Chapter Text
Wei Ying doesn’t believe in beginnings. In his experience the streams and eddies that connect events and people, meetings and departures, twist back through endless loops and lines.
Endings, though. He’s seen a lot of those. One in water when he was just a boy, too small to remember more than the glint of light on the dark surface, screams drowned away. One when he was a young man, fire flickering beguilingly, licking away at oily smoke and the skeleton of a family home. One, just last month, that stank of gasoline and burnt metal, that sounded like whimpers in the dark.
He’s not supposed to be thinking about that, though. Not here, another supposed beginning, standing in the brightly lit mall with its florid Christmas decorations up, while beside him Jiang Cheng sweats and grunts out what are charitably not quite curses.
“Jiang Cheng,” he says, while passers-by give them long looks. “You know I would never judge you in this life or the next, but I hope you know that Ling-er is judging you so, so much.”
“Fudge right off, Wei Ying,” snaps Jiang Cheng, busy trying to retie the baby wrap. “I wanted to bring the backpack. I told you – all you do is buckle him in. This thing is some sort of fu – fudging foreign curse, brought to life.”
“All the mums in the Mums & Babes course recommended it,” says Wei Ying. “Didn’t you watch the Youtube video? It’s easy. Children can do it. Ling-er could do it, I bet.”
Ling-er is, in fact, beginning to look decidedly unimpressed with the length of time he’s being held to Jiang Cheng’s thin chest and put through apparently endless attempts at tying a knot. But he also could just be gassy. It’s hard to know with a three-month-old.
Jiang Cheng’s movements are getting sharper and sharper, his patience burnt almost down to ashes. Wei Ying, who became attuned to its burn rate at a young age, grabs Ling-er from his fuming uncle and lifts him. “We’ll just carry him; it’s fine. He weighs less than a sack of rice. You can figure out the wrap with a flour bag or something, whatever. I’m sure by the time he’s five you’ll have gotten the hang of it.”
“You’re not in charge here,” snaps Jiang Cheng, ripping the long trailing wrap off himself and balling it up. “Give him back, Wei Ying.” He reaches for the baby and Wei Ying freezes for just a moment before swallowing and letting Jiang Cheng take him. In his arms, the baby’s face begins to pucker. “Fuck – fudge – look what you did.”
“I’m not going to break him,” says Wei Ying, his voice quieter. Jiang Cheng, looking down at the baby, frowns.
“We agreed – you’re here to carry bags. If you want something more – if you want something more, then tough. Babies come with a lot of cra – stuff, and someone’s gotta carry it.”
“You can swear, Jiang Cheng. He’s three months old, he’s not going to internalize it.”
“I’m not fudging up this child,” hisses Jiang Cheng, holding Ling-er to his chest like someone might try to come and pry him away. The baby gives the little hiccoughing moan that they’ve come to recognize as the prelude to a full wail. “Either shape up, or ship the hell out.”
Wei Ying stares at him – at both of them – for a minute. Jiang Cheng’s face is scrunched so tight it looks almost like his baby nephew’s, so quick to melt down. And without a hope in hell of getting full custody, without help. So: “Heck,” he says.
Jiang Cheng stares at him. “What?”
“Ship the heck out,” he says. “Which, no thanks. I’ve been to sea; I’d rather stay somewhere with fair trade coffee and a local IKEA.”
“Glad to know your priorities,” says Jiang Cheng.
“And you, obviously, didi. And Ling-er.” He bends and picks up the soft-sided baby bag as Ling-er changes gears up into a full-bore wail. “C’mon, he liked looking at the baubles in Zara’s window.”
They go stand in front of Zara until Jiang Cheng gets snippy about fast fashion and female materialism, so they go and stand in front of Eddie Bauer where Wei Ying snickers at the straights and their bizarre pretense of masculinity in holding hands while mountain climbing. After this, Ling-er begins to get tired of crying and make the noises that signal impending diaper distress so they go to the bathroom where (of course) there is no baby change table in the Men’s room and two families in front of them in line for the family bathroom.
“What a lovely couple,” says an older woman giving grandma vibes as she comes out of the family bathroom with her small charge, beaming at them.
“Thanks, they’re my life,” replies Wei Ying, beaming back.
“Drop dead,” says Jiang Cheng, and drives his elbow into Wei Ying’s ribs, hard.
***
It wouldn’t be so bad, if it weren’t for the fact that everything else in his life also happens to be shit at this precise moment.
Well, no. It would always be bad. It would always be absolutely tragic, and most nights Wei Ying misses the baijiu he poured down the sink when he has to curl up in bed stone cold sober and try not to cry, which is so pathetic he can’t stand to think about it until it inevitably happens.
But it would probably be survivable, except for the fact that it literally isn’t because he doesn’t have a job and he’s about to not have an apartment, either. Jin Zixuan’s weasel of a cousin got him fired on a technicality just because Wei Ying once happened to point out the utter incompetence of his entire exploratory project during an office meeting; after the accident, looking for a new job tumbled right off the list of his priorities.
So he has no job and consequently no ability to keep up with his food, rent, and the very real price of appearing to be a clean, competent young man absolutely able to provide part-time care to a baby nephew.
“I’m honestly not trying to make this sound dire or anything, Lan Zhan, but I bet I could do cam work. Like, OnlyFans? People can make a killing with the right SEO these days, and I’m great at dirty talk.”
It’s Lan Zhan, of course, that he tells this to. Partially because no one else has consistently happened to be around when Wei Ying needed to vent, and partially because he’s the only person Wei Ying knows who can reliably join him at any venue and not drink. And right now, that’s a quality he really needs.
At the moment, Lan Zhan is delicately mopping up a spill from his green tea. They’re in a small café near Wei Ying’s apartment, a hole in the wall that serves fresh local baked goods and does $2 Americanos if you bring your own cup. Now, late in the afternoon, it’s quiet; the single barista is wiping down counters and tables preparing to close. “I’m sure you could find something more aligned with your skillset if you look,” he says, his lips thin and his eyes flat, the way he gets when he’s trying not to show how scandalized he is. It’s very easy to scandalize Lan Zhan; Wei Ying can do it with a smile. Normally he appreciates that; right now, the judgement isn’t helping.
“Lan Zhan, performative sex is absolutely one of my skills,” he says, and yep, there’s the scandalized slant of his lashes again. Okay, it is a little amusing. “Look – we’ll put a pin in that for the moment. The reality is, none of the big firms will hire me with Jin Guangshan pissing on my reputation, and a small firm probably can’t offer me the rate or the hours I would need. Jiang Cheng can only cut his own hours back for so long; sooner or later, he’s gonna have to admit he needs help with Ling-er.”
“Do you believe he will be successful in obtaining custody?”
Wei Ying shrugs with what he hopes looks like careless ease. “His case is based on the fact that Jin Guangshan is gross and also a serial adulterer. But none of the evidence is new, and there’s no competition when it comes to money. They have the frankly disgusting wealth, stability, and time to look after Ling-er. Jiang Cheng can afford it, but he’s in a dangerous profession working long hours.”
“But has not fathered and abandoned a series of children,” points out Lan Zhan. Wei Ying smiles wanly. “Besides. He has you.”
Wei Ying picks up the lemon from the rim of his iced tea and bites it; tartness bursts on his tongue and he winces; still, it erases the metallic taste of guilt. “Two uncles who live across town from each other and were arrested for fighting in public aren’t exactly prime parent material. And… Jiang Cheng has been pretty clear that I’m involved only on sufferance. If he could do it without me, he would.”
“It is still so soon, Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan. “He will change his thinking with time.”
Wei Ying performs the shrug again. “Maybe. Jiang Cheng can hold a grudge longer than the half-life of nuclear fallout. But that’s not the point. The point is – money. Who needs it? Me. I was already behind on rent after Ling-er’s first-month party and now my landlord’s getting antsy. And before you say it – I’m not taking a handout. I appreciate it, Lan Zhan, but it doesn’t solve anything. I don’t need money for money’s sake, I need a steady income. And I mean, ideally, a rent-controlled apartment, but actually just anything without too much black mould would be fucking fabulous at this point.”
Lan Zhan looks at him, long and slow. Lan Zhan has a quality of stillness to him which is strange, because he can move snake-fast when he wants to. But he radiates more calm competency than a room full of high-paid lawyers. “I might be able to help,” he says. And, when Wei Ying opens his mouth, continues: “Not with a donation. An interview, perhaps. With a mid-sized cultivation company. They specialise in confrontation and suppression – it is dangerous work, but I think you don’t mind that.”
Wei Ying smiles. “You know I don’t. And what Jiang Cheng doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“Mn. I will make some calls. No promises, but you would be a good fit.”
“Anything would be amazing. Honestly. If they hire me, I’d crawl over broken glass for them – you can tell them that, Lan Zhan.”
“I will not,” says Lan Zhan primly. He sips his tea, but his gaze lingers on Wei Ying.
When they first met, in the afterschool cultivation seminars Jiang Cheng’s parents had made them attend in high school, Lan Zhan’s gaze had been snapping. Full of fury, and recrimination. He had been so quick to judge, and it had been fun, riling him up. At some point even Wei Ying wasn’t fully aware of, that judgement had changed to assessment, then appreciation. They’ve worked plenty of jobs together, although never for the same firm. At some point – another beginning Wei Ying can’t pinpoint – they became friends.
He was the one who took Wei Ying home, after the accident. After Jiang Cheng took Ling-er home, and left him alone at the hospital. He hadn’t wanted to go. He has a vague alcohol-soaked memory of fighting to go to the morgue. So he could lie down on a metal gurney and stay there, too. Where he belonged.
He’s ashamed of it, now. Ashamed that Lan Zhan had been there to see it. Lan Zhan has never mentioned it, which in a way makes it worse. Wei Ying would have, if their positions had been reversed. He wouldn’t have let it go.
“Wei Ying…” says Lan Zhan.
“Hm?”
“Are you alright?”
Wei Ying blinks. Lan Zhan is, if he’s honest, a strange friend. He is utterly undemonstrative, never gives presents or compliments, rarely checks in without a reason. But he’s the most reliable person Wei Ying knows, the kind of person who would wait for hours if you asked him to be there, who would come when you asked, without question. And who, just that once, came without asking at all when he needed him the most.
“I’m okay,” he says, carefully. “Thanks for asking.”
“If you need more… more help, or a loan, I can –”
“Lan Zhan,” says Wei Ying, smiling. He puts his empty cup down and pushes it forwards with the tips of his fingers, sliding it across the textured wood table. “Thank you. I don’t, but thanks.” He stands, stretching his arms over his head until he feels the muscles pull tight. “Aiya, I can’t believe it’s only four. I feel like an old man. Truly, children are terrifying. Jiang Cheng’s going to look like he’s fifty in a year.”
Lan Zhan stands more slowly, picking up his coat off the back of his chair. “Can I give you a ride home?”
Wei Ying shakes his head, keeping his smile carefully plastered on. “I’m good; I’ll take the 4 or the 6.”
Lan Zhan looks outside; it’s grey, cloud cover heavy. Pedestrians walking by are huddled in their coats, wrapped up with heavy scarves and hats.
“Lan Zhan, embrace the proletariat lifestyle. Not everyone likes driving around in Lexuses.”
“I drive a Leaf,” replies Lan Zhan, a fact they both know.
Wei Ying scoops up his phone and wriggles his fingers. “I’ll see you later, okay? Thanks for listening to my drivel.”
“Not drivel,” says Lan Zhan. “Wei Ying… take care.”
Wei Ying grins, nods, and pushes the heavy door out to step into the damp, frigid afternoon.
***
The first time he tried to get into a car after the accident, he forgot how to breathe.
It was an Uber, which made the whole thing intensely more embarrassing. Wei Ying had literally bailed out of the back seat, forcing the poor driver to stop in traffic so he could tumble out to choke and shake on the sidewalk, dutifully ignored by NYC’s stony-faced pedestrians. The driver had hung around for a couple of minutes, but Wei Ying had shaken him off and he went, taking the fare with him.
It’s… the compactness of the back seat, the flash of light through angled windows, the smell of carpet and upholstery and exhaust… it’s become intertangled, somehow, with something dark. Something terrifying, nameless, that lurks, waiting in the back of his mind. It sounds like metal rending; it stinks like blood. He wakes up to it sometimes, caught in its maws.
On the bright side – Wei Ying not only has to squint but deploy a telescope to see the bright side of anything these days – he doesn’t have a car, so it’s not like he’s the loser here. On the less bright side is the rest of his entire fucking life.
Anyway, the point is, he takes the 4 back to East Harlem and his tiny, wretched, soon-to-be repossessed apartment, heats up some cold rice out of the fridge, and sits at his table eating it in lonely silence like the sad sap he’s somehow become. And he waits for Lan Zhan’s text, like the sole lifeline that it is.
***
The Nies are cultivation freaks, and like so much freakdom that’s been inherited through family lines over centuries, have parleyed it into a highly respected empire. They’re one of the biggest firms in New York by status and reputation, although not size. Because it’s hard as hell to swing a job with them.
Wei Ying’s friends with Nie Huaisang, but apart from the remnants of his pride he’d always figured it would be pointless to try to weasel himself a slot in the Nie roster via Nie Huaisang’s influence; Huaisang and Nie Mingjue are half-brothers and while Nie Mingjue has dedicated his whole elephant-sized heart to cultivation Nie Huaisang bailed on family tradition and pride to go to art school for design. He has nothing to do with the sword-side of the family now, and when he talks about his older brother over mimosas it’s in a ‘pity the uninitiated and their foolish ways’ voice.
So when Lan Zhan texts him a time and place and that place is Nie HQ, Wei Ying freaks out just a little.
“Lan Zhan you cannot be serious. I mean, I know that you are because you literally know no other way of being, but come on! Nie Cultivation? That’s like getting an interview with, I don’t know, God. Except God only gets to decide if you’re on the admittance list for Heaven whereas Nie Mingjue can hire you. Into Nie Cultivation. You’re crazy. You’re stone-cold serious and therefore crazy to believe they would hire me.”
“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan is on the phone doing zero emoting as is his wont, but even over the airwaves Wei Ying can hear the man’s undying patience. That’s what the Lans inherit and worship, polishing like so many votive tablets over the centuries. Inability to emote, and patience where patience is sure as hell not due. “You are an excellent cultivator. Your proficiency surpasses the vast majority of those working in city, including in Nie Mingjue’s firm.”
“You know I lap up flattery like whipped cream on a mocha, but this isn’t about my proficiency. It’s about my reputation. Which is currently subterranean in the industry.” Wei Ying throws the cap off a Pepsi bottle at a roach creeping in from under his fridge; it’s about as effective as throwing a cotton ball. The lengths he’ll go to to keep this place definitely match only its market worth, not its experiential one.
“Your reputation is largely tarnished by the Jins, and Nie Mingjue is currently not on speaking terms with most of their faction. Besides which, he is on speaking terms with my brother – and by extension, myself.” There’s something just slightly hesitant in Lan Zhan’s tone, a lack of certainty the uber-talented, uber-confident Lan Zhan rarely exhibits.
“Is speaking terms a euphemism here, Lan Zhan?” He’s met by silence, and slowly smirks. He’s met Lan Huan; like his brother the man could retire from the cultivation business at any time and step out onto the cover of GQ. Nie Mingjue, on the other hand, is built like an F150 and can probably dead lift twice his own weight. A match made in heaven, or at least the pages of a harlequin romance. “It is. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Lips are sealed. And I appreciate it. Really, I do. Just… let’s not get our hopes up.”
“If this does not work out, we will find another way. Wei Ying, there is a path forward. There always is.”
For just a split second, Wei Ying smells gasoline and blood. Not always. “Sure,” he says, with false cheerfulness. “Never give up, go above and beyond, surpass the limits, all that nice clean boy scout stuff. That’s what I am, now, right? Nice and clean, bright-eyed and squeaky-eared and so, so deserving of another chance.”
“Wei Ying…”
“Lan Zhan. It’s fine. I – you’re right, it’ll be fine.”
***
The Jin Tech interview had been a standard business-type interview, three panelists asking rote questions and Wei Ying doing his best to exude charm and charisma without slipping into big-mouth asshole, a clear and present danger for him. He’s consequently expecting more of the same when he shows up at Nie Cultivation in his unaffiliated blacks, sword in its case on his shoulder for looks and to proof it hasn’t been repo’d.
He's expecting to be met by some middle-man, an underling who will take him to the boardroom where he’ll be drilled about his training and experience and possibly his overwhelming lack of tact and diplomacy.
Instead, Nie Mingjue is there in all his muscled glory, wearing Nie grey and with his enormous blade on his back in a case that could have held an RPG. “So,” he says, looking Wei Ying up and down with an inscrutable face, his hair long on the top tied into a pony down his back and crisply faded on the sides. He looks like the kind of character you’d meet on the mean streets of Mortal Kombat. “You’re Lan Zhan’s recommendation.”
“That’s right. Thanks for considering me,” says Wei Ying, keeping his tone respectful.
“I hear you need a job.”
“That’s true.”
“Because you took a torch to your last one at Jin Tech.”
“That’s… more or less true. I took a torch to Jin Zixun; Daddy got mad.”
Nie Mingjue raises an eyebrow. “Tell me why I should consider bringing you into my fold, then. I’m a far sterner ‘Daddy’ than any Jin magnate.”
If it had been anyone else, Wei Ying would have made a joke. But Nie Mingjue manages to make what would otherwise have been a hilarious statement simple unadorned fact. “Because you hire based on competency, not nepotism. Which means a weasel like Jin Zixun would never survive here. I work best with competent people, sir. Failing that, I work fine with those who put in the effort and care about their results. The only people I can’t get along with are incompetent blowhards.”
“You’re very frank,” rumbles Nie Mingjue.
“I guess so. I don’t believe in lying, or obfuscating, or pretending something is what it isn’t.”
“Then we’ll get along,” says Nie Mingjue. “Come with me.” He turns and heads for the front door, the one Wei Ying just came in through.
“We aren’t going up?” asks Wei Ying, swivelling to follow him.
“I’m not interested in how well you can work Adobe or load paper into the printer. What matters is your skill on the job. So let’s see what you’ve got, Lan Zhan’s recommendation.”
“If I impress you, will you call me Wei Ying?”
“No promises,” says Nie Mingjue, and grins.