

“We launched an attack against Nightless City,” Lan Wangji says. “A distraction, while a few of us slipped inside the palace to try and find you and Wei Ying.”

Jiang Cheng wants to glare, but a sudden weight sags in his arms, and he snaps his attention back to Wei Wuxian. His brother’s head lolls to the side, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Shit,” Jiang Cheng mutters. He reaches out and pats Wei Wuxian’s fevered cheek, trying not to gag as the smell of his brother’s wounds waft over him. “Come on. Wake up. Lan Wangji isn’t that pretty.”

A shadow falls over them both, and Jiang Cheng’s head jerks back up, meeting Lan Wangji’s calm gaze.

He's not sure what he’s expecting, but it certainly isn’t Lan Wangji holding out his hands, as if… as if he’s ready to take Wei Wuxian.

Jiang Cheng stares at him, uncomprehending.

“Lan Wangji—” He swallows. You hate him. Your sect condemns ghost cultivation. How can I trust you?

But he doesn’t have a choice. His arms are trembling, barely able to hold Wei Wuxian upright. He can’t protect Wei Wuxian like this.

Jiang Cheng forces his hands to move, to let go, and gently shifts Wei Wuxian’s limp body into Lan Wangji’s waiting arms.

“Get him out of here,” Jiang Cheng whispers, his voice rough. “Please.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t say a word. He simply cradles Wei Wuxian against his chest, his expression unreadable as he turns and strides from the room.

Jiang Cheng’s hands fall to his sides, empty and shaking. He watches them disappear into the smoke and chaos.

…

Two sichen later, Jiang Cheng slips into one of the tents, letting the flap fall shut behind him. The noise of the war camp fades into a dull murmur, muffled by the canvas walls. He isn’t sure if the quiet is a relief, or just an unsettling stillness that makes his chest clench.

His eyes sweep over to Wei Wuxian, lying too pale and still on the small table, curled up under a blanket. For a moment, Jiang Cheng just stands there, gripping the bowl in his hands.

The slashes near his ankle are slathered in animal fat, and broken fingers are straight, tied to tiny splints. His swollen eye has been gently covered with a cloth soaked in some smelly herbal paste. White bandages cover his wrists, though the black and blue bruises crawl out from underneath, halfway up his forearms.

Jiang Cheng swallows once, trying to quell the nausea, and took a few steps to drag over a three legged stool, sitting down beside the table.

The healer had done what she could, but there were too many others who needed her hands. She’d left the more mundane tasks to Jiang Cheng. Clean the wound, keep him warm, shove some bitter concoction down his throat.

In a way, he's grateful. He knows, logically, that there is little chance of anyone here causing harm to Wei Wuxian.

But there is still a chance.

His hands grab a clean cloth off of the stack, wetting it, wringing it out, then begins to wipe at Wei Wuxian’s ankle. Wei Wuxian jerks, his eye flying open as soon as the cloth touches his skin.

“No—” he gasps. He twists to the side, clawing at Jiang Cheng’s sleeve, trying to grab on with fingers that refuse to bend. “Don’t—don’t—”

Jiang Cheng stills, staring down at the fragile grip on his arm, before he turns away. “It’s me,” he says, his voice flat, steady despite the knot in his throat. “Just me. It’s okay.”

Wei Wuxian blinks up at him with that one wide, uncovered eye. “I… know,” he says, the words so faint Jiang Cheng almost doesn’t catch them. “B-but it’s… disgusting…”

***

“You’re disgusting,” Jiang Cheng snaps. The sharpness of the words belay the warm nausea twisting in his stomach. He can already see one—a pale speck buried in the angry red of inflamed flesh. “Lay still.”

He knows he could leave this for the healers. The maggots are dead, so leaving them in there for an extra sichen or two won’t cause too much damage.

But he can’t even imagine how desperately Wei Wuxian must want them out.

The wet cloth pulls away another layer of animal fat, and Wei Wuxian lets out a muffled whimper. They gave him some sort of herbal concoction to dull the pain, but without a golden core, there’s only so much it can do.

“I know,” Jiang Cheng says. “I know, I know, I know… Just hang in there.”

By now he’s reached the raw, infected wound underneath. Jiang Cheng takes the small pair of forceps between his fingers and begins pulling out the dead maggots, one by one. The first comes away easily, but the second is stubborn, its pale body clinging to the shredded flesh. He can hear the creak of Wei Wuxian’s teeth as he clenches his jaw, the way he whimpers every time Jiang Cheng accidentally brushes the wound.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry…”

His voice is low, shaking. The words feel hollow.

Jiang Cheng fills a cup with warm water and rinses the wound again and again. Infection flushes out with each pour, revealing the damage beneath little by little—pockmarked holes where the maggots have eaten away at skin and muscle. Jiang Cheng grits his teeth and picks up the cloth again, brushing gently against the raw, inflamed edges.

Wei Wuxian jerks away at the touch, his body trembling as a high-pitched whine escapes him. “St-stop—f-fuck—”

“I know,” Jiang Cheng mutters, helpless, useless. “I have to get this clean; just shut up and let me concentrate.”

It takes far too long. The maggots are dead, but the damage they’ve left behind feels endless. Soon, either the drugs kick in, or Wei Wuxian passes out, because the soft noises of pain fade into silence. And yet there’s still more that needs to be done. Dead flesh is cut away. Pinkish, watery blood flows down, soaking into the cloth beneath Wei Wuxian’s leg.

A stray maggot escapes during the rinsing process and Jiang Cheng's stomach lurches violently. He steps to the side, turning away, but it’s too late. Acid burns its way up his throat, and he doubles over, gripping his knees. The sour taste stings in his mouth, but he swallows it down, forcing himself to breathe.

He can’t stop—not now. He swipes at his mouth with his sleeve and turns back, though his hands are trembling.

Wei Wuxian was right.

It is disgusting.

He thought that cleaning the wound would take away the smell, but it only grows worse, acrid and clinging, like it’s burned into his nostrils. The layers stripped away reveal not just the damage, but the sheer depth of it. His stomach turns again, and he grits his teeth to keep from gagging. He hates this.

He hates that Wei Wuxian has to endure this.

***

When the wound is finally clean, Jiang Cheng wraps up the dirty remains and dumps them outside the tent. Let someone else take care of burning them. He scrubs his hands until they’re nearly raw, trying to rid them of the sensation of warm, sticky blood leaking across his fingers.

Only then does he apply the medicinal salve and wrap the wound in layer after layer of clean white cloth.

Only then does Jiang Cheng allow himself to lean back against the table and take a shuddering breath.

Why did you give it up?

His fingertips brush over his abdomen, where the golden core hums faintly. Even now, after everything, it feels strong, steady—nothing like the cold, empty hollow he’d woken up to in Yiling. He remembers Wei Wuxian leaning over him, worried, too close. He remembers the ache in his chest, the crushing feeling that nothing would ever be alright, that he might as well give up and die.

But Wei Wuxian has always been cleverer than him—too clever, too reckless. Wei Wuxian always found a way to twist the world to his will, even if it meant carving pieces of himself away to make it happen.

Why waste a golden core on a useless lump like him, the sect leader of a massacred sect, someone who now has a golden core even stronger than the one he had before and still got captured—a failure.

“Why did you give it to me?” he asks. His voice is shaky, barely audible over the soft rustle of fabric and the faint sounds of the camp outside.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t answer. He’s curled on his side, his good hand clutching the edge of the blanket, breathing shallow. His face is streaked with grime, marred with blackened bruises and flushed, feverish skin. His lips are cracked, dried blood flaking at the corners.

“You could have used it to—” He cuts off the words, cuts off the thought. “And now you’re making me clean up after you. Asshole.”

Jiang Cheng sighs, but his hands grab a fresh rag. He swirls it in the clean water, then wrings it out, leaving it damp but not dripping. Then he begins dabbing at the corner of the bloodied mouth.

His movements are careful, hesitant at first. The last thing he wants is to wake his brother, to bring more pain, but the filth clinging to his skin needs to come off.

The cloth comes away streaked with red, and he rinses it before wiping along the curve of Wei Wuxian’s jaw, brushing away the traces of bile, cleaning every small scratch and tear to reveal a nose and cheeks stained red with fever flush.

The next touch is down the side of Wei Wuxian’s neck, the cloth gliding along skin marred with blackened bruises in the shape of fingers. Jiang Cheng’s stomach turns over again, his hand stilling briefly before forcing himself to keep going, slipping his fingers around a limp, bandaged wrist.

Wei Wuxian’s hands are far more bony than he remembers, the fingers wrapped in splints and the knuckles scraped raw. He brushes the cloth over them slowly, carefully, wiping away the dirt and dried blood trapped beneath ragged nails.

Cloth and water alike turn crimson and dark, but the faint, sour smell of sweat and infection begins to ease, and though his brother is nearly as pale as the bandages wrapped around him, he’s clean.

Finally, Jiang Cheng sets the rag aside and carefully lifts Wei Wuxian from the table, one arm slipping behind his shoulders and the other beneath his knees. Wei Wuxian’s body feels weightless—light in the way that only comes from too much time without food, from illness that wears a body down to nothing.

The blanket slips off to pool on the floor as Jiang Cheng adjusts his brother, cradling him against his chest. He feels the shallow rise and fall of Wei Wuxian’s breathing against his ribs, and he lets out a shuddering breath of his own.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this,” he says. “When you wake up, I’m going to make you explain. Everything.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t stir as Jiang Cheng shifts him onto a nearby cot, settling him so that he'll be comfortable. He drapes the blanket over the thin, frail body, tucking it close.

For a moment, Jiang Cheng just stares.

Beneath the swelling bruises, beneath the shadows and hollows that suffering had carved into his face, Jiang Cheng can see the faintest hint of the brother he once knew.

The brother who used to tease him endlessly, who used to grin at him like the world would always bend to his will. The brother who had been untouchable, unstoppable—at least, that’s how it always seemed to Jiang Cheng.

His fingers brush lightly over Wei Wuxian’s forehead, pushing the damp hair back from his face.

“You idiot,” he mutters, the words catching in his throat. “You didn’t have to…” He trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

You didn’t have to do any of this.

His hands linger for a moment before he pulls them back, curling them into fists at his sides. He sits back and takes a deep breath. The smell has eased, the grime is gone, but his chest still feels tight, heavy with something he can’t name.

Looking at Wei Wuxian now, Jiang Cheng can almost fool himself into believing everything is normal. But the bruises are still there, and the quiet between them feels like it’s filled with things they’ll never be able to say.

…

“…medicine.”

The word drifts through Wei Wuxian’s consciousness, faint and muffled, like a sound heard underwater. It takes a moment for him to piece it together, to remember what it means, and who’s speaking.

Cheng…

A roughened hand slips behind his head and Wei Wuxian tenses. His body feels like it’s made of brittle parchment, ready to tear, to fall to pieces at the slightest touch.

But the touch is steady. Warm.

He forces one eye open and squints up at the swimming face above him, lit by soft, warm daylight.

“Come on. Drink.”

The voice is gruff, familiar. There’s no false pretense, no mocking gentleness, and something about that is almost comforting.

But the medicine comes too quickly. The bitter liquid spills into his mouth too fast, pooling at the back of his throat. His chest tightens, and his hands clutch weakly at the blanket draped over him, as if he could push the suffocating sensation away.

It takes a moment of struggling, but Wei Wuxian manages to swallow, the burning liquid scraping down his raw throat. When the cup pulls away, he gasps, sucking in quick, shallow breaths and turns his head away.

“N-n-no…”

The phantom sensation of the gag lingers, pressing against his lips and filling his throat, choking him all over again. He can’t tell what’s real—his body still expects the tightness, the burn of cloth scraping his tongue.

“Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng says, the sharpness in his voice giving way to something quieter. “Come on. You need this.”

Wei Wuxian just barely shakes his head, his breath hitching. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse and broken: “N-no… ’ll… choke…”

Jiang Cheng goes still. The cup doesn’t return to Wei Wuxian’s lips. For a long moment, neither of them moves.

“You won’t,” Jiang Cheng finally says, his voice low. “I… I won’t let you choke.”

The words are simple, and yet, something in them cuts through the haze of Wei Wuxian’s fear. He swallows. Jiang Cheng doesn’t force the cup back to his lips. His hand stays steady, holding him in place but leaving him the space to breathe.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Jiang Cheng says, his tone softening further. “Not now. Not ever again.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath shudders out of him. It takes everything he has to unclench his jaw, to tilt his head slightly toward the cup Jiang Cheng still holds.

“Slow,” he whispers.

Jiang Cheng nods. “Slow.”

This time, when the cup touches his lips, the liquid doesn’t flood his mouth. Jiang Cheng tilts it carefully, letting only the smallest trickle slip past Wei Wuxian’s cracked lips. Wei Wuxian swallows, his throat protesting but accepting it. One swallow. Then another.

By the time the cup is half-empty, Wei Wuxian’s body is trembling from the effort of it all. Jiang Cheng pulls the cup away with one hand, easing Wei Wuxian’s head back down onto the pillow with the other.

Wei Wuxian hears him sigh. Feels his presence shift, retreating, sliding out of Wei Wuxian’s limited, hazy awareness. Something lurches in his chest—quiet but insistent, a raw, instinctive need that clashes against the shame curling in his gut. He’s already taken too much, asked too much, but still, his hand shoots out blindly.

It only takes a moment before strong fingers catch his wrist. Jiang Cheng’s voice cuts through the haze, low and steady.

“Stop flailing. I'm not going anywhere.”

The roughed fingertips pull away for just a moment, then slip around him once more. This time they pull him into a warm, gentle embrace.

Wei Wuxian’s cheek falls against something solid, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s Jiang Cheng’s chest. The warmth, the steady rise and fall of breath—it’s almost shocking after so long spent in cold, suffocating darkness. It feels like a memory from another lifetime, one he’d nearly forgotten.

And yet, it’s real. Jiang Cheng is real.

Wei Wuxian lets out a long, shuddering breath, pushing closer.

In Jiang Cheng’s arms, he can breathe.

Something cool and damp presses against his lips, dragging him back into awareness. Water. It soaks into his cracked, broken lips, stinging sharply but bringing relief all the same. Wei Wuxian forgets everything else as he parts his lips slightly, letting the damp cloth leave behind a few precious drops.

“There,” Jiang Cheng says as he dabs at Wei Wuxian’s mouth. “I know you don’t want to drink any more, so at least let this help.”

A few more drops slip into his mouth, just a few, and Wei Wuxian swallows. Something inside him begins to uncoil, but the release brings tears with it. They slip free, hot and silent, as though something deep within him is finally cracking open. The taste of salt reaches his tongue, and he coughs weakly, turning his face further into Jiang Cheng’s chest.

A moment later, Jiang Cheng’s thumb brushes against his cheek, wiping the tears away. His sigh is exasperated, but there’s no real frustration behind it.

“You’re just going to dehydrate yourself, crying like that.”

“S’rry.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer right away. His hands are steady and slow as he continues to push the tears away, as if he’s afraid the smallest shift might shatter the fragile calm settling between them.

“Don’t… don’t apologize.” His voice is quiet, the words careful. “You’ve been through hell.”

He’s not talking about the crying, and they both know it.

A moment later, Wei Wuxian feels it—a soft, warm pulse of spiritual energy. Without a golden core to contain it, it slips through his body as quickly as water slips over skin, but it soothes him all the same. It flows gently through his ravaged meridians, brushing against the ragged edges where resentment had once torn at him.

“Just let me protect you.”

The words are simple, unadorned, but they strike something deep within Wei Wuxian.

He doesn’t know what to say, so instead, Wei Wuxian simply nuzzles into the warmth of his brother’s body. His wounds still throb, raw and open, but it feels as though some small piece of himself is being stitched back together. There’s safety here, in the quiet space between breaths. In the gentle rhythm of Jiang Cheng’s heartbeat, steady and sure beneath his ear.

Then he closes his eyes, and he lets himself be protected.

Fin