Work Text:
Lan Wangji never expected to be a father.
He did not even properly understand what a father was supposed to be—not when his lived behind a locked door and did not even see him once a month.
The closest thing he had was Shufu’s stern, but loving presence and Xiongzhang’s stilted attempts to be the parent neither of them had after Mama’s passing.
As a boy, the idea of marrying and having children seemed like a distant thing, something reserved for adults and other people. As he grew older, he still found the idea of marrying a woman and making a child unpleasant.
And then there was Wei Ying.
Upon realizing that he loved one man and one man only, Lan Wangji’s plans to remain childless began to solidify.
He plainly refused to take a wife when he could never love another the way he loved Wei Ying. Even after he came of age and the elders began pushing bridal candidates, he staunchly refused.
His father was dead. The man was nothing but a name in the family registry and an absence that some part of him would always resent. His mother was a long-dead prisoner. A caged bird. A trapped woman. Lan Wangji would never repeat his father’s mistakes.
No. Lan Wangji would never be a father.
That was his truth until the moment he watched Wei Ying scoop a snot-faced, sobbing toddler onto his hip in Yiling.
“This child? I birthed him myself!” Wei Ying teased, wiping away the child’s tears and murmuring to him until the tears were eclipsed by a toothy smile.
And there, on a dusty street, a heretofore unknown desire began to burn through Lan Wangji’s veins. It was a foolish, impossible hope, he knew, but a hope nonetheless.
It was easy to spoil A’Yuan that day. It was easy to love the little boy who tilted towards Wei Ying like a sunflower growing toward the sun. It was easy to imagine them in another life—one not touched by war and resentment and rules.
It was hard to leave that night. To watch Wei Ying walk the single-log path into darkness with that child carved something deep into Lan Wangji’s heart. Yet their paths diverged once more, and he left love for duty the way he had been raised to.
And then Wei Ying was gone, and Lan Wangji found A’Yuan in the ashes of the siege.
It was not how he wanted to become a father, and yet he could not let the child go, not even when Xiongzhang tried to pry the feverish little boy from his leaden arms.
Sometimes, in those early days, loving A’Yuan felt like clinging to embers and hoping to catch a flame.
His memories burned away by fever as he laid beside Lan Wangji on the bed. He would not even remember the man whose righteousness, whose love, had brought him into Lan Wangji’s home.
The whip wounds were wrought into skin and muscle. He might never be strong enough to hold A’Yuan again, but he would live for him.
Lan Wangji had never expected to have a child.
But for Wei Ying—for A’Yuan—he would do his best.
He could not replace the aunts and uncles the boy had lost, but he could do better by this boy than his father had done by him. Better, he hoped, than his uncle had, too.
The years passed slowly, painfully, as he healed. He relived his own childhood each week as A’Yuan came to the Jingshi, his face and footsteps tentative.
But then one day Lan Wangji stood up and hung A’Yuan’s calligraphy on the wall with pride. The next week, he walked with his son to the rabbit meadows. And then one day he was able to pick up the growing boy, even if his muscles screamed.
The years bled together as he regained his strength and A’Yuan grew from a boy into a young man. Lan Sizhui would have made Wei Ying proud.
And then, in Mo Village, he did.
From the moment Wei Ying returned to this world, he could be found protecting Jin Ling and Lan Sizhui. His nephew, and, some part of him seemed to instinctively know, his child.
…
It has been five years since he and Wei Ying eloped and four since their proper wedding. Lan Wangji, who had never expected to raise one child, is honored to be a father of four.
Sizhui is rapidly approaching his 20th birthday, but no matter how old he may get or how strong he may become, he will always be their little one.
Each day, Wei Ying playfully bemoans how quickly their children are growing. The girls are almost ready to forge their swords, and even their youngest is about to start his classes with the other Lan children.
Wei Ying grumbles about their children growing up so quickly. “Just think, Lan Zhan! We’ll be empty nesters before you know it. I need more babies.”
“I will always welcome more children with you, Wei Ying.”
“Sappy, sappy man, Hanguang-Jun,” his husband teases, pinning him to the bed and kissing him all over. “I want four more. At least!”
This morning, as Lan Wangji cooks breakfast in the Jingshi, Wei Ying’s rapid chatter overlaps with four more precious voices as Lingli and Xiaolan tell him about their plans to visit Caiyi with their classmates today. Sizhui helps A’Zhu with his robes, laughing gently at something the little boy whispers.
This silent place, which Lan Wangji never expected to be more than a place to rest is now a bustling home.
The wall across from their bed is covered in the children’s calligraphy and paintings and talismans. The planks are well-worn, and the cushions are starting to fray from many dinners enjoyed together at the table. They break at least a dozen rules a day, with Wei Ying claiming nearly ten of those, but Lan Wangji would not have it any other way.
Fatherhood is not easy, exactly, but with Wei Ying at his side, it feels as natural as breathing.