Chapter Text
Lan Xichen is staring at him with one of his soap-bubble smiles. There’s nothing between his soothing, attentive expression and the air behind him.
It is one of Lan Wangji’s favorite expressions, normally. Right now, it’s enough to make his heart race.
“Brother?” Lan Xichen says, still with that pleasant smile. He is picturing air, Lan Wangji knows. Is picturing the stillness of an empty room. Perhaps the calm of a pot just before it boils, the way he’d taught Lan Wangji to, when he was young and struggling to be still , to avoid the pitying looks and reproaches of the elders.
Lan Wangji takes a measured breath. “Mn?”
He tears his eyes away from his brother, taking in for the first time the room they’re in.
It’s his uncle’s study in the Cloud Recesses, if the Cloud Recesses from his childhood still stood. On the wall is the same landscape his mother had inked back when she had first come here. The cups on the table are the ones he remembers drinking from at five, at ten, at fifteen years old. On the shelf is one of his favorite books to sneak looks at when no one else was looking, a romance between a man and a woman that was flimsy at best. More convincing was the relationship between the man and his shidi.
His uncle clears his throat, shooting him a concerned look. “I asked if you would help escort guests to their chambers. The first of the sects should be getting here soon.”
He swallows down panic. This might still be a dream, or the work of one of the cultivators from before. It might be real, too. The only way he knows to test it is to try to find Wei Ying, if he can. “Mn.”
Silence. “Now, Wangji,” his uncle finally says.
Lan Wangji nods, thinking fast. If the sects are here, and his brother looks so young, the walls unburnt and old around him … it’s probably the day he met Wei Ying for the first time.
He has to take a steadying breath when his vision dances with black spots as he stands. It occurs to him that he is exhausted.
Qiren and Xichen are still staring at him with a tinge of concern. He has nothing to offer them except questions, so he makes his way toward the entrance to Cloud Recesses.
The morning is slow. It stretches, long enough that he thinks through what to say to Wei Ying when he sees him, thinks through how to apologize. He’s not used to feeling guilt. He’s estranged himself to it, had told Wei Ying to do the same.
Now, it feels like a physical companion.
He thinks, again, of how to tell Wei Ying that whatever is happening, wherever they are, he will protect them this time. To give him one more chance to protect them.
Then: what if this is all real, and Wei Ying is no longer the Wei Ying he knows?
The thought almost breaks him.
He hasn’t been alone in such a long time.
The sects trickle in as he struggles to stay awake. The Lanling Jin sect. The Wens. The Nies. A few smaller sects. He is able to escort more of them than not.
He knows that the Jiangs will not arrive until after curfew, or they did not the first time he lived today. Still, he waits, heart in his throat. Perhaps Wei Ying really is here, and he will hurry them along. Perhaps he will not forget their invitation this time, ensuring that he will meet Lan Wangji sooner.
He doesn’t believe any of this, if only because Wei Ying lives to be contrary.
Finally, an hour after curfew, he paces to the entrance again, finding a tense Jiang delegation camped just outside the gates.
He stands next to the guards. “Hanguang Jun,” the one on the right says, bowing. He almost remembers his name, except that he can’t seem to quiet his mind enough to think of it. “They say they are the Jiang family, they sent their head disciple to look for their invitation.”
Lan Wangji’s heart makes a valiant attempt to jump out of his chest.
“Mn.” He looks beyond the gate to where Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng are murmuring to one another. They stop as he looks over and stand.
Jiang Yanli is the first to bow. Her smile, impossibly, rivals Lan Xichen’s. It’s polite and impossible to read. “Young master Lan,” she says, “we forgot our invitation at the inn. My younger brother is retrieving it. We are sorry for arriving so late.”
Beside her, Jiang Cheng bows a second later. “Very sorry,” he intones.
A hole yawns in his chest, begging him to talk to them, to hear them for what they are now — ghosts that his husband has never laid to rest, has never been able to forgive himself for losing. But that’s a tall order for so late at night when he’s been thinking longingly of the sun-drenched naps he and Wei Ying take when they find themselves visiting the Cloud Recesses. “Mn. Follow me.”
He ignores the shocked expressions of the guards, almost a sound in and of themselves, and instead takes a step back, hesitating as he hears them scramble to collect their belongings and entourage behind him, before setting off toward their quarters.
Halfway there, the group catches up. When he looks down and back to check, he’s unsurprised to see Jiang Yanli taking small, unhurried steps behind him. Whatever grace her brothers lack she more than makes up for.
“Your quarters,” he says when they finally arrive at a low-slung building. Several rooms are blocked into the building, with rows of beds in each.
If he remembers right, this is the year he’d moved into the jingshi instead of migrating with the other disciples from their shared quarters into another, more crowded building.
Jiang Yanli nods at him, smiling kindly. “Thank you, second master Lan. We appreciate your kindness.”
Lan Wangji nods. “Classes start at eight tomorrow morning.”
She nods again as Jiang Cheng flashes him a tense smile. It looks far more like a grimace. “We’ll all be there.”
He remembers this from the first time it had happened. He doesn’t remember their stress, though, the way they’d seemed on the verge of marching out into the forest themselves to track down Wei Ying and drag him back by the scruff of his neck. It is almost endearing.
“Mn,” he agrees, and leaves them to settle into their new home for the next few months. He has a Wei Ying to intercept, regardless of whether it is his husband or a youthful, oblivious version of him. Either way, he cautions himself to expect some ridiculous show even as he folds himself into a comfortable seat atop one of the taller roofs in Cloud Recesses.
The moon is high and bathing the night in a buttery light when he snaps awake. There is a light scuffing sound, the clinking of bottles.
Wei Ying clambers onto the wall surrounding Cloud Recesses, three bottles of Emperor’s Smile strung about his person instead of two as Lan Wangji looks around. Does the deviation from their original time mean that this is his husband, or that this Wei Ying has somehow felt that this Lan Wangji is both colder and more accepting than the original?
“Alcohol is forbidden,” he says, staring intently. His fingers feel numb. In front of him is yet another ghost, a boyish face with a strong jaw, wide shoulders, eye-to-eye with Lan Wangji for the next year or so, until Lan Wangji got a final growth spurt that gave him an extra inch over him. He wants to memorize this moment, this face he first fell in love with, the way he moves like a predator instead of something ephemeral and carefree. Seeing him like this feels like a fever dream, like he should wake up any minute to find that he’s been possessed or poisoned or — something.
Wei Ying beams at him. “Are you sure about that?”
Lan Wangji had stopped caring about this particular rule a decade ago. They rarely stay in Cloud Recesses, but when they do, he smuggles in Wei Ying’s alcohol without much thought. “Entry after curfew is forbidden,” he says, sidestepping the issue.
“Look at this face! I’m so handsome,” Wei Ying exclaims. “Would you really deprive yourself of seeing me? Would you really have me leave again? I’m already inside!”
The argument is so familiar in its ridiculousness that Lan Wangji can only huff out a quiet “Wei Ying” in warning.
He has just a moment to realize that this might be too familiar, as Lan Wangji has not yet met Wei Ying at this point, and shouldn’t rightly know his face, let alone his birth name. Before he can panic, Wei Ying’s shoulders slump in relief. “Lan Zhan?”
“Mn.”
Wei Ying flings himself into his arms, making incoherent soothing sounds, the way he’d babbled at A-Yuan when he was young sometimes.
His husband is so silly, Lan Wangji thinks warmly.
“I was so worried you wouldn’t be you, Lan Zhan! I had to pretend all day to fit in this body again. Shijie is alive now! No one wants me dead! I went into town and no one thought twice about me. I do think someone was checking me out though? I missed being handsome!”
“Wei Ying is always handsome,” Lan Zhan says reflexively, because he’s not really sure how to deal with the rest of what he’s saying, and because it’s an old reassurance.
“That’s what you’re focusing on?” Wei Ying asks, rubbing his cheek against Lan Wangji’s shoulder like a cat. He tightens his hold on Wei Ying’s waist and buries his face in his hair. It’s as silky as he always thought it would be, if a little tangled from a day of running around. “You do like this body more, don’t you? It’s okay, Lan Zhan, I do too.”
“Wei Ying …”
“Haha, okay, okay, we can stop talking about how hot I am. Are you okay? Are we really here? Why are we here, Lan Zhan?”
He drops a kiss to Wei Ying’s forehead. “Can talk at the jingshi.”
“Lan Zhan is right, as usual! Wouldn’t want to get caught fraternizing with a student. But you are … also a student? Is that allowed, Lan Zhan? I don’t think there’s a rule about it, but there probably is, right?” He reaches down to link his hand with Lan Wangji and tugs him to the edge of the roof. “Lan Zhan I … don’t let go of my hand, okay?”
Lan Wangji nods, glad to not have to ask. He’s not ready to let Wei Ying go. Besides, it looks like Wei Ying needs the help. He overshoots the first jump to the next roof, and stumbles on the landing on their second jump.
“Hah, I’m so tall now! And muscular! I never got this much muscle back in my other body, or this much spiritual energy yet. Mo Xuanyu really was delicate, you know.”
Lan Wangji is acutely aware of that, but he doubts Wei Ying would appreciate his agreement.
They get to the jingshi without much issue. He’s relieved to find that he had, indeed, already moved his things here earlier, and that the bed has fresh sheets, that it’s been aired out of its dust and memories. Still, he lingers on the path before the house.
“Lan Zhan?”
He blinks dazedly at the house one more time, then looks over at Wei Ying. How to explain this kind of loss to someone who has already lost everything? He’s not sure his mouth can even shape words with precision at this point, the world feeling too cloudy and distant as exhaustion catches up with him again. He shakes his head slightly. “This house is closer to my mother than when we lived here,” is what he settles on, trusting Wei Ying to feel out what he means.
It seems to work. Wei Ying nods, his eyebrows furrowing. “She didn’t die all that long ago, really, right now. Would you like to pay your respects?”
“Ancestor’s hall is too far. We would attract attention.”
Wei Ying shakes his head and tugs him forward again, onto the porch. He kneels, forcing Lan Wangji to kneel with him before letting go of his hand and bowing. “Madam Lan Zhan’s mom, I don’t know if you remember us. We’re a bit out of time,” he begins, peeking at Lan Wangji out of the corner of his eye as if waiting for him to tell him off.
He doesn’t. His mother would’ve loved Wei Ying. Before or after everything had happened. More so, he thinks, after all that Wei Ying had done. She had her own sense of justice, after all.
Without an interruption, Wei Ying continues. “This one is Lan Wangji’s husband. I am Wei Ying, courtesy name Wei Wuxian. You’ve raised two wonderful sons,” he says clearing his throat, “and I would like to do better by them, if Lan Zhan and I are really here to stay.”
Lan Wangji looks at him out of the corner of his eye, a bit taken aback. He sounds sincere, achingly honest in a way he avoids whenever possible.
Wei Ying grins at him reassuringly and nods like they’ve agreed on something. Smoke begins to whisp off of him as he bows again, then writes a sigil in the air. It’s a simple one compared to most of what he doodles on his practice talismans, the characters glinting a dull silver in the air for a moment before dispersing like fog. His shoulders straighten, and he bows deeply again.
“Madam Lan,” he says, voice sombre. Lan Wangji looks around slowly, taking in every shift in wind and glint of light. Still, he only sees Wei Ying. “We want to pay our respects. And to tell you that we’re looking after each other, and after Lan Xichen — Lan Huan,” he corrects himself, blushing faintly. As if calling his brother by his given name is somehow more shameful than anything else he’s done tonight. “Lan Zhan really misses you.”
Wei Ying cocks his head, as if he’s listening intently. “Yes, ma’am.” A pause, and then his face lights up and he smiles tenderly. “I can tell him, ma’am.”
Lan Wangji looks at him expectantly.
But Wei Ying just keeps staring blankly forward, eyes unfocused. Then he bows again and lets out a sigh, resting his forehead on the wood of the deck. Lan Wangji bows, then leans back to watch him for a few quiet moments. “She was barely here,” he says finally. “An echo of an echo, really. But she was ... “ He shakes his head. “I can see why you loved her so much. She seemed settled. Like she knew what she wanted, what was important.”
He’s explained enough times what talking to the dead feels like that Lan Wangji knows that this is not the norm for spirits, resentful or otherwise.
“She said she loves you and Xichen. And that she wants you to be happy, and free. That being serious can wait for another time.”
He wants to say something profound, or grateful, but instead his jaw cracks with a yawn and he sways on his knees.
“Lan Zhan! It’s past your bedtime. Let’s go in. You’ll have to wake me up early enough in the morning so I can sneak out and pretend to have stayed outside the gates, so you’ll need to wake up on time.” He stands, tugging Lan Wangji along behind him. “Come on, come on, into bed you go,” he murmurs, helping Lan Wangji pull off his shoes and shutting the door behind them, dragging him out of his robes and into bed. “We can sort things out later. Lan Zhan?”
He’s trying to keep up. But the bed is so warm, and moving has been so hard. “Exhausted,” he thinks he manages to say.
Wei Ying, who was finally, finally , crawling into his arms, pauses. “Exhausted? That’s a lot for Hanguang Jun to admit,” he says, pawing at Lan Wangji’s wrist until he can feel his pulse, can send out a bit of his own spiritual energy to find Lan Wangji’s own.
He underestimates how much spiritual energy he’s got, though, and sends a jolt of it racing through Lan Wangji. He gasps, fingers twitching and grasping Wei Ying’s shoulder softly. It’s the most he can manage.
“Oops? Too much?”
“Mn.”
“Okay. But Lan Zhan, you’re wiped . I’ve never felt you with this little energy. What happened? Are you okay?”
“Sleeping,” Lan Wangji grouches.
“Yes, yes,” Wei Ying laughs, “I’m glad you can still be grumpy at a time like this. But I need to know if you’re okay.” He slips a little more spiritual energy into Lan Wangji, steadily but in a lighter flow this time. “I have energy to spare, let me do this, please?”
“… Mn.” He brings his free hand up to play with Wei Ying’s hair. It’s softer and thinner than Mo Xuanyu’s hair, darker and shinier. His hair is always so nice. “Activated the talisman you gave me. Emergency.”
Wei Ying’s laugh has more than an edge of hysteria. “Yeah, Lan Zhan, I’d say it was a fucking emergency. I. You tried it? And it took us all the way back here? I don’t understand.”
“Can’t think,” Lan Wangji huffs. “Can think tomorrow. Sleep.” He’s drifting off even with Wei Ying thinking so loudly beside him. Some nights, just the feeling of Wei Ying thinking can keep him up for hours, even if Wei Ying is sitting silent and still by his side. He radiates an aura of movement even when he’s not fidgeting.
“Okay, okay. I will. Give me another minute to give you energy, though. Your core feels fine,” he reassures him. If anyone would know what Lan Zhan’s core feels like, it’s probably Wei Ying, even if he’s the farthest thing from a doctor imaginable. “I just want to give it something to start chewing on overnight, so you don’t have to replenish it all yourself. Trying to make your own spark is garbage, Lan Zhan,” he tells him, smiling faintly.
“Mn. Good night,” he says, eyes already closed. Wei Ying will be there in the morning.