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Within Cloud Recesses, the solemn toll of bells cuts through the fierce howl of the wind. Their chimes send hellish vibrations coursing through Wei Ying’s very core; but Wei Ying merely closes his eyes, allowing the sound to wash over him, as he silently counts down each toll.
He is not supposed to be here.
Had this been a joyous occasion, he would be standing before an ordinary wedding altar, participating in an ordinary wedding procession, and marrying a groom that is… of a much more ordinary being.
But this is not a joyous occasion.
And this is not an ordinary wedding.
Wei Ying has lived a considerably hard life so far, but this simply takes the cake.
For he currently sits within the chilly chambers of a dead man, his newly-wedded husband, while dressed in a grim, mourning red. Before him, a table of wedding delicacies await, having been thoughtfully prepared for him and his intended to consume. Longevity noodles, half-cooked dumplings, and other symbolic wedding dishes have been laid out, each carrying layers of meaning, creating a facade of a typical wedding feast for a newlywed couple to partake in.
The nuptial wine cups rest at the table’s edge, their very existence almost a mockery of this sham of a wedding. They lay adjacent to a pair of flickering candles, and a shiny brass bowl of burning incense sticks—placed right before a small, faded photograph of his husband.
Wei Ying has seen that picture before.
He’d caught a single fleeting glimpse, months ago, before the war.
The groom’s uncle had handed it to him during his introductory visit to the Jiangs’ mansion, at an opportune moment when Wei Ying had just served him tea.
“This is your betrothed,” the elder with the stiff lip and austere face whose name Wei Ying would later learn of as Lan Qiren. “He is my beloved nephew. Quiet and well-mannered. He will be good for you.”
Wei Ying hadn’t liked his tone then, for it’d suggested he must have known of Wei Ying’s stubborn and abrasive nature; an impression Madam Yu must have left him with after their numerous discussions surrounding this betrothal. And yet, despite his disapproval of Wei Ying’s chaotic disposition, it somehow was a trait he deemed fitting for his stoic nephew, who talked much less and was even more reserved in emotion.
“He will be good for you,” Lan Qiren had affirmed to him back then, thumbing the wrinkled piece of black and white photograph. “As you will be good for him.”
At that time, Wei Ying hadn’t any expectations; he knew that he had no say in the matter, and that the marriage would proceed, with or without his say.
But when he glanced at the photograph, he beheld a devastatingly handsome young man with a strong jaw and piercing light eyes that—all at once, fiercely stirred the depths of his heart. As if he were staring right back at him, his intended husband exuded a sort of self-assuredness that Wei Ying so desperately craved, but lacked.
As quickly as the photograph had been slipped into his hands, it was just as abruptly snatched away.
“Enough ogling,” Madam Yu had chastised. “You will get to see him in the flesh, after the war.”
Lan Qiren nodded on, even though he wouldn’t have been opposed if Wei Ying had wanted to keep the photograph for himself. “The wedding will take place, immediately upon his return.” It is uttered in such a confident manner, as if his nephew’s war triumphs are to be expected.
In response, Wei Ying could only offer a numb nod, knowing he held neither authority nor place in any aspect of this arranged marriage.
“I am honoured,” Wei Ying softly murmured in response, as he was told to do so by Madam Yu. “To be marrying a Lan.”
“Wangji,” Lan Qiren had offered, kindly. “His name—is Lan Wangji.”
But alas, the flesh that Wei Ying would meet of Lan Wangji—is not one with a living and beating heart.
Rather, today, Lan Wangji is an ancestral tablet that Wei Ying bows to, newly painted and enshrined with gold.
Lan Wangji is the name reverberating through the howling cries of Gusu Lan Clan, as they fall to their knees and keel over in mourning.
Lan Wangji is the sand that fills the incense bowls where they place their lit incense sticks, after making prayers and offerings in his name.
Lan Wangji is the embalmed corpse that lies asleep in the wooden casket they’ve built him, painted in signature Gusu Lan white.
Lan Wangji is the bouquet of gentian flowers resting atop, his favourite, ones that had originally been meant for his wedding day.
Lan Wangji is the face Wei Ying had glimpsed just once, and yet held onto so fervently every night after that, yearning for a better and brighter future—with him.
Lan Wangji, in actuality, is no more than rotting decay.
And yet, that same decay has become Wei Ying’s very husband.
For tonight, they have become one in matrimony, their souls intertwined in the sacred bond of marriage.
(Of course Wei Ying had fought them. He’d tried to fight against all of it, for marriage to the dead would render him permanently unmarriageable to the living. By committing to this union, Wei Ying would have to take a vow of celibacy and take up immediate residence with the Lans, of whom he’d be spending the rest of his life in widowhood with—forever.
The man is dead, Wei Ying had tried to argue. I shouldn't have to uphold the end of my bargain. He never returned from the war, and I've never met him in the flesh. He barely knows I exist. He will not miss me.
But a promise is a promise, the Lans had insisted. He died so young, and he has never known love. He must be so lonely in the depths of Hell, where his soul must now dwell. Ever since his mother passed, the only spark we’d seen in his eyes was when he had been handed your photograph.
For the first time in his life, you sparked emotion within our Wangji.
And because of that fleeting glimmer they’d seen in his eyes, they’d refused to break the engagement.
They offered the Jiangs more gold than they knew what to do with, promised their family endless luck and fortune from marrying one of their own off to the dead, and the deal was eventually sealed.
Wei Ying was to be wed to their dead son, their dead brother, their dead nephew.
The ghost marriage—would proceed.)
As selfish as the Lans are, they are not so cruel to leave Wei Ying ruminating in his nuptial chambers alone with a rotting corpse. After the wedding procession in the ancestral hall, they remove Lan Wangji’s body and proceed to give him a proper burial, in spite of the heavy rain.
Wei Ying is led to Lan Wangji’s former room after that, where he is expected to make himself comfortable, for the rest of his days.
Wei Ying cannot stomach any of the food set before him. In another world, perhaps he might have joyfully indulged in the feast alongside his groom on their wedding night.
But it is especially cold in these chambers, with the howling winds resembling a voice desperately attempting to reach him, hoarsely. The wooden doors creak open and shut with the gusting winds, and Wei Ying cannot shake off the feeling that he is not alone in this room, as if the presence of another lingers here with him. Perhaps it is that faded photograph of Lan Wangji, his golden eyes so resolute and haunting, that seem to follow Wei Ying’s every movement in the room, no matter where he goes.
As if afraid of Wei Ying ever changing his mind, and leaving his side.
Wei Ying debates blowing out the candles, but decides he needs the light to sleep tonight.
This would be his first night away from the Jiangs; away from his brother, and sister. They’d wept even more than him, having been forced to send him away to the cruel Lans. Jiejie had even sewn him a small bracelet made out of red thread to ward off evil spirits, one that she’d stuffed into the front collar of his inner robes. “This will keep you safe,” she’d told him. “I prayed over it; and prayed, and prayed.” As if it’d do anything to protect him, but Wei Ying had no heart to reject the kindness of his only sister.
For when all is said and done, Wei Ying’s life feels comparable to that of a pig fated for slaughter.
Trapped within the husk of a place that once belonged to the deceased, Wei Ying knows that should evil spirits come for him, there is nowhere he can run.
However, are the dead really more fearsome than the living—when it is humans with living, beating hearts who have truly forsaken him?
With a pounding headache, Wei Ying resolves to quickly disrobe himself and prepare himself for bed. He first removes his crimson red veil—tossing it onto the floor, stomping on it as carelessly as they’d shoved him into it—followed by his outer ceremonial robes, and then finally slipping off his shoes and peeling off his white socks, before climbing carefully into bed.
The doors continue to swing open and close in a rather violent motion, in sync with the biting gusts of winds, but Wei Ying is too exhausted from the day’s festivities to care.
Resting his head upon the hard pillow, he is ready to welcome sleep.
All he needs to do is survive this night, and then, hopefully, just possibly, it might all get better.
But the moment he closes his eyes, the doors slam shut for good, and all the candles abruptly flicker out.
As if something—or someone—has at last entered the room.
Wei Ying holds his breath. He remains torn between dismissing such a notion as a product of his imagination, or opening his eyes to check for the unwelcome signs of an intruder. But the night has grown even chillier, causing all of his hairs to stand, and the darkness is so foreboding.
Fingering the ends of the red thread tucked within his front robes, Wei Ying wonders if he’d been too quick to dismiss Jiang Yanli’s superstitions.
Wei Ying may not be as weak as they make him out to be, but he is still human; he has moments of weaknesses, too.
And so, he squeezes his eyes shut even further, hoping to will himself to sleep.
But the second he hears the loud, resonating thumps against the thin wooden floors, Wei Ying knows this for sure: he is not alone.
Thud, thud, thud…
The banging against the wood grows louder and louder, as they advance toward the direction of Wei Ying’s foetal position on the bed. Wei Ying tries his best to loosen his muscles and relax his body, hoping he’ll be left alone if he looks asleep.
Just when the thumping is at its loudest, and Wei Ying thinks the entity can’t possibly get any nearer, it suddenly comes to an unexpected stop.
All sound dissipates. Not even the winds persist in the background. He no longer hears the rapping of hard wood, or heavy footsteps beckoning in his direction.
He lets out his first breath, lowering his guard, and wonders if it had just been the wind, after all.
That’s when he feels it.
A cold hand cradling his face.
.
.
.
The bed dips ever so slightly, as the intruder settles right next to him.
Wei Ying’s heart is beating so fast, it feels as though it might burst from his chest.
He’s here.
Surely, this presence—it must be—could it possibly; it has to be Lan Wangji, hasn’t it? His rightful husband, claiming his betrothed? As he’d intended to, right after the war?
Wei Ying has heard plenty of these old wives’ tales before. Sometimes the dead do not realise that they are dead; sometimes they believe they are still living. They return home to reunite with their families, or in this case, a new bride.
And Wei Ying is now resting in Lan Wangji’s bed. A place that Lan Wangji would naturally return to, having occupied it his whole life.
Perhaps Wei Ying needs to tell the poor man the truth, that he is dead, and point him into the right direction of the realm of the underworld where he now belongs—and leave Wei Ying permanently alone. That Wei Ying may have done him a favour by honouring their betrothal, but there is nothing more he can give, for Wei Ying is still part of the living.
That no matter how much he begs, he cannot have Wei Ying.
But just as he attempts to part his lips to utter something, his eyes still clenched tightly shut, he feels the weight shift on the bed, accompanied by a leaning presence.
And then he feels the sensation of wet lips, tenderly pressing a kiss onto his forehead.
Wei Ying’s heart skips a beat, just as residual raindrops descend from the body above—dripping upon his cheeks like a gentle pitter-patter.
“So you were hiding here,” comes his ghost husband’s voice, deep, guttural, and filled with so much love; that Wei Ying might have mistaken him for a living being. Had he left his grave, just to look for him? Searching every part of Cloud Recesses, hoping to find a trace of his promised bride? “Looking just as beautiful as the day I first saw you…”
Saw him?
Lan Wangji must have only ever seen him in photos; and not in person.
Was Lan Wangji sorely mistaken?
Wei Ying had always harboured doubts on how the betrothal came about in the first place, having thought it was all too sudden, and assumed that Madam Yu orchestrated it to remove him from the house; but could it have been a decision prompted by the Lans?
By Lan Wangji, himself?
The cold hand continues to caress Wei Ying's cheeks, seemingly admiring his newly wed bride in his entirety.
Despite his initial fears, Wei Ying has no heart to turn the man away.
Do you know that you are dead? Wei Ying wants to ask. Do you need a way home?
As much as Wei Ying would love to pretend all of this is just a nightmare and compel himself back to slumber; and as harmless as his ghost husband has been acting so far, Wei Ying knows he cannot bring himself to lay here an entire night and allow a dead man to watch—and fondle him—like a hawk.
He has to do something.
Against everything screaming at him not to, Wei Ying pulls open his eyes.
Expecting to meet with a decaying corpse.
Instead, staring right back at him are golden eyes in their full perfection, accompanied by a shy, wistful smile.
However way he’d died, it hadn’t been a blow to the face, for sure.
If Wei Ying does not look too closely, he can barely make out the cracks beneath Lan Wangji’s skin. He’d been done up immaculately by the mortician.
Looking as handsome as he did when he was still alive.
Hadn’t he heard the rumours about the Second Young Master Lan, back then? Wei Ying had been the talk of the town for a while when he first accepted the betrothal from the young warrior. Maidens from lands far and wide would swoon at the very sight of the Twin Jades; and Lan Wangji was one half of the brother duo. As an attractive, respectable and dignified young man, there had always been a long line of maidens lining up to win his hand. Ultimately, political advantage prevailed. The betrothal had been bestowed upon Wei Ying, a ward under the esteemed Jiangs, presenting an opportunity to unite the two influential families.
Beautiful golden eyes gaze longingly at him under the veil of the darkness, like they cannot believe they’ve been so lucky.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji calls out so softly, with nothing but tenderness in his tone. “I have kept you waiting.”
He even knows my name.
Wei Ying is paralyzed down to the bone.
Every instinct compels him to flee, yet he finds himself unable to abandon a man who appears so earnest, baring his heart completely for him to see.
“The war,” Wei Ying stammers out pathetically, hoping to spark a recollection within the dead man. “You were part of the war, you, you’re supposed to be… d—”
Lan Wangji appears puzzled. “The war is over,” he answers gently, gently reaching over to clasp Wei Ying’s hand into his. “And I am home. To finally be yours.”
“You... you do not remember?” Wei Ying asks, his voice trembling.
“Remember...?” Lan Wangji questions, his brow furrowing in contemplation. Then, as if a sudden realisation dawns upon him, he nods, a sense of remorse clouding his features. “It was my fault not to insist on at least one meeting before the war. Wei Ying must be nervous and confused about the force of my affections for him…”
“No, that's not what I meant…” Wei Ying begins, then sighs, deciding to give up.
He no longer wishes to push a dead man to remember his pain and suffering, especially not with that look of utter devotion on his face—as though he cannot endure a moment without Wei Ying.
“I wanted to return home, as soon as I could,” Lan Wangji confesses whole-heartedly, entirely out of the blue. “Just to marry you.”
Wei Ying had heard, from the hushed whispers during his funeral, that the great Hanguang-Jun never made mistakes on the battlefield.
But they say during this battle, he did—and he’d paid a heavy price for it.
Could it have all been for Wei Ying?
…Wei Ying cannot bring himself to ask. He’s too afraid to hear the answer.
“You… You are here now,” Wei Ying numbly whispers, not knowing what else to say, his heart squeezing in his chest. “So it’s okay.”
“It’s okay?” Lan Wangji echoes, nervously. “You are… happy?”
How could Wei Ying ever bear to say no to such a face? “Yes.”
“You are happy with me? As your husband?” Lan Wangji asks again, still looking very much unsure, lacking very much the poised confidence Wei Ying had remembered from his initial photograph.
“Yes, of course,” Wei Ying responds again, as though he were humouring a child.
Frankly, Wei Ying is exhausted. It’d been a long, tiring day; of tears, of betrayal, of gripping fear. Of being all alone in this household stranger to him.
And now, on top of everything else—having to contend with an undead husband.
He’s not quite sure he can take on the additional burden of helping Lan Wangji find his way back to the spirit realm tonight.
Perhaps treating him kindly enough for their short time together, will hopefully be the only closure he needs to rest in peace.
“I’m so tired,” Wei Ying whispers to him, now that he knows he doesn’t need to fear the man.
Though Lan Wangji may no longer possess a heartbeat, his gaze bears no ill intent. He harbours no desire to inflict harm upon Wei Ying.
For this, Wei Ying finds solace. He can ask for nothing more.
“Then, we shall rest,” Lan Wangji declares.
He sidles into the vacant space beside Wei Ying and carefully pulls the covers over them both.
“After all, this is all just a dream,” Wei Ying tells himself anyway, in order to sink himself into sleep, as his fingers dig into the sheets. He repeats to himself, as though doing so will make his words somehow true: “I am simply homesick, and am having a really long drawn-out nightmare.”
But Lan Wangji hears it all, and stubbornly wraps an arm around his waist.
“What are you talking about, Wei Ying,” he quietly whispers, pursing his dried lips. “This is my biggest dream.”
Wei Ying is pulled into the loving arms of a corpse, and yet, the man does not smell. He smells lovely, like the gentian flowers he has been buried with.
Tomorrow come, Wei Ying wonders if Lan Wangji will still be here.
Wei Ying drifts into slumber amidst the hush stillness, lulled slowly to sleep by the rhythm of two heartbeats, forgetting that there should only be one.
The last thing he hears being, “Thank you for marrying me.”
.
.
.
Wei Ying snaps his eyes open to the gentle embrace of sunlight filtering in through the windows and a vacant space beside him on the sheets.
He’s gone.
His ghost groom is gone.
It had all just been a dream!
But as he places both feet onto the ground, the sun rays shed light upon the muddied footprints that had paid him a visit last night.
Hurriedly raising his gaze, Wei Ying quickly notes that candles have been strewn throughout his room, haphazardly toppled and in disarray.
And in the most astonishing revelation of all: half of the wedding feast has been consumed.
Wei Ying hurries to inspect the nuptial wine cups, praying that his suspicions will be unfounded, and yet, to his great dismay, discovers that one has indeed been overturned and fully emptied.
Someone had been too happy to uphold their end of the wedding ritual!
The photograph of Lan Wangji is no longer facing outwards; instead, it is turned face down, as though someone had cast a glance at it and deemed the sight so offensive that it needed to be hidden away.
Wei Ying is struck by the gut-wrenching realisation that all of it—had been real.
The ghost of Lan Wangji that paid him a visit last night… had been real!
Clothed in just his thin inner robes, Wei Ying can barely keep it together as he throws open the doors and hastily exits the room, determined to trace the path of the muddied footprints.
However, the trail abruptly ends at the doorway, where baffled servants casually walk past and greet him.
“Did anyone enter my room last night? Or this morning?!” Wei Ying yells, in a panicked shout that quickly gets the servants worried.
“No, we were firmly instructed by Clan Leader Lan not to disturb your sleep,” they dutifully answer right away, bowing before the latest addition to the prestigious Gusu Lan family.
“Then, did you see anyone leaving it this morning?!”
“No, we have not, and we have been up since sunrise,” they profusely apologise, even if they remain perplexed by Wei Ying’s turbulent state of emotions. They’d heard he’d been forced into this marriage, that he didn’t come willingly, and this basically serves as enough confirmation to the rumours that had been circulating…
Wei Ying runs his fingers through his hair, visibly distressed. “Then, then—! Then where could he possibly have disappeared to?!”
Had Lan Wangji returned to his place of burial?
Had he gone to pay his family a visit?
Or had he finally attained the peace he needed, to head off to the underworld?
“We do not know who you speak of, young master…”
“Second Young Master Lan!” Wei Ying answers in a fit of agitation, with wide eyes and trembling shoulders. “Your beloved Second Young Master Lan—!”
The servants exchange sympathetic looks, realising what must have become of Wei Ying after the traumatic event he’d been forced to partake in.
“Please step back inside, young master,” they kindly tell him, guiding him back into a room that has since been turned upside down, something that must be of his doing. “We’ll help to dress you, and serve you your breakfast soon.”
“No,” Wei Ying’s mind works frantically, as he attempts to decide upon his next step. Attempting to wrestle out of their grip, he beseeches them, “Where is Lan Qiren? I’d like to speak to him!”
“He has gone into seclusion, young master,” they inform him, looking sorry. “Overcome with grief, he has asked not to be disturbed.”
“Then, then,” Wei Ying’s mind races. “The groom’s brother—Lan Xichen! He has to be available, right? He’s the Clan Leader, he can’t disappear.”
The servants hesitantly answer, hoping to dissuade him, “He is occupied with his official duties, meeting with the other Clan Leaders throughout the day.”
“Well, then,” Wei Ying finally calms down, just a tad bit. “I’ll just look for him after breakfast, and he’ll have to attend to me because I am now family, right?”
The servants do not know of what to respond with. They can only acquiesce to his more-than-reasonable request. “We will inform him of your wish to visit, young master.”
That is all Wei Ying can hope for, really.
.
.
.
But meeting with the Clan Leader is proving much more arduous a task than Wei Ying had thought it would be.
“Let me in!” Wei Ying screams, crazily pounding on the doors outside of Lan Xichen’s chambers. “I need to speak with you about your brother!”
Lan Xichen’s own guards hesitantly reach for Wei Ying, hoping to pry him away from their master’s doors as gently as they can. “Unfortunately, the Clan Leader is still busy. We seek your understanding to return on another day.”
“I can’t afford to wait another day!” Wei Ying insists, growing mad at the very thought of having to face Lan Wangji for another night. For what if he returns? If that corpse comes back for him, what ever shall Wei Ying do?
No, no, no, this won’t do!
Seizing their shoulders, Wei Ying manically asks, “Where can I get a shovel? I need to see for myself that Lan Wangji is still buried ten feet under.”
Their eyes bulge wide. Is this young master insinuating that he intends to desecrate their beloved Second Young Master’s grave—!
If the Clan Leader ever hears of it—!
“We will escort you back to your room now,” they inform him brusquely. “It is for your own safety, young master!”
Kicking and screaming, Wei Ying viciously claws at their shoulders. “If you take me back there, he’ll look for me again!”
But he has already been screaming for an entire day, and yet no one in Cloud Recesses can decipher the delirious ramblings escaping his lips.
The poor soul, they’d whispered among themselves. He has lost his mind, from being made to wed a dead man.
But could they really blame him?
Any sane person would, too.
Just like that, Wei Ying is placed under house arrest.
Completely isolated in this mansion, he has only himself to rely on.
There is nothing left for him to do—but to wait for night to fall.
.
.
.
This time, Wei Ying is prepared.
Last night, driven by fear, he’d gone along with whatever his ghost groom said or did, convinced that all he needed to do was wake up the next morning, and everything would be alright.
But he no longer believes any of it was a dream.
And the pale, wet lips that had kissed his skin—couldn’t be anymore real.
If luck is on his side, Lan Wangji would have already left for the netherworld.
Yet, something tells him that his ordeal is far from over, and that his ghost groom will be visiting him again this evening.
Tonight, dinner is served for two. Wei Ying barely eats his share, still lacking the appetite for it. The servants, bewildered by his request to prepare meals for two, obediently comply; hoping that by doing so, Wei Ying will make a quick mental recovery. Losing one young master is enough, they cannot possibly handle losing two.
Hoping to appease his husband’s spirit, Wei Ying puts away the fraying, greyed photograph of Lan Wangji from the makeshift shrine on the table and ensures it is hidden from sight. Lan Wangji must not have enjoyed it; and understandably so, for no one wishes to be reminded of the fact that they are deceased.
Lighting the candles one by one, Wei Ying burns the incense sticks and makes one last offering to his husband, and then the Heavens.
“I never bore you any ill will,” Wei Ying whispers in prayer, squeezing his eyes tight. “I’d truly wanted to marry you, back then. And in spite of your death, I have gone along with every one of you and your family’s wishes; I have been a good bride. Please, if you really do care for me, head to the netherworld and begin your cycle of reincarnation. If we are truly destined, I will meet you there.”
Placing the incense sticks into the brass bowl, Wei Ying exhales a long, shaky breath.
And then he gets up from his knees and removes his outer robes, before peeling off his socks.
Climbing into bed, Wei Ying leaves a side of the bed empty, just in case.
(Even if he really, really hopes for his husband not to turn up tonight.)
.
.
.
But, just like clockwork, the candles go out.
The violent winds announce his husband’s return, just as Wei Ying rests his head on the pillow.
This time, however, those hands do not reach for him.
Instead, Wei Ying hears loud footsteps shuffling mindlessly about, and hands anxiously rummaging through endless amounts of chests and boxes placed underneath the bed.
His husband’s voice sounds more harrowed today, incessantly muttering to himself in frustration. “I cannot find it… Wei Ying… It is gone… I must take it with me… To the war…”
Unable to sit idly in the presence of such a ruckus, Wei Ying snaps his eyes open and is confronted by the peculiar sight of his husband thrashing the room once more.
But tonight, Lan Wangji appears significantly more frazzled, looking somewhat more disoriented than he did the previous day.
Wei Ying doesn’t know where he gets the courage, but somehow seeing the same dead corpse two nights in a row isn’t as daunting as his mind had initially made out to be.
Especially when he appears even more drop-dead gorgeous in person than he does in photographs.
“Lan Wangji?” Wei Ying softly calls for his husband, kicking himself mentally as he does so.
Lan Wangji’s head perks up at the sound of his bride’s voice, eager to answer—like he’d almost forgotten Wei Ying was here. “Wei… Wei Ying?”
He has on such a confused, almost puppy-like expression, Wei Ying feels compelled to join him in his search.
“What are you looking for?” Wei Ying asks.
“I have this photo of you,” Lan Wangji whispers in response, upset. “They gave it to me to keep safe, and I meant to take it along with me to the war. But I cannot find it anywhere.”
Wei Ying swallows tight. It seems tonight, this version of his husband has forgotten he has already left for the war.
But Wei Ying lacks the heart to tell him otherwise.
“You no longer need it,” Wei Ying offers gently, instead. “For I am right here, aren’t I?”
Almost like he’s battling a severe case of memory loss, he calms down right away with this newfound knowledge. Lan Wangji’s anxiety immediately dissipates, replaced by a soft smile tugging at his lips. “They said I would see you again after the war… So it is true.”
“Yes, it is true,” Wei Ying tells him, helping him up from the ground where he is sitting.
Wei Ying has to quell his surprise when he realises how light Lan Wangji feels, in his hold.
Devoid of blood and organs, the man hardly weighs a thing.
How is it that Wei Ying had spent an entire day dreading the prospect of encountering his deceased groom’s presence once more; but now, as they stand face-to-face, Wei Ying feels more pity than fear?
Seating him back down against the bed, Wei Ying feels for his hand, and finds it much drier than it was yesterday; almost hardening, even. Lifting his gaze back up to his face, Wei Ying realises one night is enough for the cracks to finally begin surfacing underneath his porcelain skin.
But for now, Lan Wangji’s voice is as gentle as ever, with affection in his gaze, reserved just for him.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji murmurs with a strained smile. Grasping Wei Ying’s hand tight, he echoes words he’d uttered just yesterday. “I have kept you waiting.”
“Not at all,” Wei Ying says, somehow finding humour in the situation. “You are remarkably on time.”
“Was I?” Lan Wangji asks, a hint of amusement in his tone. “I was kept distracted. I looked for shufu today.”
Wei Ying’s breaths stutter. That was the confirmation he was looking for. “You did?”
“Yes, but he couldn’t hear me,” Lan Wangji frowns, unsettled by the thought. “He was too busy mourning… The entire clan is mourning. I heard the bells chime, I saw the ribbons being tied. There has been a death in the family.”
Wei Ying does his best attempt at feigning surprise. “Really?”
If Lan Wangji does not yet realise he is dead, he isn’t going to be the one breaking the news.
“But it is not important,” Lan Wangji hums, shrugging it off. “What is most important is you heard me. And you let me in.”
Wei Ying’s heart throbs with ache.
Could no one else really hear him?
Was it only because Wei Ying and him were now bound by the red string of fate?
“What… What do you do, when you are not here?” Wei Ying asks, curiously.
“Oh, I…” Lan Wangji begins so confidently, and then it occurs to him that he—cannot remember. He outwardly winces, like it hurts him to even be contemplating this hard. “I... do not know. I believe I spend most of it trying to find my way back to you again.”
Every honest word that leaves Lan Wangji’s mouth, it threatens to rip Wei Ying’s heart out whole.
“Why me?” Wei Ying questions in a soft voice, feeling a lump rise to his throat.
Why do you constantly look for me, when no one else does?
“Because I…” and Lan Wangji chooses his words carefully, with much deliberation, like it’s getting harder and harder for him to follow a stream of coherent consciousness by the second. “I fear the day I will no longer be able to reach you. It feels… as though it is near. But whenever I think about it… it breaks my heart.”
As does mine. “Lan Wangji,” Wei Ying murmurs, regrettably. He’s not sure what comes over him, but raw emotion comes tumbling forth from his lips: “We have only spoken twice, and yet it feels like I’ve known you all my life.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji excitedly squeezes his hand. “I feel the same. I cannot help but feel as if we were meant to be.”
Oh, these were things Wei Ying would have loved to hear—from a living, breathing husband.
The better and brighter future Wei Ying thought he’d have with him.
Not wishing to hold back any further, Wei Ying’s hand extends out, gently reaching for Lan Wangji’s cheek.
He is so freshly dead, he still feels slightly warm to the touch.
Or perhaps Wei Ying is fooling himself.
“You would have made a good husband,” Wei Ying thinks absentmindedly to himself, with a sad look in his eyes.
This stumps the dead man, still dressed in his white funeral robes. “What do you mean by ‘would’?” Lan Wangji insists. “I, I will make a good husband. I still can.”
In that very moment, Wei Ying suspects if he already knows.
Wei Ying regrets ever having feared him; in its place, he only feels a wave of sympathy.
“I am sorry I couldn’t get to know you,” Wei Ying whispers, stroking his pale cheek.
It’d been powdered white, hiding the tan he’d gained from the war.
“There is still time,” Lan Wangji assures him. “We have the rest of eternity, now that we are married.”
Wei Ying silently wonders what it will take for a lingering spirit to go. Is it the fulfilment of their desires? The attainment of happiness, at last? What would it take for Lan Wangji to find happiness in this cursed fate of his?
And to be put to rest, for good?
“Your uncle said you were quiet,” Wei Ying suddenly recalls, with a small smile. “You are much more different in person.”
“Ah,” Lan Wangji turns shy again. “With Wei Ying… I cannot help but wish to tell you everything…”
“He will be good for you, as you will be good for him.”
Lan Qiren certainly had a keen eye for matchmaking.
They spend the next few hours aimlessly talking about anything and everything under the sun, getting to know each other, just like Wei Ying always thought they’d do—the first they’d meet.
Lan Wangji gets all of his jokes, as he does for him.
They’d have been a perfect match, all things considered.
Or, well, they still are.
For as long as Lan Wangji can hold onto him.
“Tomorrow,” Wei Ying sleepily murmurs at the end of it all, when weariness overcomes him. Leaning into his husband’s cold touch, he quietly asks, “Will you come by to find me again?”
Lan Wangji presses his lips against Wei Ying’s forehead again, promising him with a, “I could never leave you alone, my sweet Wei Ying.”
And Wei Ying gets to shut his eyes, pretending everything is normal.
But the next morning, when Wei Ying awakes, flakes of dead skin remain on his sheets, shattering the illusion of it all.
Deep down, Wei Ying already knows:
His husband’s body cannot hold on for much longer; it has already started to fall apart.
.
.
.
It takes him an entire morning, but he finally finds the photograph Lan Wangji had been so desperately searching for—wedged between the bed and the wall.
The photograph has been kept in immaculate condition, capturing a smiling Wei Ying with a high ponytail and a red ribbon, his eyes full of innocent naivety, still unacquainted with the harsh weight of betrayal.
So, Lan Wangji hadn’t been lying about its existence.
He must have not been able to bring it along with him, to the war.
Wei Ying’s heart hurts at the thought. Lan Wangji loved him so fiercely and earnestly—and still he’d died on that battlefield alone, clinging onto the one memory of Wei Ying that he’d glimpsed of in his head.
How can you love someone that you’ve never met?
Wei Ying had held back from asking Lan Wangji too much about his past during their time together, afraid it’d remind him of needless pain and conjure up bad memories he didn’t need to remember.
But time is already slipping away from him; and before his husband leaves him for good, Wei Ying would appreciate all the answers that he can get.
This time, he doesn’t behave like a complete lunatic. There is no need for it. Wei Ying has considerably calmed down plenty in the wake of Lan Wangji’s repeated gentleness towards him.
I trust him, Wei Ying suddenly realises. I trust that man with my life—and he’s no longer even whole.
Instead of crying and pleading with the servants for answers which they don’t have, Wei Ying allows them to serve him with ease, dressing him for the day and serving him food and tea without so much a complaint.
(They still sigh at the state of the room that greets them in the morning, of numerous overturned chests and boxes, but already find it a huge improvement from the day before, where the entire room had been thrown into disarray.)
When they ask if Wei Ying needs anything else, Wei Ying requests to pen a letter to the Clan Leader Lan, whom he hopes will read his message at least if he remains too busy to grant Wei Ying an audience.
The servants are happy to help with such a thing, grateful that their young master is no longer senselessly banging on doors and being a huge disturbance to a clan that is still in mourning.
“I will write to you, just this once,” Wei Ying pens in his letter, leaving the rest of it up to fate. Attaching the photograph of himself that he’d found, he knows it will earn him Lan Xichen’s attention. “And if you have any final words for your brother, Clan Leader, I am your last hope.”
.
.
.
By late afternoon, Lan Xichen’s guards come for him.
“The Clan Leader wishes to speak with you,” they say.
“Finally,” Wei Ying hums.
He is invited into Lan Xichen’s chambers—kept pristine clean and decorated with minimal furniture.
Lan Xichen rises to welcome him, bestowing upon him a kind of reverence that had been absent during the wedding.
“My sincere apologies,” Lan Xichen says with a plastic smile, lowering his head in a bow. “I meant to pay you my respects sooner. However, as you are aware, we are still in mourning.”
“We are all in mourning,” Wei Ying snarkily informs him, the white of his robes no different than his. “For the unfortunate death of my intended—no, ah, slip of the tongue, my very husband.”
“Yes, we are so grateful,” Lan Xichen spreads his lips to reveal gleaming white teeth. “That you continue to keep him company, even in his death.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Wei Ying says. “Even if I’d fought and I’d screamed, and no one ever bothered to listen.”
Lan Xichen’s smile tightens. “You have made a big sacrifice, and done us a huge favour.”
“Luckily for you, I let bygones be bygones,” Wei Ying responds, quickly thinking on his feet. “After all, I have come to deeply care for my late husband.”
Lan Xichen hesitates, wondering how he should address the issue. “How did you know where to find the photograph?”
Wei Ying’s voice is resolute; firm. Full of certainty, he divulges, “He came to me in the night, searching for it near the bed. I knew it must have fallen somewhere near, so I spent some time looking for it.”
The Clan Leader… looks rather apprehensive in return.
Finally, he finds his voice. “There is no such thing as ghosts.”
Wei Ying laughs incredulously. “And yet, you have married me to one.”
“For the sake of tradition, and for my uncle’s peace of mind,” Lan Xichen hastily counters. “I saw his face. I was there when they embalmed his corpse. As far as I know, Wangji is long gone.”
In the face of his firm denial—coupled with Wei Ying’s superstitious beliefs—everything begins to fall into place and make sense.
“You do not believe,” Wei Ying exclaims, as he pieces it together. “And that is why he cannot seek you out. He will never again be able to reach you.”
Lan Xichen’s voice begins to waver. “Wangji… has tried?”
Wei Ying neglects to answer. With his chest puffed out and his chin held high, Wei Ying asks, “Clan Leader, you refused to see me when you deemed me insane, and yet you invited me over the second you read my letter. Can I ask why?”
Lan Xichen presses his lips together, as he answers, “It is true that I do not believe half of it; the things that you wrote. But the other half—you have asked me things that I do not believe are privy to you. To my knowledge, only Wangji and I were aware of it.”
“Of what?”
“Of the photograph that he had lost, and the fact that he has met you before,” Lan Xichen answers, looking rather perturbed. “Once, before his death. He saw you in passing; you would not have remembered it. It was at your newborn nephew’s hundredth day celebration at Koi Tower. The Jins are one of our allies, and so they invited us. We came just as you were leaving. But the entire time we were there, you were cradling Jin Ling in your arms. For reasons unbeknownst to me, Wangji couldn’t look away.”
“I,” Wei Ying falters, stumped. “You are right, I did not know the both of you were there.”
“Shufu, too, was there,” Lan Xichen explains. “When he announced Wangji’s betrothal, I thought perhaps he’d taken notice of Wangji’s growing affections for you. These sorts of things never escape shufu. He’d worried over Wangji his entire life; I believe he was finally relieved to find that there indeed was someone out there for Wangji… that Wangji wouldn’t reject or spurn, and would, in fact, draw him out a bit more, and be a good match for him.”
“I, I see,” Wei Ying mumbles, embarrassed by the thought. “So, it was not a betrothal arranged without reason.”
“No, rather,” Lan Xichen sighs. “It has been intentional, right from the very beginning.”
“Is that why the clan was so adamant?” Wei Ying asks again, to be sure. “On me marrying him, in spite of his death?”
“Shufu can only take so much grief in his life,” Lan Xichen exhales, sharply. “He cannot stomach the thought that Wangji might suffer in the afterlife, too. After all, Wangji has never asked for much… And the one thing he wanted, he never said.”
So, this was his unspoken desire.
I, Wei Ying thinks, am his unspoken desire.
“That is why he visits me in the night,” Wei Ying comes to the startling realisation about Lan Wangji, as he feels a pang to the chest. “To see his own wedding through, the one he should have had.”
Lan Xichen’s jaw clenches at what he hears, still in disbelief. But a second later, he hesitantly asks, as if not daring to hear for himself the answer, “Is he well?”
“Wha—?”
“Is Wangji happy?” Lan Xichen says. “When he comes to see you?”
Wei Ying takes a moment to respond. “He is chatty.”
“Oh,” Lan Xichen painfully lets out, in a moment of weakness. Tears readily well up in his eyes, like they’d always been there, biding their time. “Then, he is happy.”
There it is—the love of an older brother whose only way of coping is to deny the existence of an afterlife in which there exists more loneliness and suffering.
Wei Ying understands now.
“He does not remember the pain or brutality of death,” Wei Ying continues, hoping to alleviate some of that burden from Lan Xichen’s shoulders. “He only cares about spending the night with me, and fulfilling his duty as a husband.”
“And you are not afraid of him?” Lan Xichen questions, softly. “He must not look like himself.”
“He still does, even if the cracks are showing,” Wei Ying says, with a nod. “But even when that falls apart, I do not think I will be afraid. He has never given me reason to fear him.”
Lan Xichen releases a harrowing sigh, his shoulders sagging. As the remorse finally begins to seep in, he utters a rather belated, “My clan has been hard on you. For that, I am sorry, from the bottommost of my heart. It is our selfishness that led you here, and it is our cruelty that you remain. We prioritised the life of one of ours over yours, even in death. And yet your heart remains kind, and tender towards our Wangji. I can only imagine how happy you’ve made him. My punishment—is that I shall never see it for myself, in the very flesh.”
Wei Ying, surprisingly, accepts his apology. “This marriage has taught me what truly matters. And oddly enough, I feel that all roads have led me here. My fate has been inextricably entwined with his. My life—has always belonged to him. With or without his death. I am grateful to have married him; I have no regrets.”
Before Wei Ying leaves, Lan Xichen makes sure to leave him with some food for thought. “Wei Wuxian, are you familiar with the final step of a wedding ceremony?”
“What do you mean?”
“Consummation,” Lan Xichen answers, bluntly. “The final step in the process is the act of consummation. Without consummation, the wedding ceremony is not complete.”
Wei Ying stammers out, “You, you are suggesting…”
“If it is as you say, that Wangji is here to see his own wedding through,” Lan Xichen suggests, kindly. “Perhaps he will not leave, until his marriage is fully consummated.”
Only the Heavens can help him now.
.
.
.
Wei Ying feels a cold hand against his face, and eagerly snaps his eyes open.
“Xianggong,” Wei Ying calls for his dear husband of his own accord, for the very first time.
He expects to be greeted with Lan Wangji’s unwavering smile. Instead, this time, those golden eyes are hollow.
The muscles on his face no longer work as they should. It takes the man several tries to strain them into an expression with visible emotion, even if it is exhaustion.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji murmurs, quietly. “I have kept you waiting.”
This time, he really has.
Wei Ying had almost thought he wasn’t coming.
But two shichens in, his husband had painstakingly dragged himself into the room through the front door, using every ounce of his remaining strength, despite his deteriorating condition and flaying skin.
Wei Ying feels obliged to keep up the pretence for him. “Not at all! I haven’t been waiting long at all!”
Lan Wangji is dying—a second death, if you will.
Only a fool would be blind to the fact.
“It feels harder and harder to get to you,” Lan Wangji utters in a voice so low, as though he is conserving every bit of his strength. “It feels like the Heavens are keeping me away from you.”
Wei Ying has a sneaking suspicion as to why.
The living and the dead, they do not belong together.
The Heavens will not make this easy—if they even permit it, which they do not.
“You made it, still,” Wei Ying comforts his husband, who looks unbelievably tired. “You made it home, to me. Here, keep warm next to me.”
He pulls the dead man close and gently covers him with blankets, like it’ll do anything.
But it’s exactly enough for Lan Wangji.
Lan Wangji is quick to reciprocate, laying his head against Wei Ying’s shoulder, his arms wrapping tightly around Wei Wuxian.
“I wish you had been there with me,” Lan Wangji whispers, his voice barely audible, such that Wei Ying has to strain his ears to listen. “I wouldn’t have been so alone…”
Wei Ying’s breathing quickens. “Xianggong?”
Does he remember the war…?
“I just wanted to get home…” Lan Wangji confesses, squeezing Wei Ying tight. “I wanted to be with you…”
“Lan Zhan, you’re here now,” Wei Ying holds back his tears. “We’re finally married, see?”
“Today,” Lan Wangji’s voice falters, as if gasping for air he does not need. With tears rising to his eyes, his shoulders tremble with the weight of his emotions, as if his body still remembers how it must feel like—to grieve. “I saw brother today, kneeling before an altar. There has been a death in the family.”
“Yes, yes,” Wei Ying says, nodding along to words he’d heard before.
“I went up to him to ask who it was,” Lan Wangji’s voice quivers. “For a second, it seemed as though he heard me. He called my name, and then I realised…”
Wei Ying holds his breath.
“...it was right there on the tablet. My name, spelled out in full.”
Lan
Wang
Ji
Wei Ying can picture it so clearly.
“I passed a mirror, to ascertain the truth of my fate. I… am a shell of who I used to be; as nature feeds on my skin and bones. But here you still are,” Lan Wangji says, broken. “Waiting for me.”
He finally knows.
“You do not abhor me,” Lan Wangji tearily asks, in disbelief. “You are not disgusted by me, despite what I have become?”
How could Wei Ying possibly? Lan Wangji is no longer alive, and yet he’s already more human than most. Fear, heartbreak, and sadness, all complex human emotions, wash over his face, telling Wei Ying all he needs to know.
“You are still here,” Wei Ying presses a hand right against where his heart used to be. “That’s as alive as it gets for me.”
“You never even knew me,” Lan Wangji’s hands curl into fists. “You never even knew the depth of the affections I held for you. I wanted to tell you. I wanted to, on our wedding night…”
“You did,” Wei Ying reassures him. “You’ve told me, for two nights.”
Lan Wangji barely hears him. “I never even got a chance,” he says, in a rare display of anger.
Anger at the heavens, for bestowing upon him such a cruel fate.
“I wish I had gotten a chance,” Lan Wangji breathes. “I wish I had told you sooner.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying’s lower lip trembles, as he struggles to hold back sobs, doing his best to be the stronger one in this situation. “Lan Wangji, I’m not going anywhere. We’re married, and I will remain devoted to you for the rest of my life. I promise.”
“But I am no longer of this world,” Lan Wangji says, as tears stream down his face. “And soon, I will no longer be able to hold you, even if my spirit lingers. I will not be able to hold you, or kiss you, or…” Unspoken regrets fill the air. He continues on, as though horrified by the ensuing thought, “Soon, you will come to loathe me; despise me. I am no longer Hanguang-Jun, I am a burden, an eyesore.”
“Lan Wangji, that’s not true—”
“Wei Ying,” and Lan Wangji says such a damning thing. “You will not even kiss a corpse.”
In defiant response to that, Wei Ying lifts his tear-streaked face and gently kisses the side of Lan Wangji’s mouth.
The smell of flowers is gone, and the rotting decay has begun to set in, but Wei Ying doesn’t mind.
When it comes to Lan Wangji, Wei Ying doesn’t mind anything.
"You are still real to me,” Wei Ying insists, his voice shaking with emotion. “We still have an eternity.”
It’s the first time Wei Ying has ever bestowed a kiss upon him, a soft and tender one brimming with love.
Lan Wangji, even in his death, is left stunned into silence by the kind gesture.
“Do you think you would have come to love me?” Lan Wangji asks in a hopeful daze, touching absentmindedly the spot where Wei Ying had just kissed. “Had I returned home, alive, to marry you?”
“Yes,” Wei Ying responds without any hesitation, giving it no further thought. “Lan Wangji, I—had dreams for us, for our future, even before we’d ever met. I would have loved you more than anything I’ve ever loved before.”
Upon hearing that, a sort of heaviness seems to lift from Lan Wangji’s countenance.
“I think we would have been happy together,” Lan Wangji murmurs, lost in thought. “I think… We could have even had a family…”
Lan Wangji had dreams of his own, too, ones with Wei Ying.
“It is too late for that now,” Lan Wangji says, lowering his gaze, resigned to his fate. “Once the final bell chimes, I will have lost everything. I cannot even—I cannot even complete… the final step of my wedding…”
Wei Wuxian doesn’t pretend to be ignorant of what Lan Wangji is implying.
It is exactly as Lan Xichen had said.
It’d been Lan Wangji’s last wish.
His blood-curdling desire.
They are married, but they haven’t yet consummated their marriage.
it is not a proper marriage until they have.
At first, Wei Ying had his reservations, too.
But Wei Ying has had an entire day to work his courage up for it, and he’s more than ready.
“Lan Wangji, I,” Wei Ying whispers to him, clutching his hands tightly. Earnestly and devotedly, he continues, “I want to. I am willing.”
“W…What?” Lan Wangji questions, taken aback by the eagerness he sees. Shame engulfs his features, casting a shadow over his countenance. “Wei Ying, I could not possibly expect you to embrace me in this state—it would be far too cruel—”
“It is my duty, as your bride,” Wei Ying tells him, bringing his ghost-white knuckles to his lips. “To serve my husband, and become yours completely, in body and in soul.”
Lan Wangji’s body trembles with anticipation. “But I… I do not wish to hurt you…”
“But you want it,” Wei Ying can tell. “You want me, more than anything in the world.”
Lan Wangji cannot deny such a fact. “I have wanted you ever since I first saw you,” he confesses.
“Then,” Wei Ying takes his hands into his, and places them against his waist. “Just take me.”
Lan Wangji’s hand shakes, as his gaze is drawn downward. He had not noticed before, lost in the haze of sadness and the recent revelation of his own death, but Wei Ying is not clothed in the same white mourning robes he had been wearing for the past two nights.
Instead, Wei Ying is conveniently dressed in a red silken dudou, a delicate piece of lingerie intended for their wedding night.
“Wei Ying, you…”
Had come prepared.
How had he already known what Lan Wangji’s final desire was—even before he’d been made aware of it himself?
“Lan Wangji, do not think,” Wei Ying commands, firmly applying pressure against those two hands of his husband. “Do not hesitate. I want you. Just take me.”
How could Lan Wangji ever say no to that?
Lan Wangji, overcome with emotion, impatiently pulls Wei Ying in for a kiss, their lips meeting with fervour and rough intensity. Their mouths collide fiercely, tears mingling with their shared longing, consuming them in a fiery and passionate embrace.
It's all so incredibly raw, sloppy and messy, and goes as well as kissing a corpse can be. Lan Wangji’s touches are unsteady, his hands weakly fumbling in their exploration of Wei Ying’s body, his movements marked by a mix of desire and uncertainty. Nevertheless, Wei Ying continues to encourage him to venture further, hands going even lower to slip beneath his dudou and pleasure him in places that—Wei Ying has never had anyone else touch before.
“Don’t hold back,” Wei Ying whispers pleadingly, gazing up at his husband from beneath his long, spidery lashes, a look that mirrors the seductive allure of a vixen. “I’ve waited for this, for you, my whole life now.”
And so those hands of his hurriedly get to work.
With one hand diligently pumping Wei Ying’s member to climax, Lan Wangji slides his other fingers into Wei Ying’s open mouth, coating them with saliva that he no longer possesses.
Considering this is Wei Ying’s first—and what a virgin he is—it takes him no time to cum at all, by the administration of a husband so hard at work to please him; a sight titillating enough to tip Wei Ying just over the edge.
No matter dead or alive, Lan Wangji remains so unbearably handsome.
Wei Ying could not ask for a better husband if he tried.
“Please, ah, xianggong,” Wei Ying cries softly with his lips parted wide, as he spills all over Lan Wangji’s fist—the very moment he feels the cold sensation of his husband’s thick digits prodding at his entrance.
Mixed with blood, sweat, and tears, Wei Ying requires no additional lubrication.
Wei Ying looks so beautiful at that moment, Lan Wangji’s momentarily entranced by the sight.
Lan Wangji’s fingers are thick, and the stretch unbearably burns. But after a few good thrusts, Wei Ying is whining and mewling like a cat in heat, and begging for something more.
“I don’t want to keep you waiting,” Wei Ying says, as he lays his head back and makes himself comfortable against the sheets. “And I can’t wait anymore. Xianggong, you’ll have to do it now.”
Lan Wangji remains apprehensive, a trace of fear lingering in his eyes as if he’s afraid of what will happen if they really go through with it.
“Can I not simply pleasure you,” he quietly asks, full of shame and embarrassment about his current state of being, and all of his resulting inadequacies. “Wei Ying, I… I am lacking…”
“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” Wei Ying affirms to him, bringing his hands to his lips again, gently kissing his knuckles once more. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I want all of you—even the parts of you that are gone.”
Lan Wangji, with tears in his eyes, locks his gaze with Wei Ying and steels his resolve, determined to continue, just as his bride wants.
“I want it so much, too,” Lan Wangji admits, sheepishly.
He reaches over the bed for pillow, and then slides it right underneath Wei Ying.
With Wei Ying’s hips now propped up, he’s in the perfect position to be taken. Lan Wangji disrobes himself quickly and efficiently with a flush apparent on his cheeks, even though Wei Ying logically knows that no blood flows through his veins.
He’d been preparing for the worst, but Wei Ying sees nothing wrong with the cock he pulls out.
Lan Wangji is perfect to him, in every way.
“It’s perfect,” Wei Ying whispers, with a sweet smile. He’s only sorry he couldn’t see it in its full glory, alive and pulsating with blood, with protruding veins. “I’d kiss it for good measure.”
“Don’t,” Lan Wangji tells him, horrified by the suggestion. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Wei Ying asks, already ready to forsake it all. “Wherever you go, I will follow.”
And he means it more than he should.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji chides.
But similarly to him, Lan Wangji has waited for this moment for too long to delay it any further.
Pressing into Wei Ying’s tight heat, he shuts both eyes and groans, as he finally achieves his life’s desire.
Sinking deeply into him, he slowly buries himself inside, finally feeling complete. His penetration is so careful and gentle, Wei Ying adapts to the burn with much ease, his slender back arching off the bed rather gracefully in turn. But while Wei Ying feels the stretch, the effects on Lan Wangji are more symbolic. With no blood pumping through his veins, Lan Wangji cannot chase after a sensation in which he cannot feel.
Instead, he simply basks in the fullness of joining their flesh together, of finally embracing Wei Ying in ways he always dreamed of.
Marked by both desire and sorrow, their union defies the boundaries of the living and the dead.
“This, this is…” Wei Ying sighs out.
“Everything I have always wanted,” Lan Wangji whispers, as what remains of his heart swells with happiness.
Wei Ying does not realise he is shedding tears until they trickle down from above, staining his cheeks.
“Lan Wangji,” Wei Ying immediately calls, as he gazes up at the only man who has ever made him whole.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji utters, with such overwhelming affection as he looks at his Wei Ying. As if every tender moment they’ve shared, every memory and emotion, reflects so poignantly in his eyes. With a choking sob, he lets out a devastating admission, knowing his end is near, “I do not wish to lose you.”
He leans over as far as he can reach, just to plant a soft kiss atop Wei Ying’s forehead.
Hugging him, he cries, already knowing the inevitable. “I love you.”
Wei Ying no longer knows if the tears on his cheeks are Lan Wangji’s—or his.
But the answer is as clear to him as day.
There is no other way; and Wei Ying no longer has a desire to stay here, in the world of the living, with no husband by his side.
“Then take me with you,” he breathes, as his hands reach over to lovingly caress his husband’s matted hair. Echoing his words from before, he sweetly sings to him, “Wherever you go, I will follow.”
Even if it is ten feet underground.
But Lan Wangji loves him too much to allow him to choose such a thing.
“Wei Ying, I could not possibly…” Lan Wangji says, as silent sobs shake his entire body. “I could not possibly expect… My family has been cruel to you, forcing you to honour your betrothal. But your heart, it still beats, and you still draw breath…”
Thud, thud, thud.
“It’s too late,” Wei Ying tells him, having already mulled it over in the plenty of time he has had—spent alone within these cold chambers. “I no longer have a place in this world. Having married you, I’m no longer marriageable. My fate has been sealed. I can never find another. I have no other place to call home.”
Lan Wangji’s hands quiver as they reach out to cup Wei Wuxian’s rosy cheeks, still so full of blood.
To think he would willingly give it all up…
“You… You wish to find another?” Lan Wangji asks softly, like he hadn’t even considered such a thing. “Even after marrying me?”
Wei Ying stifles a laugh. “I do not, but even if I did, you wouldn’t let me.” Not with the force of your affections; not when you loved me so fiercely, you rose from the dead to look for me.
And I love you just as much, Lan Wangji.
“You are right,” Lan Wangji muses, hiding a sorry smile. “I would not allow it, even from the grave.”
Wei Ying wriggles cutely underneath him, saying, “I wouldn’t risk upsetting my dead husband. I’m smarter than that.”
Lan Wangji casts him a fond look, full of love. “Wei Ying is very smart; the absolute smartest.”
“So, don’t worry about losing me,” Wei Ying hums. “Take me along, wherever you need to go. I will follow.”
Lan Wangji seems to consider this, albeit hesitatingly. Like he already knows the road ahead of them—is long, dark and treacherous. “You might never see your family again.”
“I never expected to see them anymore anyway, after marrying into your clan.”
Finally, Lan Wangji warns, “I… I will never be able to let you go.”
“So, don’t,” Wei Ying smiles, nuzzling deep into the crook of his neck. “Don’t ever let me slip through your fingers, again.”
“...I won’t.”
He’ll finally get his second chance to start life with Wei Ying, anew.
.
.
.
With one final, silent kiss shared between them in the world of the living, Wei Ying is spirited away into the night.
The next morning, the servants enter the room expecting another mess to tidy—only to find it impeccably neat and clean, yet conspicuously empty, devoid of its sole occupant.
Afraid that young master Wei had truly lost his mind and escaped from the clan in the dead of the night, they run to notify the clan leader, who makes immediate haste for his brother’s chambers.
Already knowing in his heart what has happened, Lan Xichen heads straight for the makeshift altar on the dining table, bracing himself for what he will find.
There, lying face-up on the table, is the old photograph of Lan Wangji that Wei Ying had carefully set aside the day before.
Except, he is no longer alone.
A newly-inked image of Wei Ying fills up the once-empty space in the background, standing right next to his husband, in dutiful accompaniment.
And this time, they’re both smiling, finally looking at peace.