Work Text:
《上午》
The day is strange.
When Wei Wuxian wakes, his husband is still there, nestled snugly against him—an appreciated moment: legs still entangled, a strong arm draped around his waist, the pleasing scent of sandalwood drifting in the confines of the space between them, and the tickle of deep steady breaths by his ear. It isn’t completely unusual, but it is a clear deviation from the routine that the Gusu Lan sect has ingrained among its disciples—to rise early on the fifth hour of the day and to rest by the ninth hour of the evening. Given how clearly the winter morning light has been streaming through their room, bright and unfiltered, it is more than obvious that at least four hours have elapsed since the official start of the sect’s daily activities. Not that Wei Wuxian minds; he would never, especially not when he can savor a husband.
Perhaps there lies the problem.
For a brief minute, Wei Wuxian wonders if he should take responsibility. This is clearly his own terrible influence at work—Hanguang-Jun would have never allowed himself the luxury of a spontaneous sleeping schedule before him; thus, with silent laughter bubbling through, Wei Wuxian smiles and turns around to face his lover.
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian begins, intending to wake the other. But Lan Wangji is already awake, his golden gaze steady and watchful, as it always is. Delighted, Wei Wuxian unashamedly basks in this attention, burying his head into Lan Wangji’s chest. The embrace that he finds himself in tightens; and after another quiet, savored moment, he looks up.
“Lan Zhan. Lan Er-Gege, ” Wei Wuxian says smilingly. “Have I corrupted you this much already? Are you not visiting Zewu-Jun this morning?”
“No,” Lan Wangji says, his manner short and perfunct; but Wei Wuxian already knows to look for the softness in his eyes. It is easy to find. “Not this morning.”
“Oh?” Wei Wuxian says, raising a brow. He pulls back a little, moving to rest on his side, an arm lazily tucked underneath his head. “Do I have Lan Zhan’s time then?” he asks teasingly, lifting playful fingers to Lan Wangji’s cheek.
“Always,” Lan Wangji says, the response immediate on his tongue, natural and free. In the face of such sincerity, a sudden warmth rushes to Wei Wuxian’s cheeks.
After all, Lan Wangji will never deny Wei Wuxian anything. Wei Wuxian knows that all he needs to do is ask. It is an easy dynamic that he himself tries to return. Only, Lan Wangji is more silent about his requests, mostly left unsaid if there are any at all. But this is of no consequence. Although he still isn’t as adept at reading Lan Wangji as Lan Xichen is, he has been learning to pay attention. Everything else will come with a little more time, which is, fortunately, no longer in short supply for them—already, Wei Wuxian has determinedly categorized all the slightest ways with which Lan Wangji’s brow furrows and the mild manner with which he laughs and the curious light in his eyes whenever Wei Wuxian drags him to whatever treat that’s caught his fancy for the minute.
This morning, Wei Wuxian observes that there is a strangeness in the gravity of his husband’s gaze, heavy and insistent; it holds him steady, stays his tongue. When Wei Wuxian’s touch wanders too closely to the other’s lips, Lan Wangji catches the offending hand, lays soft lingering kisses on each knuckle so tenderly that it makes Wei Wuxian’s heart ache.
Lan Zhan?
“I think I like you very much,” Wei Wuxian says earnestly, wanting to chase away the shadows that dare haunt the formidable Hanguang-Jun.
“En,” Lan Wangji says dutifully, Wei Wuxian’s hand still held firmly in his grasp. He doesn’t seem as if he intends on releasing it anytime soon. “Like you, too.”
“I like you very, very much,” Wei Wuxian repeats, his volume steadily increasing with enthusiasm. “You cannot guess how much! It cannot be measured, not even if I kiss you a thousand—no, a million times. My love for you cannot be counted!” he says, emphasizes this by staring deeply into the other man’s eyes. “Do you understand, Lan Zhan?”
With an amused huff, Lan Wangji presses gentle lips to his forehead; and shakily, Wei Wuxian releases a deep sigh, melting. “You’re not fair at all,” he whines. “You don’t say a single word, and I’m already like this. Do you know what you’re doing to me? My heart is beating so fast right now. Lan Zhan, you’re making me sick. You’re making me lovesick."
“I will take responsibility.”
“You better!” Then Wei Wuxian pauses, asks a question he already knows the answer to. “And your heart?”
“Also fast.”
“Then I will take responsibility too!”
“Good.”
Wei Wuxian takes the initiative, leaning over the other’s prone figure until their lips are but nothing but a breath apart. His hair falls like a curtain around the space of them, and the morning which they have spent confined in the jingshi narrows itself even further, until the world exists only of each other. Lan Wangji stares back at him, fond and waiting; as always, he adjusts to every whim that Wei Wuxian indulges in. “Kiss me,” Wei Wuxian says, the demand barely louder than a murmur.
So Lan Wangji obliges, flipping them over, the tiniest of quirks turning his lips when Wei Wuxian laughs, loud and soon after ticklish when Lan Wangji insists on leaving butterfly kisses across his cheeks, down his jaw, to the pale column of his neck, languidly—there is no defined path; this is pure adoration.
It is in this manner that the morning passes. The sun has already risen so high in the sky, but Lan Wangji is still in bed. Wei Wuxian observes this with a protectiveness that is not quite worry so much as it is trust. Between the two of them, there are some words that do not need to be spoken. When Lan Wangji is ready to tell him, Wei Wuxian will listen. And whatever Wei Wuxian says, Lan Wangji will listen. The sun can rise as high as it wants. The shadows it may cast will not come between again.
All that exists in the space of their world is what they allow:
“You are so soft today,” Wei Wuxian teases.
In retaliation, Lan Wangji bites down on his shoulder.
Wei Wuxian smacks him immediately. “Ah! No, Lan Zhan. I take it back! You aren’t a dog. Stop biting! Stop biting ,” Wei Wuxian whines, trying but failing to pull away.
“You said I was being soft,” Lan Wangji points out, the solemnity of his voice doing nothing to hide the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.
“Yes! Lan Zhan, look at how delicate this body is. Soft is good. Be gentle to it. Treasure your Wei Ying!”
“Mm,” Lan Wangji agrees easily. “Wei Ying is treasured.”
“So is Lan Zhan! Very much!” says Wei Wuxian, with a whimsical tilt to his head. “So very much,” he repeats, and although his tone remains bright, the air settles into a comfortable stillness between them, affection bleeding until it paints the picture of this memory dear, time rendered patient and enduring.
《中午》
The bowl of stew that Lan Wangji settles before him is warm to the touch, steam fragrantly rising from its freshly cooked contents. They are red, spice-laden, and perfectly catered to his tastes. Wei Wuxian does not believe in the power of coincidence, so when he lifts a spoon of it to his mouth, he makes sure to express his appreciation for Lan Wangji’s efforts, a softly turned smile playing on his lips.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian begins, meeting the watchful gaze of the man seated across him. “You knew even during that time in Yiling, didn’t you?”
“Mm.”
Shaking his head in fond exasperation, Wei Wuxian laughs and gulps down another spoonful. There is a lingering warmth in his chest that exists distinctly from the heat brought by their brunch. “As expected, Hanguang-Jun was observant even then. And you made me believe that you liked spicy food too.”
Lan Wangji corrects him, “Still like.”
“The last time you tried my cooking, your ears turned so red. You didn’t even ‘en’ me for almost five minutes! Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Even Jingyi mentioned that you—”
“Do not talk while eating,” Lan Wangji lightly reprimands. Picking his chopsticks up, he takes a piece of wilted spinach and lays it on Wei Wuxian’s rice bowl. Wei Wuxian summarily ignores it for another serving of spicy meat, only to watch as the other man picks up the vegetable again, lifting it up to Wei Wuxian’s mouth.
In some sort of amused disbelief, Wei Wuxian releases a startled laugh. “Lan Zhan, I’m not a child.”
Still, Lan Wangji’s hand remains steady. “Eat,” he insists.
“You don’t have to feed me,” Wei Wuxian protests half-heartedly.
“Wei Ying.”
“Alright, alright,” concedes Wei Wuxian, taking the proffered vegetable and obediently falling into silence at the warning narrowing of a gaze that Lan Wangji sends him. As a peace offering, Wei Wuxian returns the favor, using his own chopsticks to feed his husband a reddened piece of meat. It is only after Lan Wangji swallows that the conversation continues. “You know, the juniors have been planning a night hunt for this evening. Should we accompany them, Hanguang-Jun?”
“They will not be expecting us.”
Wei Wuxian’s brow arches up in surprise. “Ah? But I’ve been with them the past few evenings. Why not?”
A pause, contemplative and perhaps curiously solemn. (Recall that the day has been strange.)
“Lan Zhan?”
“Mm,” Lan Wangji hums, raising another piece of spinach to Wei Wuxian’s mouth. Wei Wuxian takes it, patiently allowing his husband to gather his thoughts. “Today is important.”
Wei Wuxian blinks, slowly swallowing his food. “Is it?” Wei Wuxian asks, frowning. “I haven’t forgotten something again, have I?” he continues, rubbing fingers against his nose. “Er-Gege, I’m sure we still have a few more days before your birthday—my memory isn’t that bad!”
“Not my birthday.”
“Hmm… What else then? Sizhui? Are the children using the night hunt to celebrate Sizhui’s birthday? It’s a bit earlier than yours, yes? Lan Zhan?”
Suddenly, as if overcome by a tremendous amount of emotion, Lan Wangji releases a loud exhale. Wei Wuxian startles. He watches as Lan Wangji deliberately sets the chopsticks he’s been holding down onto the table, as Lan Wangji reaches for Wei Wuxian’s own hands, using calloused fingers to trace the lifelines on his palms, looking deeply as if he’s trying to discern what ominous plans the future has in store for them both.
The morning has been strange, and Wei Wuxian still does not know why. Today, Lan Wangji’s touch has been constant; and while that has never been and will never be a bother to Wei Wuxian, there is a repetitiveness in the reaching of his fingers and the stroking of his palm, as if seeking for a surety—a reminder. “Wei Ying is safe,” Lan Wangji says softly, and though it is said mostly to himself, Wei Wuxian gives him a response anyway:
“Yes, Wei Ying is safe.”
Lan Wangji nods, glancing up to him with sincere eyes. “It is all I have ever wanted.”
It is during times like these when Wei Wuxian wonders how he could have ever mistaken Lan Wangji’s affection for derision; and how, in a previous life, he had found the arrogance to ignore Lan Wangji’s pleas: Return to Gusu with me. It is not to condemn you! (I love you. Please let me help you.) Wei Wuxian had paid dearly for the price of his refusal. Had he listened, he might have had this earlier—this sureness, the tender contentment that he now faces when he wakes to see the day, free from the heavy fear that had once constantly plagued his mind. He might have not even died, nor might have he lost the people he had sworn to protect—and the ones that he had never meant to betray.
He should have known that Lan Wangji would have never wished for otherwise. (But ask: How could he have? There was no time to learn. There was no time to—) The night before they had wed, Wei Wuxian once laughingly asked if he had any more wishes, any daring task that Wei Wuxian could fulfill for his favor, but Lan Wangji had simply gathered him into his arms and answered: “All I want is for Wei Ying to be happy.”
Happiness was sparse during the aftermath of the Sunshot Campaign, but it was not non-existent. And when it shone, it had done so brilliantly. In his mind’s eye, Wei Wuxian could see the tightness with which little A-Yuan had gripped his leg; the radiance of his shijie in her wedding garments, accompanied by the fond exasperation of their mutual brother; the second family that had gathered before him in a home they had made amongst ruins, raising drinks for an honor he barely deserved. The choices that Wei Wuxian had made then were precious in their own right; and even with the growing shadows under his eyes and the gauntness of his face, the light in his most genuine smiles could not have been diminished. Perhaps this is why, despite the grief and troubles that he had suffered, Lan Wangji had let him go, over and over until the choice to hold on was no longer an option.
Perhaps Lan Zhan trusted him enough to find the strength to be happy.
Let it be said that this is not regret. This is not anguish. This is not fear. It is a memory—the remnants of thirteen years of grief etched deeply into Lan Wangji’s heart. Wei Wuxian knows that a part of Lan Wangji mourns for him still. After all, it is difficult to forget loss; and none can be so certain of this truth as Wei Wuxian is, having himself been a victim of and the harbinger of death. This is why there are things that he can never forgive himself for.
But, Wei Wuxian reminds himself, self-deprecatingly, this is not about you.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian begins, calm and gentle, “how can I help you?”
Lan Wangji stares at him, shaking his head. Despite the attempt at comfort, the words only seem to depress Lan Wangji even further. “You…”
“Me?”
“You do not think of yourself,” Lan Wangji says, closing his eyes.
Don’t I? Wei Wuxian thinks to himself wryly, laughing uneasily as he tries to brush off this unwarranted observation. “Silly Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, chagrined. “You think of me more than enough for the both of us.”
A sigh. “Wei Ying.”
He shuts his mouth.
“Lan Sizhui…” Lan Wangji begins, then shakes his head before correcting himself. “A-Yuan’s birthday is the day I found him,” he continues quietly.
Wei Wuxian blinks. Lan Yuan’s birthday is still a few days away, so today is—Oh . What goes unsaid echoes loud and clear, the mystery of the morning finally unfurling itself to reveal the truth of a time in which nothing and everything had mattered. Ah, what a truly strange day this is, Wei Wuxian thinks distantly. Today is the day I died.
Coughing awkwardly at the realization, Wei Wuxian softens his gaze. “Lan Zhan,” he starts, voice warm and tender. I am sorry, he wants to say. For those thirteen years. For the time they have wasted, falling apart from tragedies beyond their control. But there should be no apologies between them—no need for words of gratitude or pleas for forgiveness. They have bowed thrice before the heavens and accepted themselves as how they are, embracing each other’s flaws and enhancing the other in the way only two (im)perfect halves of a pair can.
All this time, Lan Wangji has held Wei Wuxian’s hands in a manner so entirely steadfast, strong and unwavering; a manifestation of loyalty that has transcended lifetimes. Wei Wuxian returns the tightness of his grasp, meets him where he is. “Lan Zhan, I’m here.”
Carefully, Wei Wuxian brings their hands closer, gently uncurling fingers until they can rest flat against his chest. Once, in a drunken stupor, Lan Wangji had made himself vulnerable to him, had let Wei Wuxian see the feelings burning bright inside him. Listen to the heartbeats, Lan Wangji had said then. In the same way, Wei Wuxian wants him to understand. He lets Lan Wangji feel, surely, the newfound strength of his developing golden core, the telltale hummingbird beats of his heart.
Finally, Lan Wangji exhales, and the softest tremors in his voice betray him, “I know.”
《下午： 第一章》
It feels too personal somehow: to ask what exactly your husband does—had done—on the anniversary of your death. There is a gap filled with too many empty memories overflowing. Wei Wuxian wonders if this is a chasm that needs to be crossed, whether grief is something that needs to be brought in again when they have just barely managed this fragile sense of contentment and normality. He contemplates, skirts around the question while they eat the remains of their meal in an uncharacteristic yet not quite uncomfortable quietness.
When they finish, Lan Wangji stands and sets the trays down in the outer room of the jingshi to be later picked up by an assigned disciple. In the meantime, Wei Wuxian busies himself with bittersweet nostalgia, sinking himself deep into a remembrance of times prior to his downfall—before the unexpected tragedy of Jin Zixuan’s death; or perhaps even, before the Sunshot Campaign, when all was still bright and the worst issue that he and Lan Wangji had between them was the disguised pornography mischievously tucked into the false pages of some Buddhist text during an afternoon stay in the Gusu Lan sect’s library.
And then Lan Wangji returns with a slight frown, one that Wei Wuxian is now able to read as apprehension. “Wei Ying,” he calls, offering his hand.
Wei Wuxian takes it, feels the steady warmth of it as he silently follows Lan Wangji to wherever it is that the other wants to take him to—not that they go far. Lan Wangji takes him to the back of the jingshi and opens a cabinet; and there lays an assortment of nonsensical memorabilia: a tattered red ribbon, a box of carefully pressed flowers, library scrawls filled with careless but artistic brushwork of the fields, and a sweet jar of Emperor’s Smile. A small earthen pot of dirt where prayers are lit rests on the corner.
Wei Wuxian stares numbly at the sight, feels himself choke over the sudden lump in his throat. “I-is this an altar? For me?” In those thirteen years when he was gone, he was sure he had never thought to listen to those calling out to him, convinced that the world of the living had wanted nothing to do with him, except to curse his soul into oblivion. But this is—this is… With an almost alarming sense of desperation, he continues, “Did you light me incense, Lan Zhan? Lan Zhan. ”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, and the truth of it resounds throughout the room.
Wei Wuxian cannot help the strangled whine that leaves him. “I… Thirteen years, you really mourned me? You paid respects to me?”
“Yes.”
Wei Wuxian lifts a hand, runs a hesitant finger over the ribbon. “Where did you get this?”
“Xuanwu.”
“When we fought the xuanwu?”
“Mm.”
“You stole my ribbon?” Wei Wuxian asks quietly, the incredulous note in his voice made soft.
“It fell off my leg. You would not stop moving,” Lan Wangji says.
Wei Wuxian falls silent for a moment. “I remember that. Your hand on my head. It wasn’t a dream, then?”
A long exhale. “No.”
Blinking back the wetness in his eyes, he takes a moment to compose himself, letting out a blinding grin. “Lan Zhan. Good Lan Zhan. How cruel you were to lie to me!”
“Not good,” Lan Wangji refutes, ignoring the last bit.
“Very good! You are so good to me, Lan Er-Gege!”
“Not good,” Lan Wangji insists. “I did not burn the money,” he confesses, appearing as if he was extremely troubled by the oversight.
“What?” Wei Wuxian croaks, watching as Lan Wangji reaches into his robes to pull out a thick wad of red and gold paper. Wei Wuxian stares at it blankly for a second before he remembers: the disciples mourning A-Qing in Yi City, himself reprimanding them to stop burning paper money in front of someone’s residence, only for them to unknowingly accuse him of having no mourners.
“The money,” Lan Wangji says, almost helplessly, lips quirking when he makes Wei Wuxian laugh with enough force to leave him bending over, the tears he had held back finally escaping, streaming down his face. Lan Wangji holds him upright and tenderly thumbs away the salt on his cheeks.
“Why do you have that?!” Wei Wuxian exclaims, voice hoarse as he howls in apparent disbelief. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, I’m alive. You can’t burn me any now!”
“We will burn them because you are alive.”
The last traces of mirth have yet to leave him, the corners of his lips still fondly raised. Wei Wuxian looks up at the man who holds his heart, who had waited for it for a very long time, steadfast in unrelenting devotion. “What a waste of a fortune,” he reprimands gently. “Do not mourn the living, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji shakes his head. “No, not for you.”
Understanding lights Wei Wuxian’s already reddened eyes. They grow brighter. “For Mo Xuanyu.”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, nodding. “Mo Xuanyu for reviving you.” He wraps an arm around Wei Wuxian’s waist, brings him even closer. “And for Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan for raising you. Jiang Yanli for caring for you.”
Wei Wuxian stills, closing his eyes as he leans forward and buries his face against his husband’s chest. He feels the comforting sensation of a hand gently carding through his hair.
“Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze for bearing you.”
Wrapping his arms around Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian embraces him as tight as he can manage. These are the people who have brought him here. Here, to his present self, where Lan Zhan is, in the place where he once so resolutely tried to avoid for fear of judgment and renouncement. (Oh, how foolish he was.)
“For your parents as well,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, glancing up.
Lan Wangji says nothing, but the brightness of his eyes is more than telling. Wei Wuxian thinks of the scars on Lan Wangji’s back, of how this man had once been a six-year old boy made to wait for a mother who would never again answer her door. (Stubborn, stubborn man.)
Again, Wei Wuxian thinks of how much they have lost, and he thinks of how much they have gained. And then there are all these things that fall in between that are neither so good nor so bad but have nonetheless brought them to this present where they are. Some moments aren’t quite as bright as the others—there is a shidi, who only half-forgives him, and a nephew who he has orphaned. Lan Wangji, too, has a brother who grieves. But they are here, holding each other together.
(Consider this: Perhaps the strangeness of the day is not so much strangeness as it is the beginning of an acceptance that perhaps things are finally falling into the places where they are meant to be.)
《下午：第二章》
In the midst of fading sniffles, Wei Wuxian seats them by Lan Wangji’s desk, picks up red and gold funerary paper, slowly but efficiently folding the sheets into ingots. Watching him, Lan Wangji steps away to quickly retrieve an earthen pot, before he, too, joins in creating offerings of wealth for the dead. (Remember: love and loyalty transcend lifetimes.) The minutes pass, and then the hour goes.
(Patience is key.)
Wei Wuxian gathers the paper ingots into the bowl, setting it down onto the table, thinks of the time waited by their deceased family—and of the time he has spent adrift. He knows that Lan Wangji had waited for a very long time: perhaps for the manifestation of a will or for the fulfilment of an ideal that Wei Wuxian had died for. For whatever the reason, Wei Wuxian is grateful for the patience—for the respect, the acknowledgment of Wei Wuxian’s dignity as a human person; that which the world had stripped of when they branded him a demon. The stark difference between the world and Lan Wangji is the knowledge that, given the ability to make his own choices, Wei Wuxian would have never agreed to sacrifice a soul for the sake of his own, not even for the possibility of this present future, where he is so unconditionally loved.
Lan Zhan knows his heart.
“Did you believe that I would return?” Wei Wuxian says aloud, suddenly. It’s a question that doesn’t need to be asked, yet it is one he nonetheless voices. To put it simply, the lack of the need is not due to the notion that the answer would not matter, but it’s that Wei Wuxian already expects what Lan Wangji’s answer will be—and because Wei Wuxian is a glutton for all the affection his husband can give him, that answer is a gift that he is all so willing to receive.
Lan Wangji looks at him, presses a thumb down onto the slight furrow of Wei Wuxian’s brow, smoothening it to rid the afflicted expression. “Wei Ying is there when the children laugh,” Lan Wangji begins, and though he watches Wei Wuxian intently, there is an almost faraway expression on his face, “and he is there when they tease, and when they fight; when they stand for what they believe is good and just.”
Wei Wuxian ducks his head, unconsciously trying to hide the way Lan Wangji’s sincerity flusters him. “You think only the best of me...” he says, trails off when he recognizes that Lan Wangji has more to say.
“Wei Ying is there, in their will—-their hopes. This is something I will always protect and cherish,” continues Lan Wangji, firmly. This is an unchangeable truth.
A small benign smile stitches itself onto Wei Wuxian’s lips. “Hmm. Hanguang-Jun truly loves this husband very much,” Wei Wuxian says, almost teasingly, tapping against the other’s chest in silent rebuke. “But be objective, Lan Zhan. You say I am in their will, in their beliefs and morals; but you, of all people, are not blind to what I have done, to those whom I’ve killed. Hanguang-Jun’s judgment has always been reliable, so I’ll ask you now: What is good? What defines an action to be just? Is it intention? But outcome certainly is a factor, no matter what was supposed to happen. Am I right?”
“Mm.”
“So is it intention or outcome?”
“Responsibility,” Lan Wangji answers, then adds, “Circumstances complicate accountability. ”
Wei Wuxian’s smile stretches further. He knows what Lan Wangji means, of course. Whatever your intentions and whatever the outcome, what matters most is that one takes responsibility for one’s actions—one should see them through to the end and not leave the burden for others to shoulder. But there is also the matter of recognizing the extent to which one’s actions are to be held accountable. In regards to the events leading to his downfall, this is where their opinions differ. “Perspective, then. Is this patriarch really an ideal that your juniors should strive for?”
“You are asking me if I have ever doubted you,” Lan Wangji states, matter-of-factly. Wei Wuxian does not deny it—he would never question Lan Wangji’s love for him, but faith is another matter altogether. Even Wei Wuxian himself could not fully trust that he could safely walk on the path that he had chosen for the ones he loved. (A reminder: This is a day of unraveling.) If it had been any other person who had uttered the words, then it would have sounded accusing and bitter; however, Hanguang-Jun has always been the purest character that Wei Wuxian has ever known. There is nothing but the most genuine sincerity and devotion that Lan Wangji imparts when he speaks: “But in regards to your heart, I have always trusted you.”
An eye-crinkling grin.
“Did you believe that I would return?” Wei Wuxian asks again, looking down. His fingers have paused from their folding quite a while ago. When he checks what remains of the stack, he finds that there is nothing left. Excluding the sheets that he had been fiddling with, everything has already been folded by Lan Wangji.
“I believed that Wei Ying would be where he needed to be.”
Wei Wuxian chuckles. “That sounds more like Hanguang-Jun’s reputation more than this patriarch’s—to be wherever there is chaos,” he points out, pressing the edges of his last paper ingot before finally setting it down into the bowl in front of them.
An exhale. “I follow Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian lightly nudges his shoulder. “Ah, Lan Zhan! Why are you making fun of me? Maintain your pure reputation. Were you so used to keeping me in check that it became instinct to follow trouble?”
“Do not fool around,” Lan Wangji says in response, though the admonishment is only half-meant, his voice and actions indulgent and contrary to the words spoken aloud. He reaches for Wei Wuxian himself, cradles his face with gentle but calloused palms, kisses Wei Wuxian deeply enough for him to fall into a daze. “You have always given help to those who needed it. Your will—it is something that I protect.”
This is the answer. In the aftermath of death and destruction, Lan Wangji had picked up the pieces of his heart and sealed them together with a promise to uphold Wei Wuxian’s hopes and ideals. In this way, Lan Wangji had become his best legacy.
This is how the dead survive.
Blinking rapidly, Wei Wuxian swallows. “I— Aiyah, Lan Zhan. I already cried today. Stop making me cry like this!”
“Can cry.”
Wildly, Wei Wuxian shakes his head, harshly wiping his eyes with a sleeve. “For so long… I—I really want to say thank you,” he says, hoarsely. “Lan Zhan, let me say thank you? Let me—”
But Lan Wangji pushes the bowl of paper ingots into his hands, leaving Wei Wuxian to stare at it, unblinkingly.
“Wei Ying, you must listen.”
Wei Wuxian does not speak. This bowl of offerings is heavier than he expects it to be.
“We keep within us all that we treasure from those whom we love,” Lan Wangji says quietly, fondly brushing a thumb over the flush of Wei Wuxian’s cheek. “I have found,” he continues, “that it is only natural for us to preserve them—that they live in us and through us. This manner that I’ve lived is in gratitude to you. If Wei Ying wants to offer gratitude to Lan Zhan, and to all those whom he has loved, then he must live as he had intended to live.”
Wei Wuxian lets out a shaky breath, a tremulous smile. “And how had I intended to live, Er-Gege?”
“‘To wipe out evildoers and support the weak for all my life, and to have a clear conscience,*’” says Lan Wangji, quoting in verbatim that promise that Wei Wuxian had sworn to himself in a previous life.
“To attempt the impossible…” murmurs Wei Wuxian, wistful of the childhood and family that he had once had in the Yunmeng Jiang sect. There is a moment of silence before Wei Wuxian speaks again. “I want to burn these in Lotus Pier,” Wei Wuxian says, delicately cradling the bowl to his chest. “Do you think Jiang Cheng would allow it, Lan Zhan?”
He sees his husband’s features gentle, lips curved into something small but proud. Leaning even closer, Lan Wangji rests a forehead against his own. “What do you think?”
Wei Wuxian laughs, bright and loud. “When has that ever stopped me?”
《晚上》
Somewhere else, where the lotuses would have bloomed had it been a warmer month and where the laughter of the twin would-have-been heroes of Yunmeng have long since faded, there is an altar that does not exist: an empty cup and unburned incense before an unnamed tablet; a sect leader waiting in repose for a long-lost brother to come home.