Work Text:
The heat started early that day. The sun barely had to rise before it soaked the entire house in a sticky, dragging warmth that clung to the walls and seeped into the floors. Wei Wuxian lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan turning too slowly above him, counting the ticks between each rotation.
The hoodie he wore was suffocating, even in the dim morning light. But he didn’t move to take it off. His sheets were damp with sweat, his skin prickling underneath the fabric, but he couldn’t do it. Not even here. Not even alone.
Down the hallway, a door slammed. Footsteps—heels on hardwood—snapped in quick, sharp rhythm. He tensed automatically, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down to cover the thin white lines that curled beneath the cuffs. His heart picked up speed.
“Lazy parasite,” Madame Yu’s voice cut through the house like a slap. “Sleeping in again. You think you’re on vacation?”
He didn’t answer. He never did.
He waited until she stormed back downstairs, the sound of her heels vanishing into the kitchen. He sat up slowly, tugging his hood over his head like armor. He could already feel his shirt sticking to his back, the cloth hot and itchy against healing scabs. The silence of the room buzzed in his ears.
Smile, he told himself. Just smile and keep going.
When he stepped out of the room, he made sure the grin was in place. The same one he always wore—wide and carefree, crooked in a charming way. He passed by Jiang Yanli’s bedroom door and paused, listening. She wasn’t home this morning. She had work, probably. Or was helping out at the clinic. It would have been easier if she were here.
Downstairs, the air smelled like something burnt. Madame Yu must have cooked. Or tried to.
He grabbed a bottle of warm water from the fridge, muttered something about going out, and slipped out the front door before anyone could stop him.
⸻
Jiang Cheng was already waiting by the edge of the soccer field behind their school, a six-pack in one hand, sunglasses perched on his nose. He looked as irritable as ever.
“Took you long enough,” he said. “It’s already hot as hell.”
Wei Wuxian grinned. “Beauty sleep, A-Cheng. You wouldn’t understand.”
Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes and shoved one of the bottles into his hand. “Whatever. Let’s go before you melt.”
They ended up at the usual place—a rooftop above the shuttered bookstore on 3rd Street. It wasn’t much, just tarpaper and a half-melted plastic chair someone had left behind, but it was quiet. And high enough above the street that no one would bother them.
They cracked the beers open and sat with their backs to the edge, legs stretched out in front of them, sunlight bouncing off the metal vents nearby. Wei Wuxian took a sip, made a face at the bitterness, and set the bottle aside.
Jiang Cheng drank more slowly, watching the sky like he was waiting for it to crack open.
After a while, he turned to Wei Wuxian, frowning.
“…You’re seriously still wearing that?”
Wei Wuxian didn’t look over. “Wearing what?”
“The hoodie. Are you trying to die of heatstroke?”
He shrugged. “I like it. It’s cozy.”
Jiang Cheng scoffed. “It’s almost forty degrees. You’re sweating through it.”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, too quickly. Then, trying to recover: “This is fashion, A-Cheng. You wouldn’t understand the struggle.”
Jiang Cheng raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a look. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Wei Wuxian forced a laugh, tilting his head back. “God, you sound like Madam Yu.”
That hit a little too close, but he tried to brush past it. He picked up his beer again, even though the taste made his stomach twist.
The silence stretched.
Jiang Cheng’s voice broke it, low and even: “You’re hiding something.”
Wei Wuxian stiffened. “I hide a lot of things. Like how bad your haircut is.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. That fade’s a disaster.”
“Stop joking.”
The words landed like a weight.
Wei Wuxian finally looked over, and the expression on Jiang Cheng’s face made his stomach turn. It wasn’t angry. It was confused. Scared. Something teetering on the edge of realization.
“Take it off.”
Wei Wuxian blinked. “What?”
“The hoodie. Take it off.”
“No.”
Jiang Cheng leaned forward. “Why not?”
“I said no,” he snapped, louder than he meant to. Then he caught himself and forced another smile. “Jeez, clingy much? Want to see me shirtless that bad?”
But Jiang Cheng didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.
“You think I don’t notice when you flinch every time she walks into the room?”
Wei Wuxian froze.
Jiang Cheng’s voice rose. “You think I don’t hear it? When she’s yelling at you? When she—when she says that shit—”
“She’s just mad sometimes,” Wei Wuxian said quickly. “It’s not—she doesn’t mean—look, it’s not a big deal.”
“You don’t eat half the time! You sleep with your door locked and the light on!”
Wei Wuxian got to his feet. “I said it’s not a big deal.”
Jiang Cheng stood too, suddenly, grabbing his arm.
Wei Wuxian flinched so hard the bottle slipped from his hand and rolled, foam fizzing from the cracked rim.
Jiang Cheng stared down at his wrist. At the pale skin just barely visible beneath the hoodie sleeve.
“What the hell is that?” he whispered.
Wei Wuxian yanked his arm away. “Nothing.”
Jiang Cheng reached for him again, eyes wide. “Is that—did you—did you do that?”
“Stop,” Wei Wuxian said.
“You cut yourself?! Are you insane?!”
“I said stop!”
Wei Wuxian’s voice cracked on the last word. The sun was blinding, the rooftop shimmering, his heart in his throat.
Jiang Cheng was screaming now. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Do you want to die?! You think that’s gonna make anything better?! What about A-Jie? You want her to come home and find you like that?!”
Wei Wuxian shook his head, tears already starting to spill down his cheeks. “I didn’t—I’m not—I just—”
“Take it off!” Jiang Cheng shouted. “Show me!”
“No!”
“Show me!”
“I said no!”
His voice broke completely. The words came out like a sob. He turned and ran—down the rusted fire escape, skipping steps, nearly slipping on the last rung. Jiang Cheng’s voice echoed after him, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
He didn’t remember getting home.
His legs had just moved—automatic, desperate—and the world had become a blur of sunlight and sweat and panic. His breath came in shallow gasps as he stumbled through the front door, past the spotless entryway and Madame Yu’s high-heeled shoes lined in perfect rows by the mat. No one was there. The house was silent, sterile, suffocating.
His room felt like a cage when he slammed the door shut.
He locked it. Bolted it. Shoved the little dresser against it even though he knew no one would come looking.
His hoodie was soaked now. Clinging to him like guilt. His hands shook as he pressed them to his face and sank to the floor, back against the door, trying not to cry too loudly.
He didn’t want Jiang Yanli to hear if she came home.
He didn’t want anyone to know.
Even now—especially now—he still wanted to be the funny one. The strong one. The light in the dark, even when his own world was collapsing.
He stayed there for hours. Sweat drying on his skin, chest aching, eyes stinging. He didn’t even move when his phone buzzed once, then again. He didn’t look at the screen. He couldn’t.
At some point, around nine, he heard her voice.
“A-Xian? Are you home?”
It was soft. Warm. Kind.
He pressed his fist to his mouth to keep from answering. His nails dug into the fabric of his sleeves. His eyes burned.
She knocked on his door gently.
“I brought you your favorite soup,” she said, cheerful like always, like nothing in the world could ever be too bad when she was around.
He didn’t move.
“Did you and A-Cheng fight again?” she asked, a little more carefully. “It’s alright. I’m here if you need anything.”
He stayed silent.
She waited. Then sighed.
“Okay. I’ll leave it outside the door. Sleep well, A-Xian.”
He heard her footsteps retreat.
He curled into himself on the floor. Every part of him hurt—physically, mentally. His stomach cramped from hunger and stress. His head throbbed. He wanted to see her. He wanted to run out and hug her. Say, “Jie, I’m not okay.” Say, “Can you please hold me for a while?”
But he didn’t.
Instead, sometime past eleven, he crawled into bed fully clothed, hoodie still on, wounds still burning, and fell into an exhausted, feverish sleep.
⸻
Jiang Cheng didn’t cry. He didn’t. Not when he was scolded, not when he fell off his bike when he was nine and broke his wrist, not even the day his father died.
He didn’t.
Except tonight.
The second he got home, he barely made it upstairs before something inside him cracked open like a dam. He slammed his bedroom door shut and collapsed on the bed, fists curled into the sheets. The tears came fast and hard, messy and ugly, and he hated them.
He hated the way his chest hurt. He hated the heat. He hated Wei Wuxian for being so stupid.
And more than anything, he hated himself.
He should’ve seen it. Should’ve known.
He remembered the way Wei Wuxian smiled through pain like it was second nature. The way he made jokes to distract people, not himself. The way he flinched whenever someone raised their voice.
Jiang Cheng had always thought he was just being dramatic. Or annoying. Or lazy.
But now—now all he could see was the flash of raw skin, the way he jerked away like he’d been burned.
His hands shook as he wiped his face.
“A-Cheng?” a soft voice said behind his door.
He startled. Sat up quickly. “Jie?”
The door opened a crack. Jiang Yanli peeked in, worry etched in her face.
“I heard you and A-Xian had a fight,” she said gently. “What happened?”
He turned his face away. “Nothing.”
“Did he say something stupid again?”
“No.”
“Did you say something stupid?”
“…No.”
She came in anyway. Sat on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on his back. He tensed, then slowly leaned into it, the way he had when he was younger.
“A-Cheng,” she said quietly, “you know you can talk to me, right?”
“I know,” he whispered.
“Is he okay?”
Jiang Cheng swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
She brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. “You’re a good brother. I hope he knows that.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t say I wasn’t, didn’t say I yelled at him, didn’t say he ran away and I just let him go.
She left him alone not long after that, and the house fell quiet again. The air felt heavier somehow. Oppressive.
At 11:15, Jiang Cheng found himself standing outside Wei Wuxian’s room.
The hallway was dark. Only the soft glow from the streetlamp outside filtered through the window. His heart pounded.
He tapped lightly on the door. “A-Xian?”
No response.
He tried again. “You awake?”
Still nothing.
He slowly turned the knob. Locked.
“…Of course.”
But that wasn’t enough to stop him.
Jiang Cheng disappeared into the garage for a moment and returned with a paperclip and a butter knife. He’d picked up a few things from Wei Wuxian over the years—even if he never admitted it.
After two minutes of fiddling, the door gave a soft click.
He hesitated, then pushed it open.
The room was dim. Wei Wuxian lay curled up on the bed, still in his hoodie and jeans, his face half-buried in a pillow. His breaths were shallow and uneven. His fingers twitched once.
Jiang Cheng stepped inside slowly. His eyes adjusted to the dark.
He shouldn’t be here. He knew that.
But something gnawed at him—a terrible, clawing guilt that wouldn’t let him go.
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching his brother sleep. His cheeks were still wet. His lips parted slightly with each breath. He looked exhausted. Fragile. Too small in the oversized hoodie.
“…I’m sorry,” Jiang Cheng whispered.
Wei Wuxian didn’t stir.
Jiang Cheng hesitated. Then reached out with trembling hands.
He tugged gently at the edge of the hoodie. Paused. Looked at Wei Wuxian’s face again.
“I just… need to know,” he whispered, more to himself than anything.
He peeled the hoodie back—first the sleeve, exposing the thin, pale wrist. Lines. Scars. Some old. Some pink and fresh.
His throat tightened.
He pushed the fabric back further. Up the arm, across the shoulder. Underneath was a tank top. Stained with sweat. And more.
Bandages. Dirty, half-stuck. One of them was soaked through.
He reached for the edge of the shirt, heart pounding.
“Please don’t wake up,” he whispered.
He lifted the fabric.
Underneath—fresh wounds. Jagged, red. Angry. Infected.
Some still weeping.
Some crusted over.
Jiang Cheng stared. The world tilted.
His breath caught in his throat, and he pressed a hand over his mouth.
His eyes stung again.
He’d thought it was just a few cuts. A cry for help.
He hadn’t realized it was this bad.
“…What did you do to yourself ?“ whispered, voice shaking.
Wei Wuxian didn’t wake.
But Jiang Cheng sat there, hunched over him, crying as quietly as he could—because if he cried too loudly, he knew he’d never stop.
The next morning, Wei Wuxian made it to breakfast before Jiang Cheng did. Again.
He looked better. Showered, dressed, even had some color in his cheeks. But that easy smile was stuck on his face like tape, not real. Jiang Yanli noticed it immediately.
She made the porridge anyway.
Jiang Cheng eventually wandered in, stiff and wordless, avoiding everyone’s eyes. He didn’t speak to Wei Wuxian. Not once.
It was getting harder to pretend that things were normal.
Maybe that’s why Jiang Yanli decided to force it.
“We’re going out today,” she announced, bright and determined. “The three of us.”
Jiang Cheng looked up, expression flat. “Why.”
“Because,” she said cheerfully, “you two are impossible, and I refuse to live with this weird silence for one more day. We’re going.”
Wei Wuxian blinked. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Out. Somewhere. Doesn’t matter.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but her smile was the kind that didn’t allow arguments.
So an hour later, they were wandering around a small weekend street market in town. Wei Wuxian trailed after her with a lollipop in his mouth, trying to fake enthusiasm while Jiang Cheng kept his distance and barely spoke.
It was hot. Loud. Full of old women selling pickles and children screaming about toy swords.
And then Jiang Yanli tripped.
It wasn’t dramatic—just a misstep on the curb, a twist of her ankle—but it was enough that she yelped and staggered, clutching at a lamppost. Wei Wuxian was by her side in a flash, half-laughing, half-panicked.
“Jie! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, wincing. “Just twisted something—ow.”
She waved off their help, but she couldn’t put weight on it. A vendor offered them a chair and a cold bottle of water, and after ten minutes of trying to convince her to go home, they ended up in a cab headed for the local clinic.
“It’s nothing,” she kept saying. “They’ll just check it. It’s not broken.”
But the nurse at reception was a little too enthusiastic.
“Oh—Wei Ying, right?”
Wei Wuxian stiffened. “Uh. Yeah?”
“You were in here a few months ago. Antibiotics, right?”
He gave a tense smile. “Yeah. All good now.”
She glanced down at the screen. “Hm. Says here they still need a follow-up blood test to monitor liver enzymes—those meds can mess with your system, especially in this heat.”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly.
“We can just do a quick blood draw while you’re waiting for your sister’s scan—”
“No thanks.”
“It’s really quick, and it’d help us finalize your records—”
“I said no.”
Jiang Yanli glanced between them, confused. “You’re scared of needles now?”
Wei Wuxian gave her a weak grin. “Terrified.”
The nurse laughed politely and reached gently for his wrist. “You don’t even need to be—”
He flinched.
She frowned. “I just need to—”
Jiang Yanli, thinking she was helping, reached over and tugged up his sleeve.
And then she stopped.
Silence.
Wei Wuxian jerked his arm back so fast it knocked the clipboard from the nurse’s hands. “I said not now,” he snapped, louder than he meant to.
The nurse blinked, startled. “Sorry. I—okay. Another time.”
She walked off without pushing it further, clearly sensing something wrong.
Jiang Cheng, standing in the corner, stared at the floor.
Wei Wuxian didn’t sit down.
Jiang Yanli just looked at him.
Her voice was quiet, nearly a whisper. “A-Xian… what was that?”
He smiled too hard. “Nothing. Really.”
“What was on your arm?”
He didn’t answer.
“A-Xian.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She looked like the air had been knocked out of her. “Was it… were those—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
He turned away and crossed the waiting room to the far wall, arms folded tight across his chest, sleeve tugged back down, heart racing.
Jiang Yanli didn’t follow.
Jiang Cheng didn’t say a word.
The hallway outside the clinic bathroom was dim and narrow, lined with flickering overhead lights and the faint smell of disinfectant.
Wei Wuxian moved fast, head down, hoodie sleeves clenched in his fists. His shoes slapped the tile floor hard enough to echo. He didn’t look back.
He didn’t need to.
He heard her footsteps.
“A-Xian!” Jiang Yanli’s voice cracked behind him. “Wait!”
He almost made it. The bathroom door was just a few steps away—he could lock himself in, disappear for a few minutes, pretend the world didn’t exist.
But she was faster than he thought.
Before he could grab the handle, she reached out and caught his wrist—not hard, not violently, just enough.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me,” she said.
He froze. Not because he was afraid.
But because of her voice.
It was breaking.
“Jiejie,” he said, without turning. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I do,” she snapped, stepping in front of him. “You don’t get to walk away after that.”
He stared at her.
Jiang Yanli was usually soft, quiet, slow to raise her voice. She handled everything with grace, with patience. She was the glue in their family.
But now?
Her hands were shaking. Her breath came fast. Her face was pale and blotchy and furious.
He had never seen her like this.
She pointed to his arm. “Show me.”
He stepped back. “No.”
“A-Xian.”
“No.”
“Show me!”
“I said no!”
He turned, reaching for the door, but she slammed her palm flat against it and shoved it closed before he could disappear. Her eyes were red, wet, but sharp.
“You think I’m going to just pretend I didn’t see that?” she shouted. “You think I’m going to just let you lie to my face again?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?” she demanded. “Explain it to me, A-Xian. Explain why your arm looks like that. Explain why you flinched when someone touched you. Explain why you’ve been wearing that stupid hoodie in this heat and barely eating and laughing like everything’s fine when it’s not.”
His mouth opened. Closed.
“I’m your sister!” she said, voice rising. “I’ve taken care of you since you were ten. I know you, Wei Ying—I see you—and you’ve been breaking in front of me and I didn’t even notice—”
He turned away. He couldn’t look at her.
“Look at me!” she screamed, suddenly, and it made him flinch harder than anything else.
“I can’t,” he said quietly. “I can’t, Jiejie.”
“Why?!”
“Because if I do,” he whispered, “you’ll hate me too.”
The silence hit like a slap.
She stared at him. Her chest rose and fell fast. “Is that what you think?” she said, voice cracking. “That I would ever hate you?”
He didn’t answer.
She took a step back, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were shining with tears, but her mouth was a line of anger.
“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered. “Both of you.”
Wei Wuxian blinked. “What?”
She turned toward the hallway, fuming. “Jiang Cheng knew, didn’t he?”
He flinched again—but not because she was wrong.
Because she wasn’t.
She stormed away before he could stop her.
He let her go.
Then he stepped inside the bathroom, locked the door, and sat on the floor with his back to it, the lights too bright and the silence too loud.
He didn’t cry.
But for the first time in days, he wanted to.
Jiang Cheng hadn’t moved from the waiting room.
He sat stiffly in the corner chair, arms folded across his chest, one leg bouncing restlessly. He hadn’t looked up since Wei Wuxian stormed off. The bright clinic lights made his head throb. Every word from earlier kept looping in his mind, but none louder than the way Jiang Yanli had said: Unbelievable.
The word landed again when he heard her footsteps—fast, furious.
She didn’t sit down.
She stood right in front of him, breathing hard. Her eyes were red and swollen.
Jiang Cheng didn’t lift his gaze.
“You knew,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
He didn’t respond.
“You knew.” Her voice rose. “And you didn’t tell me.”
His jaw clenched.
She took a step forward, and now her voice cracked. “How long has it been going on?”
Still, he didn’t speak.
“Jiang Cheng—how long?”
“I don’t know,” he said finally, voice hoarse.
“That’s not good enough.”
He looked up at her then—his sister, the one who had held both of them together for years, who had never looked at him with anything but warmth.
Now she looked at him like he was a stranger.
“It’s not that simple,” he said. “I didn’t know—know. Not at first. And then when I found out—he ran.”
Her hands trembled. “So you just gave up? Let him go back to his room and pretend nothing happened?”
“What was I supposed to do, Jiejie?!” he snapped, anger breaking out under the guilt. “He didn’t want to talk to me! He never wants to talk! He just jokes and smiles and says he’s fine and makes everything a game—”
“He’s a child!”
“So am I!” Jiang Cheng shouted, finally standing. “I’m fifteen! I didn’t know what to do! I—I didn’t mean to mess it up.”
The silence that followed hit both of them in the chest.
Jiang Yanli looked at her little brother. Really looked at him.
He was pale. Shaking. Eyes wet. He wasn’t just angry—he was scared.
And she was still furious.
But now the anger had nowhere to go.
“You should have come to me,” she said softly. “You both should have.”
“I didn’t want to hurt him more,” he muttered. “I thought… if I left it alone, he’d come to me on his own.”
Jiang Yanli wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head.
“That’s not how this works,” she whispered. “It gets worse when no one says anything. It always gets worse.”
She turned away.
“I have to get him out of that house.”
Jiang Cheng flinched.
And for a moment, neither of them said anything.
…..
The house was quiet when she came in.
Too quiet.
She made it to her room. Closed the door. Locked it.
And then she sat down on the floor in front of her bed and sobbed.
No plan. No calm reasoning. No lists or links or calls.
Just grief. Guilt. Failure.
It all came out of her chest like a scream she couldn’t shape. She cried until her throat hurt. Until her face ached. Until the heat of the summer night made it hard to breathe but she couldn’t stop.
She had missed it. All of it. And she didn’t know how to fix it now.
⸻
Jiang Cheng
He sat in his room. Alone. Door cracked open. Fan spinning uselessly on low.
He stared at the wall.
Didn’t touch his dinner. Didn’t answer his phone. Didn’t move.
There were too many words in his head and none in his mouth.
So he stayed quiet.
Because he didn’t know what else to do.
⸻
Wei Wuxian
He walked out of the house just before midnight.
Didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t say goodbye.
Just took some cash from his drawer, tied his hair back, and left.
It was hot outside—suffocating heat, the kind that clings to your skin and makes you feel like the air is too close.
He found Nie Huaisang sitting behind the 7-Eleven, lighting incense and drawing something stupid in his sketchbook.
“Thought you were grounded,” Huaisang said, squinting.
“Thought you were sober.”
Huaisang laughed. “Not tonight.”
Wei Wuxian dropped down beside him, the pavement warm under his legs.
“Got money?”
Wei Wuxian pulled out some bills.
A few minutes later, they were behind the corner store, sharing cheap alcohol out of a plastic bag, sweat sticking their clothes to their backs.
By the second bottle, the burn didn’t hurt anymore.
By the third, Wei Wuxian was talking.
Not clearly. Not in order. But it came out anyway.
“She hates me,” he said suddenly.
Huaisang blinked, already glassy-eyed. “Who?”
“His mom. She hates me. She always has. I could breathe wrong and she’d find a reason to look disgusted.”
He tipped the bottle back and coughed.
“And now Jiang Cheng looks at me like I’m broken. Like I scared him. Like I’m made of glass. I didn’t want him to see it, okay? I didn’t want anyone to see it.”
Huaisang didn’t say anything.
Wei Wuxian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I try so fucking hard to be happy. All the time. I make jokes. I smile. I flirt. I make people laugh. I make people like me. And no one ever asks why I try so hard. No one cares. Not really.”
He looked over at Huaisang, eyes unfocused.
“But you’re here.”
“I’m always here,” Huaisang said softly.
Wei Wuxian leaned forward, knuckles tight on the curb. “Do you even like me?”
Huaisang blinked. “What?”
“Do you even like me,” he repeated. “Or do you just feel bad for me?”
Huaisang put his bottle down and shook his head. “You’re such an idiot.”
Wei Wuxian laughed, bitter. “Yeah.”
And then Huaisang leaned in and hugged him.
No words. No pity. Just arms. Warm and real.
Wei Wuxian melted into it.
He didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it didn’t matter.
But suddenly their mouths were touching, too hard and too sudden and a little messy. Alcohol on their breath. Grief between their teeth. Anger on their tongues.
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t tender.
It was quiet screaming.
And they didn’t stop.
The bottle was nearly empty by the time they got to Nie Huaisang’s apartment.
They took the back entrance. Didn’t say a word in the elevator. Just leaned against each other, swaying slightly with every floor that passed.
The lights inside were dim. The air conditioner was broken. The hallway smelled like incense and old tea.
Nie Mingjue was home—sitting on the couch, reading something on his phone.
He looked up when they stumbled in.
Both of them buzzed. Laughing too loud. Wei Wuxian’s arm slung lazily around Huaisang’s shoulder.
Nie Mingjue raised an eyebrow.
“They’re drunk,” he muttered to no one in particular.
“Love you too, Da-ge,” Huaisang slurred with a lazy grin.
Mingjue didn’t move from his seat. Just said, “Don’t be loud. Don’t make a mess.”
And that was it.
No lecture. No yelling. Just that tight line between worry and resignation.
Wei Wuxian looked at him for a second too long—eyes glassy, mouth twitching like he might say something—but then Huaisang pulled him by the wrist toward the bathroom.
“Come on,” he murmured. “You smell like summer and regrets.”
The apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes when everything else has fallen apart.
Wei Wuxian stepped out of the shower, hair damp, skin raw. Nie Huaisang had already made space for him on the bed—his room dimly lit by the streetlight bleeding through the curtain.
Neither of them said much.
They didn’t need to.
The weight between them had changed—shifted, maybe. From buzzed laughter behind a 7-Eleven to something slower, heavier, wordless.
And when Wei Wuxian crawled into the bed beside him, he didn’t stop it—when Huaisang touched his shoulder, or kissed the scars, or when the silence broke in the space between them and gave way to something deeper.
It wasn’t about desire.
It wasn’t even about comfort.
It was about forgetting. About closeness. About needing to feel something that wasn’t shame.
So they slept together.
Not rushed. Not messy. Just two guys trying to be held together, even if only for a night.
Afterward, they didn’t talk. Huaisang lay on his side, eyes half-lidded, fingers resting lightly on Wei Wuxian’s back.
And Wei Wuxian, for once, didn’t flinch.
He just let himself exist there, in the quiet.
Alive. Still hurting. But not entirely alone.
——————
The morning light in Huaisang’s room was too bright.
Wei Wuxian blinked against it, one arm thrown over his eyes, the sheets bunched around his waist. His body ached—not in a bad way, just… like something had happened that shouldn’t have, but also didn’t feel wrong.
Next to him, Nie Huaisang was curled on his side, hair a mess, breathing slow and shallow.
They didn’t speak for a while.
Eventually, Wei Wuxian sat up, blinking down at the tangle of sheets, the marks on their necks, the half-empty water bottle on the nightstand.
He didn’t feel guilty.
But he didn’t feel better either.
“It wasn’t love,” Huaisang said finally, voice dry.
Wei Wuxian nodded.
“I know.”
Huaisang didn’t reach for him. Didn’t try to hold on.
“It’s okay,” he added. “If you needed it.”
Wei Wuxian stood up slowly. Gathered his clothes. Everything reeked of smoke and cheap liquor. His hoodie had fallen to the floor and gotten stepped on.
He didn’t bother to change. Just pulled it over his head and slipped out the front door without saying goodbye to Nie Mingjue.
⸻
His phone had exploded.
17 missed calls.
42 texts.
Most from Jiang Yanli. A few from Jiang Cheng—short, sharp messages like “where the fuck are you” and “just say you’re alive.”
It was already late morning. The sun was punishing. The street felt loud and wrong.
When he got home, the door was yanked open before he could even knock.
Jiang Yanli stood there, still in her nightgown, eyes rimmed red. Her voice was sharper than usual—frantic, breathless.
“Where were you?”
He stepped past her. “At Huaisang’s.”
She followed him. “All night?”
He didn’t turn around. “Yeah.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
Wei Wuxian paused in the hallway.
Then: “Yes.”
Just like that. Flat. Honest. Empty.
Yanli’s breath caught. She closed her eyes for a second. And when she opened them again, her hands were shaking.
“You’re losing control,” she said. Not quite a whisper, but not loud either. “Wei Ying, you’re—this isn’t you. I don’t—what are you doing to yourself?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
He turned around. Slowly. Hoodie stained at the collar. Wrinkled shorts. The faint smell of smoke and alcohol clinging to his sleeves.
“You smell like a mess,” she said, covering her mouth.
He didn’t answer.
“Do you even care?” she whispered. “Do you even see what’s happening to you?”
“I didn’t sleep in a ditch, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“This isn’t about that.”
Wei Wuxian tilted his head back, exhaling.
“Then what is it about, Jiejie? Is it about Huaisang? Or that you didn’t know where I was? Or that I don’t cry at your feet like you expect me to?”
“It’s about you breaking,” she said, suddenly louder. “And pretending it’s fine.”
He flinched.
But still didn’t say anything.
The silence in the house was too loud again.
She didn’t push further.
Not yet.
The house was too still.
Dinner had been eaten in near silence. Jiang Cheng didn’t say more than a few clipped words. Jiang Yanli didn’t touch her rice. Wei Wuxian smiled once—too wide, too fake—and no one believed it.
By 11 p.m., the house had gone to sleep.
But not Wei Wuxian.
He sat on the floor of his room, the overhead light turned off, the door locked. The summer air was too heavy to breathe. His hands were shaking. Something inside his chest felt like it was crumbling quietly.
It didn’t take long. He didn’t even think much about it this time. His mind was loud in a static kind of way, but also weirdly blank. All he knew was: I feel wrong. I feel wrong. I need it to stop.
The sting was familiar. Sharp, then warm. Then almost nothing.
When he finished, he pressed a towel to the skin. It wasn’t deep. He didn’t want to die. Not really.
But part of him… didn’t want to exist, either.
⸻
He didn’t hear her knock.
Didn’t even notice the door open—Yanli had picked the lock with a hairpin when he didn’t answer.
When she stepped inside and saw the blood, she didn’t scream.
She broke.
Quietly.
Fell to her knees beside him with a gasp, hands already reaching for the towel, eyes wide with panic and heartbreak.
“Wei Ying,” she whispered. “No. No, no, no…”
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice thin and breathless. “I wasn’t trying to—It’s not—”
“Shh,” she said, shaking her head, brushing his hair off his forehead. Her hands were trembling so badly she could barely unwrap the towel.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and this time his voice cracked.
She started crying while cleaning the cuts. Gentle, shaky sobs, trying to hold herself together with every cotton pad and bandage.
“It’s not that bad,” he muttered.
“It’s you,” she said through her tears. “It’s bad because it’s you.”
His lip trembled.
She finished bandaging him in silence. Her hands never left his arm, even after it was over.
Then she spoke, so softly he almost didn’t hear:
“I know I can’t stop you. If you really want to hurt yourself, I can’t be everywhere all the time. I know that.”
He didn’t look at her.
“But I can try,” she whispered. “I will try. I can try to stop the cutting. I can try to stop the spiral. I can try to keep you here.”
Wei Wuxian swallowed hard.
“I can’t promise to save you,” she said. “But I can sit next to you until it stops hurting. I can stay. I can love you through this. Until there’s nothing left of me. Until it’s too late.”
He cried, then.
Silent tears, slipping down his cheeks. He didn’t sob. Just let them fall.
Yanli wrapped her arms around him and held him against her chest like she used to when they were younger. Like he was still just a boy afraid of the thunder.
And he let her.
Just for tonight.
—————
The camera was old—vintage, scratched, probably stolen from Nie Mingjue’s closet—but it worked.
“Okay,” Huaisang said, squinting through the lens. “Stand still. Look like you’re mourning the death of summer.”
Wei Wuxian, in a black T-shirt two sizes too big and sunglasses shaped like hearts, spread his arms out in front of a graffitied alley wall. “Like this?”
“You look like a washed-up indie singer. Perfect.”
Click.
They spent the day like that. Walking across the sunbaked city like ghosts from some forgotten movie—climbing rooftops, posing on rusted staircases, loitering behind train stations where the world slowed down. Huaisang snapped photos like he was trying to trap time.
Wei Wuxian laughed more than usual.
He joked, made faces at strangers, draped himself dramatically across every surface like he was in a perfume ad called Regret.
At one point, they shared an ice cream cone, both of them too tired to pretend they weren’t sticky and sweaty and 17.
“You’re good at pretending,” Huaisang said quietly, adjusting the focus.
“Pretending what?”
“That you’re okay.”
Wei Wuxian looked into the lens. Smiled a little.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve had practice.”
Click.
⸻
That night, Huaisang sent him the photos. They were beautiful.
“You look like you’re about to vanish,” he texted.
Wei Wuxian sent back a ghost
The next morning, everything was normal.
Wei Wuxian made breakfast. He wore clean clothes. He hummed off-key in the kitchen while Yanli stared at him like he might break apart if she blinked too long.
He even hugged Jiang Cheng goodbye when he left the room.
He spent the day out. Just walking.
He texted Huaisang a joke about a pigeon that looked like Lan Qiren.
He told Yanli her cooking tasted like “divine sadness with a hint of soy sauce.”
That night, after everyone went to sleep, he stood in the hallway for a while.
Just stood there.
Then he went to his room.
And didn’t come out again.
⸻
They found him in the morning.
A bottle of pills. A half-empty glass. His hoodie folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
No note.
Just his phone on the nightstand, and a camera card full of photos Huaisang had taken the day before.
He looked peaceful. Too peaceful.
Like someone who’d finally stopped pretending.
⸻
Hours before
The house was too quiet.
Yu Ziyuan didn’t like quiet. It meant something was wrong.
The sun had barely risen, slicing golden cracks through the curtains. She moved through the halls like a ghost, sharp heels silent on polished wood. There were no sounds of clattering in the kitchen. No off-key singing. No Wei Wuxian dragging chaos behind him like a child pulling a tin can parade.
Strange.
She passed his door. Usually open. It was closed. Not locked, just… shut.
She didn’t knock.
Just opened it.
And stopped breathing.
Wei Wuxian lay curled on the bed, arms folded loosely around himself. Peaceful. Still.
Too still.
There was a bottle on the nightstand. A glass with something milky and bitter-smelling at the bottom. His hoodie was folded neatly by his feet. His phone blinked with unread messages.
For the first time in years, Yu Ziyuan’s hands began to tremble.
“No,” she whispered. “You stupid boy.”
She stepped closer, fingers reaching out like maybe he was just sleeping—maybe this was some sick prank, some attention-seeking game.
But his chest didn’t rise.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t faint.
She picked up the phone. Called her husband.
“He’s not waking up,” she said. Her voice was blank. “It’s Wei Wuxian. He… he’s not—He’s cold. I think he’s dead.”
Silence.
Then: “Tell the children.”
She ended the call and stood frozen in the doorway.
⸻
Jiang Cheng was still in bed when he heard the first sound—footsteps, then the soft, sharp intake of breath from the hallway.
“A-Cheng!”
His mother’s voice. Not angry. Not commanding. Panicked.
He jumped out of bed.
Yanli was already halfway down the hall, hair still tangled, feet bare.
“What’s happening—”
Yu Ziyuan didn’t answer. She just stood there, blocking the doorway with a strange, stunned sort of posture.
Then Yanli saw.
And she screamed.
Wei Wuxian hadn’t moved.
His lips were slightly parted, eyes closed like he was dreaming of somewhere far away.
Jiang Cheng shoved past her.
He didn’t understand what he was seeing. Couldn’t process it. He ran forward and grabbed his brother’s shoulders. Shook him once.
“Wake up.”
No response.
He shook him harder.
“Wei Wuxian, wake the hell up!”
Still nothing.
Yanli dropped to her knees, grabbing for his hand, whispering “no no no no no” like a mantra, like if she said it enough it would undo time.
Jiang Cheng didn’t cry.
Not yet.
He sat back, hard, like someone had punched the air out of him. His whole body was buzzing and empty at the same time.
He looked at his brother’s face.
Wei Wuxian had looked peaceful yesterday too.
Too peaceful.
Like someone who’d already said goodbye.
⸻
Yu Ziyuan stepped back without another word.
For once, she had nothing to say.
Just watched her children collapse around a boy she never claimed — a boy who had still made himself their everything.
And now he was gone.
The funeral was small.
Yanli didn’t stop crying. Not once.
Jiang Cheng stood like stone. Not a tear. Not a word.
Nie Huaisang came late, wearing sunglasses and carrying a roll of photos in his pocket. He didn’t speak during the service. Just left a printed photo on the coffin — one of Wei Wuxian grinning with the sun behind him.
That night, Jiang Cheng tore apart his brother’s room looking for answers.
He found the journal under the bed.
It wasn’t neat. Pages were missing. The handwriting was wild.
Some pages were full of music notes, dumb quotes, doodles of rabbits and skulls.
Others:
“I don’t think I belong anywhere, but I’m good at pretending I do.”
“Jiejie loves me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish. I guess she’s right.”
“If I go, it won’t be to hurt them. It’ll just be because I’m tired.”
And at the very back, in shaky, fading ink:
“If someone reads this, tell A-Cheng I was always proud of him, even when he hated me. Especially then.”
Jiang Cheng cried that night. Quiet, ugly sobs that no one heard but the walls.
He never spoke about the journal. He just kept it. Taped it back together.
Sometimes, late at night, he opened it and read it like scripture.
Sometimes, he hated him for leaving.
Most of the time, he just missed him.