Work Text:
Lotus Pier was enveloped in calm and silence—a rare stillness for a place that usually thrummed with laughter, training shouts, and the bright vitality of its people.
Tonight, the lotus ponds were dark mirrors beneath the sky. Lanterns swayed gently under the eaves, their glow spilling in soft halos across polished wood. No disciples hurried across courtyards. No raised voices carried over water.
For once, the great sect of Yunmeng Jiang rested.
Jiang Cheng, its beloved sect leader.
The fearsome Sandu Shengshou—master wielder of the three poisons, a name spoken with equal parts respect and dread. In the cultivation world, his blade Sandu strikes so swiftly and precisely that no prey escapes him. The same hands that wielded Zidian, the spiritual whip crackling with violet lightning, drawing terror from any enemy who dared stand before him.
He was a man carved from discipline and storm.
Yet tonight, dressed in warmer robes against the night air, Jiang Cheng stood outside of his bedroom, cradling a far smaller, far more fragile treasure wrapped in soft fabric—Lan Jingyi, his son.
The infant was wrapped securely in soft fabric, tucked against his father’s chest. Jiang Cheng’s broad palm spanned nearly the width of the child’s back.
Gone was the sharp, habitual scowl that once seemed permanently etched into his features. In its place lingered a quiet, almost disbelieving softness as he gently rocked the cooing infant in his arms. His movements, once honed for battle and authority, were now careful—reverent.
From the corridor’s edge, Lan Xichen peered before stepping forward.
“My heart, what are you doing out here? Come back inside where it is warm.” The voice was gentle, touched with quiet concern.
Jiang Cheng did not turn immediately. He did not need to. He would recognize that voice anywhere—steady as mountain mist, warm as sunlight through clouded skies.
“I am warm, Ah-Huan.” Jiang Cheng replied, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He adjusted the blanket around the infant in his arms instead.
Soft footsteps approached. Lan Xichen came to stand beside him, sleeves brushing lightly against Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. He peered down at the sleeping child, his expression melting into something tender.
“Our son seems quite comfortable,” Lan Xichen murmured.
Jiang Cheng looked down again.
Lan Jingyi’s cheeks were round and flushed with warmth. His tiny mouth parted slightly in sleep, breath soft and even. One small hand had fisted stubbornly into Jiang Cheng’s robe, as though even in dreams he refused to let go.
Lan Xichen’s lips curved faintly.
Stubborn indeed.
Something inside Jiang Cheng tightened—not painfully, but overwhelmingly.
“He’s so small,” he said quietly.
Lan Xichen hummed softly in agreement. “Mm. He is, and yet, he has already taken hold of us completely.”
Jiang Cheng’s fingers traced lightly over the baby’s cheek, careful, reverent.
“He has done nothing,” he continued after a moment. “He cannot hold a sword. He cannot cultivate. He cannot even speak.”
Lan Xichen’s gaze shifted from their son to Jiang Cheng’s profile.
“And yet…” His voice lowered. “I have never felt this much love before.” The admission lingered in the cool night air.
Lan Xichen’s breath caught — barely.
He had always known Jiang Cheng to love fiercely. He had seen it in rebuilt walls, in unyielding training grounds, in the way disciples straightened when he entered a room not out of fear but of trust and loyalty.
But to hear him say it so plainly — his husband rarely spoke so plainly of his feelings. When he did, it was as if he were placing something fragile into open hands. So Lan Xichen remained silent — and listened.
“It feels as though it will spill out of me,” Jiang Cheng continued quietly. “As though I have been holding something back my entire life, and now there is no stopping it.”
Lan Xichen understood that feeling.
He had once believed love must be restrained. Contained. Disciplined into quiet devotion. Then Jiang Cheng had entered his life like a summer storm.
“I wonder,” Jiang Cheng says slowly, the words thinner now, “if my parents ever felt this way.”
The question seemed to cost him.
Lan Xichen’s chest tightened.
He remembered long corridors in Cloud Recesses. He remembered a father hidden in the confines in a prison of his own making. A mother glimpsed in rare, distant moments. He remembered learning to be composed before he learned to be a child.
“If they did… Why did they stop?” His jaw tightened faintly. “I would not have minded if they had pretended.”
The confession was almost bitter, but not quite.
“Growing up, they always argued,” Jiang Cheng said. “Father would stay silent… distant. With me, especially.” His voice dipped lower. “Not with A-Jie. Not with Wei Wuxian. No matter how hard I tried to become the son he wanted, I would ultimately fail.”
A quiet breath left him.
Lan Xichen’s fingers twitched faintly at his side.
Lan Jingyi shifted faintly, and Jiang Cheng instinctively adjusted his hold — thumb brushing slow, reassuring strokes along the baby’s back.
“I am my mother’s son,” he said. “Through and through.”
The words carried old resignation.
“And my mother…” Jiang Cheng exhaled slowly. “She would always compare me to Wei Wuxian again and again. As though I was always lacking. As though I needed to become something greater to deserve my place.”
“I kept thinking that if I trained harder, if I became stronger, if I was flawless…” A faint, humorless breath escaped him. “Perhaps then I would be enough.”
Lan Xichen’s hand came to rest over his free one, warm and grounding. If only his husband could see what he saw.
Jiang Cheng looked down at the sleeping child between them.
“But look at our Ah-Yi, I cannot imagine looking at him and thinking he must earn my love.” he said softly.
Lan Xichen looked down as well.
Their son’s fingers were still tangled stubbornly in purple robes.
For a long moment, Lan Xichen did not answer.
The night air was cool, the lantern light warm against their sleeves. Jingyi shifted faintly in Jiang Cheng’s arms, then settled again, secure in the cradle of his father’s hold.
Lan Xichen turned fully toward his husband.
“Of course you cannot,” he said gently. “Because your love is not something measured.”
His fingers tightened slightly over Jiang Cheng’s hand — not restraining, simply anchoring.
“You love fiercely,” Lan Xichen continued, voice low and steady. “You always have.”
Jiang Cheng’s lashes lowered, but he did not pull away.
“You rebuilt Lotus Pier from ashes,” Lan Xichen went on softly. “You carried your sect, your name, your responsibilities — even when you were barely more than a boy yourself. You demanded strength from yourself because no one allowed you gentleness.”
Jiang Cheng’s chest tightened at the words, the weight of them settling like sunlight on cold stone. There was no accusation in Lan Xichen’s tone. Only the truth.
“My dear heart,” he added after a moment, voice gentler now, almost reflective, “I do not believe we had parents we could truly learn from.”
His thumb traced a slow, reassuring arc over Jiang Cheng’s knuckles.
“But we did have a good uncle.” A faint smile touched his lips.
“Wangji and I were raised, in many ways, by Shufu. What warmth we learned… we learned from him. What steadiness we carry… came from him.” His voice was neither resentful nor wistful, simply honest.
Jiang Cheng let out a small, quiet chuckle.
“My father,” he murmured, “was a good uncle. Not much of a father.” The words could have been sharp. Instead, they were tired. Lan Xichen did not contradict him. Instead, he stepped closer, their sleeves brushing fully now, their warmth mingling in the cool night air.
“Then perhaps,” Lan Xichen said softly, “we are fortunate.”
Jiang Cheng arched his brow faintly.
“To have seen both what we needed… and what we lacked,” Lan Xichen clarified. “It is easier to and not repeat what one has already known.”
Jiang Cheng exhaled slowly. The tension that had sat in his shoulders since youth — invisible, constant — seemed to ease, if only a little.
Lan Xichen reached up and adjusted the blanket around Jingyi with careful fingers. “Our Ah-Yi will be our most beloved little boy,” he said softly, there was no doubt in his voice.
“I can already see the disaster,” Jiang Cheng said dryly. “With your face and my temper combined, Ah-Yi will undoubtedly be a menace.”
Lan Xichen’s lips curved, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“With my face and your temper?” he repeated mildly. “I wonder which of us should be more concerned.”
Jiang Cheng snorted quietly, careful not to jostle the baby. “You,” he replied without hesitation. “He will learn how to look harmless from you. Then he will use it.”
Lan Xichen’s shoulders shook faintly with contained laughter.
“And from you,” he countered gently, “he will learn how to glare until an entire courtyard falls silent.”
Jiang Cheng huffed. “That is a necessary skill.”
Between them, Lan Jingyi shifted, as if offended by the accusations made against his future character. His tiny fist waved weakly in the air before settling again against Jiang Cheng’s chest.
Both men immediately stilled.
For a moment, they simply watched him in awe.
Lan Xichen reached out and lightly brushed his finger against the baby’s palm. Jingyi’s hand closed around it instinctively. Lan Xichen smiled bright enough to warm the night air.
Jiang Cheng adjusted the blanket once more, tucking it carefully around Jingyi’s small form. The earlier heaviness in his chest had loosened, replaced by something steadier — something almost peaceful.
Lan Xichen slipped an arm around Jiang Cheng’s waist, drawing him closer without disturbing the child between them.
“Come,” he murmured. “Before our future menace catches cold.”
Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes, but he allowed himself to be guided back inside. As they stepped over the threshold, lantern light spilled warmly across the wooden floor, chasing away the night chill. Behind them, Lotus Pier rested — quiet, steady, whole.