There’s a cat on Xichen’s pillow.
It’s a tiny, dirty thing with its fur matted with thistles and mud, and small, round ears perked so that the tear on the left ear is visible. It’s curled up in a tight ball and watching Xichen with sharp, almost feverish eyes.
”Oh dear,” Xichen whispers.
He takes a step forward and the cat lets out a vicious hiss, drawing more into itself, daring Xichen to approach at his own risk. Something about it reminds him of A-Yao and his breath stutters as pain slashes through his heart, a visceral reminder of his shortcomings and guilt.
He averts his eyes and backs up until his back hits the wall and then he slides down, sprawling on the floor in a slump hardly becoming of a Sect Leader.
He’s too tired to care.
He wakes up an indeterminate time later with a crick on his neck and an insistent ache in the small of his back. The Hanshi is silent and dark around him, empty and stale. He has a distant thought of needing to eat but it’s easily brushed aside, a practice he’s become used to since he entered seclusion. His cultivation is high enough to sustain him almost indefinitely—assuming he meditates and takes care of it. He isn’t sure he should bother.
The cat is still there, head tilted into an angle that looks painful but that might be normal for cats. Xichen doesn’t know. He’s never had many dealings with animals, considering the Cloud Recesses doesn’t condone pets.
Wangji would probably know.
Or if not Wangji, his—husband. Yes. Wei Wuxian would know what to do with a cat.
Xichen’s lashes flutter as his thoughts shy away from everything Wei Wuxian represents. Will he someday be able to look at him without feeling deep, seething envy? He has no right to it but it’s there, festering inside his soul, reminding him of yet another failure.
(He knows Wei Wuxian doesn’t blame him but on some level, Wangji still does. And he’s right to do so.)
With a sigh, he pushes himself up, startling the cat awake. It draws back, tense, following him with its gaze.
”I’m not going to hurt you,” Xichen says. He tries to pitch his voice to gentle and soothing but it comes out in a clumsy plea instead.
The cat flattens its ears and hisses.
He probably deserves that.
Someone keeps leaving a tray next to his door every morning, a cup of plain congee and a bowl with rice and tofu, carefully preserved with a talisman to keep them hot and protect them from whatever could threaten the Sect Leader’s humble food in the Cloud Recesses. Xichen picks the tray up each morning, places it on the table, and then leaves it there, turns his back on it. He isn’t hungry and he doesn’t feel he deserves the small comfort of eating hot food.
He knows he should be contemplating his decisions, his thought processes, his reasoning. He finds himself drowning in guilt and bitterness instead.
How could he have been so blind?
Why hadn’t he seen?
He had brushed aside Mingjue’s warnings and Wangji’s worry and listened to the sweet sound of poison slowly poured into his ear.
Had he been the laughing stock of the whole cultivation world, gullible and soft at the sight of a dimpled smile and beautiful eyes?
What was wrong with him?
If only—
If only—
He finds himself being irrationally angry at Father for not being there, at Mother for dying, at Uncle for being… being too Uncle. Would he have been better prepared if he’d been subjected to soft words and a gentle brush of fingers on a regular basis? Or at least every now and then after Mother died?
Would things have been easier for him and Wangji if the Lan disciples valued warmth alongside the thousands of rules carved on unyielding stone?
The scream of pure frustration that claws its way through his throat takes him by surprise. It echoes in the stillness of the Hanshi and then dies away, leaving behind no trace but Xichen’s own bewilderment.
The cat opens one eye and gives him an unimpressed look.
Sometimes he wonders why he even bothers. What does he have to offer to his sect? The advice of the misled, thoughts of the gullible, conviction of the blind. Everything he thought he knows is now cast into doubt, his faith in himself questionable.
He lacks the fire that burns hot and bright in Wangji, tended by Wei Wuxian’s chaotic, yet somehow unerring moral compass.
He lacks so much that Wangji has and he isn’t sure whom he resents more for it: Wangji or himself.
(He never voices any of this during Wangji’s monthly visits.)
He never sees the cat move but it does. It curls in a tight bun on his pillow, first with its sharp gaze directed at him, and the next moment he’s facing its back. He never sees it eat anything, either, but it must. It’s a perfectly normal cat and cats—they have to eat, don’t they?
He wonders where it finds sustenance. He might be unfamiliar with the species but he’s quite sure plain rice and tofu aren’t suitable nutrition for a feline.
The mere thought of finding out, making sure it eats properly makes him exhausted.
”You need a bath,” he says one day and then blinks, surprised by his own words. Did he mean to say them? He isn’t sure but since they’re out now, he probably should act on them. He stands up and ignores the pins and needles that run down his shins, turns on unsteady feet, and makes his way to the bathtub. He pauses, momentarily unsure of how much water to add before he remembers how he used to bathe Sizhui shortly after Wangji brought him home, using only enough water to reach Sizhui’s lower dantian when he was sitting in the tub.
(He refuses to contemplate the parallels between him and the cat to Wangji and Sizhui.)
Saying the cat needs a bath is easy, actually bathing it proves to be much, much harder. It bares its teeth in a vicious hiss when Xichen approaches and lashes out with a clawed paw when he reaches out to pick it up. The claws are sharp and tear at his skin, leaving behind narrow welts that slowly well up with blood. The sight makes something shut down in his mind and his eyes slide away from the red, red, red, locking into the hissing ball of dull brown fur and mud.
”You need a bath,” he says again, his voice strangely hollow and muffled in his ears.
The cat—a she, he finds out—hisses and yowls, holding on to his left forearm with four clawed paws. For some reason, she doesn’t try to flee when he gently, carefully, cups warm water and pours it down her thin back. She spits and growls through the ordeal, ears flat as he teases out the dried-up clumps of mud and thistle, as he rubs soap on her fur to make sure the dirt comes off. She shakes her head and sneezes when a small fleck of soap ends up on her nose and then levels a stare at Xichen as if he personally betrayed her.
Perhaps he did.
”There, doesn’t that feel better?” He murmurs, picks up a towel and slowly rubs her dry, and then coaxes her to release her grip from his forearm. He doesn’t look at the blood as he wraps her into a fresh towel and sets her on his bed to calm down while he cleans up the mess they left behind.
It isn’t until he’s poured out the muddy water and dried the floor that he stops and slowly lets his eyes draw to his left hand. It looks mangled in the bright afternoon light, the welts her claws left behind bleeding sluggishly. His arm hangs down freely and his eyes follow a red line that travels from the crook of his elbow down the inside of his forearm to his wrist and the side of his thumb, ending in a drop. He feels like he’s standing on a precipice as the drop swells and finally breaks away. It lands on the floor without a sound—or perhaps there is a sound but Xichen can’t hear it over the roar in his ears—leaving behind an almost perfect, red dot.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t—
He comes back to an insistent knocking and Wangji’s voice calling his name, sounding like he’s been doing it for a while now. He sways as he turns toward the door, blinks slowly, frowns.
”Yes?” He says. It comes out as a question. He isn’t sure it was meant to be a question.
The door opens and Wangji steps in, holding a tray. Oh, Xichen must’ve forgotten to pick up his tray this morning. He probably should apologize for that.
”Brother—” Wangji starts as he looks up and then his eyes go wide.
Xichen tilts his head, confused at the alarm in his brother’s eyes. ”Wangji, is something of the matter?”
”Brother, your arm,” Wangji says. His voice is calm but underneath the placid surface, it’s laced with panic.
”Yes?” Xichen says. ”What about my—” he starts as he glances down. ”Oh.”
Wangji sets the tray down and takes a step forward, then stops. He’s tense, anxious, his eyes burning with worry. ”Xichen—” He starts and stops. ”Please, don’t—” he finally says in a whisper. He looks young and scared and it’s not a good look on him. Xichen isn’t used to it anymore.
Wangji hasn’t looked young or scared in a long, long time.
Xichen isn’t sure of how to answer—isn’t even sure how to parse Wangji’s reaction—when the cat lets out an annoyed sound from inside the bundle of towel. Wangji whirls around almost comically fast, hand flying to Bichen on his belt.
”There’s a cat,” Xichen offers into the bewildered silence.
”A cat,” Wangji repeats. He lets out a careful breath and turns back to face Xichen. ”Is the cat the reason for your—appearance?”
”My—” Xichen says and takes a proper look at his robes.
Oh.
”Wangji,” he says carefully. ”What did you assume when you entered the Hanshi?”
The hesitation is almost imperceptible and was it anyone else but Xichen (or perhaps Wei Wuxian), it would’ve gone unnoticed. ”By the state of your robes and the presence of blood,” Wangji says slowly, ”I assumed you had hurt yourself.”
Not ’I assumed you’d intentionally harmed yourself,’ Xichen thinks ruefully. ’Oh, Wangji, what did I do to earn your good faith?’
He sighs and lets his lips draw into a tired, small smile. ”No, I didn’t do this,” he says. And then, wanting to make sure Wangji understands, he looks into his eyes and adds, ”I will not.”
For a moment, Wangji holds his gaze with a searching look in his eyes before he exhales and inclines his head. Then he kneels next to the table and starts preparing tea. His eyes dart to the privacy screen in a silent plea for Xichen to go and change and he heeds the suggestion, hurriedly wipes his arm clean, and directs a small amount of spiritual energy to seal the sluggishly bleeding deeper claw marks. He changes into a clean set of robes and reties his forehead ribbon, suddenly needing to feel a bit more…human.
He returns to freshly poured tea and a small box of sweets that make him raise a brow.
”Wei Ying thought of you,” Wangji says and pushes the box closer to him.
Xichen ducks his head and picks one. It’s dark purple and sticky on the surface, and when he bites into it, the sweetness soon gives way to the burning heat of the chili. He draws a sharp breath at the burst of sensation and raises a hand to his mouth, unsure of what to do with it all—the taste, the burning, the knowledge that Wei Wuxian wanted him to feel this.
Before he closes his eyes to pretend the wetness in his eyes is because of the chili, he notices that the singular drop of blood on the floor is gone.
The next morning, there’s a package on his food tray, haphazardly tied with a string and with an added note written in familiar, messy brush strokes.
’My niece needs proper food!!’
Bemused, Xichen picks up the tray and carries it inside. The package contains six very fat, very dead fish whose scales glimmer in the shades of the rainbow. Xichen has no idea what kinds of fish these are but since they clearly aren’t meant for him, he’s quite certain he doesn’t need to know.
He also doesn’t bother wondering why Wei Wuxian suddenly decided to be an Uncle to a cat that has claimed Xichen’s home as her own.
He sets one fish on a plate on the floor, rewraps the rest, and renews the talisman that keeps the package cold. He eats his congee, drinks his tea, and cleans up before sitting down to meditate.
Some time later he peeks through his lashes to see the cat crouching next to the plate, delicately nibbling at the fish.
Xichen closes his eyes and feels warm for the first time in a long while.
It’s easier and easier to control his thoughts during the day, to keep his mind occupied with meditation and mental exercises, to study old philosophies, to glide through the sword forms without Shuoyue more as a meditative dance than a sparring exercise. But when the night comes, his mind is often in turmoil, tormented with what-ifs and what-abouts, his doubts bleeding into his dreams, turning them into nightmares.
After yet another dream where he watches A-Yao—the young, innocent A-Yao from the lectures—kneel in front of him with terror in his eyes as Xichen calmly brings down his sword to cut his head off, he gasps awake, shivering in the warm night. The Hanshi is quiet and dark and the woods around it are similarly tranquil, and it feels like a betrayal. How can the world go on—how can it be so beautiful and silent and normal when Xichen has killed the one who made it so much brighter? Why cannot time stand still while he’s trying to piece back together the splinters of what was broken? What is he going to do—
A small, warm weight steps on his chest, careful and delicate on soft paws. Xichen holds his breath as the cat turns around herself a couple of times before settling down. For a moment, everything stands still and then, she starts to purr. The low, trembling sensation reverberates through Xichen’s chest and pushes him to a shaky inhale that makes it feels like the purring intensifies.
He huffs and the sudden movement is repaid with gentle pricks of claws through his night robe.
”Ah, little one,” he whispers. ”My apologies.”
He falls back asleep with the purring cat on his chest and doesn’t dream of blood.
There’s no need to name her. She’s not a pet but a wild thing, free to stay or go as she pleases. Mostly, she stays—if for nothing else than the fish Wei Wuxian keeps sending her. She eats while he meditates and purrs when he sleeps and it makes his days more bearable. She isn’t the cure for the darkness still lingering in the periphery of his mind but she helps.
”You look better,” Wangji says on his next monthly visit. He brought new tea and yet another small box of sweets from Wei Wuxian. Xichen eyes the box and its pale green contents for some time before gingerly picking one. He regrets his decision when, instead of sweetness, his mouth fills with sourness so intense he fears his teeth might fall off. He isn’t sure what his face is doing but Wangji looks pleased. Not for the first time, he wonders about the relationship between Wangji and his husband.
”Wei Ying would like to visit the cat,” Wangji says.
Xichen opens his mouth and then closes it. ”The cat might not appreciate the sentiment,” he says carefully.
The corner of Wangji’s mouth curls slightly, just enough for Xichen to see his amusement. ”He is aware of that.”
”Well then,” Xichen says for the lack of a better answer.
Apparently, his answer was enough for not only Wei Wuxian but also Sizhui and Jingyi to appear the next morning when Xichen picked up his food tray.
”We come with treats!” Wei Wuxian calls and shakes a familiar-looking box at him. Xichen dreads the contents already.
”Senior Wei said you have a cat?” Jingyi says, eyes wide with hope and a package of fish in his hand.
Sizhui just looks mildly embarrassed and apologetic.
Xichen sighs and motions them inside.
The cat is, understandably, less thrilled. So far, the only one she’s met is Wangji whose manner of speaking and moving is very much like Xichen’s. Wei Wuxian and Jingyi, on the other hand? They let out almost identical, slightly strangled noises and fall on their knees in front of the pillow the cat is currently staring at them from, and neither lets her hiss to deter them.
Sizhui makes tea, somehow giving off an all-suffering air, and absolutely does not roll his eyes when Wei Wuxian yelps.
”So cruel! Xichen, your daughter has no respect for her elders!”
Xichen sips his tea to avoid replying. In truth, he isn’t sure how to reply. This seems too normal—having his favorite juniors there and listening to Wei Wuxian’s ridiculous outrage about being out-stubborned by a cat. He almost forgets himself as he smiles, freezing momentarily to wonder if he’s allowed to enjoy this. He shakes the feeling and plasters the smile back on his face, ignoring Wei Wuxian’s sharp eyes and the worried look between Sizhui and Jingyi.
”So! Tell me, did you enjoy the sweets I sent you?” Wei Wuxian asks. ”Lan Zhan loves the green ones, by the way.”
Xichen flatly refuses to believe him.
”Senior Wei, what green ones?” Jingyi asks, eyes wide with excitement.
Xichen has an idea and doesn’t stop to think before he acts. ”I think I have some left,” he says, gets up, and retrieves the box Wangji brought the day before. Jingyi’s eyes light up as he takes one and eagerly plops it into his mouth—only to let out a blood-curdling noise.
”Dhish ish dherrible!” He wails, face contorted around the sour taste Xichen can still feel haunting his mouth. ”I ghant believe Hanguang-jhung lovesh dheshe!”
Wei Wuxian presses a hand on his chest, eyes wide with mock offense. ”You mean, I lied? How dare!”
And…something about it—Jingyi’s face, Sizhui’s exasperation, and Wei Wuxian’s unbridled glee under his overdone outrage—cracks something loose within Xichen and he snorts and then starts to laugh. It bursts out of him, a full-belly laugh he didn’t know he even was capable of, rolling through him like a wave. His guests stop to stare at him with identically gobsmacked looks and it spurs another round of laughter. He feels out of control, hysterical, unseemly, and it’s all hilariously insane, he can’t breathe from his laughter, and then he just can’t breathe, and then— and then—
—And then he’s gulping air, heaving like he’s been deprived of air, and he’s sobbing, and the sound he thought was laughter turns into a wail that sounds like someone is ripping out his soul, and he can’t, he can’t, he—
He’s distantly aware of movement and the sound of the door opening and closing but it’s muffled because everything is drowning under the pain that’s tearing through him. He tries to fight it but it’s too strong, it’s too much, and it’s dragging him with it, and all he can do is to let it run its course.
It lasts a moment.
It lasts a lifetime.
It lasts however long it lasts and when he finally gasps himself back to the present, he’s curled on his side next to the table. Wei Wuxian is a warm, solid presence behind his back, his side and leg a grounding weight along his spine. At some point, the cat has wormed her way into the small space between his chest and his arms and she’s purring louder than he’s ever heard.
He clears his throat. ”I—”
”None of that,” Wei Wuxian interrupts him softly. ”Let’s get you to bed. You need a nap.”
Xichen is too exhausted to do more than follow his lead, almost stumbling as Wei Wuxian guides him to sit on the bed, forces him to drink a cup of tepid tea, and tucks him in.
”Do you mind if I stay for a while?” Wei Wuxian asks softly. ”It’s just that I got this idea of a talisman and I’d like to write it down before I forget it.”
”Sure,” Xichen says and doesn’t comment on the redness of his eyes or the fact that his palm, warm and heavy, is still on Xichen’s shoulder, grounding him.
He falls asleep and doesn’t dream of anything.
When he slowly swims back to consciousness, the Hanshi is dim, but not silent. On the other side of the room, Wei Wuxian sits in a slump and ink smudged on his chin as he writes his notes and mutters quietly under his breath. Next to him, so close that their knees touch, is Wangji, playing his guqin. The soft notes blend with Wei Wuxian’s muttering and brush strokes, merging into a background noise that makes Xichen feel safe.
He wonders how he should feel about what happened. Ashamed? Embarrassed? Should he apologize to Sizhui and Jingyi and especially Wei Wuxian?
He doesn’t know.
The cat lets out a small, grumbling sound and wriggles a bit, settling back down with a small, contented-sounding sigh. Apparently, the crook of Xichen’s neck is her favorite place now.
He turns his head slightly to press his nose into her fur. She smells like grass and fish, and under her fur, her heart beats a fast rhythm, completely indifferent to whatever might be going on in Xichen’s mind. As is right.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Wangji lean to brush the ink from his husband’s cheek and when Wei Wuxian looks up with an absent-minded smile, he gives a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth.
Xichen averts his gaze and noses the cat’s fur, smiling at the way she presses the hint of a claw against his cheek. It’s her way of telling him she’s there but also a warning to not take too many liberties.
He still takes the liberty to kiss her fur. She graciously chooses to ignore his trespassing.
He doesn’t know what happens next. He doesn’t know when he’ll be ready to exit his seclusion or when he’ll feel less fragile, less bitter, less broken. But he knows he doesn’t have to bear the heartache and terrible sorrow alone.
For now, he closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep.