Chapter Text
Wei Wuxian is entirely hostile to the concept of costume parties. Maybe they’d been fun in his early twenties, the way a lot of ridiculous things seem fun at that age, but at a cool twenty-eight years old he simply cannot be bothered anymore.
And yet, here he is, bothering, because his assorted group chat of friends and siblings needled him into coming. The initiative was spearheaded by his sister, who he had no chance of saying no to. Wei Wuxian can’t exactly remember who is hosting this party, but presumably they’re a friend of Jiang Yanli’s, because she’s friends with everyone, and presumably they’re annoying, if the costume requirement is any indication. (Has Jiang Cheng been pressured into dressing up? That would just about compensate for the hassle of attending this event.)
Wei Wuxian had dithered about whether to make an effort for long enough that he was incredibly late and making only the barest half of an effort, with a pair of bunny ears left over from a long-ago Halloween he can’t even remember buying that make him look like he has a very specific fetish. He can’t remember what the actual theme is supposed to be.
The group chat is full of messages asking where he is, but a glance around the room does not immediately reveal anyone he knows, and Wei Wuxian’s regret about being persuaded into this grows. He’s certainly not going to respond to the chat at this time, not when doing so will almost certainly invite some variety of lecture from Jiang Cheng.
Jiang Yanli had insisted this party would be “fun.” Wei Wuxian is frankly appalled that he believed her for even a second, and after he acquires a drink he’s just about to text her to say as much when someone taps him on the shoulder.
Wei Wuxian turns, expecting a familiar face that will relieve his mounting tension about being at this party—unless it’s Jiang Cheng, of course—and is instead met with a stranger smiling pleasantly.
“Come here often?” the man asks, his dimples just barely visible amid the dim light of the party.
It’s a testament to how out of practice Wei Wuxian is at talking to strangers that his eyebrows actually draw together in bemusement as he tries to recall whether he’s ever been to this particular basement before. Probably not, but he can’t totally rule it out.
He’s about to say as much when the guy smoothes the awkward pause with a laugh. “Sorry, that was a terrible line. I just wanted a way to break the ice.”
“Ah,” Wei Wuxian says, realizing what’s happening, “yes, flirting, of course, I’m familiar.” It seems that unlike riding a bike, flirting is a skill you can lose—to rather unfortunate consequences, like making yourself look foolish at a party you don’t even want to be at in front of a person you don’t remotely care about.
Now it’s the stranger’s turn to look to bemused, but to his credit he recovers quickly, saying, “Flirting was my intention, yes. You got me. I’m Jin Guangyao.”
How is it that talking to strangers at parties used to be fun and exciting? How did it ever feel easy and uncomplicated to get to know new people? Now it’s just boring and mildly exhausting, having to pretend to care.
A lot of things were easier in his youth, it seems. That may be owed to the convenient rose-colored tint of all the alcohol he consumed back then.
Good god. How did he skip straight to existential and morbid when he hasn’t even taken a sip of his drink yet? Maybe he’s joining Jiang Cheng in the “old man yells at cloud” stage of life. What a ghastly thought.
“I’m Wei Wuxian,” he says, trying to salvage the situation and prove he can reasonably communicate with another human.
“I know,” the guy says affably. Wei Wuxian cuts him a sharp look, a frown ready on his lips, but the man holds up his palms in surrender. “I was just asking around about you before I came up to you because I think you’re attractive.”
Well, that could incur a number of responses, the most likely of which would be—
“You’re Yu Ziyuan’s son, right?”
Yu Ziyuan, also known as his extremely begrudging adoptive mother, would be horrified to hear her name being invoked in association with Wei Wuxian at grimy parties like this one. Or at all.
“Not . . . exactly,” Wei Wuxian ventures, and then smiles brightly as he attempts to divert the subject away from anything related to mommy issues. “So what do you do?” He casts his gaze around the party, half-hoping his sister will materialize to save him from himself, but neither she nor the rest of his friends are anywhere to be seen.
If Jin Guangyao is perturbed by the abrupt topic change, he doesn’t let it show in his unwavering smile. “I’m a journalist, actually.”
The feigned cheer melts off Wei Wuxian’s face as he is once again forced to confront the deeply unfortunate realities of his life. “What, uh, kind of journalism?”
Jin Guangyao gives a rueful shake of his head. “Perhaps that was a bit too generous of a description. I mainly get stuck writing puff pieces and listicles. You know, like ‘Seven Celebrities You Didn’t Know Were Flat Earthers.’ That kind of thing.”
Wei Wuxian finds himself making a terribly unconvincing approximation of a smile. He probably looks a bit manic. “Great. Cool. That sounds so . . .” It’s frankly criminal that after all those texts berating him for being late, everyone goes missing the second he backs himself into a very awkward conversation with someone who very probably wants to write a story about him in a tabloid. “. . . great?”
Jin Guangyao’s laugh sounds a bit forced this time. “I mean, it’s not exactly glamorous, but it’s just a stepping stone, you know?”
Wei Wuxian does not know, probably because his own job is not a stepping stone to anywhere except a permanent migraine. “Totally, yeah.”
“And what do you do?” Besides being the problem child of an aging movie star you’re not actually related to, Wei Wuxian imagines that Jin Guangyao is thinking.
“I work for a nonprofit.”
If there is a god, Jin Guangyao will not ask any follow-up questions.
“Oh, cool. Which one?”
That’s fine. Wei Wuxian is an atheist anyway. “It’s . . . quite obscure. You probably haven’t heard of it.” Jin Guangyao continues to look at him expectantly, and instead of summoning the energy to participate in this conversation, Wei Wuxian points at a random spot behind Jin Guangyao. “Oh, there’s my sister!”
Jin Guangyao turns to look, giving Wei Wuxian a chance to take a casual sip of his drink and then say, “Oh, false alarm. She must be upstairs somewhere.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Jin Guangyao says interestedly. Whether the interest he’s expressing is in Wei Wuxian’s family or just in finding a way to extricate himself from this situation is hard to say. Wei Wuxian certainly would not blame him for the latter. In fact, he would welcome it.
The unnaturally high pitch of Wei Wuxian’s laugh surely gives it away as false. “Well, why would you? We just met.” How is this conversation still happening?
Jin Guangyao clears his throat a bit awkwardly. “I mean, I have heard of you. And your mom.”
Wei Wuxian winces. “‘Mom’ is such a strong word.” Mrs. Yu would faint from horror if he ever called her that.
“I didn’t realize your relationship was so strained,” Jin Guangyao says, eyebrows lifting in what is probably supposed to be sympathy.
Wei Wuxian is not about to accept pity from a man wearing a cape. He’s just not. “I didn’t realize it was any of your business.”
Jin Guangyao has the nerve to look wounded. “I’m just making conversation.”
Wei Wuxian downs the rest of his drink in the hopes that it will be fast-acting enough to make this whole thing more bearable. “Are mommy issues usually your go-to topic at parties?” He tips his cup, wishing more vodka would appear, but the move only produces a couple droplets. “Or do you reserve that for people you want to write a wannabe Buzzfeed article about?”
“Excuse me?”
“‘Seven Celebrities Who Are Estranged From Their Kids. Number Five Will Shock You,’” Wei Wuxian drawls in his most mocking tone. After all, whatever half-truths and/or straight-up lies this guy could sell to the nearest tabloid are more of a problem for Future Wei Wuxian. Current Wei Wuxian doesn’t owe him anything, surely.
It’s almost satisfying to wipe the pleasant smile off Jin Guangyao’s face completely. “You think I was flirting with you for a listicle?” He looks annoyed, either because Wei Wuxian wrongfully insulted his character or because Wei Wuxian rightfully foiled his plot.
The initial satisfaction of offending Jin Guangyao has worn off just enough for Wei Wuxian to be idly concerned that something he’s said tonight will actually end up online tomorrow. As much as he wants to not care, he’s not particularly looking forward to another disappointed frown from Jiang Yanli or irate call from Mrs. Yu’s publicist. “Look, I’m sorry for being a dick.” He’s not, really. “Can you just please not repeat anything I said tonight to anyone?”
This time, Jin Guangyao’s laugh is sharp and disbelieving. “I should’ve listened to Zixun when he said you were a nutcase.”
As if Jin Zixun has ever had a worthwhile opinion. “Should we go back to the part where you were flirting with me instead?” Wei Wuxian asks, not because he has any romantic or sexual interest in Jin Guangyao—something about those dimples just strikes him as untrustworthy—but just in case it’ll avert a media scandal.
“I don’t think so,” Jin Guangyao says frostily, which, fair enough.
“Cool. I’m just gonna—” Wei Wuxian jerks a thumb behind him in the direction of what he hopes is the exit and turns to leave, remembering to remark, “I’d rather be a nutcase than a dollar-store Dracula who writes stupid lists,” before he makes his departure. Jiang Yanli has always said he never knows when to stop.
He’s half-expecting to be accosted by his sister on his way out, gently demanding to know why he’s leaving so soon, but she’s still nowhere in sight and Wei Wuxian is nowhere near drunk enough to prolong his stay in this dank basement. He has more important matters to attend to, like writing scathing critiques in the comment sections of all of Jin Guangyao’s damn listicles.
Perhaps it’s karma, or perhaps some other hand of fate, but it must be a metaphysical force that accosts Wei Wuxian just as he steps outside the party. Not only does he trip over his own feet and land in a heap on the ground, but he also gets to share that moment with a variety of witnesses and not a hint of drunkenness to numb the ordeal.
What a lovely night, Wei Wuxian thinks sourly as he tosses his bunny ears into a dumpster and gives his audience a peace sign.
Wei Wuxian has the rare privilege of reliving the night before not with Mrs. Yu’s publicist but with the legend herself.
He’s always had difficulty waking up before noon, but his adoptive mother’s fury is better than any alarm.
“What is the meaning of these photos?”
“What photos?” Wei Wuxian is allowing himself to be petulant because it’s not even ten a.m. on a Sunday.
He can imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose. He’s become well acquainted with the gesture over the last twenty or so years. “The ones of you lounging on the ground like some kind of inebriated streetwalker.”
“I can assure you I was neither lounging nor inebriated nor streetwalking,” Wei Wuxian says helpfully. “I just tripped.”
“The public perception does not support that description of last night’s events.” Mrs. Yu says the last word with the same disdain one might employ to say orgy or satanic ritual.
“Where’s Jinzhu this fine morning?” The publicist is far more pleasant to deal with than Mrs. Yu, although that bar is pretty low.
“Don’t interrupt me. Were you on drugs?”
“Not as far as I recall.” Mrs. Yu makes a skeptical sort of scoff. “Do you want me to pee in a cup?”
She pauses as if considering it and then seems to decide they have more important matters to attend to. “I warned you that even one more incident like this and I would be forced to take action.”
He does remember that conversation, of course, and he’s been half-hoping the action in question is just finally disowning him and putting him out of his misery. But that would be too easy, of course. And it would upset Jiang Yanli, so he should probably let that dream go.
Mrs. Yu grows impatient from his lack of response to her threat. “I have been extremely generous with you, and in return you have gone out of your way to sabotage my public image.”
It is unfortunate for them both that her reputation is in many ways predicated on Wei Wuxian’s behavior. As an older woman in the film industry, she has started to get typecast as a mother—and, as bitter as she is about that fact, she’s talented enough to make her maternal act convincing on the big screen. What people don’t like to see, Mrs. Yu assures him, is an actress made unbelievable by her inability to control her children in real life.
“I wouldn’t say I’ve gone out of my way,” Wei Wuxian protests against his better judgment, although he supposes that the party last night was a bit inconvenient.
“I will not have people speculating that I raised a promiscuous alcoholic,” Mrs. Yu continues as if hadn’t spoken.
As if she really raised him at all. “I thought it was the drugs you were worried about?”
“If you continue to refuse to settle down, I will make you.”
Wei Wuxian sits up halfway in bed. “Make me—?”
“Some stability will be good for you. A-Li is already married.”
“Jiang Cheng isn’t,” Wei Wuxian grumbles.
“A-Cheng isn’t getting his drunken exploits plastered across magazines.”
“Only because no one wants to see his face.” And because Jiang Cheng would rather perish than disappoint his mother.
“I’ve indulged you far too much. You will find a way to appear monogamous and temperate, or I will find one for you.”
Wei Wuxian doesn’t know how monogamy even got brought into the conversation. He gave up on both relationships and hookups a long while ago; it’s not his fault no one believes he is capable of change. But sometimes lying is essential. “Then it’s a good thing I have a boyfriend.”
“A boyfriend?” Mrs. Yu repeats, her voice sharp with suspicion. “You? I didn’t know about this.” This woman who’s legally supposed to be his mother doesn’t even know his birthday, so he’s not sure who her feigned surprise is for.
“It’s . . . new.”
“Fine. I’ll be checking up on this. And you’ll stay out of the news?”
In an ideal world, nothing Wei Wuxian did would ever be considered newsworthy unless it was something cool, but the real world is by no means ideal. “Yes?”
“See that you do. Next time I won’t be so kind.”
“Sorry, was this you being kind?” Wei Wuxian asks, but Mrs. Yu has already hung up. He slumps back down on his mattress with a groan.
He gets a few minutes of peace to check the Google alert he has set up for his own name. Jiang Yanli had tried to turn it off, saying it was self-destructive, and Jiang Cheng called him a narcissistic douchebag, but it remains useful for immediately locating the photos of his “drugs sex booze shame,” to quote one article from this morning. He has to say, they’re not terribly flattering. And he does have some editorial feedback on the stories themselves he’d like to submit. But at least Jin Guangyao isn’t a credited author on any of them, and none of them make use of the phrase “mommy issues.” So it could be worse.
Jiang Yanli calls just as he’s beginning to compose an anonymous hate letter to one or perhaps all of the magazines.
“A-Xian,” she says, voice light and sweet as always, as if all they have to discuss is the weather and not the significant dysfunction of their family dynamic, “why didn’t you tell me you’re in a relationship?”
Of course Mrs. Yu has already gotten to her. “Right. Well. The thing about my, uh, relationship is that it’s not entirely nonfiction?”
She pauses for a moment to decipher the double negative. “It’s fake?”
“Yes, very much so. In other news, I need to find a boyfriend immediately or your mother is going to crucify me.”
There was a time when Jiang Yanli would’ve responded with a soft She’s your mother too. Thankfully she knows better now. “A boyfriend?” she says instead. “Oh, I know! What about—”
“Don’t say Lan Wangji.”
“But—” He can hear her pouting through the phone.
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay, okay. Come to the cafe this afternoon. I’ll rally everyone, and we can brainstorm.”
Wei Wuxian shudders to think of the ideas their collective mind-meld will yield, but he supposes it’s better than nothing, so he agrees.
“Wait, but—you’re not feeling too ill to come out, are you? After last night—”
“I’m not hungover, a-jie.”
“I know you can hold your liquor, but do you need me to bring over anything?”
“I had one drink last night and then tripped in a fit of bad luck. I wasn’t drunk.”
“Oh,” Jiang Yanli says, and he tries not to feel hurt by the surprise coloring her tone, “sorry, I just assumed—”
“The worst?” Wei Wuxian supplies with a short laugh.
“I’m sorry,” she says, immediately repentant. “Of course I don’t think the worst of you. I just worry, especially after . . .” Years of mischief to ensure she was constantly worried about him, probably. “I should’ve asked you what happened first.”
“Ah, no, it’s fine,” Wei Wuxian says dismissively. “If I had it my way I would’ve gotten messy drunk, so you weren’t too far off.” He gives her a recap of his brief stint at the party, dramatizing it enough to make her giggle, and promises to see her in a few hours.
At least the coffee get-together will make this Sunday slightly less depressing than most, if Wei Wuxian simply overlooks the fake-boyfriend/controlling-not-mother aspects of the day. Sundays used to be a day for brunch with friends similarly in recovery from the events of the night before, but he has been steadily losing those comrades to lives of in-laws and taxes. Or whatever boring, functional people do with their weekends.
And here Wei Wuxian is, stuck at a dead-end job and in an apartment whose ceiling could collapse at probably any second, with a ledger of romantic prospects so far in the red he’s going to have to resort to finding someone to pretend to date him because people think it’s fun and profitable to take pictures of him at his lowest.
But at least there’ll be coffee today.