Archive of Our Own ^beta

Most days, it is easy to forget that the body he occupies was never actually his to start with. He has always been easy to distract, too easily absorbed in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, in some new wonder, some grand adventure. That’s not to say Wei Wuxian does not thank Mo Xuanyu for his sacrifice every morning and every night, but most days the difference is not so painfully acute that he finds himself thinking about it.

Other days, he finds himself cursing his inability, cursing Jin Guangshan for sending Mo Xuanyu away and allowing the potential of his golden core to wither inside him. Most especially, he curses the difference when Lan Zhan treats his body like a fragile vase, and he curses it further when he ends up getting hurt on his watch. A small curse from a resentful corpse on a routine night hunt was all it had taken for his legs to buckle and the core inside his belly to twist painfully.

At the moment, he is being held tightly in Lan Zhan’s arms despite his most bitter and vehement protests, head all but cradled into the crook of his neck. The urgency with which Lan Zhan brings him into the jingshi, practically breaking down the doors, has Wei Wuxian flinching.

A mistake on his part, because Lan Zhan immediately takes it as a sign of pain, and the already strained look on his normally passive face tenses all the more. He places him in their bed gingerly, and once again Wei Wuxian bites back a reminder that he indeed never stopped being the fearsome and powerful Yiling Patriarch, the scourge of the Burial Mounds, and he is more than capable of taking care of himself.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, trying his best to sound amused. “Why such a scary look on your face, hm? You’ve seen me take much worse, you know. A little curse is truly nothing I can’t handle.”

The look this receives says that Lan Zhan is less than convinced, but he at the very least tugs the blankets on over Wei Wuxian with more force than is necessary. And when Wei Wuxian tries to prop himself upward on his elbow, the push Lan Zhan gives him is perhaps a bit rougher than he had been handling Wei Wuxian a bit earlier.

“Ah, ah, Han Guang-Jun,” he says, trying his best to keep his face as serious as possible. “Careful now. Handling me so rough might aggravate the curse.” He groans, closing his eyes and turning his head away. “Oh, I can already feel the pain deep in my chest, Lan Zhan. Truly, the pain is unbearable.”

“Not funny,” Lan Zhan says, voice stern, and then in a softer voice, “Sleep.”

“Sleep?” At that, Wei Wuxian finds himself sitting up in earnest, protests now far more genuine. “It’s not even your silly curfew yet.”

“Sleep,” Lan Zhan repeats, and gently brushes his knuckles along Wei Wuxian’s cheekbones. The touch, though tender and reminding him just how much he would be acting the same towards Lan Zhan, suddenly instills the exhaustion of two lifetimes into his bones. The warm embrace of sleep envelopes him, and the last thing he sees is Lan Zhan’s face, lips tugged upward in a soft smile. He does not dream.

Needless to say, he wakes up furious.

The jingshi is quiet, submerged in the darkness of what must be the early morning. Beside him, Lan Zhan is a warm solace, hand loosely clasping Wei Wuxian’s own. For the briefest moment, he forgets that he is angry, and he reaches over to delicately brush a lone strand of hair from Lan Zhan’s face. To imagine such a stoic person, infallible and distant, tenderly clasping hands with his beloved before he sleeps, and to think that this beloved is him... something inside his chest softens.

And then he remembers that he had been forcibly put to sleep, even earlier than Lan Zhan, and the indignity of it all has him quietly climbing out of bed, if only just for a little while.

Outside, the air is cool and crisp, morning fog beginning to settle from the higher peaks in small, opaque patches. It feels like a blessing on his skin, too warm from what he assumes is a curse-induced fever, but never has he felt so clear-headed as he does now.

But he’s only outside a moment before he notices something strangely amiss. Or rather, someone. Curled up by their door, as asleep to the world as his husband, is one Lan Sizhui. Pristine as Lan Zhan, he looks as perfect as a portrait, truly emanating everything he has been raised to be.

How different he is now, from that small troublemaker years ago, sticking his fingers in the dirt and pulling at all his aunts’ and uncles’ hard work. His hair had been wild and untamed then, and getting little A-Yuan to sit still under a comb had been a chore unto itself. Now, even in sleep, not a single hair is out of place, not a single sound emitted from his still-young face.

With the caution of someone who has been recently injured, Wei Wuxian kneels haltingly, places his hand on Lan Sizhui’s shoulder, and shakes gently. One, two. “A-Yuan,” he whispers. “A-Yuan, wake up.”

Blearily, two dark eyes blink up at him. “Senior Wei?”

He pouts. “So formal. Did I not raise you? Call me Father.”

The skin between Lan Sizhui’s brows crease--much like Lan Zhan’s--as he considers this, and then hesitantly, “Father… what are you doing awake? Shouldn’t you be in bed, resting?” He sits up, suddenly looking very panicked. “You should not be up like this. If Han Guang-Jun were to find out--”

“Han Guang-Jun is sound asleep,” Wei Wuxian declares smugly, and with a smile, he gently guides Lan Sizhui to his feet. “And I was only joking about calling me Father. But seriously, A-Yuan, sleeping outside on the ground like this, it’s unbefitting of a Gusu Lan disciple. Shouldn’t you be tucked away in your own bed?”

Thoroughly admonished, Lan Sizhui sheepishly brushes at his spotless robes. “I was worried,” he confesses. “Han Guang-jun took you away so quickly, I didn’t get to see whether you were truly alright, and--” he cuts himself off, a yawn tearing through his words with a vehemence that demanded nothing less than immediate attention.

“What is there to possibly be worried about?” Wei Wuxian says, and he gently wraps his arms around Sizhui’s shoulders, both as an excuse to have something to lean his weight on, and a gentle push towards Sizhui’s own sleeping quarters. “Am I not the fearsome Yiling Patriarch? It will take more than a corpse curse to do me any serious harm.”

“Senior W--Father...” Unconvinced, Lan Sizhui nevertheless begins to move with him, ambling slowly together through the various gardens and pathways. “You should really be resting.”

“And rest I will!” He pats his shoulder with a smile. “After I have put you to rest first. YuanYuan is still three years old, it seems, and won’t sleep in his own bed unless he’s properly tucked in.”

“Senior Wei,” is the response he gets in protest, the younger one’s cheeks flushing enough that even Wei Wuxian can see it in the darkness.

“What happened to Father, hmm?”

“Father.”

Wei Wuxian laughs again, giving Sizhui’s shoulder another pat as they approach the doors to his room. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You take things so seriously, just like Lan Zhan. Now off with you. It’s not even close to five yet, and you Lans need your rest more than anyone else I know. Besides myself.”

Lan Sizhui hums an acknowledgement, opening the doors to his room and sleepily pulling himself inside. Or, he starts to. As if suddenly struck by an invisible bolt of thunder, he freezes, and turns back to meet Wei Wuxian’s eyes, looking at him with all the sternness and worry of his father. “But… please return to your own bed, too. You need the rest, and it’s past curfew anyway.”

“Yes, yes, Lan Wangji. I will be in bed momentarily, but only as soon as you’ve closed the door and gotten into your own.”

Sizhui hums again, giving Wei Wuxian one last skeptical look. “Good night,” he says softly, and then the door slides closed behind him with a soft clack.

For a moment, he stands there, unable to tear his eyes away from the space Lan Sizhui had just stood. For the first time in a long time, he feels old. He knows he’s not, he knows that if his Uncle Jiang had heard his thoughts, had heard him thinking ah how old am I! he’d get a laugh out of it, and tell him he hadn’t seen real age just yet.

How could he help feeling this way though, seeing the little boy he’d watched toddle around the turnip beds now scold him for not taking care of himself properly. How could anyone help but feel the years catching up?

Perhaps it feels strange, really, because to him, those sixteen years had felt like nothing at all. It had been as if he had blinked. One moment had been excruciating pain, the hands of all the resentful ghosts and spirits tearing into his flesh, perhaps even his soul, and then the next he was being kicked awake by Mo Ziyuan. To realize that the little boy he had seen what felt like two weeks ago was now a young man, of the age he had been when Lan Zhan and himself had slain the Tortoise of Slaughter… it was undeniably jarring.

Sighing, he gives one last long look at the door, a feeling beginning to bloom in his chest, one that he finds himself altogether unfamiliar with, but pleasant nonetheless. He thinks, briefly, that perhaps this is what fatherly pride is.

The jingshi is as quiet as he left it, Lan Zhan having barely moved in his absence. Still though, he finds himself wide awake, and can only blame his husband for forcing him to sleep at such an ungodly hour. He’s almost certain that the sun hadn’t even set yet when he’d been all but shoved into bed.

Cautiously, he sits on the bed, smoothing back Lan Zhan’s hair. He doesn’t stir, never has, and Wei Wuxian sighs, air bursting forth from his lungs in one melancholy rush. “Han Guang-Jun, Han Guang-Jun. What am I supposed to do at an hour such as this? No one is even awake to talk to, not even you.”

As expected, he gets no response.

He slides back under the blankets, shivering as the cold fabric presses against his skin, and once more intertwines their fingers. Lan Zhan’s hand automatically moves to grip his tightly, but otherwise he shows no signs of waking, not a breath out of rhythm.

It’s almost too funny how hard it is to stir a Lan from slumber. So funny that it has him laughing under his breath, mischievously reaching towards his other hand. It’s a game he’s played many times before: exactly what does it take to wake Lan Zhan up from his near comatose slumber? He’s succeeded only once.

Except this time he finds that Lan Zhan’s other hand is already occupied. It’s pressed close to his chest, tightly gripping something small and red, like if he were to let go of it, he’d let go of life itself.

“Lan Zhan,” he murmurs to himself as he shifts closer, curiosity getting the better of him. “Just what could you be clutching so dearly?” Carefully, he plies his husbands fingers apart. One by one, they fall away, entrusting their contents to Wei Wuxian alone.

It’s a hair ribbon.

His stomach drops.

It’s his hair ribbon, to be more precise. Under normal circumstances, he might have thought this sweet and romantic. He might have quietly cooed and teased his husband for it later in the day. But this ribbon he knows is different. Stains mar its entirety, deep and maroon, crisp and splattered. The ends are tattered, falling apart from what is either incredible trauma to the fabric or years of being clutched in a manner exactly like this.

The closer his fingers come to the ribbon, the more he begins to tremble. No, this was no ordinary ribbon. It radiates a cold energy, whispers of the past curling outward and dragging his fingers ever closer.

Worry grips his heart tightly, his eyes shifting away from the ribbon and towards Lan Zhan’s breathing. It’s steady, thankfully, and he seems to be sleeping undisturbed by the angry tendrils of resentful energy that coil around his palm. Still, he’d rather that Lan Zhan not sleep with something so obviously dangerous. Having come from the depths of the Burial Mounds, it very well might have taken on a life of its own.

He takes the ribbon decisively, fingers curling around it, only to find himself suddenly falling, mind spiraling wildly as his body collides with the cushions of their shared bed. Something enters his core, twists around his mind, and then he is being sucked in, deep and deeper still, into the spirit of the ribbon.

Really, it’s at times like these that he curses Jin Guangshan most of all.

His core is weak, and weaker still due to that small, pathetic curse he’d picked up during night hunting. Had he been in his old body, possessed the core he once did, things might not have turned out like this.

But as it is, there’s nothing he can do to prevent the spirit’s energy from entering his own.

Still, the spirit is warmer than he expects. While his own resentful energy resides there, a rough shell over the body, another energy hovers just beneath it, a bottomless well of memory and strength that envelopes every corner of his senses.

As the image comes into focus, he realizes that it is Lan Zhan’s own energy.

Oh no, he thinks to himself as he stares through Lan Zhan’s eyes at his very own ribbon, have I entered Empathy with the memories of this ribbon?

His lips move, and his own name comes out, choked and grating against his throat.

“Wei Ying...”

If he could feel his body right now, he knows his heart might have stopped, but as it is, he can feel Lan Zhan’s own heart thundering in his ears. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be intruding on these memories, no matter how much they have to do with him. With as much strength as he can muster, he does his best to pull his consciousness away, only to find his own resent, now decades old, clutching to his consciousness, forcing him to stay.

It appears he’s in this for the long run. At least until Lan Zhan wakes up and hopefully notices he’s been forced into Empathy, and not simply passed out from the effects of the curse.

The sharp sound of wailing jolts both Wei Wuxian and Lan Zhan from their respective thoughts, and Wei Wuxian watches from behind his husband’s eyes as he begins to run. The wailing grows, approaching shrieks, before eventually it peters out to soft whimpers. Into the Demon-Slumbering Cave he goes, eyes searching the wreckage for a sign of life, and there, behind a table, rests little A-Yuan, face flushed and eyes fluttering closed, too exhausted to dare hold on to consciousness.

Pressing a trembling finger to the toddler’s forehead, Lan Zhan almost immediately jerks back, the burning sensation still radiating across his skin. And then he collects A-Yuan in his arms, hurried, frantic, adrenaline pressing at his temples and chest as he rushes out of the Burial Mounds, his new destination Gusu.

The ribbon is still tightly clutched in one hand.

The memory shifts, a blur of images, of half formed feelings, vague concepts of guilt of anger of grief, and then focuses once more, into pain Wei Wuxian does not think he has ever felt in either of his lives.

He feels as though his back has been peeled raw, stripped of its skin, burning oozing stinging numbing twisting there well and truly are no words to describe it he can only exist in this pain and nothing else.

And yet… in this moment, his vision is able to focus on the red ribbon clutched between his fingers. It is the only thing reminding him of his choice, guiding him through the pain. It is the ribbon that ties him to this world and keeps him from the next. As much as he wants to go there, as much as he desperately wishes to see Wei Ying once more, there is someone here now that needs him.

“Wangji.”

His brother’s voice comes from somewhere behind him, somewhere he can’t see from his position on the bed, his burning back to the air. Flicking his gaze away from the ribbon, he searches for a moment for the source of the voice, but finding nothing, he closes his eyes. It takes too much energy to search now. For the moment, it is easier to rest.

Lan Xichen has been with him through every moment of this agony. At every turn, he has held Lan Wangji’s hand, has carefully guided him through healing, has looked upon him without a trace of judgement on his kind face. But what he cannot hide is his pity. And it is that which hurts more than any judgement, the reminder of that which he is to be pitied for.

He does not have the energy to face his brother, he barely has the energy to maintain his consciousness.

With that fleeting thought, he drifts into sleep.

When he wakes up, the world has shifted. His forced seclusion is over, and now he stands once more on the precipice of that cliff, staring downward into its smouldering depths, after images of Wei Ying’s face flickering across his mind’s eye.

Three years.

Three years have gone by, and every second that he had sat in forced seclusion, he had desperately wished himself here, dreamed of the moment he would find Wei Ying’s body, put him to rest, or ideally perhaps find his soul, speak with him once more, guide him into a qiankun pouch, and at the very least spend his last moments of consciousness together. Perhaps even look for a way to… well, he won’t entertain that thought too deeply.

But now that he at last is able to gaze over that cliff once more, he finds himself teetering on another sort of edge entirely, and at its bottom lies the well of fear that he has let grow unchecked over the years.

Painstakingly, he sits, careful not to twist his still-aching back in the process, and removes his guqin from its pouch. Though he has healed enough to travel, to walk, to roam, to search, it would be a bald-faced lie to say that his back does not still cause him some discomfort. He does not mind though. He will never regret his decision.

Closing his eyes, he focuses his consciousness into his center, pulls the energy from his core to his fingertips, and strums the first note across the strings.

Wei Ying.

The strings come to a standstill. The world is silent, hot, oppressive.

The water at the bottom of the well rises another meter in his mind. It’s all he can do to ignore its presence. His fingers move across the strings once more.

Wei Ying, are you there?

Once more, his guqin falls silent. There is no response.

And then,

Wei Ying? Wei Wuxian? The Yiling Patriarch? Is he here? He’s here? I’ll kill him, I’ll thrust my sword right through his--

His hands slam down, effectively cutting the spirit’s words short. The water swells, begins to overflow, and his hands are now beginning to tremble, just a little. The red ribbon tied around his wrist begins to feel heavy.

But he can’t, he can’t let that water flood his mind completely, he can’t allow himself to lose hope. If he cannot find his spirit here, he will look elsewhere. If his body is not at the bottom of that cliff like they say, then that will only serve as fuel to the flame.

If not here, then elsewhere.

Closing his eyes, he begins to play once more.

When he opens them again, A-Yuan is now seven.

It’s midafternoon, and Lan Wangji has just returned to the jingshi from his first day teaching the junior Lan disciples. As of last week, A-Yuan has been allowed to move in with him. It will be a temporary move until he’s older and ready to move in with other disciple juniors, but now that he has recovered, there is nothing more that Lan Wangji wants than to keep this child as close as possible, to guide him step by step, to integrate himself into his life as much as he is able.

Except… it does not appear as though A-Yuan is currently in the residence, which makes for doing that very difficult.

Silence blankets the jingshi. For the last week, it has been filled with the high-pitched peals of child’s laughter, a rule that Lan Wangji has indulgently allowed to be broken. It had been a welcome change to his weeks… no, years of living in total silence, a reminder of another life that for once is more cheerful than it is filled with grief.

But now there is nothing, not so much as a breath or a giggle.

Worry creeps into the pit of his belly, and he begins to search, room by room, growing more and more frantic with each passing moment, until he at last finds the boy sitting in the bathtub, a bronze mirror in one hand, and… Wei Ying’s red ribbon in the other.

He must have made a noise, some indication that he had entered the space, because the child jolts, swiveling around to face him. For once, he cannot school his expression, cannot hide the raw grief that for one brief, terrifying moment steals his face from him. It must truly scare A-Yuan because he bursts into tears, pleading his sorries and his never agains.

Shakily, he collects the child in his arms, pressing his small body to his chest, and cradles him silently, stroking his hair until the wails slowly subside into quiet sobs.

He knows nothing of children. His experiences caring for them before A-Yuan can be counted on one hand, and at most have always been taken from a safe distance, a supportive role, rather than anyone directly responsible. But now he is a parent, a father to a child who is just as lost as he is, just as bereft, if not moreso, and depending on him to find their path into the uncertain future.

What to do?

He takes his knowledge from his most reliable source, and painfully summons memories of that day in Yiling, remembers when Wei Ying had taken the sobbing A-Yuan from his leg, had wiped his tears with a caring thumb, had rocked the child into peace as the two of them had chatted idly of things long past.

Slowly, he pulls A-Yuan away from his chest, and carefully dries each one of his hot tears. The child whimpers and hesitantly lifts his head to meet his gaze. “Brother, I’m sorry.”

“Not angry,” he says softly, smoothing back his mussed hair.

“Not angry? But you...”

He shakes his head, eyes turning now to the red ribbon still gripped tightly in the small pudgy fingers of a little boy. How to explain to a child that does not remember his first family, who does not deserve to have grief that he was spared thrust upon him. He opts for the simplest of answers. “Only… sad.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and Lan Wangji returns his gaze to the child’s quickly.

“No sorries,” he assures firmly, wiping another stray tear. “Not your fault.”

“The ribbon?”

“...Mm.”

Holding it up between the two of them, they both turn their gazes downward. It rests between them, a veritable planet with how much it seems to fill the room. Their existence simply is only as its ever rotating moons, a reminder of a past that one of them struggles to let go of, to move forward, while the other desperately grasps at what he cannot remember but knows somewhere there is meaning.

“I wanted to… put it in my hair. Like you.”

“Like me?”

“Mm.”

A-Yuan wraps the ribbon around his forehead to demonstrate, a perfect Lan in the making, and it takes everything Lan Wangji has not to fall back into the grieving despair he had existed in for three years. Instead, he lets another feeling bloom in his chest, one of pride, of fondness, one that wishes his first father was here to see.

Ignoring the trembling in his fingers, he takes the ribbon from A-Yuan and ties it neatly back in his hair, making minor adjustments so that it rests perfectly centered on his forehead.

“Just for today,” he says softly, as he finishes the knot.

When he pulls away, six years have flown through his fingertips, and A-Yuan stands before him as a young man in pearly white robes, a ribbon with a gleaming piece of jade now occupying the space where the red one, now safely tied around his own wrist, had once been. His head is bowed, fingers tightly gripping a newly forged sword.

“Han Guang-Jun,” he says hesitantly. His voice cracks midway.

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says noncommittally. How can he pay attention when he is marveling at how quickly children grow?

“Han Guang-Jun, I don’t… I’m not ready to leave… not yet.” His small hands grip his sword tighter, the white of his knuckles gleaming in the new morning light. “I know it is… I know that it is childish of me to ask, and disobedient, but… but I--Han Guang-Jun, please let me live here with you, just a little longer.”

His chest seizes. “Sizhui.”

The boy’s head bows deeper, the tips of his ears now red with what can only be shame. “Yes.”

Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, Lan Wangji tips his chin up so that their gazes can once again meet. He holds it there in silence for a moment, establishing a wordless assurance that the two of them have built over the years. A communication, he fondly thinks, that can only exist between father and son. And then, “I am not going anywhere. This will always be your home first.”

Sizhui swallows. “But?”

“The juniors’ residence will be good. Make more friends.” He reaches up, pinches his son’s cheek, much like a figure from another lifetime had made a habit of doing. It prompts the young man before him to collide into Lan Wangji’s chest, holding him as though his life might depend on it. The movement is so sudden it takes him a moment to properly react, but then he’s pulling him into a closer embrace, combing his fingers through his hair.

Even after all these years, he is still that same little boy who had clutched his leg that fateful day in the market-place. He is still that same boy who had cried in the bathtub, begging to be just like his father.

“I can come back here, though? Any time?”

“Mm.”

With a sniff, Sizhui is the first to pull away, rubbing at his nose in a way that briefly reminds him of Wei Ying. Some parts of him… will never disappear. “And…”

“And?”

“And… once I’m… able to watch after myself… I can go with you? During those times that you’re away from Gusu?”

At that, Lan Wangji pauses. It was only a matter of time before this question was posed, and the days that he can keep Sizhui blissfully unaware of the violence of his past grow shorter and shorter. He supposes, yes, that he owes it to his son to take him with him. He will spend that first trip telling him about Wei Ying, about Wen Qionglin and his sister Wen Qing. He will tell him about his grandmother and his uncles and his aunts, of the life he had before, and he will offer him a chance to explore all of this away from the walls of the Cloud Recesses, where even the thought of those mounds is enough to be sentenced to a day of kneeling before the wall of rules.

“Yes,” he says at last.

The word brings a smile to his son’s face, so wide that it threatens to split him in two. And then he raises his hands upward in a bow of farewell, and turns to leave for his first night in the juniors’ quarters.

Lan Wangji watches his back grow smaller and smaller, until the sky around him darkens, and they are now standing in a courtyard, miles and miles away from Gusu. In his hand is a sword that is not his own, twisting and swirling with a power he thought he would never see again.

“Han Guang-Jun,” Sizhui calls down, from below, face freshly aglow from his fight with whatever had been haunting Mo Manor. “Is this…?”

He turns the sword around in his hands, presses the energy from his core into its metal, and watches as the black smoke of resentful energy pushes angrily back. “The Tiger Seal…” slips from his mouth.

“The Tiger Seal?” Sizhui repeats, and distantly Lan Wangji is aware that he and Jingyi have begun to theorize. Perhaps the Yiling Patriarch really could return to the world of the living, perhaps he was here right now… Could it be that they’d somehow crossed his path already?

Their voices fall away into the background of the manor as the calm lake that is his mind begins to toss and turn with winds and waves. Not a trace of this energy had been seen since that fateful night sixteen years ago, not even so much as a whisper in all of his travels. But now, when he had least expected it, a possible clue presents itself before him.

His thoughts are interrupted by clamor of hurried footsteps, and a voice calling from somewhere far away. He thinks, for a moment, that it might even be his own voice, panicked, urgently calling out over and over, “Wei Ying!”

Yes, Wei Ying… It had to be him. Or at least in some part, related to him. If he could track down where the sword’s resentful energy had come from, then perhaps...

“Wei Ying!”

“Wei Ying!”

“Wei Ying!”

With a shuddering gasp, Wei Wuxian slowly uncurls his fingers--his very own fingers, and no one else’s!--from the ribbon, and clammily grips at Lan Zhan’s shoulder, hand slipping from his own perspiration. His husband hovers over him, hand tightly gripping at his arm so hard that it almost hurts, face twisted into a less than silent horror as he rips the ribbon away from his loosened grasp.

“I’m awake,” he reassures quickly, doing his best to provide a smile. “I’m awake.”

That horrified face smooths over into relief, like a lake erasing the ripples of a particularly terrible rock, and Lan Zhan sags against him, tossing the ribbon away as far as he can. But that expression, he knows, is an illusion, as those golden brown eyes remain charged with fear and concern.

“Wei Ying,” he says again, insistently, demandingly, fearfully.

“It was only Empathy,” Wei Wuxian answers hoarsely, and looks to the windows, now bright with morning light. How long exactly was he trapped in Lan Zhan’s memories?

“Empathy,” Lan Zhan repeats.

His gaze trails slowly back to Lan Zhan now, suddenly feeling reluctant to meet those eyes. They have, without a doubt, entered a life where they have shared everything with each other. There are no secrets between them, nothing that they feel the need to keep from each other. Wei Wuxian is even certain that this ribbon, though he had not known about it, was not so much a secret as something that Lan Zhan had not felt necessary to mention, as it was now a moot memento of years long past.

Or, rather, it was moot so long as Wei Wuxian remained healthy and well.

But to have taken such a personal view of Lan Zhan’s past, of his thoughts, of the very core of his being… well, perhaps that’s a little more than toeing the line of personal boundaries. If anything, it’s taking a practiced leap right over it.

“Yes,” he says slowly, at last meeting his gaze. “Empathy.”

Understanding dawns on Lan Zhan’s face, and he nods, falling back to lie next to Wei Wuxian. He does not remove his touch though, in fact, he pulls him all the closer. Relief begins to sing through his veins. A good response.

“The memories…” Lan Zhan says after a moment’s pause and it feels like an eternity. “Were they mine?”

“They were,” Wei Wuxian confirms with a deep breath. “But… only a few, I swear. For how late it’s gotten in the morning, I think I only spent perhaps an hour or so total if I were to add your memories together.” He pauses himself, and then does his best to shift in their embrace so he can meet the other’s eyes, shakily pushing himself up on his elbows.

“But… that ribbon, Lan Zhan, it’s…”

“Yours… from the past.” Lan Zhan blinks at him, expression carefully neutral. Or, carefully neutral enough that not even Wei Wuxian can pick a singular thought from his brain. How strategic.

He flops back down into the blankets with a groan. His husband might be more stubborn than their donkey. “Lan Zhan, you uptight old man, be clear with me… did you think I was going to die?”

“Not old,” Lan Zhan says, brows creasing in distaste. “And… no.”

“Then why did you--”

“What did you see?”

“Hmm?” Wei Wuxian blinks, turning from the ceiling of their shared room to now once more meet his husband’s gaze.

“What did you see… in the ribbon?”

Sombering, he reaches to wordlessly trace his thumb along an old scar curving over Lan Zhan’s shoulder. No doubt whoever had been chosen to carry out his punishment had slipped, causing the laceration to carry over his shoulder and nearly onto his chest. The movement prompts a shudder to course through Lan Zhan’s body, and a soft “ah” escapes him.

“I thought I knew what you suffered for choosing to stand by me,” he says quietly, “but in reality…”

“It is in the past now,” Lan Zhan finishes, and pulls his hand away from his scar, entwining their fingers together. “We each have chosen our separate pains. I am not sorry for it, and I do not regret it. Do you?”

Closing his eyes, he takes an unsteady breath. He’s right, of course, but he by no means likes it. “No,” he acquiesces, “but I certainly don’t like that ribbon.”

Ignoring him, Lan Zhan says, “What else did you see?”

“When you looked for my body for the first time… at Qishan,” Wei Wuxian admits, and looks over. “But Lan Zhan, that ribbon--”

“What else?”

“Lan Zhan!”

He’s met with silence as Lan Zhan patiently waits, gaze now clear and steady. It’s not a reaction he had entirely anticipated. Anger wasn’t something that was ever on the table either, certainly, but perhaps embarrassment, fear, grief… betrayal even. Yet whatever it is that Lan Zhan seems to be feeling, it’s certainly none of these things.

“I saw… A-Yuan,” he relents. “I saw when you found him, and… as you raised him.”

A hint of a smile pulls at Lan Zhan’s lips.

“What? What are you smiling for? Lan Zhan, I’m not kidding, you should put that ribbon at least ten feet underground. And don’t mistake this for me saying I’m in anyway displeased with your memories, because I’m not, but there is an unfortunately large amount of Yin energy surrounding that ribbon that needs to be dealt with, and--”

“You got to see Sizhui… as he grew up,” Lan Zhan interrupts. “And for that, I’m happy.”

At that, Wei Wuxian falls silent, reminded of the warmth of those memories. “Ah… I suppose I did.”

Squeezing his hand, Lan Zhan disentangles their fingers, and begins to trace the lines of Wei Wuxian’s palm, meticulous and confident in his every movement, as if the lines of his palm were the finest calligraphy. If he knows his husband, there’s something he’s trying to say, something that he is carefully piecing together in his mind word by word, so Wei Wuxian lies in wait patiently, watching the slow and sure movements of his husband’s fingertips.

“I was worried…” he says finally, “that you had only seen my worst memories. Not every moment of those years was pain.” He looks up, locks Wei Wuxian with his gaze, holds him there in a vice grip. “And I ask for those painful moments that you did see, that you don’t blame yourself.”

Damn.

“I…” Clicking his tongue, he tears his eyes away. “Lan Zhan, I--”

“Wei Ying.” The tracing of his palm stops, and once more Lan Zhan is lacing their fingers together, tighter than before.

“I already agreed, didn’t I?” he says, exhaling forcefully, and cautiously allows Lan Zhan to make eye contact with him once more. “Neither of us have any regrets, and so I don’t blame myself either. I only wish that neither of us were ever hurt as we were, hmm? Is that passable?”

The look that Lan Zhan gives him is exactly the one that says he has his doubts about that, lips slightly pursed, but he nods his assent all the same, and says, “If I could have picked what memories to show you… they would have been--”

“Ah, don’t start on me now,” Wei Wuxian says quickly, and tucks a strand of Lan Zhan’s hair behind his ear. “You know I’m terrified of hearing you say whatever it is you are about to say. Ah, ah no protests. You’ve overwhelmed me enough with your words tonight, Han Guang-Jun. I can only take so much of your love in one morning. Anymore and I think I might melt through this bed and into the floorboards, and then what would they say? That the Yiling Patriarch was taken down by words alone, and in his bed no less?”

For that, he receives another scathing look, but Lan Zhan quiets, choosing instead to rest his head against the pillow once more. Following suit, Wei Wuxian can’t help but smile. He’s sure to receive an earful later, and an earful he will gladly return, but for the moment, he settles on two things.

“Lan Zhan?”

“Hmm?”

He brushes his thumb along his husband’s cheekbone, smile soft. “I’m sorry,” he says, for the intrusion, for the scare, for the argument that followed… “and... thank you.”