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#and i make sacrifices to be able to scroll through their beautiful friendship endlessly
introtae · 3 years
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i always open up my laptop with the intention of being productive but when i open chrome i blink and end up scrolling through vhope pictures for two hours instead
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grapefruitsketches · 4 years
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Chapter 6, Bliss (Day 28)
Part of my Songxiao post-canon fix-it fic series, started under the Untamed Spring Fest 2020 event:
Please see the reblogged version of this under the my-writing and songxiao-fix-it-series tags on my blog - soon to be a pinned post once I figure that out - for links to previous chapters/the Ao3 version!
3,302 words
Chapter 6: Life on the mountain now seemed more like a story he knew rather than a memory he had lived.
Wei Wuxian sometimes referred to his post-revival life as a second life. Xiao Xingchen had found himself thinking in those terms too, even though he placed the division between his first and second life earlier than might have been expected.
Placing the end of his first life at the moment his body stopped breathing, or starting his second life when it started again in Cloud Recesses, was unfair, too convenient. His years in the spirit pouch had not been what made him who he was now, nor had it been his reawakening to a community of strangers, thrust into a family like a newborn. These were certainly important experiences in this second life, but the formative years began before all that, sometime after he had met a cheerful young pickpocket, and before he had turned Shuanghua’s blade on himself. Sometime between those two points, his first life had ended, and this life had begun. The Xiao Xingchen he remembered, that this new family admired, that Zichen loved? That Xiao Xingchen had died. And he was now living as whatever had been reborn his place, wondering how long he could keep pretending nothing had changed before the others realized that he was an imposter. For unlike the first Xiao Xingchen, he had not been raised in a place of immortality, but rather a place known best for death.
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Life on the mountain now seemed more like a story he knew rather than a memory he had lived. He knew it had been a peaceful time. It had been a life full of hard work and involved a tough training regiment, to be sure, but it was consistent, predictable. Xingchen knew what would happen each day, and recognized each face he saw. Xingchen liked the routine, woke each morning knowing what to expect, and went to bed comfortable that his expectations had been met. He had existed mostly at a distance from his fellow disciples, friendly, but never close. He supposed some would have called him a friend, but the word always seemed too intimate for the simple casual conversations, shared chores, and sparring practices that had defined most of his interactions with fellow disciples. Baoshan Sanren ensured she had frequent one-on-one discussions with each of her disciples, and Xingchen supposed that these progress checks meant he had shared more about himself to Baoshan Sanren than he had revealed to anyone else, but she was their immortal sect leader, not to mention the closest thing most of the disciples had to a parent. He had no doubt that she cared about him, but their relationship could hardly have been described as friendship. He tried to avoid burdening her with any of his struggles, knowing she had so many other disciples to deal with, but still, he would go to her if there was ever anything too big for him to deal with alone. Meanwhile, she certainly had never shared her innermost thoughts or biggest troubles with him.
Baoshan Sanren sometimes asked if he felt lonely, but he always shook his head, smiling. He spent a lot of time alone, but loneliness had never seemed to be much of a problem for him. Baoshan Sanren nodded approvingly each time. She spoke often about the dangers of investing one’s self too much with others, that one could control oneself, but couldn’t control the actions of others. That getting involved could affect your judgment. Xingchen sometimes felt guilty in accepting her approval. He privately harboured certain romantic ideas about companionship, ones that ran counter to these teachings. He was endlessly intrigued by the kind of companionship he learned about in the history books and stories he read at night. He liked his disciple siblings well enough, and certainly cared about them, but he never felt any deeper resonance that would draw him closer to one or another. So keeping himself at a distance had never been a problem. But reading about intimate understandings between two people, bonds that led them to do extraordinary things, to dedicate or sacrifice themselves to greater deeds than either could have accomplished alone, he could not help but feel a sense of longing. He read of soulmates, of people inevitably drawn to each other’s sides, whose fates were so intricately linked that the history of one could not be told without including the other’s. These stories seemed fantastical to him, though, and so he was able to set them aside, filing them away with other childish dreams about impossible things. 
He noticed, as he grew older, that some disciples spoke almost as though they had experienced such a connection. Baoshan Sanren never disapproved, and never contradicted these assertions, she merely cautioned and advised. But Xingchen privately wondered if these disciples truly felt something so extraordinary as what they and his books described, or if this was merely wishful thinking, hyperbole inspired by the very same stories that called to him. Or perhaps, he thought, somewhat more grimly, that closeness was meant for other people, but not for him. He supposed he was ok with that. Perhaps he was meant to always stay on friendly, not intimate, terms with those around him. It made it easier to focus on his cultivation, and that was something he thought could truly help him ease, even if in a small way, the troubles of the world outside the mountain one day. He did not need a partner to help him achieve these goals, even if he believed it would be nice to share a union like that with another.
When he had left the mountain, he was scared. He knew that Baoshan Sanren wanted him to stay – to continue to cultivate towards immortality in her way. She had never been shy in expressing her feelings on such matters. He remembered how she spoke of the corrupting influences of politics, of power, of methods of cultivation that drew even the strongest and most righteous to their downfall. He had overheard her after she had received news of Cangse Sanren’s death, had quietly beckoned younger disciples away from her chambers so they wouldn’t hear. But he had heard her mournful wails, could never forget them. They had lasted precisely twelve hours before she had emerged, looking as though nothing had happened, not a puffy face or red eye in sight, and had simply asked him how his poetry recitation was faring.
So of course he had been scared. Scared that if he made the wrong move, he would be the cause of more grief, canceling out his efforts to only be a help, not a hindrance, to his master. But the very dangers and struggles of the outside that Baoshan Sanren warned of were precisely what drew him away from the safety of his home. He wanted to share her teachings with the world, to pass them on to anyone who wanted to hear them, and if not, to otherwise help however he could. So when he was confident enough in his values, he decided it was time to leave. He was painfully aware of how few disciples had left the mountain, of how little the outside world knew of his sect leader, and of how much awe what little they did know of her inspired. As long as he could keep himself from the corruption she so feared, as long as he lived by her principles, ensuring that the corruption she spoke of could not reach her through him, he could only hope to avoid bringing her shame, and, if he worked hard, perhaps he could bring her pride. Maybe he could show her that there was less to fear than she seemed to believe.
The fear was overwhelmed by his determination and excitement. Based on the maps he had perused, on the histories he had studied, his sect, his whole world, was smaller than some of the wealthier residences. And multiple such residences could exist within one city. There would be so many people out there. So much space. So much to see, to learn. So many ways he could help. He felt like the hero at the beginning of the tales that would be shared over dinner, or recorded in old scrolls – not knowing what adventures lay before him, but knowing that there must be some where he was going. He didn’t deign to consider himself a hero, of course, but hoped that in the vastness of the world he would newly adopt as his own, he could find a way that he could make some small difference.
Baoshan Sanren’s last words to him as he departed would echo often in his mind throughout his first life: I believe in you, but not in the world you are leaving us for. The words at first made him wary, jumping at every unfamiliar rustle, reaching for his sword as he turned every blind corner. But eventually, he would be both amused and saddened by her fears. The world he encountered throughout his travels was strange and imposing in its vastness, but always beautiful.
Unfortunately, it would only be in his second life, when he was reborn in the very world she mistrusted, that her words truly made sense.
And so, Shuanghua slung onto his back, he left the mountain. He wandered. He did make a difference in the lives of individuals. He was easily able to find little problems he could fix, troubled spirits to heal or violent ghosts to disperse. It crossed his mind as he did so that he had not run into any of the cultivators he understood to be populating this world. He found it odd, but assumed that it must be because this world was so unimaginably large that he would be very lucky indeed to run into another cultivator. Perhaps they had not heard about all these struggles faced by the people he helped. Or worse, perhaps this world had so many troubles that the various sects were too overwhelmed to address even a small portion of them.
Zichen had laughed when Xingchen had first wondered this aloud to him. Xingchen could only laugh along, happy to have inspired the affectionate burst of laughter from his newfound travelling companion, but not yet getting the joke.
Zichen.
It had been the night of his first meeting with Zichen when he had realized, with a shock, that conversation with Zichen flowed more easily than any he had had before. Zichen, unlike some of the nobility Xingchen had encountered so far, didn’t seem annoyed by Xingchen’s blunt style of speech, or his inattention or ignorance to courtesies that hadn’t existed on the mountain. He, in fact, remarked on Xingchen’s politeness, his kindness, on how rare it was to run into another cultivator also working in these small villages. He had been intrigued to hear Xingchen’s philosophies, ideas Xingchen had grown up believing commonplace. Xingchen, in turn, had been fascinated to hear about Zichen’s travels, the differences between Zichen’s childhood and his own. They had talked for hours on their first meeting, and Xingchen could only blink in surprise when Zichen softly suggested they each return to their respective inn rooms. Xingchen had not realized until then that it had gotten dark, or that the inn’s tea shop was nearly vacant.
It had seemed natural for the two of them to leave the small town together. They had both heard the same rumours from just one town over, and it did seem like a job better suited to two cultivators. Of course they should go together. They travelled in this way for months, Xingchen relieved each time Zichen just happened to be traveling the same way, or Xingchen was curious about the mysteries whispered of from one town over and Zichen offered to provide back up, just in case. After a while, Xingchen finally felt comfortable admitting to himself that their companionship was no longer incidental, convenient, and perhaps never had been. That they both had chose and were choosing to follow in each other’s paths. Slowly, he began to understand that perhaps this, was what being truly close to someone felt like. Instinctual, unquestioning trust. Mutual respect and knowledge that if one ever needed assistance, the other would be there. A desire for companionship that trumped any question of purpose or convenience in remaining side by side.
He had been surprised the first time they had been recognized in a town they had never visited before. Especially surprised, given how recently he had himself had realized this, that the two had been recognized as a pair. (Shuanghua?? Fuxue?? The other inn guest had remarked reverently to his companion, who had turned and gasped, Could it be… the Gentle Breeze and the Cold Frost??) But Xingchen had simply smiled at the two guests and affirmed their assumptions, introducing himself and Zichen and inviting them for a drink if they would like. Zichen had seemed amused, and Xingchen understood that this meant that this was another thing that was Not Usually Done, but the excitement and gratitude with which the other guests had accepted his invitation made it worth it. Still, Xingchen as always made sure not to ever leave Zichen alone with even friendly strangers, knowing that Zichen’s amusement and admiration of Xingchen’s quirks would be strained if they led to any need for Zichen to make small talk.
And so they moved through the world together. Meeting Zichen’s friends and family at Baixue Temple. Meeting the occasional cultivators, some even seeming to share their ideals, an occurrence which Xingchen was increasingly understanding the rarity of. He remembered the night when he and Zichen had quietly, excitedly, first whispered ideas about the sect they would build together one day. The slow journey to letting himself admit to himself that the love he felt for Zichen was different from what he felt for other friends he had made. The even slower, sometimes painful, but ultimately joyful realization that Zichen held this same distinction for him. These moments were the ones he reflected on when he reminisced about this first life.  Sometimes the teasing laughter of a young girl pretending to be more blind than she was entered his memories, but memories of her were far too close to… It was dangerous to think on her for too long. Dwelling on those memories for too long inevitably lead to memories surrounding events that had ended this first, idyllic life.  
There had of course been moments, even before the very end, of his first life that were not happy. But he could not regret those. After he had separated from Zichen, there was not a moment that he didn’t miss the easy companionship in the day, the warm presence in their bed at night, the constancy and understanding and trust that had marked their years together. But if Zichen did not want him by his side, Xingchen could make sure to be anywhere else in this world, unable to make things right but able to avoid further damage. He always smiled as he readjusted the bandages on his face, knowing that it meant that Zichen would not have to do the same. He learned to navigate by touch, by sound, by smell, to appreciate these senses that he had previously taken for granted. It was like he was entering a new world yet again, and there was a certain excitement to this new experience too. There was always a slight twinge in his chest when he remembered his last moments of sight. Baoshan Sanren’s face looking discomposed, tearful. She had not looked angry or disapproving, just deeply mournful. It was the first time he had seen her looking anything short of noble, regal and would be the last time he would ever see her at all. She seemed resigned to his decision, apparently understanding well that nothing she could say to change his mind.
But his last moments of sight had also included Zichen lying prone in front of him, unconscious, waking only in short bursts of pained delirium. And if Baoshan Sanren’s expression had inspired any second thoughts at all, Zichen’s feverish cries for help, cries for the pain to stop, cries for his Shifu, had quashed such thoughts in short order.
These moments in his first life had been unfortunate, of course. Xingchen wished they hadn’t had to happen, but given the events preceding these decisions, he couldn’t contemplate a world where he didn’t repeat the same decisions every time.
This was Zichen. And it had been in Xingchen’s name that he had suffered.
I could do just one. Baoshan Sanren had whispered, hesitantly hopeful, He would regain his sight and you would not have to lose yours.
No. Xingchen had said resolutely, looking into the empty places where Zichen’s eyes should be, My whole sight is the least I can give up, his whole sight is the least I can give back, after what he’s lost for me.
Baoshan Sanren had, on his request, sedated Zichen before sedating him, and Xingchen had gently moved Zichen’s eyelids to cover the place where Xingchen’s eyes would live from now on. The lids sagged a bit unnaturally without the support of eyes behind them, but ignoring the small indiscrepency, Xingchen was able to smile. The last thing he ever saw was a Zichen who seemed to be peacefully slumbering. And for Xingchen, as Baoshan Sanren skillfully administered the needles to sedate him as well, it was the most beautiful final image he could hope for.
His first life had continued for some time, devoid of a specific purpose, and he had admittedly foolishly hoped to hear an affectionate “Xingchen!” call after him as he moved along a lonely path, or traveled through a remote village. But at some point, even this imitation of peaceful wandering had ended. And shortly after, so had his first life. He was not sure when, but he knew how. He could not accept that a child raised as Baoshan Sanren’s disciple, a man meant to defend her principles, a representative among so few of what ideals his master had shared, could have performed the acts he learned had been done by Shuanghua, by his hand. So the Xiao Xingchen who had benefited from the kindnesses and the privileges of a childhood on Baoshan Sanren’s mountain must have died the moment such actions were taken. The subsequent physical death was only the natural and merciful confirmation that this Xiao Xingchen was long gone.
And so his second life had begun, with violence.
And now, lying as he was now next to Zichen once again, nestled cozily in bed in a farmhouse owned by a pair he had crossed paths with only once in his first life, he realized how naïve he had been. How could he have believed that the eleven years he had spent slowly reassembling himself, the months of physical recovery and readapting the world he had worked through, that these insignificant trials supported by uncountable luxuries could have possibly mitigate his abhorrent beginning? Now that he could walk, could smile, could help tend to a garden, now that a rhythm had established itself in his second life, he even dared to remember moments of his first life, moments he didn’t regret. When they were alone in their room at night, he would brush a hand over Zichen’s face, over his closed eyes, feeling the resistance offered by eyes that had once been his, and would smile. But he still had to work to maintain his smile when he let his hands travel down to Zichen’s lips, aware of the space behind them. Further evidence of the things Zichen had given up, had lost, and that Xingchen had taken, in his second and current life.
Things he could never repay.
Next: Chapter 7, Stream: Xiao Xingchen has some long needed one-on-one treatment sessions with Wen Ning, where Wen Ning will try to get Xingchen to talk about his experiences back in Yi City.
Also: I’m sure many of you have forgotten about this fic since it’s been so long! But I’m happy to report that part of fixing the issues I was having with this chapter was fully finishing and editing the remaining 2 chapters as well, which I will post this Wednesday and Friday! We’re in the home stretch <3
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