Archive of Our Own ^omega

Chapter Text

He wakes in the morning, precisely at 5AM, and feels his bones are heavier than usual.

Today it’s the day, he knows. Another week has run its course

He gets up and walks to the bed in the next room over.

The boy sleeping in it still hasn’t gotten used to the strict hours that dictate life in Cloud Recesses, but he’s adapting, slowly and surely and better than his father ever had. Lan Wangji’s hand reaches for the small shoulder and shakes it lightly, the soft rumble of his name leaves him gently:

“A-Yuan.” He calls, his hands light as they touch his shoulder, his voice gentle as his chest flutters with the telltale warmth of affection. “Wake up.” The boy grumbles, displeased. His face scrunches up, and turns to hide in his pillow. Wangji suppresses a fond smile and tries again. “Today is the fifth day of the week.”

That, as always, does the trick.

The boy’s bright eyes open immediately, and his mouth opens to let past a gasp that gives way equally as quickly to a childish shriek of unadulterated joy.

“A-Niang!” He says, delighted, and jumps from the bed.

In Cloud Recesses, running is not permitted. He does not scold him for it, however, when he sprints towards the desk, gathering his drawings and homework and toys, set dutifully aside the night before, turning to Lan Wangji with armfuls of snippets of his life to be presented to the person who’s been robbed of partaking in it, and a face brimming with excitement.

It’s not nearly enough for him to overlook the way his heart squeezes in his chest — painful, punishing, forever more in penitence — but it is enough for him to muster the strength to muster on.

“Bath first.” He says, already braced for the cry of outrage A-Yuan bellows, an echo of a boy with jars in his hands, seeking to sneak in past curfew.

“But I bathed before going to bed!” The child argues, his shoulders slumping, his face the very face of disappointment.

“Mm.” Lan Wangji acknowledges the statement and does not acknowledge how it had been another struggle to get him to take that bath as well. “Bathe before going out too.”

“But then I’ll just have to bathe before going to sleep again!”

“Stop the bad habits.”

He huffs, cocking his head up and bringing both his fists to his waist, body leaning forwards as he asks:

“What bad habits?” In such a painful familiar way, Wangji has to close his eyes for a moment, so he’ll not see shadows where they don’t belong.

When he opens them again, it is to a pouting child, playing up at what he knows offended looks like, and to an amused bout of laughter building in his throat.

“Uncleanliness.”

His round face scrunches up fully in confusion, tiny hands falling from his waist as his head tilts to the side, letting out a soft:

“What?”

He does give in to a quiet huff of laughter, then.

“Dirty.”

The outrage burns anew.

“I’m not dirty!” The boy rages, pointing a small finger at him that he wags very decisively, as if he puts enough intents in the movement the words will ring true in the listener’s ears and alot itself between the other certainties they hold in their minds. “A-Yuan is not dirty, take it back, Ji-gege!”

“Does Wei Ying not bathe before waiting for A-Yuan?” He asks, inviting him to self-reflection with the same strings of words shufu had wielded with such maestry when the world was much taller than himself and he too had a special day to look forward and look his best to.

The boys’ brow furrowed in concentration, his face taking in an air of seriousness that is a painful mix of Wei Ying’s brief moments of concentration and his own usual expression, bringing his hand up so tiny fingers can rest against his lips as he ponders.

“Mm.” He says, so much like himself that Wangji’s lips twist upwards on their own, this impossible fondness creeping through his chest and taking roots in his very soul. “Alright, will bathe for A-Niang!” The boy declares, with a firm nod, a matureness that’s quickly lost when he turns those big brown eyes to him, pleadingly. “Will you lend me the fancy soaps, Wangji-gege?”

An old echo comes from the corners of his being where bottomless love and devotion lay, the same and not the same, a branch of it’s very own that flows towards this child who has become two people’s whole world - anything and everything .

Sandalwood soap is nothing compared to what he would do for him.

“Mm.” He echoes the child’s intonation, lighter than his own, and basks in the burst of joyful energy through which he paints the Jingshi with lifeliness, welcoming it into his heart.

The ground is slippery. Blood makes the dirt a pasty, disgusting thing that seems as set to trip him into falling as everything else about the Burial Mounds. The very air, heavier now with resentful energy, heavier since Wei Ying had held that horrible seal and destroyed it with a scream as if the effort was tearing him apart by the limbs and crushing his bones, makes his lungs burn and his skin sting, leaning more and more to the side of painful the further he advances in his retracing of the trail the man had left behind, as if to keep him from it's master.

 All it takes to persevere where he knows others are stumbling and falling behind him is the thought that there are others behind him, seeking Wei Ying in all the moving shadows for other purposes entirely, and that he must get to him first, or risk losing him for good. The memory of him, bloodied and ragged after the Stygian Tiger Seal had been reduced to nothing more than small pieces of corrupted iron spread about, looking dazed and lost like a child as if his survival had been a surprise comes to him unbidden, and he wills himself to not think, he cannot think, that the boy who had creeped into his heart over a few months during those guest lectures years ago had intended to have his life terminated through such a horrible end.

The trees around him bear bloody imprints of where Wei Ying must have leaned to keep himself upright and the broken branches must mean the woods had failed in giving him the necessary support. Right under the trees, the imprint of hands and knees in the mud is visible as well a desperate attempt to stand up again, the marks of fingers clawing and clawing as if this could make them stand again.

A body of one of the Wen remnants lies sprawled a few feet away from a hollowed tree, as if the person in question had been trying to either stand up or crawl away when they were dealt their killing blow or simply collapsed from their wounds. He tries not to think much about the unfairness of it all, after so many corpses he has had to walk past without having the chance to play Rest for their souls, not when their benefactor had seemed so close to joining them, driving urgency through his chest like a sword.

Lan Wangji steels himself and promises to return later, to guarantee a proper burial and to placate the souls of those Wei Ying had held dear to the best of his ability.

Later, but not now.

Now he continues on, stumbling and determined to the point of stubbornness. It's yet another corpse he will have to sidestep before the Burial Mounds turns it rabid. He does not wonder if Wei Ying knew them, if he himself had seen them that afternoon, if they had sat with the others and had the dinner he had been invited but left before attending.

It’s something a stomach never gets quite used to, sidestepping bodies. Even at the height of the Sunshot Campaign, it had never been something he could distance himself from the gory pictures in the wake of battles.

He thought they had left manslaughter behind.

One more body to come back for later.

Lan Wangji doesn’t close his eyes as he walks by the body. The person must have been young. Limbs move unnaturally - the beginning stages of becoming a fierce corpse? No, they’re too gentle. Almost like breathing. Maybe he’s not dead, maybe he can be saved. One Wen, at least one to ease Wei Ying’s conscience. But if he stays to save them, what about Wei Ying?

He looks down to find a man, dressed in familiar clothing, muted gray stained with copper red and blackish mud. His black hair is loose and a tangled, mated mess that hides his face and mixes with the muddy ground. His hands are pale, with long elegant fingers. He’s not sure why he notices this. His fingers are skeletal thin and his nails are ruined, broken, blood and dirt underneath it. He must be on the wrong trail, Wei Ying must be somewhere else. This man must have been the one who left the marks, must have clawed and dragged his way here, for all the good it did him.

He wonders how many of them died just as desperate.

That’s when he sees the lump under his sleeves, held against his chest, angled in just the right way for his body to shield it. He had died protecting it, he reckons. He leans down to catch a glimpse of whatever it is and finds a child. His breath catches in his throat. There was only one child in the Burial Mounds, only one who clung to his leg, and here he is, either passed out or dead, dressed in damming robes of white and red, though the red of the boy's clothes is not as vivid as the ribbon in the man's hair.

He is on his knees before he can think better of it, reaching for A-Yuan with a feverish kind of despair. His hand touches his shoulders briefly and feels the movement of his breath for a second, only a second, before the body snaps back, feral as a fierce corpse yet somehow alive, turning his body to cover the boy again, curling around him to make him as secure as possible before turning to snarl at him, his teeth bloody, his eyes red as they meet his own, golden ones.

His heart stops.

“ Wei Ying! ”

He’s wrapped in the pure whites of the Lan, with robes as richly and intricately embroidered as they can get away with having him wear. He’s not, Lan Wangji knows, his son, so he cannot be given the forehead ribbon of the main family to shield him from the unkind scrutiny of the elders and the mean-spirited whispers of the junior, but that does not mean he doesn’t dearly wish to. He does, however, extend the blanket of his favor in every expensive thread he wears, in every scented soap he bathes with, in the hand that holds his in the way to morning classes in full view of everyone, in his title of ward, in the bed he sleeps in his own house and in the silent escort he offers in the way to and from these weekly visits.

All these small favors link together to offer him protection as surely as cinnabar strokes do when amounted into talismans. It’s the most solid thing he can offer, besides the role he enacts in the daily that feels wrong for feeling so rewarding, when it was usurped for another, and it stands as a form of lacking penitence for what he could not offer to that other.

Before this, before A-Yuan, before this quiet peace they all now live on, when there were blood-drenched battle fields marked by the horrors brought to life by the tune of a dizi, when the war was dying and the whispers were not smothered anymore under the despair of a bloodbath and the next, there was boy Wangji had wanted to save. Nevertheless, the boy didn’t want to be seen as  a boy anymore, wasn’t seen as a boy anymore, and Wangji hadn’t ever known him in any other way, didn’t want the new version of him, so he had walked away.

He was a man with fresh wine in his lips when he stood in the halls of Koi Tower, made into the world's common enemy. He was a man when  he thinned on top of a mountain of death and resentment, his worn fingers digging the earth and forcing radishes to grow to keep sickly and old from their graves a little longer. He was a man when Wangji had seen him again, amidst his new element, wearing roughly-spun clothes and holding a child’s hand.

Back then, he had wanted dearly to have that boy whisked away, to hide him in the room this child now occupied, to wrap him in white robes with lavish cloud embroideries and lovingly hand-stitched protection talismans, but those wishes came to nothing.

He tries not to think of how he failed the father as he combs the hair of the son.

“A-Niang likes red.”

He blinks once, twice, then looks at the round face reflected in the mirror bearing a thoughtful expression.

“Mm?”

Warm brown eyes look up at him, innocent and bright.

“A-Niang likes red, doesn’t he?”

A red ribbon flutters in his memory amidst black hair, a smile as wide and radiant as the sun, a jar of Emperor’s Smile dangling from pale fingers, the red fabric that seals it more vivid than before. We are already so close. The stench of rotten bodies, fire and blood mixing together as they clog his nose and an outpour of resentful energy runs gooseflesh over his skin in revulsion, an amulet floats above the air blood-red interwoven by black wipss of energy as it’s master screams, being pulled apart with it. Won’t you let me go just this once?

“I believe so.” He answers, putting down the white comb before his hands can begin to shake.

“Why don’t I wear red when visiting A-Niang?”

 Lan Zhan . A half-maddened man stumbling away from carnage and smoke into woods of corpses and dead trees, pale and thin body wrapped in rags and strung across the blackened ground holding a bundle of white, a man he couldn’t recognize anymore hissing and buckling at his approach like a cornered animal. Lan Zhan . Crimson eyes promising violence even as his strength waned, the protective span of his arms shielding the curled up shape of a boy, his fingers digging into his sleeve desperate enough to tear the fabric, red stained teeth as he begged. Please.

“It’s dangerous to wear red.” Wangji explains, keeping his face as kind as possible while holding the inquisitive gaze of the child through the mirror, even as his fists tighten over her knees and crumple the fabric of his robes. “Especially for you.”

“Why?” Wen Yuan asks, brows furrowing at the absurd idea of a color being dangerous.

“Many people do not like Wei Ying.”

“Why not?” He turned around, face scrunched in indignation. “A-Niang is so nice! He has the best hugs and makes funny jokes and he knows five ways to braid hair and he sings the prettiest lullabies and he always knows what to say when people are upset so they will smile again. What is there not to like?”

“People do not like some of his mistakes.”

“But Xian-gege says everyone makes mistakes.” A-Yuan insists. “And forgiving mistakes is in the rules, Ji-gege said so.”

“But some can’t forget them.”

There’s a silence then, as the boy lowers his eyes to his own lap, picking at the hems of his sleeves, the pout in his lips too similar to another for the wound to ever scab over properly, but Wangji has made his peace with the fact loving people might just be the same as willingly running himself through with Bichen. It’s a pain that is welcomed, in the hollows of his bones and the living wound under his ribs.

“Isn’t A-Niang paying for his mistakes?” He whispers, such a weak little thing, as if meant to be lost in the wind, ignored, unheard. “I asked him why he stayed in the funny house, once.” Wangji’s breath hitches sharply and he closes his eyes, heartstrings pulling as surely as his guqin’s. “He said it’s because he’s done something wrong. Is it the mistakes?”

Please, I don't ask for anything else. Not even for me.

This is all the Yilling Patriarch sets as a price for his own head.

All I ask—

“Yes.” The word comes heavy with sadness and regret, the sound of a heart tightening on his chest, and it tastes like ash in the back of his tongue, acrid as a lie, bitter as betrayal.

“People should forgive him.” The affirmation comes with the unwavering certainty with the righteous rage only a boy of less than 5 summers could muster, when the world still seems to be good and things should be as their parents tell them. With Wei Ying around, he must have imagined the world to be fair and kind and people always striving to be just; Wangji is not sure how to break it to him, the rotten reality of it all, how to watch him grow into that realization. “If he’s sorry, if he apologized, he should be forgiven.”

“He should.” Lan Wangji agrees without a second's hesitation, but that doesn't make the sadness in the child's face budge. He reaches forward and lays a hand on the boy’s head comfortingly. “Even with mistakes, Wei Ying is still good. He did the best he could.”

A-Yuan nods then, once, a stubborn frown on his face, as if he was taking Wangji's words and filing them away, somewhere in his young mind, another stone to the building of certainty he has built around Wei Ying's utter and irrevocable goodness. Silence stretches as he employs himself to add the new confirmation to the grandeur of his fist feat of architecture, the sure and ever-steady character that is the man even though he's not here.

“I wish I could wear something red for A-Niang.”

Such a small thing, such sweet sentiment. It aches in his bones, and he feels like gods must, helpless but to grant a child's wish.

“I will find something.” Lan Wangji promises.

A-Yuan smiles in response, and it's like he's learning how to be the sun.

“Lan Zhan.” He rasps out, a miserable sounding thing that sits halfway between a surprised gasp and a relieved sob. The fight bleeds out of him, red eyes fading back to the natural gray, leaving him gaunt and frightened where he had been at the cusp of violence a second before.. His hand instinctively reaches for his sleeve, holding it with shaking hands; his eyes water upon contact. “Lan Zhan.” He says again, like a benediction, and seems to fall apart even further under Lan Wangji's hand, shattered as the Jade's own heart.

That vulnerable side of him is short lived though, pierced through by a stab of betrayal and horrified fear that loosens his already loose grip even further when the sound of approaching footsteps announces the incoming mass of cultivators. Wangji's stomach freezes over in dread, he finds himself parting his lips to explain he did not lead them there, but even Wei Ying's rage dies out quickly. His eyes burn with an unparalleled fierceness instead, his left arm holds the sniffling child even closer to his chest and the hand in his sleeves tightens with a strength born of desperation.

“Lan Zhan." His name takes on the quality of a demand and a plea, the name of a god being whispered by a devoted follower in a time of need, and Wangji wants to promise him anything, everything , but all he asks is: “Lan Zhan, please save him.”

The stampede of feet finally finds the clearing where they are, and he has drawn Bichen without scarcely thinking about it, pulling the black-and-red robed man closer to his own chest, would pull him even closer if he could ensure his safety that way — under his ribcage and folded into the heart that already belongs to him either way.

Jiang Wanyin throws the arm holding Sandu up to halt the approach of the mass of disciples and cultivators dressed in a splash of various sect colors, face contorted into an ugly snarl as Bichen's sharp point hovers towards their general direction, a shape that gives way to something just as dark but entirely different at the sight of the red. A series of complicated shadows cross his eyes and drive him to tighten his grip around his sword, but inevitably, the usual anger must win because it is the only thing Wangji hears when he says:

“Hanguang-jun.” The title in his mouth sounds remarkably like both insult and sneer. “When people say you are always where the chaos is, I did not assume it was shielding it’s cause.”

He is your brother , he wants to say, He’s yours to protect, why aren’t you doing anything? , but there would be no point. Not with Jiang Yanli’s blood fresh in his mind, not with Sandu in his grip and Wei Ying’s death so close he would barely have to break a sweat to assure it came to pass. Instead he focuses on the white clad figure that approaches the front, holding his sword steady even when presented with a familiar face.

“Wangji.” His Uncle says, his voice level and his words not open to argument. “Move.”

He never disobeyed Uncle before. He sets his jaw against the feeling of wrongness stirring in him as he shakes his head.

“Will not.”

Uncle furrows his brow in anger, his gaze growing heavy with admonishment.

“Is it not in our sect rules to not befriend evil?”

“Is it not in those very rules to defend the innocent?”

“Innocent?!” Uncle starts, face red and more openly furious than he has ever been with him, waving towards Wei Wuxian with his sleeve, pristine white speckled with blood that only hardens his resolve. “You would call this immoral man — a demonic cultivator , a murderer — you would call him innocent ?”

He thinks of the bodies he won’t be able to come back to bury now; all the eldery, the women, the men, the farmers and the sickly, massacred in a few hours, left in the ground without a hint of dignity. The man in his arms who tried to defend them, who at death’s door begs for the life of another. Wangji lifts his chin against his Uncle’s disapproval, unrepentant..

“I would call most of the people living on this mountain innocent.”

Uncle's face goes red with fury. 

“You—!” 

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying calls, either blissfully or frightfully unaware of their delicate position, then: “ Please .” He pulls at his sleeves, with the strength of a half-drowned kitten, staining it brown and red, seemingly more desperate at the thought of being ignored at this time of such need. Shufu’s face twists with scorn, but Lan Wangji only looks down, on the far-away and yet survival-focused pale face of Wei Ying, blood-stained and overly thin. “Please, I don't ask for anything else. Not even for me.” His other hand squeezes the skeletal shoulder of the begging man in his arms, hoping to be reassuring, throat clogged with reassurances that Wei Ying can and should ask — anything, everything — for himself, for this village, for the world, that Wei Ying should have asked sooner and that Wangji should have started listening earlier. “You can kill me, I don't care.”

His grip on the man turns white-knuckled in it’s earnestness.

“Would never kill Wei Ying.”

“They've killed everyone.” Wei Ying whispers what he already knows, his mouth quivering as his eyes grow more and more unfocused. Wangji wants to pull him back from wherever he went, whatever he’s seeing. but he’s not sure here and now is any better, even as his eyes water and he breaks all over again. “I tried to stop them, I tried, but they killed… They killed everyone . His whole family.”

My whole family, the words go unsaid, but they ring loudly in the sound of his heartbreaking sniffling.

“I'm sorry.” Wangj says, and means every syllable.

“I tried to die.” He confesses to him, too easily, the blood, evidence of his attempt, seeping out of him too worrying.“I thought I would, then he would have a chance. The Jins just wanted me dead. I could have gone, instead of Wen Ning and Qing-jie, I should have.” His shoulders shake, suppressed sobs sending convulsions down his body, his hand clutching at his chest, at the open wound there. “I didn't even manage to die. I put them all in danger, and now he is in danger and I, I…”

Something in him must give, under the violence and the pain and the loss and the grief, because his body almost convulses as he falls into desolated sobs that seem to wreck his composure more and more, his face contorting into an ungly, sorrowful thing, tears running down his dirty face, curling more and more around Wen Yuan as if life was about to snatch him from his arms, then into Wangji’s hold as the arm with which he held Bichen lowers, heart breaking in his chest, and his focus turns now on comforting Wei Ying, who turned his head to hide his face and tears against his neck. He did not mind, did not care, did not look at the sea of cultivators whose faces were now losing their pleased and righteous look and taking on something more doubtful and uncomfortable, not even as they glanced at their bloodstained swords as if wondering if they were a hero’s weapon or just a butcher’s blade.

“Xian-gege?” A small voice calls, the white glimpse of a face under Wei Ying’ black and red robes, screwed up in discomfort, so affected by the distress around him that some of his conscience bypasses Wei Ying’ paperman firmly glued to the back of his white and red robes.

“Shh.” Wei Ying hushes, so readily tender and soothing he can hardly fit the sweet words and tone that follow with the beaten man in his arms with his blood-stained teeth.“Shhh, radish, Xian-gege is sorry. I’m sorry. It’s alright.” His cleaner hand rubs the boy’s back, half a reassuring gesture and half pouring more energy into the talisman, to coax the boy back into the undisturbed sleep he had hoped would save him from the narrow-focused attention. “Be quiet, okay? Be quiet.”

It does not take long for A-Yuan to lose his battle against the magically induced sleep, eyes drooping as if his eyelashes were ladden all of sudden, head inching closer and closer until it just falls against his shoulder again, tiny body heaving a tired sigh. Even the invading cultivators do not shout after this peaceful defeat, which creates silence enough for Wei Ying's next words to be heard by all when he looks up from the child's frame as if takes effort to look away, as much as willingly cutting off a limb in payment for something else.

“Please don't let them kill him.” He begs again, as if Wangji ever would. “You can kill me, but he's a child, Lan Zhan. It's A-Yuan, please . Please, they can kill me—” Golden eyes hardened in a silent warning to the armed cultivators ahead of them that they absolutely could not . “—but don't let them hurt A-Yuan. Please, Lan Zhan.”

As he stands surrounded by cultivators, as he knowingly holds them back at sword point, as he lays bleeding in the earth blackened by corpse's ash, as the boy who clung to their legs trembles with fear and cold, there is a choice to be made and there is something akin to a prayer thrown to his feet.

“I will not, I promise.” He agrees, and makes it the shape of a vow. He has no sway here, no true power, he’s at a disadvantage. He needs somewhere his word is worth much more than usual, somewhere he can sway others into being reasonable and fair, where a private conversation might do more than save Wei Ying’s life. He has to try. When he speaks again, his voice is louder, meant to the others. “I will bring Wei Ying back to Gusu with me.”

A-Yuan’s hair is adorned by a red ribbon and therefore they have to take the long way around, to avoid judgemental eyes and even more judgemental whispers. It would have seemed foolish before, to the eyes of his teenage self, how simple gestures such as this could undo a person’s life if taken up by ill-meaning tongues, but he knows better now, extensively and unfortunately. Never again will Lan Wangji downplay how life destroying those can be.

The child skips by his side, keeping up with Wangji’s own sedated pace but not in any way stilting his lively nature in favor of the expected demeanor, no matter what his Clan and Sect expect.

When Shufu cracks down at them for it, the elders pressure him to make the boy conform, and even Xiansehg tries to persuade him to give just the slightest bit, he places himself between them and A-Yuan in the way he should have done for someone else, before, and refuses to be moved.

He clings often to the fact A-Yuan is a Wei and he should be raised as his father would like him to, but he thinks he sees in Shufu’s resigned twists of mouth and Xiansheng’s sad glances that they know it’s only half of the truth.

If he speeds his own pace to allow him to skip a little faster, the only evidence is A-Yuan’s unaware joy and the small smile that tugs at the corner of Wangji’s lips.

The back paths are significantly longer, drawing circles around Cloud Recesses and proving to be a waste of precious time of both disciples, teachers and elders, especially in comparison the more straightforward paths that led from dormitories to classes to the dining hall in a swift and orderly manner. As such, the back paths were generally quieter and calmer and emptier, more used to long walks for reflection in early morning or late afternoon. Greener, they were lined with trees, flowers, rocks and even small streams.

Naturally, A-Yuan loved them as much as Lan Wangji had loved them in his youth, before his natural reserved nature was further stiffened with the aid of 3000 rules. He likes to think he would be able to make sure there never came the day where A-Yuan would abandon these paths as he once did, but, for now, he’s content to watch as the boy passes him the papers he’s carrying in favor of skipping the rocks at their left.

“Careful.” Wangji says, reaching for and supporting him easily with one hand as he slips bur before he can fall.

He waits for him to regain balance before letting go, and when he does A-Yuan brings his hands up and bows shortly to him in gratitude.

“This one is sorry, Ji-gege.” A-Yuan answers, dutifully, but his smile is wide and relaxed, his eyes full of trust when they look up at him. He knows he’s not truly in trouble.

Good.

“There’s no need for sorry.” Wangji says, even though the boy knows. He has learned he should speak his feelings to those who matter often, instead of saying them too late. He squeezes his hand gently. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. Be more careful, hm?”

“Hm.” Wei Yuan beams back, a cheerful imitation of himself.

Wangji cannot help but smile openly at him then. It’s but a sliver of A-Yuan’s own.

The wind makes his ponytail sway in the air and the red ribbon to catch the light, and even though he loves him in a way he never thought he would ever come to love any child, he has to look away.

So much of loving people is hurting, he has come to understand. Still, he tries to love them the best he can.

He looks him in the eye, because there’s no need for sorrys, there's no guilt a child can bear, and nods once.

“Let us go.”

He gets up from his kneeling position, squeezing A-Yuan's hand gently, but before he can turn a known voice comes from behind him:

“Wangji?” Lan Wangji takes in a sharp breath, but lets none of his discomfort show to A-Yuan as he turns around to face Lan Xichen's serene figure, draped in fine white fabric embroidered with blue details, standing by one of the many small entrances that led into the path they stood.

Why was he here? He was not adept to them, like most others weren't. Why would he be here today, of all days? 

Still, Wangji merely presses his lips together and bows his head in respect.

“Xiongzhan.”

Lan Xichen seems to take that as an invitation to approach in those graceful. small steps of his, a tentative smile playing in his lips.

“I wanted to speak with you, but given today's date, I didn't think I would be able to meet you so early in the morning. Why are you taking the back path—” His words stop as soon as his eyes drift down to catch a glimpse of A-Yuan's face, peeking from behind Wangji's legs. “Ah.” His brother's eyes immediately flicker to the red ribbon in his hair, widening in recognition and alarm, only to soften in sadness as they rise back to Wangji's face after he deliberately steps to the side in order to effectively shield him from his sight again. He takes a small fortifying breath and musters another kind smile. “A-Yuan.” He calls, affectionately, and Wei Yuan sidesteps him once more, eagerly coming to greet his brother, almost bouncing as he does so, which brings forth a more genuine edge to the curve of Xiongzhan's smile. “You look happy.”

“Zewu-jun.” A-Yuan says, bowing in the way Wangji has been teaching him, but still slightly graceless, like a newborn foul who lacks the steadiness to keep themselves upright without shaking. It's an endearing sight, even more so as he stands up, grinning brightly as he clutches the items he holds to his chest. “It’s the fifth day of the week!”

“So it is.” Lan Xichen answers, sounding unbearably fond, gesturing to his hands. “And I see you’ve brought some things to share.”

“Yes!” The boy agrees, extending the papers he holds for him to see. “Writing exercises, homework and a drawing!” He pulls the stack of papers back to himself so he can have a more secure grip on them as he pulls a single one of them to show to “This is me, this is A-Niang, this is Ji-gege and we’re all holding hands while we play with the rabbits."He explains the childish depictions shown, slightly amorphous shapes mainly distinctable through the coloring applied to it. Red was an overwhelming color all throughout it, even sneaking itself through red bows in Wangji's rabbits. "And I match with A-Niang’s hair. In real life too!” Beaming, he turns around, to show his hair and the damming red ribbon tied to it. “Look!”

Over A-Yuan's head, xiongzhan lift his eyes to meet Wangji's hard ones. It is clear even as it is unspoken, that any disparaging comments won't be welcomed or tolerated. Xiongzhan acquiesces with grace.

"I see." He says, but the words are awkward and stilted, when Wei Yuan turns to look at him, his face is back to being as unfaltering and cheery as ever. "I'm sure he will love it all, but it's rude to leave people waiting, right?"A-Yuan nods, his expression suddenly very serious in his childish features, making him look even more adorable. Lan Xichen's eyes crease as his smile grows. "Go on." 

The boy turns as fast as lightning to grab ahold of Wangji's sleeves, tugging at them eagerly.

"Ji-gege, Ji-gege, let's go! Tardiness isn't allowed!"

He cannot help but smile.

"It's not. Let us go." He releases his sleeve, offering his own hand instead for him to grab, which A-Yuan does promptly and gladly. He nods his head towards his brother once more, the prelude to a goodbye. "Xiongzhan."

"Wangji."Lan Xichen calls again, stopping him before he could even take one step. Golden eyes lift to his face and he hesitates, unsure, before finally he says: "If we could talk later, there are some papers I would like for you to take a look at."

"Yes, Xiongzhan." Wangji answers, promptly.

He's puzzled as to why he asked about something that had been agreed on the day before. He's even more puzzled by the long, awkward silence that follows, as if xiongzhan expects him to say something else, something more, but there's nothing left to say.

There's very little left to say between them. 

"Alright." Lan Xichen says, at last, breaking the si;ence like someone admits defeat. "Alright, I will see you soon." He sounds sad, even as he lifts his hand to wave at the boy by Wangji's knees. "Bye, A-Yuan."

"Bye, Zewu-jun." A-Yuan answers, waving energetically at him, before once again resuming his efforts to pull Wangji along the path  "Come on, Ji-gege, Ji-gege! We can't be late, it's rude!"

"Mm."

As A-Yuan tugs him forward and Lan Wangji allows himself to be tugged along by a child many times weaker than himself, he brushes his brother's shoulders as he passes him by. He doesn't even look at him. It's like they're perfect strangers.

He feels Lan Xichen's eyes follow him as they walk away, as the distance grows between them, like a gap that could no longer be crossed, a wound that had scarred in all the wrong ways and could no longer be healed.

He lets the hurt dim, grow numb, with every step they take over the white stones that lead to the most remote houses of Cloud Recesses, the furthest one also their intended destination. A-Yuan hops from one rock to the next, excited and joyful, as if this is fun, as if he doesn't understand how sad and hopeless the situation they're in truly is.

He probably doesn't. He probably does all he can to make it look happy and fun, one special day of the week where he can do anything he likes.

A-Yuan jumps down from the final stone as they arrive by the house. 

It is not exceptional or outstanding, doesn't jump to the eyes in any significant way. There was a house like this, when he was younger, a house not so far away from this one. He remembered the house was surrounded by genitians. He remembered it had made it look more beautiful, more special, in his eyes. This one doesn't even have that.

Still, Wei Yuan moves forward, pulls him forwards, his eyes shining, overjoyed at the sight of it.

The houses in this part of Cloud Recesses don't have names, shunned and hidden as they're. They exist to be left to oblivion, so that their inhabitants are scarcely spoken of again, until they're dead in all ways but for their heartbeat. 

This one, this one has one name. It's not official, it's whispered when it's known that gossip is forbidden, it's said outside Cloud Recesses by guest disciples who have returned home, spread through the streets.

The moshi. The devil's room.

Wangji and A-Yuan walks side by side, in a sedate pace towards the doorstep of the house. The boy nearly vibrates out of excitement. He had knelt many times before, in front of a house with no name.

He is willing to kneel again.

Wangji kneels in front of the house and watches as A-Yuan dutifully does the same, even though he’s vibrating in barely concealed excitement. His big eyes glance sideways to him for confirmation, which Wangji promptly gives through a short nod of his head. The grin comes back to his face with a vengeance, shining with joy, as he turns around and speaks:

“This son greets A-Niang and requests to be allowed in.”

For a moment, nothing changes. Barely a moment. A suspended minute space of time in which he and A-Yuan are in the same position, living the same experience, understanding each other even though the child cannot comprehend what’s being shared.

It doesn’t last. A-Yuan is privy to something he’s not, he knows and knows well, is granted access to things all others are denied. It’s just the way things are.

The door slides open by itself, the light of the inside trails out of it, golden. The warmth of the house and the faint smell of steamed buns follow, invitingly. A-Yuan stands up and follows the stones towards the door, turning briefly to wave goodbye at him.

“A-Yuan!” A voice calls from the inside, and Lan Wangji’s chest hurts. “My little radish, how you have grown!”

The boy smiles, and walks in the house with a smile so bright it’s blinding, and then the door closes.

Wangji is left behind, in the cold.

In the confusing events that follow, Lan Wangji does not let go of Wei Ying, does not allow himself to be parted from Wei Ying. In the middle of the blur of movements and explanations, as he carves the three of them a route through a world that would like nothing more than to tear apart the man and the child he was keeping under his protection. He grounds himself with the feeling of holding Wei Ying’s wrist and the matching thin fingers around his own wrists, like twin manacles.

“He will need his sword to fly.” He informs one Jin disciple who has led a separate raid into Wei Ying’s cave, Wei Ying’s home, while the rest of them had been trying to kill him, like vultures that don’t even wait until an animal is dead to feast. “Hand it over.”

“Ah.” Wei Ying starts to protest. “Lan Zhan, maybe—”

“His sword.” He insists, voice hard. “ Now .”

“Hanguang-jun.” Jin Guangyao’s annoyingly pleasant tone comes from his left, and he doesn’t have to glance at his face to know he’s trying to look nice and reasonable. “We all remember how skilled Master Wei has always been where swordsmanship was concerned. Surely you understand that we can't trust him not to attack us if he were to have his sword back. His flute is already unaccounted for. ”

“Most likely find it in one of their qiankun pouches.” Lan Wangji cuts him off, his voice the closest to seething it had ever come to. The gold-clad man before him starts looking uneasy. Good . Cold fingers squeeze his wrist, grounding him back. Right now, his words have purpose, he remembers, he cannot speak freely. “If you cannot trust Wei Ying, then you can trust me.” He lifts his hand, extends it forward, palms-up, expecting. “I will keep his sword.”

“Hangaung-jun—”

“It is not yours to have.” He states once again, since it seems to be in Jin Guangyao’s nature to not hear what does not benefit him and the Jins' in general as if anything under the sun is owed to them. “It was not your place to scavenge through his belongings for something to display on your sect’s halls of treasures while you burned his home and cornered him out. You’re no better than Wen Xu for that.”

Wangji does not relish the sharp gasps that echo around him because that would be against the rules, but there is an undeniable pleasure to seeing the disciple's face before him pale in horror then grow red in anger and shame. The words have weight, he knows, not only because he is a Lan who saw Cloud Recesses burn and be ransacked in much the same way. pushing his open palm further into the Jin disciple's direction.

“Give Suibian to me.”

The disciple still looks somewhere between ashamed and furious, an expression akin to constipation on his features. He glances to his side, as if hoping for further arguments, but not even Jin Guangyao’s silver tongue can insist on this matter without losing face and denouncing himself as cruel and greedy. The man turns his head and offers the sword out and into his hands without looking at him.

Suibian hums when placed on his palm, as if his touch was welcomed, something to be treasured and thanked. Wangji’s fingers close around it, careful to remember the feeling of it and the spiritual energy that courses through it, familiar and yet so long unseen.

He brushes past Jin Guangyao without another word.

The others part as he walks, and Wangji cannot be sure if they do so due to his own presence and reputation or Wei Ying’s feral gaze and intimidating presence even with a child in his grasp.

“Lan Zhan." Wei Ying's hot breath brushes against his ear, the words a whisper. “I don't think I could fly on a sword right now even if I wanted to.”

“No matter.” He reassures, easily. “We'll fly on Bichen.”

“Then why all the fuss over Suibian?”

“As I said.” He slows to a stop at a most deserted spot, turning to look at him over his shoulder. “It was not theirs to have."

 “Ah.” Wei Ying says, lips pulling back in a small, genuine smile to reveal pinkish teeth. “Lan Zhan.” The name is spoken in such an affectionate  and fond way that his chest aches. “You really don't change, do you?”

But that was the thing: he did, he had to. If he did not change enough, he could still lose him.

When words fail to roll past his lips, Wangji decides to lean back into the form of expressing himself that he's most comfortable with and moves through his actions. His hand reaches for Bichen and pulls it out of it's sheath only to freeze mid-motion when Wei Ying not only visibly but aggressively  flinches away from him, turning his body to shelter A-Yuan's.

His chest aches again, more sharply and for all the wrong reasons.

“Sorry.” He mutters, after a while where Wangji doesn't move and Wei Ying tries to regulate his breath into a semblance of control, eyes glued to Bichen at all times after he turns, shaking his head and trying to make his voice sound playful, even though, with his body still tense and angled in such a way that A-Yuan is the furthest  away from the sword as possible, it only sounds testy and strained. “A bit jumpy around swords right now. Don't mind me.”

“Would never harm you.”

“Oh, I don't know.” He says, his eyes still on the blade, as if looking away would cost him his head. “The amount of times I've been on that blade's other end, really…”

“Wei Ying.” He calls, firm but kind, and finally silver eyes glance up at him. Wangji slides his grip from wrist to hand, and pours his conviction into his words, hoping to be heard. “I would never harm you.”

Under his attentive glance, Wangji lowers his sword until it hovers over the ground, waiting. He steps back, giving him room.

Still, Wei Ying hesitates before stepping on top of the sword and Wangji fights back his instinct to squeeze his hand tighter, afraid he will step back, that he will escape through his fingers, into danger he cannot protect him from.

He does not want to trap him, could never trap him, but he cannot lose him either. There’s not a soul around them he could trust with Wei Ying’s life, with A-Yuan’s life, but he can do nothing if Wei Ying won’t trust him with their lives either.

When he looks at his face he’s again startled by how wild he seems, clothes torn, his gray eyes tinged with an edge of the red resentful energy, his hands dirty with ash and the black soil of the Burial Mounds. The contrast between the paleness of his skin and the way blood still stains it is striking even as the rain falls upon them, in attempts to wash it out.

“Wei Ying.” He asks, voice as soft as he can make it. "What 's wrong?”

They both flinch minutely at the question, at the unintended cruelty of it, but Wei Ying does not pull his hand back from Wangji’s, merely adjusting his grip around A-Yuan, meeting his eyes briefly, quickly advertising it once more before indicating the sword.

“It’s raining.” He says, as if it explains anything. Wangji frowns. It’s been raining for a very long time, as their mud-caked clothes can attest to. His silence must be the only indication needed to invite him to elaborate on what he means. “When we’re in the air, it will be worse, A-Yuan…”

A-Yuan is too small and has no golden core to rely on.

The ride to Cloud Recesses will take hours, the wind and the rain in the heights they will rise to would swiftly sicken any non-cultivator. Wangji swallows past a new knot in his throat.

“I will need to be turned forward.” He says, his voice barely shakes. “To lead the way.”

“What…?” Wei Ying begins, brows furrowed in confusion before they rose again, illuminating his face with an unsure understanding. “Are you sure? I know you don’t like being touched by people.”

Wei Ying’s palm seems to burn him to his bones.

“I do not mind.” It’s as if his heart is trying to come out of his mouth, to present itself for him to have, hold, understand . “Not if it’s Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying's eyes meet his, distrustful like a wounded animal that’s not completely convinced the person doesn’t mean to snap their necks as soon as he allows their hands to get close, hesitant. Then something wavers in the gray depths of his eyes, uncertain, nearly hopeful, before caving altogether. He nods once, looking somewhere between trusting and resigned, and squeezes Wangji's hand.

Carefully, as if any minute action might spook him away, Wangji steps on Bichen and watches from the corner of his eyes the mass of cultivators around them move along their actions, waiting for one slip up to finish what they had begun. All they need is one false pretense, one flimsy excuse.

Wangji will give them none, let them have none.

Instead, he will take the first step, if this is what it takes, and climb upon Bichen first, positioning himself as he had told Wei Ying he would need to be for their safe trip and waits. After a second spent seemingly calculating where to place his feet, Wei Ying nods, encouraging  his own self, and finally steps upon Bichen, the peerless blade holding as steady for him as it had ever done to it's master, a thing that could not be said about his own heart.

When Wei Ying's eyes look upon his face again, they're too close, their faces as a whole are too close. Wei Ying shuffles closer still, stopping for a second and then resumindo his movements until A-Yuan's form was safely guarded between the both of them, but then that left the matter of himself as a whole, which left him seemingly unsure of where and what to do of his own body, where his touch would be welcomed.

Lan Zhan reaches in himself  to try and emulate all that shameless, self-confident courage his love had once exuded, before the word tried to snuff him out between breaths and places a hand on Wei Wuxian's waist, hears his breath hitch.

He's made a mistake , he thinks, Made a mistake, made a mistake, made a mistake, made a mistake–

But then Wei Ying shuffles even closer, until his chin rests against the skin under Wangji’s shoulder, his forehead leaning against the curve of it.

The world melts away, until there's no fires or bodies or cultivators around him, only Wei Ying in his arms, a child held between them. In another world, this would  be a dream. 

"Lan Zhan." A tearful whisper breaks him out of his yearnings for a better world. "Please, take me away from here. I don't think I can stand to look at this place anymore."

Of course. Wangji is living a dream and Wei Ying has been forced into a nightmare. No reprimand would be strong enough for his insensitivity.

"Mm."

He commands Bichen to lift them into the air in a smooth arc that leaves them slightly ahead of the others, but not less followed, not less watched. Lan Wangji forces himself to think of that first and foremost for the expanse of time such a lengthy trip takes and of nothing else, even when Wei Ying trembles in his arm once before burning his face on the curve of Lan Wangji's neck, warmth breath tickling sensitive skin.

It's a strange state of bliss and torture that lasts for the many li that the night lasts and the other more where it gives way to morning. They reach Gusu as the sun starts to break the horizon. 

When they land at the steps of Cloud Recesses, night has fallen and they're all thoroughly soaked. Wangji’s hands are cold and his face is closer to living up to the rumored ice than it had been before, but Wei Ying… Wei Ying is freezing . He had felt him tremble once in a while under his hands when he had held him on the swordride over, but the rushing winds had deafened him to the way his teeth chatter and blinded him to the way he shivers , whole-bodied. He helps him off of Bichen with a hand to his elbow, since his hands are claws on A-Yuan’s robes, safely holding him to his chest. He notices while at it that his fingers have taken a blue-ish hue.

The boy is unsurprisingly dry, having been kept safe from wind and rain, clutched between himself and Wei Ying. Still, he's fussed over by the demonic cultivator, who fixes his clothes, adjusts his hair and checks on the sleeping talisman in his back as if a single wrinkle in the fabric or stray hair could mean the loss of him entirely.

Wangji wonders for a moment what it must be like, to be so precious and so loved to Wei Ying that even as his arms shake with fatigue and his body sways from one side to the other, weakly.

Faced with this picture, a Jiang disciple approaches with her hands outstretched, an offer to hold the child for a while ready on their tongues, but Wei Ying flinches away instinctively, his hold on A-Yuan tightening, his face turning away as he turns his body to shield his son's.

They had grown together, swimming through Yummeng's lakes, training sword forms and shooting kites.

He had been her da-shixiong once.

He had taught her how to wield a blade and how to sneak past the owner’s gazes when going to steal lotus pods from their lakes along with other disciples. He had shown her she would always be safe for as long as he was there, to stand between her and danger.

Now, her clothes are stained with Wen blood and Wei Wuxian steps away from her in instinctual fear without even glancing at his shimei.

The woman's eyes widened in shock, her mouth parted slightly, as she stood there, unsure of what to do next, hands still outstretched. Jiang Wanyin swiftly breezes past them, his own eyes hardened with some sort of complicated emotion, and places a hand on his disciple's shoulder, turning her forwards and beckoning her to keep moving.

She is guided away looking heartbroken, her eyes starting to glisten. The other Jiangs give their former da-shixiong more space than they had been, either out of consideration for the situation he’s in or fear he’d react the same way to them.

Wei Ying remains curled as if expecting a blow until Wangji touches his elbow with a feathery touch. He flinches again, more violently now, under physical contact, before there is recognition. He looks up, scared but trusting.

Wangji's heart breaks a little more.

“I'm here.” He reassures him, because even though he wants to, he cannot say he's safe without it being a lie in the situation they find themselves in.

Wei Ying’s cold hand tightened 

“I know.”

The best days of the week are the days he gets to spend with his A-Niang.

He smiles a lot and he tells jokes that are always even funnier than Jingyi’s. He always makes sure to try and remember them so he can tell them to Jingyi and get his friend to laugh so hard he gets tears in his eyes and bends over his stomach and Master Lan comes to them with furrowed brows and rules to be copied.

A-Niang also always makes him all the deserts he doesn’t get to usually have outside, small piles in varied dishes of mooncakes, almond cookies, rice puddings and more. He laughs gently every time he gets his face dirty while eating, tuts when he speaks while chewing and cleans his mouth with his sleeves, eyes crinkling into happy half moons. He also likes to hug him, a lot, and A-Yuan loves his hugs, loves when he lets him sit on his lap and holds him as he shows him all the drawings he made, informs him about the things he’s learning, asks for help with homework he couldn’t quite understand and tells him about daily anecdotes and the bunnies Ji-gege likes to take him to feed.

He throws his head back and laughs heartily enough that the sounds seem to echo around the house when he told him he had cried so much Ji-gege had buried him in the rabbits until he was giggling and smiling again.

By now he’s full, the dishes are empty and A-Niang’s black sleeves are dirty with the marks of his grubby hands, but he doesn’t seem to mind whatsoever, fixing his bangs with a gentle hand that boops his nose when it’s done. He grins up at him, letting go of his very interesting demonstration of how one of his teeth is loose and stopping his long winded ramble about how Zewu-jun says it means he will lose them soon (but not forever and it won’t hurt) for a moment. It’s all he needs for the idea to spark in his mind.

A-Niang’s house is not as big as Ji-gege’s, but it’s still very big and A-Yuan is still very small. Love-bundle small , A-Niang says. He doesn’t like being small most days, specially when he wants to sneakily take cookies from the top shelves or fly all by himself like the grown ups do in their swords instead of having Ji-gege balance him on Bichen and hold his hands gently as he guides him into flying in small circles, but for this, being small is great, being small is optimal.

“A-Niang.” He calls, his voice sweeter than honey and his expression the most angelical he can make it. “The table is full of empty dishes.”

“Oh, is it now?” He answers, his voice heavy with held back laughter as he leans forward to poke at his belly. “I wonder where all that food went.”

“Maybe the bunnies ate it.” A-Yuan says, squirming away from the tickling, but not trying that hard to do so at all.

“The bunnies? Oh, they’re very naughty. You should stop feeding them carrots.”

“Nooo!” He cries out, looking up in horror at the man’s snickering face. “A-Niang, they really like the carrots!”

“But they also seem to really like sweets.” His father says, widening his eyes in exaggerated wonder. “They’ll get fat, baobei. They ate so much, look at all these empty dishes!”

Oh, yes! The dishes! He perks up at the reminder of what he had been intending to do.

“The dishes are dirty, A-Niang!” A-Yuan tries again, grasping at the new hook to change the conversation to the course he wanted in the beginning and away from punishing poor, innocent bunnies (and sons). “You should clean the table. Uncl- uncleliness is against the rules.”

His A-Niang’s head tilts to the side, red ribbon swaying along his dark black hair, nose scrunching up in confusion.

“What is?”

“Dirty.” He says again, trying to remember Ji-gege’s word, or at least his intonation. “Uncleliness.”

“Uncleanliness.” A-Niang corrects, gently, the word followed by a happy chortle of a laugh. “Yes, it’s against the rules. You’re right.” He nods his head, but he doesn’t look like he takes the rules to heart. All the better for A-Yuan. He could keep this one place where rules couldn’t enter any more than people could, and where his A-Niang smiled like he was the sun, leaning in to rub his nose with the back of one finger affectionately. “Look at you, scolding me about the rules already. Lan Zhan is really rubbing off on you.” A-Yuan perks up, proud of such a flattering comparison, and grabs onto his arms by fistfuls of the black fabric of his robes. Indulgent as ever, A-Niang doesn’t pull his arms back, choosing.instead to straighten the already flawlessly straight forehead ribbon in Wei Yuan’s head, huffing out a fond sound when he leans into his touch. “So you want me to clean the table?”

“Mm.”

“Oh, no, you’re not picking up that .” He scolds, with some firmness if not heat, pulling a lock of his hair as he repeats the question, enunciating every word with pointed emphasis. “Do you want me to clean the table?”

Yes . Victory, so close for the taking! A-Yuan gives a wide, wide smile and replies:

“Yes, please, A-Niang.”

His father takes a glance at him, his eyes brimming with amusement and his eyebrows arched knowingly. A-Yuan smiles at him, all teeth and false innocence and father lets out a huff of air, shaking his head, face warm and happy before he turns around, whistling one of the lively tunes he learned on the festivals in his old home. Wei Yuan waits, vibrating with excitement, until he disappears into the kitchen with the dirty dishes and begins to sing.

A-Yuan cannot help the way he bursts into giggles, getting up in a jump and not much minding the cake crumbs that fall from his robes to the floor. He looks around wildly, trying not to pick a spot he had hidden in before.

Not near the table, he decides. Jingyi says it’s a dumb choice to hide near where you were originally. A-Niang’s room is no good either, since it's only the bed, and he’s in the kitchen, so it's not an option either.

He looks around, trying to find a good option before settling on the soft white fabric draping from the ceiling and resting gently against the walls that make A-Niang's little home. Mischief reinvigorated with the new idea his small feet take him closer and closer to the curtains across the room and quickly he ducks to hide behind them, curling against the wall to be as small as possible, slapping both hands over his mouths to keep his laughter in.

Just at the right time too, he thinks, smiling to himself as he hears the soft steps of his niang's slippers returning back into the room.

“Oh no!” His a-Niang’s voice cries out, high pitched with dramatics. “My little radish, where has he gone? Oh, those bunnies, they might have taken him! Those mischievous carrot-eaters!” A-Yuan snorts a little while trying not to laugh, pressing his hands more against his mouth to keep the sounds in. Unaware, A-Niang wails once more, walking past A-Yuan's hiding spot very slowly as he sing-songs: “Baobei? Where are you, Yuan-er?” He holds another bout of laughter as his voice grows further and further away. “Maybe you’re… Here! Oh, no. Then… maybe you’re… Here!”

He’s not even close. A-Yuan giggles some more in pure delight, proud at how good he is at hiding. Last time, A-Niang did not find him until he sneaked out of the cabinet he had been hiding in and let him know he was there.

Perhaps he should make it easier for him, but A-Yuan liked to make a point of hiding in different parts of the house so a-Niang would never guess where he was from the last attempt.

A soft breeze came from behind him, giving him goosebumps in the back of his neck and driving a full body shiver out of him. Curious, A-Yuan turned to glance behind him, trying to make the least amount of sound possible so A-Niang wouldn't hear him.

What he was met with was a sliver of light, a line so thin he wouldn't have noticed it, even standing so close, if not for the wind. He ran his finger along it, finding that it stretched from the ground to the highest point he could reach, which he assumed was the other end of the wall, splitting two beautifully carved wooden panels down the middle. He squints his eyes against it, trying to see through the opening, but it's too small and he can't make out anything but that white, blinding light. A-Yuan backs off again, frowning before tentatively trying to push one of the panels.

It slides easy and silently, like an accomplice to his mischief.

A new, fresh breeze rewarded him for his curiosity, driving the curtain to sway a little as A-Niang's voice called from deeper in the house.

"Oh, radish~"

On the other side of the now open doors stood a small backyard with wild grass and overgrown plants and wildflowers. It looked like a small clearing in the middle of a forest, a piece of the open, unruly nature of their very own in Cloud Recesses, despite all the rules that control every aspect of their existence. A small pond laid in the middle of it, with tranquil waters and hints of withered flowers, their pods curved and dried and neglected.

He let out an excited gasp. He knew that A-Niang's house was fantastical, magical even, but he would have never guessed that he had a magical forest of his own hidden behind his door.

"A-Yuan?" He heard A-Niang call, suddenly worried, and then once again after A-Yuan pushd the door open, but this time the second call was distinctly panicked. "A-Yuan, no!"

But he wasn't listening, he had already ran out to the garden, laughing brightly as he rushed in between the crooked plants, the wildlife that had grown free and uncaring of the rules that dictated every part of Cloud Recesses, ducking under the trees and bushes, bending from time to time to pick red, purple and blue flowers.

"A-Niang, why didn't you tell me about the garden?" He asks, already kicking his shoes so he could jump into the small lake.

"Radish—" A-Niang voice sounds strangled. 

"Come on!" A-Yuan cries out again, jumping by the edge of the small lake. "You can teach me to swim, like you wanted to."

A-Niang keeps on toeing the line of the threshold, twisting his hands in front of himself as if to stop himself from reaching out altogether. 

"Baobei, please—"

"Are those lotuses?" He asks, trying to lean over the waters to reach for the withered pods. "Why are they dead?"

"Don't touch those!”

They both freeze for a moment, utterly astounded by what has happened.

A-Ninag has never, ever, in Wei Yuan's whole life screamed at him for anything.

He has never sounded this angry before either.

A-Yuan blinks back the instinctual tears in his eyes, his bottom lip trembling as he looks at him, taking twoo tentative steps away from the lake, his hand coming to be held against his chest.

He doesn't understand.

A-Niang lets out a trembling breath. He seems like he's shaking, whole-bodied, up to the white-knuckled grip he has on the doors. His heaving chest works through calming breaths before he releases his grip, one finger at a time, his eyes ever-trailed on the withered flowers bent limply over the still waters. It looks like it takes quite the effort to let go of the doors altogether.

His gray eyes turn to him again, intense as the sky before thunderstorms before he tries to gentle the lines of his face.

“A-Yuan.” He said, his voice very sweet and very patient, more so than the usual amount, even as his face looked pinched with something a-Yuan couldn’t name, his smile looking strained at the corners.

A-Niang curved slightly, still in the house, still away from the sun, moving with a slowness and carefulness that reminded him of the extreme caution with which A-Yuan himself had approached Ji-gege’s rabbits the first time he was brought to the fields. He offers his hand out for him to take, his fingertips only breaching the line of the door the very slightest, sunlight kissing half of his fingertips.

“Baobei, come back in, okay?”

The atmosphere in the hall grows tense as wounded are treated and cultivators settle into it, readying themselves for a debate of what must be done, following the bloody siege. In the corner of the room and yet in the sight of all, sits what they all perceive to be their biggest threat: a man, bleeding, dressed in tatters, and clinging to a child. presents his condition to the elders.

Slow and surely they all settle, their eyes glance from one side to the other, waiting with baited breath who will break it first. Chifeng-zun spares them from further torture.

“If no one else will say it then I will.” Nie Mingjue turns on Jin Guangyao, demanding: “Where the hell was that demonic army you told us about?”

“Mingjue-” Xiongzhang tries to intervene.

“I killed farmers, Xichen.” Nie Mingjue cuts him off with a shout. “I killed elderly. I might have killed children.” His words echo through the great hall, an admission of guilt that weighs in the mind of most of the present cultivators. “Look at him, Xichen!” He says, pointing at a point behind Lan Wangji, where Wei Ying sits, still slumped on the floor and holding A-Yuan. “The enemy of the cultivation world, holding onto a kid, begging for his life. Not even for his own! The child’s life.” “He’s never begged for anything and now he’s begged for nothing else since we captured him, Xichen, for hours!”

“There were no others.” Wei Ying whispers, the words nearly lost to the wind.

The room stops. Lan Wangji looks at him worriedly, over his shoulder. Nie Mingjue turns to him, in affronted confusion.

“What?” He asks, taking a step closer, not to threaten him, but to hear him better.

Wei Wuxian cocks his chin up, but still refuse to meet their eyes, looking at the far nothing as if he still can see his huts burn into ash, before repeating:

“There were no other children of his age on Burial Mounds.” The words are hollow, the statement was supposed to be a relief, but then Wei Ying twists the knife in all their wounds. “None survived the conditions of Qiongi Path before Wen Qing came to me.” He says, turning weighted eyes towards Nie Mingjue. “Sect Leader Nie doesn’t need to fear having slaughtered infants, if nothing else.”

'If nothing else." Nie Mingjue repeats, laughing out disbelievingly. Show how he descends into an enraged and manic laugh, trying to grapple with the horrible revelation. "Oh, how very comforting." "Thank you, Yiling Patriarch." And then he turns once again to Jin Guangyao, all erratic movements and the treadmark aggressiveness of the Nies, demanding once again through gritted teeth: "Linfeng-zun, is there something you would like to say to that?"

Jin Guangyao takes three steps back for each of the three steps forward Nie Mingjue takes, lifting his arms in an appeasing gesture, looking doe-eyed and cornered, to the point that Xiongzhang steps in between them, to keep them from further harm.

“I understand that circumstances are unclear and that moods are shaken.” Jin Guangyao tries, sounding reasonable and diplomatic. “We will seek to find the truth of tonight’s events, but for now we should focus on the matter at hand.” He pauses for a moment, before waving towards Wei Ying’s frame, which makes Lan Wangji try to better block their sight of him, using his own body for it. Jin Guangyao takes note of that, eying him intently, but doesn’t stop asking: “Wei Wuxian still poses a threat, even without the Wens. Even now that the location of the Stygian Tiger Amulet is unclear–”

“I’ve destroyed it.” Wei Ying says at the same time Lan Wangji and three others lend his voice to a cousin statement: “He's destroyed it.”. 

When he looks up he finds Nie Mingjue with a face contorted with fervent indignance, Nie Huaisang clutching his folded fan and Jiang Wanyin shaking in barely concealed rage, all glaring at Jin Guangyao.

“Even now that the location of the fragments of the Stygian Tiger Amulet is unclear–” The man corrects himself, eying his three oppositors appeasingly, before continuing “– Wei Wuxian is still dangerous and should be contained, for the safety of us all.”

A wheezy sound comes from his left. Lan Wangji turns sad eyes to Wei Ying as he softly laughs, hunched over A-Yuan, even as the sound starts to resemble less and less laughter and grow more similar to crying.

“Wei Ying…”

“No need, Lan Zhan.” He says, but he looks like a man drowning seeing people tear apart the last of the boats that could save him. “It’s just more of the same.”  He says, and he sounds nothing like he’s laughing then, only as if he's crying. “It's always just more of the same.” He forces himself to laugh, at last, but his body convulses around the sound as if he's sobbing, before he looks dead-eyed at the other cultivators at large. “The world is truly… a horrible place to be in.”

As Lan Wangji holds Wei Ying. he feels like he's alone in the sea side-by-side with him, swimming and kicking to try and keep the three of them from drowning, but he's losing.

As the argument picks up speed, as the Lans weigh more and more in the discussion being had in the great hall of their home, there comes the suggestion he had feared the most: lifelong imprisonment under the supervision of the Lan Clan.

“No!” Lan Wangji protests, earning a sympathetic if not pitiful gaze from his Xiongzhang, just as a voice comes from behind him:

“Alright.”

Lan Wangji turns, horrified, to see Wei Ying's determined face looking up at Shufu and Xiongzhang.

“What?!” Jiang Cheng screams, looking at him in as much disbelief as Lan Wangji feels.

“I said alright.” Wei Ying repeats. “I’ll submit.”

“Wei Ying-” Lan Wangji tries, but Wei Ying ignores him.

“I’ll let you lock me up for the rest of my life, strike me with whips, the whole Lan spiel.” Wei Ying says, tilting his head to the side with grave intensity. “With one condition.”

“You dare to impose conditions?” Shufu rages. “After everything you have done?!”

Wei Ying looks at him without a drop of shame or fear.

“I dare.” He says.

Shufu is red in the face when he nearly spits:

“You should count yourself lucky to be allowed to live!”

“So should you.” The words are quiet but carry such seriousness and certainty that a somber hush falls over the hall as cultivators listen to the Yiling Patriarch with baited breath and icy fear in their veins. “Do not think, Master Lan, that just because I look frail I am no longer capable of killing everyone in this room.” Wei Ying continues, and there’s red in his eyes, faint but real, a reminder of what he was able to accomplish mere hours, holding a siege with nothing but his own strength for days. “You have no idea how much I want to, after all you have done.”

"What would that condition be, Young Master Wei?” Xiongzhang asks, his voice way softer, more appeasing than their uncle's.

“This child… His name is Wen Yuan.” Wei Ying says, indicating the boy asleep in his arms, but not quite revealing his face to the scrutinizing gaze of the cultivation world. “18 months ago I rescued him, along with the rest of his family in Qiongqi Path.” As many voices rise, protesting, Wei Ying raises his own even harder and continues anyways: “For the last 18 months, in all ways but blood, he has been my son. I have been raising him in the Burial Mounds as well as I could under the circumstances, along with the rest of our family.” He stops them, blinking rapidly, his throat working against a feeling too great to name. “As of a few hours ago, as you have seen to, thoroughly, he has no home to return to and no more family to care for him.” His eyes lower down to A-Yuan, his voice dropping further, into a whisper. “I’m all he has left.” He looks up at Shufu, gaze sharp. “I think we can all agree that this isn’t very favorable to a child.”

“If you have a point, I suggest you get to it.” Shufu says, dryly.

“I will submit to your punishment.” Wei Ying repeats once more, and Lan Wangji feels as if a knife is being dug deep into his chest. “I will not resist, fight back or try to escape. I won’t so much as utter a word of protest.” Many brows are arched so far they nearly touch hairlines, but all Lan Wangji can see is Wei Ying, all he can hear is his own heartbeat in his ears, chanting no , no , no . “All I ask is that he may be raised here. That he can be kept safe. That you offer him what I will no longer be able to.”

Soft mutterings come from the crowd around them, the ever-watching cultivators whose words and idle gossip amount to no more than a white noise, like a group of birds flapping their wings while stuck in a room. He can barely think.

“Those are your conditions?” Shufu asks, his voice higher pitched than usual with disbelief and suspicion. Wangji can’t help but to think, with the way his face is scrunched in confusion even though he tries to cling to anger, that he is more than just a little bit stunned at the selflessness he's displaying.

He doesn’t know him at all, he thinks, or he would never be surprised. He never bothered to know him at all.

Wei Ying lifts his head, moving his shoulders back and trying to puff out his wounded chest as if answering Shufu’s worst impression of him by answering in kind, becoming the arrogant man they think he is.

“Yes.” Wei Ying answers, his voice hard and unyielding. “As long as my son is safe, I will endure your judgment quietly. As long as I have your word that he will be safe, I will remain at your mercy.” Wei Ying tilts his head slightly and shifts his dead gaze to Xiongzhang’s direction instead, whose face is slowly recomposing into a mask of serene determination instead of being fragmented with continuous thoughts. “This is all the Yilling Patriarch sets as a price for his own head. Surely it’s not too expensive, Zewu-Jun?” 

“Xiongzhang-” Wangji tries, pleads, desperately.

This time, his brother doesn’t even glance in his direction.

“I accept your conditions, Young Waster Wei.”

As the ground crumbles from under Wangji’s feet and his heart drops in free fall to the bottom of his stomach, all Wei Wuxian does in the corner of Lan Zhan’s horrified gaze is sigh in relief.

Wangji sat diligently at his desk in the quiet confines of the study room, the middle afternoon sunlight filtered through the window, casting a warm glow on the ancient manuscripts that Lan Xichen had set aside for him to review.

He tried very hard not to think about a time, not too long, it couldn’t be too long ago though it surely felt like it, where he sat on a desk like this, reading through papers and taking notes, as he was now, and an unruly boy tried to bait him into conversation on the desk by his.

Ask me something now , he wanted to say, Ask me anything, and I’ll answer.

All that existed was silence. A lack. An absence.

He put his complicated feelings regarding absent zhijis and his brother aside and tried to keep a tranquil mood and a fair mindset as he read through the requests for help that had been received by the Gusu Lan sect with utmost care. Each request carried a tale of despair, seeking aid to eliminate various malevolent creatures that haunted their lands, and in each Wangji could glimpse a brief fragment, a shadow, of something greater, more terrifying, contained and snuffed and destroyed years ago.

Still, it itched at him. Still, it angered him. Still, he noted down the pertinent details and potential types of monsters that these disciples were meant to face, meticulously organizing the information into a concise and structured format.

As he proceeded with his long task with unwavering dedication, growing engrossed in his work, in the reports, in the hints he thought he could begin to connect, he heard a soft and delicate voice echoing from outside the study. 

He paused.

The voice was unmistakably that of a child, though too distant for him to discern the words. Curiosity piqued and led by a vague sense of familiarity, he set his brush aside and listened intently, his keen ears picking up on the words:

"Why?" The simple question, simple yet profound, lingered in the air.

His heart skipped a beat as he recognized the familiar voice of A-Yuan, the young boy he had grown fond of during his visits to the villages outside the Cloud Recesses. The scratch at the back of his mind now made sense; what didn’t make sense is that he could hear him. He had dropped him off at the Moshi’s doorstep, he was meant to be with-

Wangji stood up from his table, abruptly, knocking off the table while at it, the inkpot staining the clear floor and the bottom of his robes, but he paid little mind to that, rushing towards the nearest window and opening it, looking at the vague direction of the Moshi.

The hidden house could be barely seen from where he stood, but he could see the small overgrown garden, neglected through the years, mostly undisturbed.

Except for a little boy in white.

"We can't play tag inside the house." A-Yuan's voice echoed again, and he shook his head emphatically, talking to the door to the house, open but hidden from his view. “Zewu-jun says we can get hurt.”

The realization was a slow one, like the wait for the first raindrop to fall from the loaded clouds.

Then there was the storm.

His heart picked up with one strong thud, then began to race with both excitement and trepidation as he realized that behind the door, behind where he couldn’t see, the person with which A-Yuan was speaking to was Wei Ying. Wei Ying was there, only a few ways away, he could glimpse him if not for a corner.

And the door…

The door to the garden was open.

He had stormed through the doors before he could even think of it, leaving a trail of startled disciples and scandalized elders in his wake, shouting his name and asking if everything was alright, demanding an explanation for his unruliness.

“Wangji?!” He could hear Xiongzhang call him, alarmed. “Wangji!”

It was a chance to see—

Nothing could stop him as he rushed through the winding pathways of the Cloud Recesses, not even that inherent part of him that repeated in a scolding sense that running was prohibited in the Cloud Recesses , his mind focused solely on reaching the house in time.

As Lan Zhan arrived at the Moshi, ran past the main door, moving around the doors,moving straight for the back garde. He felt like gasping for breath, not from true exhaustion, but by the way he was suffocated from the inside out by his feelings. He had managed to make it in time, he must have.

But A-Yuan had gone back inside.

The doors were closed.

Oh .

For a moment, he stood there, his hand outstretched, his hope dying an early death in his chest, laying to rot with all the other hopes he had nurtured only to be shot down before. Oh , he thought again, lowering his hand.

Numb for only a moment, he stepped back from the garden, dragged his feet back through the path until the front of the house, felt the buzzing, ever-present, ever-suffocating energy of the wards that surrounded the Moshi.

The weight of the missed opportunity bore down on him like a heavy burden, like a strike of the discipline whip. He faltered, his shoulders slumped, and he sank to his knees, feeling the cool stone of the pathway beneath him.

His hands clenched into fists as he tried to contain the turmoil of emotions within him. He bows his head, trying to hold onto all the feelings that have come alive once more, like burning wounds, just under the skin, near breaking it, near making him bleed.

And he waits, knelt on the steps of the house.

To his absolute despair, for the rest of the discussions regarding his impending life-long punishment, Wei Ying remains silent, almost disinterestedly so.

He passively allows a Lan healer to kneel by his side and see to A-Yuan, without releasing the boy from his own arms, and only shakes his head in a polite refusal when the stern-faced woman inquires about his injuries. After she declares the boy healthy, the light fever he had swiftly dealt with after transferring some of her spiritual energy into him, Wei Wuxian bowed his head in gratitude and returned to his slumped posture against the wall he kept staining with his blood.

He spends the better half of the debate of whether it would not be best to execute him outright if he had vowed to not fight their judgment humming sweet melodies against the spot his lips rested over the crown of the child’s head, his arms cradling a-Yuan in his sleep as if all that could matter to him was remembering the child’s weight in his hold and not that the consensus of the people around him was once again being led in large steps towards the fate that had taken Wangji’s mother from him.

At some point, even Jiang Wanyin, in the heights of his rage and grief,g orws frantic with his apathy, striding in loud steps towards his emaciated brother, taking fistfuls of his robes to pull him close towards his face only to drop him in belated horror when Wei Ying curls over himself, as if afraid of being stricken.

No.

As if afraid a blow meant to him would land on his son.

He doesn’t move from where he lands, half-kneeling, half-collapsed, loose robes slipping from thin his bony shoulders, revealing sickly pale skin stained with dried blood, his head bowed as if awaiting his promised death sentence in the cool kiss of a sword that had flown by Suibian nearly his whole life, as familiar to him as the currents of Lotus Pier’ river and the brunt of his brother’s anger.

Lan Wangji inches closer, step by imposing step, ready to defend him, but Jiang Wanyin pays him no mind.

For once, Wangji is not offended as he watches his shoulders rise and fall under his heaving, emotional distress etched in his very posture, face stuck somewhere between and anger, trying to understand, to comprehend how Wei Wuxian and Yiling Patriarch and Yanli’s murderer and this wreck of a man are all the same. How did we get here? , he must wonder, as Wangji does himself, What happened to you, to become this? . His mouth opens and closes, unsure whether to fall down beside him and cry or lift him up and scream.

Knowing Jiang Wanyin, what he chooses to do comes to no surprise.

“Will you say nothing of this?” He asks, and if Lan Wangji had not been acquainted for three months with the sound of his despair, masked by the smoke curtain of rage, he would take his anger at face value and not see the utter fear he felt in himself behind the question. “Wei Wuxian, you have never failed to speak as loudly as you could, desperate to give your opinion on everything!” The words sound childish, but the powerless rage that rings through them does not. “This is when you chose to say nothing?” “Not a single word to defend yourself?!” His hands grab the fabric of Wei Wuxian's clothes and he shakes him violently, as if that would get him his answers, while Wei Ying… Wei Ying doesn't fight back at all, letting himself be thrown about like a ragdoll in the grasp of a child throwing a tantrum. “Say something, damn you, or I’ll break your legs!”

“Even if I had something to say.” Wei Ying answers, voice deceptively even, eyes looking over Jiang Wanyin's shoulders, hollow. “It wouldn’t matter.”

“It wouldn’t matter?” The other man repeats, the words careful in a shaky way, an attempt to make sure he’s not misheard as his anger escalates. His knuckles go white where they bunch the fabric of Wei Ying’s collar and he lifts him from the ground by it, bringing his brother’s face closer to his own, to scream at him better. “How would it not matter?!”

Lan Wangji reaches for the offending arm, trying to tug it back and release Wei Ying.

“Jiang Wanyin!”

“Mind your business, Second Master Lan!” He answered instead, shoving him aside before resuming his thoughtless words: “Don’t you have at least a word to say to those who lost their family to you?! Wouldn’t that matter?!”

“It never mattered before.” The words come strikingly harsh, freezing his hands halfway through a new attempt to rip Sect Leader Jiang off his soulmate, the bite of his anger so sudden as he turns his face towards his brother that it startles even Jiang Wanyin, who loosens his grip on his collar as gray eyes dare him to contradict the words said. His pale, worn face sours with something worse than regret, more painful than grief. “I know, because I tried .”

He sounds tortured, overflowing with the grief and frustration of a man whose best intentions never led to anything other than loss. Wangji is stricken by the childish urge to cover his ears, as if not hearing it would make the feeling unreal. But not hearing is what got them in this mess.

Eventually, the burning in his irises is stamped down, frozen over once more, until he’s something other than a crime scene, mangled beyond repair. Something they can at least manage to look at. Not freeze, perhaps, but are coated in the resin-like matter that is his resignation, voice softening once more so as to not be overheard. 

“My words are meaningless now, Jiang Cheng, as well as my life.” There is no way to be sure if the choked sound of pain at such words comes from him or from Jiang Wanyin. Whichever of them, Wei Ying ignores them either way. “I thank you and I apologize for everything.” His throat works through something Lan Wangji can only guess is a knot of emotion, blinking until any moisture that could pool in his eyes dries out completely. “But please don’t ask me to say anything else. I have vowed not to fight, I vowed to be silent, no matter what they decide. I cannot break my word, with a life at stake.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze falls sadly upon the still induced-talisman-sleeping bundle that is A-Yuan only to snap at sharp awareness back to the danger in front of them as Zidian begins to spark in its ring form, around Jiang Wanyin’s finger.

“A life at stake?!” He screams, louder than before, Zidian uncurling, and Lan Wangji has no qualms about grabbing one of  his arms now, keeping Zidian away from Wei Ying and trying to pry the other hand from his clothes.

“Let go.” He orders.

“Get lost, Lan Wangji!” Jiang Wanyin replies, over his shoulder, dismissively, struggling to free his hands. “Yes, there’s a life at stake, and it is not this child’s!” His grip tightens in such a way around Wei Ying's arms that the man's breath lets out a small hitch of pain, shooting an alarmed look up to his brother as the strength of it doesn't seem to wane even as the words take a hushed, utterly serious tone to them. “They will lock you up forever, never to be seen again. They’re going to keep you somewhere in this place and leave you to rot.” His last word comes almost spat out of his lips, making his soulmate flinch and try to retreat against his own better (or worse) judgment. “And you will say nothing, in favor of this child?”

Wei Ying holds his gaze a moment longer before turning his face and eyes away, shutting down again. The sound that leaves Jiang Wanyin's throat sounds almost gutural, a wounded yao in the woods sensing approaching death and unsure how it will come to pass. He shakes him again, more violently, jostling Wei Ying's head back and forth until it hits the column he had been leaning against.

As Wei Ying curls his battered frame into himself, hand rising to tenderly cup the back of A-Yuan’s head, hiding his face against the child’s hair, Lan Wangji finally pries Jiang Wanyin off him and positions himself in front of the other man, blocking his access to Weeu Ying even as he kicks, cusses and tries to sidestep him until his only solution is to spew his words over the wall Wangji's shoulder represent.

“Wei Wuxian, have you learned nothing with what you lost protecting the Wens?!”

But Wei Wuxian does not answer, nor does he speak again.

A-Yuan doesn’t understand what’s so bad about the gardens.

Sure, some of the flowers and grass is dead and the lake water is not as clear as it could be, but it was still a garden all of their own. If they tended to it together it would look prettier, he’s sure, and then they could have their meals in between grass and wildflowers, maybe even watching fishes in the pond. Wouldn’t that be great?

Still, A-Niang face looks strained past his kind smile. He looks stressed. A-Yuan takes one last look around, trying to understand why he would feel like that before finally caving under his niang’s pleading looks.

He takes careful steps closer to the door, watching relief and trepidation chasing each other across A-Niang’s face, until he's almost by the door, reaching out towards A-Niang's outstretched hand. He hesitates, for a moment, almost pulling his hand back.

There’s something animalistic to the glow of his eyes then, to the way he bore his teeth in desperation and lunged forward, his hand extending for beyond the door, for his wrist, with a hiss of pain.

There were other things too.

A crackling sound, the scent of burnt flesh. The way he pulled him into the house, how he had cupped the back of his head when he had brought him into his arms. The loud bang as A-Niang slammed the door behind them, the even louder beat on his ear, resting right above A-Niang's rushing heart.

"Why would you do that?" A-Niang asks, sounding breathless, sounding pained. He backs away, both hands cupping A-Yuan's cheeks, his eyes wide and worried. One of his hands brushed off loose strands of hair from his face, and from the edge of his vision A-Yuan saw that their fingers were blackened, a little. "Baobei, why would you go out?"

"I just wanted to play." A-Yuan says, confused. He feels winded, he feels like the security and warmth of his Niang's house was broken, and that it was he who did it. "A-Niang, your arm." He says, trying to look at the blackened hand. "You're hurt."

As soon as A-Niang notices it, he hides his hand under his long white sleeve, keeping it from A-Yuan's eyes. He takes a deep breath, his face still full of worry and pain, but he shakes his head against the concern for his hand.

“It's nothing, just a small accident.” He reassures him, though A-Yuan can see the strain in his eyes. “I'll be fine,"

"I'm really sorry for hurting you.” A-Yuan reached out tentatively to touch A-Niang’s hand, but his other one held his tiny hand before he could, stopping him mid-motion. That only made him feel worse. He looked down and tried to will his lips not to quiver, his eyes not to water.  “I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"Don't worry about my hand." A-Niang said, trying to sound even more reassuring, tilting A-Yuan’s head up once more to give him a reassuring smile. "It's just a minor injury, and it will heal quickly."

“But still…” He said, and his voice was teary, miserable. “You’re mad at me.”

“I'm not mad, but I am upset.” A-Niang confessed, sighing profusely. "You know very well the doors and windows here are to be closed.”

“I know.”

“Then just what were you thinking, opening that door?"

"I… I wasn’t.” A-Yuan's eyes filled with tears, finally losing the battle against composure, his lower lip quivering. "I'm sorry, A-Niang, I didn't mean to cause trouble," he whispered, feeling guilty for his actions.

A-Niang's expression softened even further, until he looked more guilty than A-Yuan thinks he must look, and he pulled A-Yuan into a warm embrace.

"I know you didn't mean to, baobei." He said gently, pressing a kiss on the top of A-Yuan's head.

"But A-Niang, why can't we open these doors?" A-Yuan asks, in a moment where curiosity won over guilt.

A-Niang didn’t answer him for a while, merely holding him close and letting the silence hang above them. The silence lasted so long, A-Yuan started to think maybe A-Niang wouldn’t answer him at all, that he was waiting for his inquiry to get lost in the wind.

"Baobei, I know you wanted to play.” He whispered at last, his voice sounding hollow. “But these doors are sealed for a reason."

What reason? , he wanted to ask, but kept it to himself.

He had caused enough trouble. He should just be a good child for now.

"I didn't mean to cause any trouble, A-Niang.” A-Yuan said once more.

"I know, Baobei," A-Niang said, his voice softening. "You're still young.” He whispered then, sounding haunted. “Forgive your niang if I forget that. I just worry.” He pressed another kiss on the top of his head before trying to take on a more playful, cheery tone. “And you did give me a scare.”

"I promise I won't do it again," A-Yuan said earnestly, still feeling burdened by the weight of his mistake.

"I believe you," A-Niang replied, smiling gently.

A-Niang’s eyes scoured his face, as if looking for something. He must have found it, whatever it was, because he nodded, his eyes still shiny, swallowing as if there was a knot on his throat before pulling A-Yuan into another tight hug, rocking them both back and forth as he did.

“I’m sorry, baobei. I’m so sorry.” He said, though A-Yuan couldn’t understand what he was sorry for. “I love you, A-Yuan.”

“I love you too, A-Niang.”

They stood there for a moment, holding each other.

A-Niang’s heart did not get less loud.

Lan Wangji had thought nothing could be worse than Wei Ying's face, hollowed and pale and so very weak, twisted with a mask of resigned betrayal as the elders declared a punishment he had vowed would not come to pass, if he only came back with him.

He had promised help. No punishment. He had promised .

What follows is worse.

A Lan elder steps forth. The doctor from earlier, one who has seen to many cultivators and whose skills have endured and increased during the decades and who has already gained Wei Ying’s trust only a few moments ago, Lan Wangji realizes with a bitterness that clings to the back of his throat and makes him want to turn to side and retch. She smiles kindly in the non-smile Lan fashion, as if to soothe an animal easily spooked, and extends her arms to receive the child whose family they’re about to rip apart for good.

Wei Ying hesitates for the first time in hours, as if his senses are only now returning to him and he’s about to realize the bargain he’s made. Wangji is more than ready to help him break his vows, to grab onto him and flee so far away that he will be forgiven for his naivety, for his misjudgment. He shies away from the Lan disciple’s reach, his hands balling slightly in the fabric of his son’s clothes. As if sensing his father’s despair, the child stirs, grumbling slightly. Wei Ying’s hand flattens immediately, rubbing soothing circles on his back until A-Yuan calms again.

“Will…” He stops to work past the knot in his throat, small and unsure of that unfamiliar, wrong way that Lan Wangji hates, then tries again. “Will he be able to see me?”

“Yes.” Wangji replies at the same time Uncle says “No.”

They trade hard stares in the charged silence that takes over the room. When Lan Wangji speaks again, his voice comes nearing a growl:

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Lan Xichen agrees, raising his hands minutely to settle their confrontation in a benevolent gesture. “Once a mon—”

“No.” Do not interrupt others , his mind supplies. He takes it with both hands and shoves it downwards, to a place where this shame will dwarf under the current situation. He’s spent his life, spent the past few years endeavoring not to be his father and here he stands, failing. How can he let A-Yuan become him? “Whenever he wants.”

Lan Xichen looks at him, his eyes pools of pure sadness. He doesn’t want him to be sad, he wants him to be righteous. He wants a single Lan to remember their motto, before they make a shame of the morals they’ve taught for centuries.

“That’s impossible, Wangji, and you know this.”

He knows it, but he can’t know it. He had promised. His heart passes his judgment with every heartbeat. Liar, liar, liar, liar.

“Four times a week then.” His brother’s face remains unmoved, his anguish restrained to his eyes. The bitterness in the back of his throat has grown nails, it scratches him from the inside out, names itself despair. “Thrice.” Nothing. He wants to scream, he wants to slice the world in pieces until none can so much as touch Wei Ying, much less take him from his child. His voice breaks as he pleads. “Xiongzhang.”

His brother holds his gaze and an infinitude of words passes between them in that long, quiet moment, a thousand ‘you cannot do this’, another thousand ‘I do not want to’, a hundred ‘I cannot forgive you if you let this happen’, one ‘I know’. He knows he is defeated before Xichen even opens his mouth to speak, so he closes his eyes against the oncoming words.

“Once.” He has never hated Xichen’s voice before. He tells himself this is Sect Leader Lan’s voice, but it doesn’t soften the blow. “Once a week.”

He can’t hardly look back at Wei Ying’s face.

“Xian-gege?" Lan Wangji's breath gets caught up in the back of his throat as a sleep-soft voice makes itself known. "Xian-gege, what's going on?"

When Wangji whips around A-Yuan is blinking sleepily at the unfamiliar room crowded with unfamiliar faces over Wei Ying's shoulder, and his zhiji's face… Wei Ying's face looks like stone as he holds his gaze on Lan Xichen.

"Everything's alright, A-Yuan." He replies, his voice tender and reassuring. The boy leans back to take confirmation from his face and Wei Wuxian is smiling in the blink of an eye, his features soft and his eyes warm.

"Where are we?"

"We're somewhere new."

Even though the words are hollow and barely answer his question, A-Yuan nods, once, as if taking the explanation for what it is before a furrow pulls down his brows.

"Why are we here?"

"Because we can't go back home.” Wei Ying says the truth so delicately that every cultivator with blood in their hands looks away momentarily. “We'll stay here now, okay?"

"Will Aunt Qing and Uncle Ning come too? And Uncle Four and Feng-jiejie? And grandmother?” Hurt creeps in the corners of Wei Ying’s smile, and it dims a little under the reminder of such enormous loss. A-Yuan notices, concern making his voice more high pitched, little hands grabbing onto the fabric of his father’s sleeves. “Popo said she would come back for A-Yuan and she didn't, Xian-gege. Where is she?”

It seems to become very hard to be pleased with the success of their siege as more cultivators look either to the ground or to the child’s face with complicated emotions in their eyes.

“They're not coming, A-Yuan.” Wei Ying’s voice is almost lifeless, the words dead things he has to push out of his mouth even though he doesn't want them to exist at all. “Xian-gege is sorry.” He brings his lips to kiss the boy in between his brows. “It's just the two of us now.”

"Did they go to meet Muqin and Fuqin?" The boy asks, his lips beginning to wobble.  "In the other place?"

Wei Wuxian hesitates for a moment, before his shoulders lower even further, forced to admit another defeat.

“Yes, radish, they did.” He answers honestly, quickly bouncing A-Yuan so he looks up at him, at the face that smiles like he's not in pain. “But we can't go there just yet, okay? You can't go there for a very long time.” The words come rehearsed, like he’s used to teaching hard lessons through easy words. Wangji briefly wonders how many people died before in their settlement for both question and answer to come so easily. “It's why we're here.”

Suddenly, A-Yuan screams in terror, setting all cultivators at edge. Wei Ying’s eyes widen as he clutches him tighter to his chest, irises flickering with a spark of resentment as they look around for danger wildly. Wangji immediately draws Bichen. He hears Baixia be drawn somewhere and the distinctive crackle of Zidian as brother calls for them all to calm down.

"There are gold people here!” A-Yuan says, pointing his small finger towards the Jin delegation, his small face terrified. “The same from the dark place! I saw them burning Aunt Ming's shack and the kitchens, I saw them!” Wei Wuxian's wide eyes have hints of red as they turn to the Jin delegation, poised to defend from all corners, taking steps back from them as he presses A-Yuan's face to his shoulder in order to spare his sight, hiding him from the reality of things, letting out comforting shushes. A-Yuan is not moved, seemingly more panicked now that he can't see them and now arguing with Wei Ying. “We had just built the kitchen! That was not nice! It was mean and being mean is bad! Taking people is bad! They're bad!”

“They shouldn't have, but they didn't know the kitchen was new.” Wei Wuxian assures him, running soothingly over his hair as A-Yuan struggled against his gestures to not let his own anger wane. “They thought they were doing a good thing.”

"Well, they weren't!”

“They didn't know." He says, the words almost a compassionate statement. "It's alright, they will not set fire to anything else. I promise." They sound understanding at first, a blank slate of forgiveness, but further examination would show them to have no weight or consistency at all, to be translucent, hollow, like Wei Ying’s own voice. Platitudes, he thinks, as Wei Ying’s eyes glance around worriedly, like a cornered animal that will never know peace or trust ever again, as he licks his lips and parts his lips to let through an even softer, more tentative call: "A-Yuan.” Wei Ying whispers, honey-toned, soft-voiced, deceitful. “Xian-gege will have to go—"

"They’re taking you?!” The boy shrieks, thrust back into the panic Wei Ying had barely managed to placate. He shifts, as if he can be even closer to his father, holds onto him as if he could merge them together, keep him in place, never be parted. Only his head is tipped back, staring at Wei Ying’s face as fat tears flow down his red cheeks, his face the very image of misery. “Please don't go to the other place! You said we couldn't go to the other place yet, so you can't go! You can’t let the gold people take you!"

"Shh, shh, baobei, baobei, no.” He speaks in quick succession, a mantra for comfort followed by a kiss to the top of his head, then his cheek resting against the dark hair there, swaying A-Yuan in his hold, trying to lul him back into calm and ease and trust. “No, Xian-gege is not going to the other place. He’s not going with the gold people either.” Wei Ying assures him further, but A-Yuan’s brown eyes are still deeply distrustful as they stare up at him. “But he has to go with Zewu-jun and these other elders, see?” He points to the group of white-dressed and stone-faced members of Wangji’s own Sect, who seem to intimidate A-Yuan even after Xiongzhang waves at him, trying to be friendly. Wei Ying shifts to redirect A-Yuan’s sight to the ever-still healer, her hands behind her back, waiting for the moment to step in. “So you have to go with Lan-daifu here, okay?”

“Hello, little one.” Lan Meihui says from the distance she’s kept, with a smile that almost reaches her eyes but not quite.

“Daifu?” A-Yuan asks with interest and curiosity, less frightened than he had been a second ago. “Like Qing-jie?”

From the corner of his eyes, Wangji sees golden robes shift uncomfortably, as the Jin disciple he had argued with before seems to not be able to hold his pride and arrogance either with the new topic, especially as the Nie brothers’ glare seem to darken even further.

“Yes.” Wei Ying says, sounding strangled by his own tears. “Like Qing-jie.” He tries for a smile. “But without the needles. Just clouds and herbs.”

“Why do I have to go with the doctor?" The child asks, pouting. "Xian-gege is the one who's hurt!”

And indeed, when he leans back and points at Wei Ying, though they can’t see the red through his black clothes they can see the fabric over his chest wet with liquid and the scarlet stain in the front of the boy’s robes from the time he had laid sleeping against his father. Dry blood adorns his neck and the hands that lift to pat his head are likewise stained scarlet, even if a little faded by the rainwater that had half-washed them.

“Aiyah, what a filial child.” He says, with genuine fondness in his voice and in his eyes, his hand strokes his hair. He smiles and Wangji takes in a sharp breath, like a knife piercing through his lungs. The smile is dimmer than he remembers but his eyes… His eyes crease like they had back in a library, almost a lifetime ago. “Xian-gege will go to another doctor. This one only takes care of kids. You had a fever when we arrived. And there was that stomachache yesterday, right?”

A-Yuan frowns, as if only now remembering those things or displeased that either of them remember.

“Right.”

“So she'll take care of you.”

The argument seems to sway A-Yuan somehow, who sends one careful glance at the elder healer before holding his father’s wrist again.

“Can't we go together?” He asks Lan-daifu. “Qing-jie always treated us together.”

Before she can even open her mouth to reply, Wei Ying is already speaking:

"We can't in here.” Wei Ying replies instead, brushing A-Yuan’s hair back with worn fingers. “There are rules."

There’s a loud scoff that follows the statement. Lan Wangji turns his glare to Shufu, who has disdainfully turned his face away, as if the very idea of Wei Ying understanding rules, let alone Cloud Recesses’ones, is absurd. He should feel bad, for the hatred in his heart, but even Xiongzhang seems unable to not look at Shufu with reprehension and disapproval. It’s a bitter balm, but it is a balm. A-Yuan’s face takes a stubborn expression immediately, crossing his arms.

“I don't like the rules.” The boy screams with all the might of his little lungs, holding so tight onto Wei Ying he even pulls some of his hair when bunching his fists in the back of Wei Wuxain’s clothes. “I want to stay with you!”

The sound of mutterings comes from all corners as A-Yuan’s steadfast refusal seemingly puts in check the one condition that would have the Yilling Patriarch willingly chained down, causing slight unrest that promises to grow even further. Acutely aware of the proportions these can take, Wangji feels like screaming, like taking Wei Ying and A-Yuan in his arms and fleeing before anything else can be taken away from them, even if he has to fight a hundred cultivators, a thousand cultivators. Even if he has to rip his ribbon from his forehead, cut his ties with his Sect, have his name cursed and used as a warning tale, like his father’s had been.

"Wei Ying—" Wangji starts, concerned, then stops.

Silver eyes turn to him like they’re grasping for straws, like Wei Ying is a drowning man and Lan Wangji is the only piece of driftwood he had come by. His face flickers through emotions too quickly to pin down, but he does understand he has planned something, trying to find a way out of the situation they’re in the best way he knows how. The smile that rips through Wei Ying is bright and dazzling and anything but genuine.

"Lan-daifu is friends with Rich-gege. Remember him?" The words come cheerful, but his eyes are strained. The elders are growing impatient, anyone can see it, and Wei Ying is inching closer and closer to frantic in his attempts to pretend he’s not as anxious as he clearly is, his hands almost shaking but growing stiffer in their movements as they hold A-Yuan instead.. "See? Your Rich-gege, he's here.” He turns abruptly so A-Yuan is face to face with Lan Wangji.

The boy’s big brown eyes blink up at him, looking as lost as Wangji himself feels. Even though startled, he does understand he's meant to do something, and something that soothes the child’s nerves. At a loss of what that might be, he merely nods and tries to speak very, very softly to counteract the frozen face Wei Ying claims had frightened the child the first time they met:

“Hello, A-Yuan.”

The child’s face lights up in joyous recognition but doesn’t lose it’s distrustful undercurrent.

“He'll go with you, okay?” Wei Ying tries again, rocking gently, encouraging, madly trying to keep him from fussing any further. “Then you don't have to cry.”

The boy immediately loses his momentary joy, shaking his head and grabbing tighter onto Wei Ying.

“I don't want to!”

“You like Rich-gege, radish, remember?” Wei Ying tries again, bouncing the child slightly in his hold to distract from the edge of panic creeping into his voice, eyes flickering between the disapproving faces watching them. “He bought you toys.”

“I don't want toys, I want Xian-gege!”

“That's enough!” Uncle’s voice snaps. Wangji turns to him in time to see him flip back one of his sleeves, fists clenched, looking down at Wei Wuxian with cold anger as if he was deliberately making trouble. “Take the boy.”

 His breath hitches on his throat, a sharp painful thing, like a scream he keeps on swallowing. He has never wished harm on his Uncle before, but he does now, if only mildly, if only to appease this desperate feeling throwing himself against his ribcage. Things are already in motion before Wangji's stomach can even properly drop.

“Baobei.” Wei Ying’s gray eyes are wide and sharp with panic as he takes a few steps back from the Lan doctor approaching, his hand patting A-Yuan's back comforting and encouragingly. “You have to let go, okay? Just like Xian-gege told you to. You have to let go, please.”

But A-Yuan doesn’t let go, and the despair is too much for him to stand it. Wangji steps in front of both father and son, hoping to be of use here, if nowhere else. Lan-daifu’s blue eyes flicker from his face to the spot over his shoulder where Wei Ying is.

Wangji knows her. Lan Meihui is older than Uncle but with a golden core so strong she looks even younger, only edging at middle age. She cleaned his cuts when he was learning to use a sword, prescribed him medicine when he had fevers and brewed cups and cups of tonics after the loss of his mother. He’s not sure what she sees in Wei Ying, with his back turned as he is, only that she calmly folds her hands in front of her, stopping in her tracks, patiently waiting for the right moment.

“Meihui!” Uncle hisses.

“I can not move against my conscience any more than I can move against the Elders’ decisions, Qiren.” Her words are hard and her voice is stone. Wangji has known her to be firm, but he has never known her like this, with a reproach so pungent in her heart she doesn’t bother hiding it on her tongue. “Give the man time.” At this, she turns her gaze to Uncle, looking to the world as if she had judged his character and found something in him to be glaringly lacking. “You know what it's like to take a child from a parent’s arms.”

There’s a collective sharp intake from the Lan side of the room, especially from brother and the elders, one which even Wangji partakes in. Uncle, however, seems to take a step back as if Lan Meihui had dealt him an actual physical blow, his face slacking for a moment and showing the betrayal he felt. Lan-daifu looks away, uncaring, and waits.

"Baobei, please, you have to go, okay?” Wei Ying continues pleading, and he knows it must be the worst thing he has ever been subjected to. “You have to be a very good boy and good boys don't cry.”

"I won't be good!” A-Yuan voice starts sounding tearful and scared. Wangji’s throat tightens around the knot of feelings in it, turning his accusatory glance at Uncle and brother, who neither flinch nor meet his eyes. “I'll cry very loud! If you leave, I'll cry the loudest!”

“Please, don't.” He says, breathless and wounded, as if he’s been stabbed. Wangji is not quite sure if he means the words for the boy, for the doctor, for the room at large but when he glances over his shoulder, Wei Ying is squeezing him in an almost hug with one arm and trying to pry his tiny fingers from the fabric of his clothes with his free hand. “A-Yuan, radish, it's alright.” Wei Ying's eyes look up from his son and in his direction, shaking his head once, as if to say there's no way this will get any better, before making a hurried motion for him to come closer. Confused, he takes one step forward before Lan Meihui passes by him and he understands who exactly Wei Ying had been beckoning. “Xian-gege will be alright, and then you can visit me when we're both better, okay? Rich-gege will take care of you and you'll be alright, and then we'll see each other.”

“No!” The boy screeches at Lan Meihui's general direction as she approaches, looking for all the world as if he's trying to bury himself within Wei Wuxian's robes. His cheeks are tear stained, his face is red. “You can't take A-Yuan from Xian-gege! Please don't take A-Yuan from Xian-gege!”

The sound of a loud snap cuts through the room. Momentarily, Wangji turns to see Nie Huaisang shaking with rage and with his fan crushed in his white-knuckled fists, his face is cold with a fury he would never think possible of him. When Nie Mingjue tries to touch his arm, he’s pushed away without any acknowledgement. Tears silently slide down Nie Huaisang’s cheeks, but still he refuses to turn his eyes away from his friend. 

“Oh, no, no. Radish, please, don't cry. There’s nothing to be worried about, come now.” Every attempt of shushing and soothing sounds panic-stricken, like someone clawing at a door that won’t open, like people fleeing as death chases them up a mountain of corpses.Wei Ying embodies all of those in the most gently distressed  gestures only a parent bargaining for their child’s life ever could replicate. “It'll be okay, A-Yuan.” He says, desperate, like the words are a prayer or a vow. “I'll see you soon, alright? I promise. Xian-gege promises, so, please-”

“Xian-gege, please don't let them!” A-Yuan wraps his little arms around his father’s neck and squeezes as Wei Ying turns their bodies towards Lan-daifu. “Please hold onto A-Yuan!”

“Baobei, you have to let go.” Wei Ying urges again, hugging him tight and kissing the top of his head in a last goodbye. When he lifts his eyes towards Lan Meihui, they’re red for entirely different reasons. “Please, I know he's nervous, but, please, be kind to him. Please, be gentle.”

Lan Meihui purses her lips for a moment, in a way Wangji knows from the times she would return from treating an increasingly apathetic woman in a house of genitians and he would ask her if mother would be well soon.

“I will.” She promises, and Lan Wangji believes her.

So does Wei Ying, apparently, as he loosens his hold around A-Yuan.

“No!” The wails between sobs. In the distance someone that sounds like Jiang Wanyin stands up and curses, turning away from the scene with a hand over his face.

“Baobei, please, let go.” Wei Ying whispers, rocking them both back and forth for a moment then taking one final deep breath and closing his eyes. He nods his head twice, face contorted in order to keep his own sobs in as his hands release A-Yuan altogether. “It's okay, don't cry, please you have to—”

His words are cut out as Lan Meihui plucks A-Yuan from his hold with an expertise that speaks of having done it before and the face of someone who had dearly wished never to do it again. She’s turning around in a flurry of white before either father or child can much process what happened or react further than the strangled sound and the ear-piercing scream each lets out.

The expression in his face as they took A-Yuan from his arms, kicking and crying and wailing for his Xian-gege, when Wei Ying’s fingers had willingly released the boy he had not let go for a moment since he was found — weak and wounded and bleeding and exhausted, barely having survived destroying the amulet and the backlash suffered for it, slumped against a tree with his son wrapped safely in his arms, his nose pressed into the crown of his head and quiet tears flowing as he had waited to be murdered, unable to stand or walk or do much of anything but shield the crying toddler with his body — and through the whole journey while he had been carried by Wangji, is of pure heartbreak.

“Xian-gege!” He shrieks, little legs kicking at the air and arms flailing to grab onto something that will reunite them. “Give A-Yuan back to Xian-gege!”

Wei Ying’s instincts drive him to take a step forward and try to reach for A-Yuan again, but the distance Lan-daifu had swiftly put between them makes so that his action has no effect whatsoever. Either way, his senses return soon enough, and he stops himself, though it seems to physically pain him to do so.

“I love you, baobei.” His hand ball up the fabric of his own clothes until his knuckles were bone white with the restraint of not reaching to take his son from Lan-daifu’s arms. “You'll be just fine.”

“No!” He wails, face wet with tears as he’s taken away by Lan-Daifu, who keeps a secure hold around the still struggling boy. “Xian-gege! Xian-gege, please!”

When the wet, desperate ‘A-Niang, please!’ sounds over the hall for the first time, Wei Ying hunches forward as if punched in his grief and pain. Like this, he looks more than merely heartbroken. He looks like a broken man who could no longer hold the fractured shards of glass together or pretend even those few shards were not stomped into dust.

“A-Niang, stay with your A-Yuan!” Wei Ying’s head falls to his chest, the hand holding his clothes shaking with the effort and the soft skin of his lips breaking as he bites down at it to keep whatever sounds he might make in. “I'll be good, please stay with A-Yuan!” Wangji steps in seamlessly as Wei Ying takes in a shuddering breath, stepping back towards the place where he had been sat before only for his legs to fail. The grip on his hand is so tight it will surely bruise later, but he doesn’t mind, slowly helping Wei Ying to the ground as A-Yuan’s little tearful voice calls again: “A-Niang!”

Wei Ying's shoulders shake and his eyes turn into dams of water, but his face remains dry even as A-Yuan's desperate pleas fade by the distance that's put between them, as the boy is taken into hallways further and further away.

And it is worse.

So very worse.

The hours blot together, stretching and compressing in equal measure, until they're all but indistinguishable. Wangji waits, as if his simple act of steadfast perseverance will one day make time budge, the doors slide open. For now, all it gets him are rough stones digging through the expensive fabric of his robes and into his knees.

He's so used to it he doesn't feel a thing.

 “Ji-gege!” A-Yuan’s sweet and cheery voice drove him to lift his eyes to the door. Disheveled and looking something between sad from parting and happy at the surprise. “You’re early!”

“Mm.” Wangji answered, watching with fondness as he skipped the steps, stopping by his side, eager hands grabbing onto his sleeve.

His joy is contagious, in the best of ways, and he’s never more joyous than when he leaves the Moshi. Nevertheless, the world outside Wei Ying’s home does not favor that innocent happiness, and so A-Yuan glances up and down at Wangji, brows furrowing in confusion, before he asks:

“Why are you kneeling, Ji-gege?”

Wangji had barely realized it. His chest feels slightly hollow, but his legs are numb.

“I was waiting.” He croaks out, as an explanation.

“For what?” A-Yuan asks, his head tilting to the side slightly.

Wangji paused, burying his hurt and longing once again, in favor of keeping the child from the pain he was surrounded with.

“No matter.” He answered, standing up instead and neglecting a little longer to give back the forehead ribbon the boy always entrusted to him in the hours of his visit. “How was your day?”

A-Yuan is Wei Ying’s child, and he would like him to grow up happy, but Wangji loves the boy as well, and he would like him to grow up free.

More than once, the boy had come back from his weekly visits with a furrow to his brow, confusion in his face and Wei Ying’s words in his mouth. Except Wei Ying's words did not sound like Wei Ying at all.

‘A-Niang says I shouldn’t try to defend him when people are speaking badly of him, just let them be’ , he had said when Lan Wangji had taught him to always stand up to injustice. ‘A-Niang says I can be loud when I’m in his home, but I should be quiet here and not anger anyone’ , when Wangji had taught him to be true to himself even if others frowned upon it. ‘A-Niang says I shouldn’t think thoughts like this. Home is the best place to stay’ , when he had taught him to dream of the world, well beyond the barriers of Cloud Recesses.

It becomes startling clear that Wei Ying is stomping on his own values, the parameters he had led his life before to teach A-Yuan to be quiet, respectful, unbothersome, small — to be safe, in a world that could and would devour them if they wished to, at the smallest inconvenience. 

They both love the child they share, but Wei Ying loves him with the fervor of someone who is too familiar with loss, grimly aware that there is a sword hovering above their necks, soberly conscious that one false step could have it lowered an inch closer to ending them both. So he stays alive, stays put, remains docile, the one guarantee of his son’ safety, and teaches him not exactly to court others' favor, but to evade their scrutiny as best as possible.

Lan Wangji can’t have that, won’t have that. So he teaches the things he had learned in silence with a boy during his short stay as a guest for Cloud Recesses' Lectures, tempered with his own life’s wisdom.

Question things, speak up when you witness injustice, be righteous, do good by others, think of the world and where to travel, don’t hold back talent for others sake.

It’s a tug of war, between Wei Ying’s fear for A-Yuan’s life and Wangji’s own desire to live it to the fullest extent, but it’s all out of love. It’s the only way life has led them to believe they could raise a child, one such as A-Yuan, in the conditions A-Yuan is in.

He likes to think he’s doing a good job, on his end. That, between him and Wei Ying, Wei Yuan is growing well, better than he had, being taught well, showcasing the signs of a great character.

“It was good.” A-Yuan says, smiling bright and wide.

Wangji’s chest hurts to think of another face bearing the same joy once. He musters some joy and warmth to showcase through his features as he lifts his head to lay it over A-Yuan’s head, the corners of his mouth twitching up slightly.

“Good.”

Unsurprisingly, Wei Wuxian falls silent again after that, even more deathly so.

He kneels once again in the middle of the hall, head bowed forward as he stares blankly at the ground in front of him, looking smaller and more hollowed out than ever before, as if they had finally beaten all the fight out of him or torn out his heart.

Lan Wangji is not so sure they didn't.

He can feel the way their victory is cheapened, tainted now, in the air. The cries for his blood did not vanish and the hate for the Wens was not erased from anyone's heart, he knows, after all he's not foolish enough to believe wishful thinking and reality the same just yet.

Nevertheless, the cheers for the heroic defeat of the Yilling Patriarch seem to not be as joy-worthy after seeing the man frantically try to soothe a child that was terrified at the thought of parting with him. Certainly not with the unspoken understanding of just how desperate he must have been to protect this boy from the rest of them to use himself as a bargaining chip for a safety and freedom he would not even be able to verify himself hanging above them.

The sight of his face, torn and tortured, as he forced his fingers to let go of the boy as if letting go of his own beating heart seems to have been too much to most of them. They hardly dare to look at him now.

Wangji honors his sacrifice, even as he loathes it, and refuses to look away. It's his own form of penance, to witness the suffering he failed to prevent if only to show him he's not alone, that he doesn't have to be alone ever again, that all he needs is a word and he will try his hardest to slay everyone standing between them and A-Yuan and then between them and the door. 

He kneels by his side, hoping Wei Ying will see this late devotion in his eyes, but Wei Ying doesn't seem to notice his presence at all.

When someone returns to tell them the wards are ready, he doesn't even wait to be ordered to follow, rising in a surprisingly graceful manner for a man still bleeding, and awaits to be shown the way.

Xiongzhang hesitates at the sight, his resolve of a Sect Leader wavering for a moment to give way to his compassion as a man. He gazes at Wangj only for a moment before glancing away, escaping the heavy condemnation in his golden irises, and that's all the time he need for the Sect Leader Shufu raised him to be to slot back in place.

He leads the way.

There's nothing to be done now, he thinks, feeling himself slightly lose his sanity and senses as things take form with no care for his input, are taken further and further away from his control.

Wei Ying trails behind Xiongzhang, without a word, without a sound.

Lan Wangji follows. 

How can he not? What else can he do but follow?

Some representatives of the other Sects follow, of course, like the vultures they are. He tries his best to act as a wall, a barrier, shielding Wei Ying from their sight, keeping them from approaching him as much as possible.

Seemingly catching up to his intention, Jiang Wanying, who leads the entourage of Sect Leaders and delegates, tries to imitate his movements, but he lacks the same fervor, the appropriate intent and dedication.

A better man wouldn't have judged him for it. The man trailing behind him looks much the same as he did holding Jiang Yanli's body, as he transferred spiritual energy into her, desperate and clawing against horrible odds to keep a sibling. A better man would have understood, would even have forgiven him for at least part of it.

Lan Wangji has no more desire to be a better man.

He wishes fervently he had never had any want to be one at all.

There were not many secluded houses in Cloud Recesses that could be used as discreet prisons, where one could live their lives in seclusion until death and oblivion ended their lives and names.

One of those houses had been empty for longer than it had been inhabited, and was surrounded by gentians.

The one Wei Ying walked in, holding his head high even when his whole body spasmed when he crossed through the talismans that sealed off resentful energy and wouldn't allow him to leave its premises ever again was not the same.

He should be thankful for that, he thinks, as Wei Ying closes the door behind his back without even looking back.

He finds that he cannot.