Chapter Text
Unfortunately, a call in the middle of the night was no longer unexpected. Lan Xichen had become a light sleeper by now, always ready to head out, but it was just because he had known from the very first moment what it would mean. He had known the second he saw his brother, barely making it back home, with clothes torn and soaked with blood and dirt, cradling a small feverish child in his arms.
Wangji had barely made it through the entrance before collapsing. His last words before passing out, murmured through cracked lips and with a desperation Xichen would never forget, and that he wished he had never had to even see in his brother’s face, as he begged that they please took care of the child first.
From that moment, Xichen had known. Whatever future awaited them from then on would not be the kindest, much less an easy one.
He had also known—inevitably—that the child would struggle to adjust. And he had been right. The early days had been the hardest, a crying toddler sick, tired and scared, the tearful pleading for someone who could never return, the heartbreaking confusion in those wide, grief-stricken eyes that shouldn’t be on someone so young. It had taken time, long, exhausting weeks that turned into months of soft reassurances and gentle routines, but the worst of the mourning had finally dulled, at least the majority of it had gone away with the child’s illness.
But that didn’t mean peace had come with it, for the mere child’s presence, so small and innocent, had stirred something that he had no fault in, and that Xichen had tried to keep away from him as much as possible, despite the fact that having to fight with his own family was eating him slowly.
Xichen had grown fond of the boy quickly. He hadn’t even tried to resist it, and he certainly hadn’t tried to hide it. The child, despite everything, was bright, shy at first, but quick to start smiling as soon as he warmed up to him, and he could not help but think, that despite not being genuinely related by blood, he was very similar to Wangji at that same age.
Still, he would be lying if he said he never wondered what his life might be like if things were different, if he didn’t have to spend hours every day locked in arguments with the elders, defending decisions he refused to regret, and that he refused to let them strike his already too hurt brother with.
For Xichen understood one thing, he had no doubt, failed to do enough for his brother, for no matter how much he tried, the sorrow in his eyes never left, for no matter what he did, he had realized upon meeting A-Yuan, that he had been too blind before and now nothing could be done about it, as the only person capable of bringing back the dead now laid with them.
“He’s Wangji’s son,” Xichen had said, voice calm but unwavering. “He’s being entered into the family registry. That’s final.”
The elders had argued, as Xichen had known they would. They demanded answers, clarity; names, origins, reasons. But he had stood firm, unmoved. He had no answers that would satisfy them, and even if he did, he doubted they would be accepted. Their questions weren’t truly about understanding; they were about control, about preserving the boundaries of tradition. And Xichen had no interest in entertaining any of that for longer than he had to, not after it was the reason why they ended up like this in the first place.
He hadn’t let them near Wangji either, not even once he woke. Wangji had been through enough. He didn’t deserve to be interrogated the moment he could open his eyes, not when his body was still healing and his soul barely holding together. Xichen had made that boundary clear, he was many things, but before anything else, he was his family, and he would do anything to protect him, as he’d done before, as he’d done that day and as he hadn’t been able to do too, on more occasions than he’d like to accept.
Shufu had sighed beside him during those tense meetings, but had never once told him to stand down. Perhaps it was resignation, perhaps it was understanding. He had been the only one Xichen had spoken to directly about the matter, and even then, words had been few, and that was lucky enough.
Maybe it was during this times that he remembered the day Wangji had woken up, Xichen will keep on guessing to himself that it was what made Shufu stand by him, that maybe a little bit of understanding went through him that day.
They remembered the moment his eyes, dull and distant, had flickered with something close to life, for the first and only time, when A-Yuan was placed into his arms again. That frail little boy who was barely conscious as it was, wrapped tightly in a blanket far too big for him, had buried his face in Wangji’s shoulder without hesitation, where he murmured something that no one else but his brother had listened to, and Wangji, barely able to sit up on his own, had held him tightly, as if the child was the only thing tethering him to this world.
Maybe he was, still is.
In that shared silence, him and Shufu had understood the same truth: this was all they could do for him, the only thing that mattered at the moment.
And that was why Xichen never hesitated, not for a single moment, when they called for him. “Zewu-jun!”
He arrived swiftly, his robes still impeccably neat despite the urgency. He nodded politely in greeting, and the caretakers visibly relaxed at the sight of him, still, they couldn't fully mask their anxiety, their eyes flicked repeatedly toward the closed door behind them, from which an unmistakable ruckus could be heard, definitely beyond what was allowed in cloud recesses. Before stepping in, Xichen asked the only question that truly mattered. “How much sleep did he get this time?”
One of the caretakers answered softly, “Around two incense time.”
Xichen closed his eyes for a breath, and the expression that crossed his face was fleeting but unmistakably pained, it was the same answer he’d been hearing for months. The same helplessness, as A-Yuan barely slept at all, and when he did, it never lasted. Nightmares clawed at him the moment he drifted off, dragging him back to memories far too heavy for someone so small.
There was one exception, of course, when he was with Wangji. In those rare moments, curled against his side with one of Wangji’s arms protectively draped around him, the child slept soundly. But those moments had become rare after the child’s fever had gone away, and precious, as the situation stud now, when for ‘safety’ Wangji wasn’t allowed to be with him anymore.
And so, Xichen took a steadying breath, gathered himself, and reached for the door. No matter what waited for him on the other side, he wouldn’t falter.
He never did.
He called out gently as he stepped inside. “A-Yuan?”
A choked sob answered him. “G-gege…?”
The sound broke something in Xichen’s chest. He tried to smile, soft and reassuring, though he feared it came out too tight, too brittle around the edges. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It’s just me.”
The child’s cries softened but didn’t stop entirely, never completely, they never did. No matter how much effort Xichen poured into soothing him, it was always like this. The most he could ever manage was a lull in the storm, never its end.
“I… I want my gege,” A-Yuan whimpered through hiccups, “I want gege…!”
Xichen approached slowly, careful not to startle him, his steps silent against the floor. He knelt beside the small heap of blankets in the corner and opened his arms in offering.
But A-Yuan didn’t come to him.
Sometimes he did, he launched himself into Xichen’s embrace, shaking and sobbing until his tears dried. But tonight, like on too many other nights, he curled in on himself instead, trembling, hiding his face against his knees. “I want gege… … and… and…”
“I know,” Xichen whispered. “I’m sorry.” There was nothing else he could say. The words had long since lost their weight, and yet they were the only ones he had to offer.
In the beginning, he’d wondered who this ‘gege’ was, but over time, it became clear; Gege wasn’t just one person, sometimes, it was Wangji, he’d learned that in those few times the kid had been able to stay with him, but other nights, gege meant someone else entirely, the one Wangji had gone through hell to bring A-Yuan home for.
His reason.
The one they couldn’t speak of openly, whose name had never passed A-Yuan’s lips, but whose absence hung heavier than any word ever could, and someone Xichen had conflicted feelings about, for he was unable to despise him, still that didn’t mean he held for him a high regard either, but that was another matter entirely.
It didn’t matter who gege meant, not really. Xichen couldn’t bring either of them to him. Not the one lost, and not the one who, for now, was not only still recovering, but also forbidden from leaving his own room.
He wondered briefly, if the child called for them so desperately, because as they had discovered not long ago, his memories were very hazy now, and they seemed to be most of what little he remembered.
Still, whatever it was it didn’t matter, so as he did every night, Xichen stayed. Sat beside the child, never touching unless invited, humming quietly when the silence became too loud, offering any few words of comfort he could think of, and as always, the hours dragged.
A-Yuan cried until his tiny body couldn’t anymore. His sobs turned into soft sniffles, then to hiccupping breaths. And finally, not quite sleeping, but passing out from the sheer exhaustion of it all, he went quiet, as he always did.
Xichen adjusted the blanket around him and remained seated on the floor beside him long after, waiting just to still be there in case he woke up again, for he did learn something about the kid’s sleep, and it was that he often dreamed about being all alone.
There was no triumph in surviving the night. Only repetition. Only endurance, but, he stayed.
Still, something had shifted that night.
Maybe it was the way A-Yuan had sobbed until his tiny body gave out again, and how Xichen had just sat there, useless, aching to do more but unable to offer anything that truly helped. Or maybe it was something deeper, exhaustion that had finally caught up to him, not just from sleepless nights, but from constantly putting off what he already knew had to be done.
He could no longer stand there watching a child cry himself to unconsciousness night after night, while Wangji lay in his quarters just rooms away, both of them barely clinging to themselves, keeping them separated had never truly been an option, despite of what the elders would prefer.
Maybe the right time wasn’t something that would ever come on its own, what was one more ruckus to his list of things to do, anyway?
So he made the decision, quietly, firmly. And once more, he repeated it to himself like a vow: This is final.
He hoped, prayed to whatever god would listen, if by chance there were one or two that understood of grief, loss and wait, of lost causes and of moving on, that everything went well, as every sign pointed to one simple truth, the only path forward for either of them was one they had to walk together.
He sought out Shufu the next morning, just after first light.
“Wangji hasn’t…” he began, voice even but carrying the weight of many sleepless nights, of his own worry and grief, of his own care, of his own emotions, “hasn’t shown much sign of recovery, until now…”
Shufu didn’t respond immediately. When he did, his tone wasn’t as stern as usual, but it still held firm. “And what makes you think, in the state he’s in, that he’s fit to care for a child? Xichen, please, think this through.”
Xichen inclined his head respectfully, but didn’t retreat. “I have. And with all due respect, Shufu, I believe this is exactly the kind of reason Wangji needs to recover.”
He paused, letting that moment come back to his mind, Wangji waking up, trembling arms wrapped around the boy, and the way his eyes, for the first time in weeks, had filled with something real. Not clarity, perhaps, but presence, life.
“And A-Yuan…” he continued, softer now, “he can’t go on like this either. They… they need each other.”
Shufu sighed heavily. His expression remained unreadable for a long moment, then he turned away slightly, hands clasped behind his back.
The silence stretched.
“You understand what you’re asking for, don’t you?” he said at last, voice quieter now, almost weary.
“I do,” Xichen said.
“And you’re prepared to handle the consequences that come from it?” There was no hesitation this time. Xichen’s fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his robes as he nodded. “I am.”
For a long breath, Shufu said nothing. Then, at last, he gave a slow, almost reluctant nod. “Very well, let us go make the arrangement.”
Xichen exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders for the first time in what felt like days. He allowed himself a small smile—not of victory, but of quiet gratitude.
Shufu might not have agreed with him entirely, but Xichen could see it in the lines of his face, in the careful way he didn’t argue further, he understood.
And that, more than anything, meant Xichen wouldn’t have to do this alone.
The door opened suddenly, Lan Wangji blinked towards the sound, his body slow to respond, as if even turning his head cost more strength than he wanted to give. He hadn't been expecting anyone, but he hardly kept track of time as it was now.
In came his brother, robes moving with swift excitement, a wide smile stretched across his face, one that might have looked entirely cheerful, if not for the telltale shadows under his eyes.
“Xiongzhang?” Lan Wangji asked, voice low, rough from disuse, it wasn’t that he talked that much to begin with, but as it was, it had gotten even rarer for him.
“Wangji, it’s time!” Time? Lan Wangji tilted his head slightly, just enough to show his confusion. His thoughts felt clouded, dulled around the edges. Time for what? His medicine had already been delivered earlier that day. His bandages had been changed, what else was there? He barely had anything he waited for anymore, anything his brother could have known about at least.
He tried to voice the question, but Xichen was already sweeping into the room with a large cloth bag slung over one shoulder. Behind him, a young disciple followed, carefully carrying what appeared to be a small bedframe. The wood was pale, clearly new, and oddly reminded him of another small hope he kept dear to his chest, but it was not time to dwell on that, for remembering how far away he was only served to pain him more.
Lan Wangji watched as the disciple placed the frame in the side room, then bowed and quietly exited. He didn’t understand.
Xichen dropped the bag gently to the floor and moved to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. His smile was brighter than it had been in days, maybe even weeks. There was something charged in his presence, something urgent—but warm. Hopeful.
Still, Lan Wangji struggled to match the pace. His body felt heavy, and his thoughts even heavier, he didn’t even have the energy to try, if he was honest.
“Xiongzhang?” he asked again, more quietly this time.
Xichen turned to him, eyes softening, though the energy behind his smile remained. “Wangji, I finally finished everything necessary, everything will be fine now. I promise.”
Lan Wangji blinked at him, as if hearing a foreign language. Everything? What everything? But as he wondered, Xichen leaned forward slightly, and for a fleeting moment, that bright smile faltered, just a little. There was something else there now, behind his expression. A flicker of something tender, old, and heavy that he could not quite put into words.
He raised a hand and lightly touched Lan Wangji’s head, an old gesture from childhood, always present whenever he’d felt like the world was too much, too far away or too gone, it had been a long time since his brother had done that.
“I promise, alright?” he repeated. “We’ll be back in less than an incense time. You just wait, A-Zhan.”
And then he was gone, sweeping out of the room with the same strange, boundless energy he'd brought in.
The door closed behind him.
Silence returned.
Lan Wangji stared at the empty doorway long after Xichen had left, his eyes lingering on the faint echo of his brother’s presence. The promise still echoed in his mind, unanchored.
Everything will be fine now.
He wished he could believe it. But all he could feel, in the echo of his brother’s touch, was the quiet reminder of everything that had not been fine.
After all, without Wei Ying…
Ever since that day, nothing had truly been fine, not in any way that mattered. The world had continued, time had moved forward as it always did, but for him, that was unfair, the world shouldn’t have been allowed to move after Wei Ying, or maybe it was only him who felt as though it hadn’t passed a second since then.
He couldn't remember the last time things had been good. Or peaceful. Or even simply bearable. He could barely remember the last time he'd taken a breath that didn’t ache on the way in.
And so he sighed, slow and heavy, the kind of sigh that came from the ribs, as though something within him were trying to exhale the grief it had carried too long. He wanted to believe in what his brother had said. Everything will be fine now.
Even if it was a lie, couldn’t he pretend?
He glanced again at the small bed set up in the side room. It sat there quietly, waiting, like something hopeful left behind in a place that didn’t yet deserve hope. He stared at it for a long while, unmoving.
Eventually, as always, he lost track of time. The silence began to stretch again, familiar and oppressive, comforting as well as painful, for he had once and forever will, ache for the person who best filled it, but as it was, it stayed, blanketing the room like fog. His thoughts drifted, as they often did now, back into that same half-world of memory and loss. That place where nothing changed, much like himself.
Until the door burst open once more.
He turned slowly, instinctively, no urgency in the movement, only the weary pull of someone expecting nothing—
“Gege!” The voice hit him like sunlight breaking through overcast skies.
Before his mind could even catch up, his body had moved. He was off the bed, falling to his knees just as a small, warm weight collided with his chest, giggling, breathless and real. His arms wrapped instinctively around the child, clutching him tightly, as he didn’t want to let go, but just as gently, as if he were something impossibly precious, to be cherished. And he was.
Wen Yuan.
A-Yuan.
His presence filled the room like the first breath of spring after a winter that had gone on too long. His laughter, soft, bubbling, excited, innocent, brought something rare and forgotten to Lan Wangji’s face, a smile, unbidden, honest, fragile.
He held him close, buried his face in the boy’s hair for a moment, let himself breathe in the warmth, that he once thought he’d never find again.
“Gege, gege!” A-Yuan beamed up at him, practically glowing. “How do you feel today?”
Lan Wangji looked at him, his expression tender in the way only A-Yuan ever saw. He replied softly, almost in disbelief at the words as they left him. “Today is good.”
A-Yuan’s joy swelled. “Did you know, gege? Did you?!”
Lan Wangji blinked, tilting his head slightly, curious now, his melancholy stepping aside in the presence of the tiny spark of light in his eyes, he turned to his brother for answers, his expression open, uncertain.
Xichen stood a few steps behind, watching them with a smile that had softened into something quieter than before. Not beaming, not shining, but real. And there was something in his eyes, too, care, and perhaps relief, as if something had just fallen off his shoulders.
“We wanted to surprise Wangji,” Xichen said gently, nodding to A-Yuan. “So, why don’t you tell him?”
A-Yuan bounced slightly in Lan Wangji’s lap, excitement building up in his small frame. He grinned so hard it looked like it might split his cheeks, that grin was the same as his, the one that Lan Zhan loved to see more than anything on the world. “Today I can stay with gege! And tomorrow! And every day!”
Lan Wangji froze, stunned, not because he doubted it, but because the words seemed too good to be real. He looked between A-Yuan and Xichen. His brother laughed softly. “It’s true,” he said. “I’m sorry it took so long, Wangji.”
Lan Wangji didn’t speak. He simply looked down at the child still nestled against him, small fingers fisting gently into the folds of his robes. He tightened his embrace just a little bit, protectively. As if he could just keep his tiny piece of happiness from the world for a bit longer, just enough.
The warmth in his chest remained, quiet but constant, comforting.
And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Lan Wangji believed, not that everything was fine, it wouldn’t be.
But that maybe, just maybe, it could be better.
Time passed gently, as Xichen remained with them for a while, carefully explaining how things would be from now on. His voice was calm, patient, his care for both of them dripping from his every word.
Though Lan Wangji was still forbidden from leaving his room, A-Yuan would be allowed some measure of freedom, at least enough to continue his etiquette lessons under Shufu’s careful watch. Beyond that, the boy could go outside the room if he wished, so long as he stayed within the bounds of the Jingshi and wasn’t alone.
Both of them listened quietly. A-Yuan nodded with wide, solemn eyes that were too used to adapting, and Lan Wangji—silent as ever—offered no protest. Neither of them had complaints. They had what they needed now.
When Xichen eventually departed, dusk had already begun to creep through the paper windows, soft and violet. The time for sleep was near, but they delayed it just a little longer, and together, they spent what was left of the evening setting up the side room, carefully adjusting blankets, arranging soft cushions just the way A-Yuan liked them, letting him place his favorite toy in the corner near the wall, where he said it could also watch the stars, and placing his little drawing of Lan Zhan in the wall, to be proudly showed off, even if only a few others would ever get so see it.
Next to his own bed though, remained a drawing of people Lan Wangji could barely guess the names of, but he was sure he knew very well at least one of them, it was bittersweet.
Lan Wangji moved slowly, mindful of his healing body, he knew he had to stay in bed for yet longer, but he didn’t complain, not once. A-Yuan chattered through most of it, offering opinions and asking questions, and Wangji listened to all of it, offering small responses that were enough for the kid. It was the fullest their room had felt in a long time, for either of them.
Afterward, they sat together again, and as was already becoming a habit, Lan Wangji told him a story. Something simple and soft, with stars and gentle lights, and no shadows chasing anyone.
“Gege,” A-Yuan asked as he leaned against his side, blinking sleepily, “what happened to the little star…?”
“It was able to shine again,” Lan Wangji answered softly, as he carefully watched the child close his eyes for longer bit by bit, A-Yuan went quiet for a moment, his small brow furrowed in thought, thinking as deeply as his tiny head could handdle. “Was it… was it happy again?”
Lan Wangji nodded. “Mhm.”
That seemed to satisfy him. A-Yuan smiled, bright and genuine, just before letting out a big yawn and curling further into Wangji’s side. Lan Wangji looked down at him with quiet affection, his expression gentler than anyone else would ever see in a long time.
Carefully, as much as his injuries allowed him to, he lifted the boy into his arms and began preparing him for sleep, brushing his hair from his forehead, changing the rest of his clothes and putting away his shoes, tucking the blanket just right. Every movement was deliberate and steady, not just because of his injuries, but because A-Yuan deserved to be handled with care, with endearment.
Just as Lan Wangji was about to step back, A-Yuan reached for him again, grabbing his sleeve with the few strengths he had left. “Gege… gege’s gonna be here when I wake up?”
Lan Wangji looked him straight in the eyes and nodded solemnly, trying to transmit every ounce of his sincerity into the gesture, he meant it. And now, even in silence, he wanted the truth to be clear, he wasn't going anywhere.
He couldn’t, and even if he were allowed to, nothing in the world could make him want to. A-Yuan's gaze lingered on him, thoughtful in that way children sometimes were, unfiltered, pure. Then came the question Lan Wangji had been dreading since day one. “Gege… do you know where Xian-gege is…?”
The world slowed for a moment.
Lan Wangji froze, not visibly, but something within him seized. He had known this question would come. It had always been only a matter of time. But still… when it did, he wasn’t ready, he wondered briefly if he would ever be, the answer was a likely no. Still, he swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “…Wei Ying… Wei Ying is very, very far away.”
The answer, gentle as it was, seemed to drain the remaining energy from A-Yuan’s face. His small mouth turned downward, and he looked at the blanket, fingers twisting in its folds. “And… and when is he gonna come back?”
Lan Wangji looked away. He couldn’t answer that, not even to himself, much less to A-Yuan. “…I don’t know.”
Silence fell between them again. But it wasn’t the same silence as before, this one carried something uncertain, maybe a bit lost.
“I miss Xian-gege…” A-Yuan murmured, voice fragile. Lan Wangji nodded, unable to speak, his throat was tight, it got tighter as he heard him next. “Do you miss him too, gege?”
He nodded again, slowly, deeply, as a familiar weight started to make pressure in his chest, as it stole his breath, his eyes, his memories recalling mumbled words that cut into him deeper than any sword ever would. For what was stolen from him, was not just his heart, but his entire world.
But that was enough. A-Yuan didn’t press further. Instead, he leaned forward and wrapped his small arms around Lan Wangji’s neck in a tight, warm hug. Lan Wangji let himself into it, one arm gently returning the embrace, the other resting lightly on the boy’s back.
No promises. No answers, but company, and that was enough, at least for today.
Lan Zhan only released his hold when he felt the boy’s small body finally go limp in his arms, breathing slowly, the weight of sleep settling over him like a blanket. Carefully, he tucked A-Yuan back beneath the covers, lifting his head to nestle it into the pillow. A soft hand brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead quietly.
He lingered for a moment, watching the boy’s peaceful face, before returning to his own bed, and he was just beginning to drift off, the fog of rest finally starting to take him, when a scream pierced through the stillness like a blade.
“G-gege…!” Lan Zhan’s eyes snapped open. His body reacted before his thoughts did, jerking upright, and the force that he did that with along with the pain his body gave in response, took away whatever sleep he had left. “A-Yuan…?”
There was a beat of silence, too long. Then, the door to the side room burst open with a thud, and small, hurried footsteps came running straight towards him. “Gege!”
Lan Zhan caught him without hesitation, and helped the boy as much a he could to climb up into his arms, until he could finally cradle the sobbing child as he collided into his chest. A-Yuan clung tightly to his robes, burying his tear-streaked face against him, little shoulders shaking with each breath.
Lan Zhan said nothing at first. He simply held him, one hand cradling the back of A-Yuan’s head, the other wrapping around his small frame protectively. He rocked him slightly, a slow, steady motion, letting the boy’s sobs run their course.
Only when the crying had softened into hiccups did he speak, voice as gentle as the morning sun. “Bad dream?”
A-Yuan sniffled hard and nodded, scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his night robe. “Mm… very ugly dream…”
Still curled up in Lan Zhan’s lap, A-Yuan tucked himself in even closer, squirming slightly until he found a spot that felt safest, right beneath Lan Zhan’s chin, arms looped tightly around his middle. He sighed shakily, like his little heart was still catching up but now he had found the safest place on the world.
Lan Zhan rubbed a soothing hand down his back in slow, calming circles. “Want to tell me?”
A-Yuan nodded again, slower this time. His voice was soft and shaky, words tumbling out between sniffles. “I… I was alone… and… and gege wasn’t there and… and it was… and it was all dark… so dark… and… and something was in it…”
Lan Zhan kept his hand moving, a quiet, steady comfort, listening with the kind of patience only he could offer.
“And… and I tried to hide!” A-Yuan continued, his voice rising just a little, filled with the urgency of the memory. “I… I was in the dirt… but it found me and… and i… I wanted gege but gege didn’t come and… and I was alone…”
The last word cracked and fell apart in a sob that hadn’t quite finished leaving his chest, Lan Zhan closed his eyes as he held the trembling child tighter against his chest, resting his cheek against the top of A-Yuan’s head.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
A-Yuan let out another small hiccup, then clung even tighter, fingers still fisted tightly into Lan Zhan’s robes.
“But… but what if…” he asked, his voice shaking, “what if you gotta leave… like Xian-gege did…?”
The question hit deeper than it should have, Lan Zhan took a breath, steady but quiet, and this time, when he spoke, his voice held not just comfort, but a vow, an unbreakable promise to him.
“I won’t,” he said firmly, gently. “I’ll always be here. Because you’re mine to protect.”
A-Yuan sniffled again, lifting his head just enough to peek up at him, eyes wide and wet. “I… I am?”
Lan Zhan nodded, brushing his thumb along the boy’s cheek to catch a lingering tear. “Mhm.”
A-Yuan blinked at him for a moment, small mouth parted in surprise as the idea turned over in his mind. Then, in the smallest, little and almost scared voice, he asked, “…Then… are you… are you my a-die…?”
The word was uncertain, almost shy, timid, scared of rejection, but filled with hope, it made Lan Zhan still, just for a breath.
Despite the official papers, the registry, the arguments with the elders, it hadn’t occurred to him that A-Yuan might choose to call him that, that he might want to. Lan Zhan had never expected it, had never reached for it, for to him, to be able to take care of A-Yuan was more than enough.
But now, as A-Yuan looked up at him with all the trust a child could carry, waiting for an answer, he nodded. Slowly, with care, and with something soft breaking open in his chest. This time, he had another answer. “… I am.”
The change on A-Yuan’s face was instant and radiant. A flicker of awe, then relief, and then something even greater that he could not quite describe. “R-really?”
Lan Zhan nodded again, firmer this time, brushing back a stray strand of hair from A-Yuan’s forehead. “Mn. I’m A-Yuan’s A-die.”
That was all it took. A-Yuan threw his arms around his neck in another hug, small and warm and full of joy that shook with leftover sniffles. But now, he was smiling.
“A-die!” he said, the word bursting out of him like laughter.
“Yes?” Lan Zhan asked, voice barely above a whisper, almost unsure how to breathe through the feeling rising in his chest, and most of all, as the unexpected emotion of answering to this call for the first time, while being sure about it, rushed towards his whole being.
“A-die, A-die!” A-Yuan repeated, giggling now in between the words as he buried his face into Lan Zhan’s neck like he couldn’t say it enough, Lan Wangji held him closer, his hand cradling the back of the boy’s head, the weight of the name settling over him like something sacred.
“A-die… can I stay with you now?” A-Yuan asked, his voice so small it nearly vanished into the quiet. He peeked up from Lan Zhan’s chest with wide, watery eyes, then glanced toward the bed in the side room. His lower lip wobbled just a little. “I… I don’t wanna go back…”
Lan Zhan followed the direction of his gaze, understanding instantly. That room, though made with care, still held too much silence, too many shadows for a night like this. And the fear from the dream still clung to the edges of A-Yuan’s voice, faint but there, like the last breeze of a storm. He didn’t hesitate, and as he would soon learn, he never will when it came to petitions from his son. “Mhm.”
A-Yuan’s eyes lit up the moment he heard it. A wide, sleepy smile broke across his face, and with newfound energy, he wriggled under the blanket, tucking himself right beside Lan Zhan as if he belonged there and always had, which, of course, he did.
He squirmed and shuffled until he was just where he wanted to be, only his little head poking out from the covers. Then, with quiet determination, he reached for Lan Zhan’s arm, pulling it over himself, and hiding in it with determination, as if it was the safest place ever, and just by being there no nightmares would dare approach.
Lan Zhan let him guide his movements and then settled in as well, adjusting carefully around the small bundle now nestled at his side. His hand rested gently over A-Yuan’s back, and he could feel the soft rhythm of the boy’s breathing beginning to slow, he spoke softly. “Ready?”
A-Yuan nodded, eyes already drooping. “Mmhm… ready…”
Lan Zhan’s gaze softened with fondness. “Goodnight, A-Yuan.”
A tiny voice, muffled by warmth and blankets and sleep, answered back, almost lost into dreamland. “Goodnight, A-die…”
The words curled like a lullaby in the quiet room, and for the first time in what felt like too long, peace settled around them like snow—silent and soft.
Lan Zhan stayed awake a little longer, just to watch him peacefully set into sleep, just to make sure there really were no more nightmares to fight.
The next morning, just after breakfast, Xichen came back to visit both of them, the happiness that he’d been brightly filled with since the day before hadn’t left him one bit. “Wangji, A-Yuan!”
“Xionzhang.” Lan Wangji greeted, and as soon as Lan Xichen closed the door behind him and sat near them, his son looked at him expectantly, waiting for the signal to put in motion what they had been discussing upon waking up. “A-die, can I please?”
Lan Wangji nodded at him, as his brother looked between them, shocked, but before he could ask anything, A-Yuan turned to look at him, and with a bright smile finally broke the mystery. “Bobo!”
Xichen froze for a second, before tears started to fall down his eyes, it had all been worth it.
Wei Wuxian could come back and take his brother away, and it would all still been worth it because he gave him such a cute nephew.