[ It's a night of phantoms. Jiang Cheng arrives at the brothel dazed, robes a mess but at least his personal effects returned to him. Sandu on his hip, Zidian on his hand. By now exhaustion is setting in, and all he is looking for in this exact moment is a place to rest his head. Not answers, not familiar faces, nothing. He just wants to rest.
Hearing someone playing the choice instrument of his least favorite person sours his mood further immediately, though at least he doesn't think that will literally be Lan Wangji when he turns the corner as Lan Wangji appears deathly allergic to being sociable in any way and playing for a room full of people for entertainment definitely falls under that category.
So. He'll just walk in, walk past and see about—
That face.
Jiang Cheng stops dead in his tracks, Zidian crackling on his hand in answer to that immediate flush of anger, of cold, disbelieving fury.
But it can't be. The body language is wrong, and no matter how unpalatably close Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji grew, Wei Wuxian's instrument of choice remained the flute. It's a horrible coincidence, or—
...or Jiang Cheng just doesn't remember Wei Wuxian's face as well as he thinks he does anymore, after all these years chasing rumors and ghosts.
All their faces are going away, their voices, the smell of their clothes.
Every day, Jiang Cheng loses them a little more.
He stands there staring, unable to move.
Finally, he clears his throat a little, grip on Zidian white-knuckled. ]
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Hearing someone playing the choice instrument of his least favorite person sours his mood further immediately, though at least he doesn't think that will literally be Lan Wangji when he turns the corner as Lan Wangji appears deathly allergic to being sociable in any way and playing for a room full of people for entertainment definitely falls under that category.
So. He'll just walk in, walk past and see about—
That face.
Jiang Cheng stops dead in his tracks, Zidian crackling on his hand in answer to that immediate flush of anger, of cold, disbelieving fury.
But it can't be. The body language is wrong, and no matter how unpalatably close Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji grew, Wei Wuxian's instrument of choice remained the flute. It's a horrible coincidence, or—
...or Jiang Cheng just doesn't remember Wei Wuxian's face as well as he thinks he does anymore, after all these years chasing rumors and ghosts.
All their faces are going away, their voices, the smell of their clothes.
Every day, Jiang Cheng loses them a little more.
He stands there staring, unable to move.
Finally, he clears his throat a little, grip on Zidian white-knuckled. ]
...excuse me. Have we met?