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With a flick of his knife, Lan Qiren clips a tiny leaf from the orchid in front of him. He leans back to gauge his progress, humming softly to himself. The work is soothing and familiar, and he moves on to the next arching stem.
“Hmmmm, hmm mm hmmm mm mmm,” and another carefully selected leaf drops away.
Orchids, he thinks, are always so amenable. With time and patience, they follow his direction, curving in whatever lines he feels will capture their truest form.
“Mmmmhmm hmm, hm hm hm hm mm hmmm...everything away as a dream.” The humming turns to words. Like all Gusu Lan disciples, Lan Qiren is a gifted musician, and his voice is a rich baritone.
“From the mountains yonder to the seas beyond…” he sings as he adjusts the orchid on its frame. “Like the quiet silvergrass reflecting the frosty moon.”
Lan Qiren steps back and admires the flowers, their colorful petals a pleasing contrast to his otherwise monochromatic space. “So spread your wings and flutter with the winds and waves…”
He wipes the knife on a soft cloth and sets it down on its stand. “And sing this one song to the…”
Turning, the words in his mouth fade as he sees the two stunned faces in his door.
He instinctively ignores Wei Wuxian, but his nephew is frozen in place, hand reaching toward the door frame, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in the most unlikely expression. Lan Qiren is momentarily concerned that something dreadful has happened to shake Lan Wangji’s composure so thoroughly. His eyes fly back to Wei Wuxian, in his experience, the source of dreadful things.
But Wei Wuxian is smiling, a huge, face-splitting grin that Lan Qiren is instantly wary of. A smile like that always means trouble.
“You. Like. Our. Song.” he says, and every word is a hammer crashing down on Lan Qiren.
He realizes that he has indeed been singing that infernal song Wangji wrote years ago. He had disliked it immediately because it seemed so purposeless. It was ineffective for meditation and carried no discernible cultivation value. And then he had disliked it because it would not disappear. Some mornings he woke with the notes on his lips. He found himself whistling it...WHISTLING...when he walked through the gardens.
The worst blow was when he had found out that it was written for this noisy, disruptive, aggravating imp of man who was now inextricably entwined in their lives, much like the song in Lan Qiren’s head.
“Shifu, you like our song!” Wei Wuxian repeats, delighted laughter bubbling up out of him. He leans against the doorway, hands on his knees, overcome. “Lan Zhan! He likes our song!”
Lan Qiren meets his nephew’s eyes in a silent plea. Lan Wangji hesitates for a moment, then closes his eyes with a deep sigh. Wei Wuxian’s laughter is cut off mid sound, and he whirls around to stare at Lan Qiren. But the older man just shakes his head in denial, and slowly, Wei Wuxian looks at Lan Wangji, betrayal creasing his forehead. He points to his mouth and frowns, tipping his head and grunting with piqued irritation, but his voice has been blessedly silenced by the spell.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, the warning clear, and the younger man finally nods, stretching his mouth wide in practice when Lan Wangji lifts the spell, and Lan Qiren fears he will continue to protest. But holding to his unspoken promise, Wei Wuxian merely huffs and strides away.
Lan Qiren meets Lan Wangji’s eyes and nods once, grateful for the intervention. Lan Wangji inclines his head in acknowledgement, but to Lan Qiren’s shock, a small smile creases his nephew’s mouth and crinkles the faint lines around his eyes.
“Shufu. You like our song.”
And Lan Qiren can do nothing but watch him follow Wei Wuxian, a different lightness in his step.