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1.
A child.
Lan Xichen hears the almost silent sound of disapproval from his uncle. After years of hearing such noises, he has developed the ability to translate them into their true meaning. Right now, Lan Qiren watches a small boy play among the white stones in front of the jingshi, and Lan Xichen can almost hear the words his uncle doesn’t say.
Lan Wangji, with a child.
“Uncle, you agreed to this,” Lan Xichen reminds him quietly. “Have you changed your mind?”
His uncle seems to affronted at the suggestion that he would go back on his word.
“I said I would consider it,” says Uncle, “if Wangji were more...forthcoming.”
(“Who is the child’s mother, Wangji?” they had both asked in different iterations. “Who is this person we are to bring into the GusuLan clan? How is he special to you?”
“He will be my son,” Wangji had said.)
Lan Xichen isn’t sure how much of the rumors his uncle has heard—if he has caught wind of the talk that the boy playing quietly before them is Lan Wangji’s own flesh and blood—or if he has guessed at something else. Lan Xichen himself has barely allowed himself to think about it; he doesn’t like to speculate about something so important to his brother, but his brother has refused to say a word on the matter, except to demand that he adopt the boy and raise him as a disciple of the sect.
(“At least tell us the boy’s name,” their uncle had said, his position having softened from stern denial to reluctant acceptance.
“He will be Lan Yuan,” was all Wangji had said in reply.)
“My brother must have his reasons for his silence,” Lan Xichen says now, carefully choosing his words. If his uncle hasn’t entertained the same possibility that Lan Xichen has, he doesn’t want to lead his uncle there. It might fracture the fragile peace that has developed between these two dear men in his family.
“His reason is that he does not want me to know the truth,” Uncle says, and Lan Xichen can hear a tiny frisson of hurt there. His uncle has always had a vision for his brother. They are all still coping with the recent shattering of that vision.
“I’m sure it’s not—”
Uncle gives Lan Xichen a stern look, the kind that always cowed him as a child, the kind he has reserved only for Wangji in recent years.
“If that boy is Wangji’s blood, then he has yet again broken our sect rules.”
Lan Xichen feels the blood leave his face. “Uncle, we agreed he would receive no more punishments—”
“Unnecessary,” says Uncle, turning back to watch the child. “He is not Wangji’s blood.”
So Lan Qiren has thought of it too—that aside from his commitment to his sect and his family, Lan Wangji has only ever been devoted utterly to one other person. It’s the kind of devotion that would lead to the adoption of an orphan.
During long, difficult nights at the side of his brother’s sickbed, touching his fevered skin and listening to his weak ramblings, Lan Xichen was sometimes uncharitable to the memory of Wei Wuxian—sometimes thinking wryly that the cultivator had certainly never given the impression of an interest in fathering children. But that kind of thinking was disrespectful to his brother’s pain and ongoing devotion, the devotion that had him advocating for A-Yuan’s inclusion into the family even though Wangji himself was hardly healed from the whip.
Whether A-Yuan was Wei Wuxian’s blood doesn’t matter. Wei Wuxian is gone.
Across the way, the doors of the jingshi open, and Lan Wangji steps outside. Lan Xichen tries to keep his breath even as his heart wrenches at the sight.
His brother does not look well.
To any other set of eyes, Lan Wangji is still Hanguang-Jun, dressed neatly in white robes, hair in regulation, forehead ribbon an unwavering demarcation. But Lan Xichen knows his brother—not completely, as he has recently been humbled to learn—he knows him enough to see the pain collecting around his mouth, the agony pressing on his ruined shoulders, the reverence with which he wears white clothes: they’re truly mourning robes now.
His brother is still graceful as he walks down the steps of the jingshi—every step must still be painful—to where A-Yuan has stilled among the stones, blinking up at Wangji.
When Wangji reaches the boy, A-Yuan says, “Gege, will you play with me?”
Wangji makes eye contact with his brother, then his uncle, looking as if he knows what they have been speaking of.
“Come,” says Wangji, and the boy stands.
“You will go with Uncle today,” Wangji tells A-Yuan, who looks behind him at Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren. The boy doesn’t like Lan Qiren—that’s warranted, frankly—but he looks at Lan Xichen and smiles as he says, “Uncle!”
And Lan Xichen smiles back.
Lan Qiren harrumphs.
“Uncle,” Lan Xichen says quietly. “What you have said. Do you believe that Wangji would lie to us?”
Because Wangji might have his reasons for privacy; Lan Xichen knows he has lost a measure of his brother’s trust with the events following Nightless City. He knows it, and he accepts it, and he will do everything to earn that trust back, including welcoming the child he already considers to be his nephew into GusuLan.
Wangji has crouched to better look A-Yuan in the eye as he explains school to the boy. He will go with the other clan children and learn to be a cultivator, as the son of Hanguang-Jun.
“I simply question,” his uncle says, an unknowable sea of worry and love and principle and regulation hidden under a firm tone, “whether Lan Yuan can truly be a son to Wangji, blood or not.”
Wangji is holding something in his hands: white embroidered ribbon. His voice is so quiet Lan Xichen can barely hear as he recites what they all learned when they were A-Yuan’s age. Regulation. And— “Only one’s parents, child, or spouse can touch it,” said softly as Lan Wangji expertly ties the forehead ribbon on Lan Yuan’s head.
Lan Xichen is smiling as he turns to his uncle, hearing his nephew’s footsteps padding toward them, away from his father.
“Well,” Lan Xichen says. “I suppose that answers that question.”
+
2.
Lan Sizhui has not seen Hanguang-Jun in two weeks.
But it’s nothing to worry about. Hanguang-Jun always goes where the trouble is, and these days, there’s a lot of trouble.
“I heard there are walking corpses in the mountains in Qinghe,” Lan Jingyi whispers to him during class. “I heard a cook saying Sandu Shengshou thinks it could be Yiling Laozu returned from the dead. That’s probably where he is.”
Jingyi is always whispering things to him in class when they should be paying attention to Master Lan. Lan Sizhui has had to work hard to earn the Master’s good opinion, and he’s not going to lose it now because Lan Jingyi can’t keep his mouth shut.
“Did he tell you he was going nighthunting? He usually tells you when he’s g—”
“Be quiet, Jingyi,” Sizhui says, sharper than he’d usually say it because he hasn’t really slept well in a while—not that he’s worried, he’s not, just a bad sleep cycle. Master Lan’s hard gaze has lifted from the record he has been reading to them, and as if on instinct, Sizhui sits up even straighter. Beside him, Jingyi jerks forward, pretending to take notes.
“I’m just saying,” Jingyi hisses when the Master continues his reading, his deep, measured voice filling the room, comforting in its own way. “There’s a good reason he hasn’t been back. I know you’re worried.”
He’s not. He’s not worried. Hanguang-Jun is the best cultivator in the world, and he goes where the chaos is thickest while Lan Sizhui stays at Cloud Recesses. Sizhui hasn’t gone on his first nighthunt yet; Hanguang-Jun promised to take him when he was ready. Sizhui knows he’s not ready, but he’d still rather be in the mountains in Qinghe—if that’s really where Hanguang-Jun is.
“I’m not worried,” he whispers back to Jingyi. Whispers to himself.
He feels Jingyi looking at him, then he sees the other boy raise his hand in his periphery.
“Master?”
Master Lan looks up, clearly wary of the fact that Jingyi is asking a question.
“Master, where is Hanguang-Jun?” Jingyi asks, shooting a minute glance at Sizhui that clearly says, You know you can just ask, you idiot.
Master Lan sets down the record and barks, “Lan Jingyi, where is your attention?”
That’s why Sizhui doesn’t ask. But he smiles to himself as they finish the lesson in relative silence. Jingyi has to copy the sect rules twenty times. It’s a good day for his friend.
After Master Lan has excused the class, he calls Lan Sizhui back. Sizhui is suddenly nervous. Master Lan used to be very strict with him when he was younger, but now that he has proven himself to be a good learner and an obedient student, he’s more lenient. Affectionate, even. He’s technically Sizhui’s great-uncle, though Sizhui has never had the courage to call him that.
“Did Zewu-Jun not tell you?” Master Lan says to him, face impassive. Hanguang-Jun must have learned that trick from his uncle.
“Master?”
“Lan Wangji returned from Qinghe two days ago,” says Master Lan perfunctorily, then adds, “Unhurt.”
Two days. If Hanguang-Jun has been back in Cloud Recesses for two days, why hasn’t anyone told Lan Sizhui before Master Lan? Why hasn’t Hanguang-Jun come to see him? If he’s not hurt, what keeps him away?
“The clan leader was going to inform you when he felt Wangji was...ready,” Master Lan says, and then he advises patience, and Lan Sizhui thanks him and bows, even though he can’t hear his voice over the pounding in his ears.
As soon as he leaves the pavilion, he makes his way to the jingshi. The sun hangs low behind the mountain, and the jingshi sits in cold shadow. Sizhui shivers on the steps, then stills. Floating through the cold air is a tune Sizhui has heard many times, in the familiar, mournful voice of a guqin.
He almost hates to knock and silence the instrument, but even as it cuts off, a deep voice calls, “Come.”
Hanguang-Jun sits with his long, dark instrument set before him, pale hands splayed over the strings. Lan Sizhui is reminded of something he’d heard a clan elder mutter about Hanguang-Jun years ago: that these days, he looks like he’s lost a wife.
His father’s hair is unbound, his ribbon lying on the floor next to him, like he had just raked his hands through his hair and torn it from its place. As Master Lan promised, he doesn’t look injured, but he does look—
“You’re back,” Sizhui says after proffering a bow.
Lan Wangji nods. If he feels embarrassed for his disheveled state—disheveled for Hanguang-Jun—he doesn’t show it. But Sizhui can see a little of what others can’t.
“Are you—”
“Studies?” Hanguang-Jun asks in that deep voice.
“I—good.”
“Mn.” Lan Wangji turns to his guqin again. A dismissal.
“I haven’t been well,” Sizhui blurts and then flushes. It’s against the rules to lie, and even if it weren’t, he’s not a good liar.
But he’s not lying, is he? He’s been worried. He’s told himself and Jingyi that he wasn’t, but he was. He was worried about his father, off in the thick of chaos, and now returned looking hollow and sad, like he used to when Sizhui was young.
Lan Wangji scrutinizes him, attention suddenly blade-sharp. “How?”
“Not sleeping,” Sizhui says, and realizes that it’s true. “Not much of an appetite.” He’d given Jingyi his congee at lunch. “Will you play for me?”
Lan Wangji’s hands flex almost imperceptibly on the string, the only sign of his hesitation. Then, he nods and says, “Sit.”
Lan Sizhui sits, relief coursing through him. Lan Wangji moves his fingers to being playing a song of healing, one he has taught Sizhui himself, and before he can stop himself, Sizhui says, “What were you playing before?”
Another long, painful, quiet hesitation, and Sizhui has worried he’s made things worse. But then the fingers reposition and begin playing the melody again. Sizhui hasn’t heard it since he was a small boy, just out of a strong fever, shuffling around a silent jingshi and calling Hanguang-Jun gege. Lan Wangji staring at the ceiling most days at nights, even when his brother came to see him. Lan Wangji shedding quiet tears when he thought Sizhui couldn’t see.
Sizhui knows that he’s not Lan Wangji’s son by blood, and he knows that his birth parents are dead. He has always thought that Lan Wangji must have loved them, his father or his mother or both, but it’s now that he realizes how devastating that love must have been.
“It’s beautiful,” Sizhui says when Lan Wangji finishes. He looks up from Lan Wangji’s hands to see him turn away, one tear trailing a thin path down his face.
Sizhui is moving quietly, almost not thinking, finding a comb, settling behind his father on his knees to begin combing through his long hair. He remembers his father doing this for him when he was small, remembers his father taking him by his hand to the pavilion for class and tugging his forehead ribbon straight before sending him with the other students. He doesn’t remember much from before he came to Cloud Recesses, but he remembers everything after.
Sometime as Sizhui gently combs his father’s hair, the music starts up again. Still mournful, still filled with pain, but a little lighter. It continues until Sizhui has finished and has taken up his father’s forehead ribbon and tied it, and then it fades into silence.
+
3.
It’s the night before Wei Wuxian’s wedding, and he should be the one getting drunk.
Technically, no one should be getting drunk. Which means that somewhere out in Cloud Recesses, Jiang Cheng is enjoying the very sobering company of Lan Zhan, Lan Xichen, and Lan Qiren without the numbing buffer of alcohol. And that knowledge alone is enough to make the Lan rule against drunkenness worth it.
Wei Wuxian was meant to spend an equally boring night—albeit one less fraught with conflicting personalities—with Nie Huaisang and Jin Ling, two clan leaders per groom to show adequate respect for the nuptials taking place tomorrow. In practice, it was all very dull.
But Wei Wuxian found he didn’t actually mind it, even though Jin Ling had failed to show and Wei Wuxian tried to hide his hurt. Nie-xiong made for decent company, and they even got to talking like they used to, reminiscing about their time as students, though carefully avoiding talking about Jin Guangyao. And Nie Mingjue. And Shijie. And Mo Xuanyu.
They did a lot of avoiding. And it would have been easier with alcohol.
“I’m surprised you don’t have any Emperor’s Smile stashed away, Wei-xiong,” Nie Huaisang had said, waving his fan lazily and giving him a knowing look.
“Me, hide alcohol in Cloud Recesses? Nie-xiong, Nie-xiong, don’t you know I’ve changed? I’m not the reckless boy you used to know.”
Wei Wuxian does have a stash of Emperor’s Smile, which Lan Zhan kept stocked for him, but he wasn’t about to share that with Nie Huaisang the night before his wedding. He wasn’t that desperate.
He of course couldn’t hope to fool Nie Huaisang, but he’d been rather cool about it all the same—until the doors banged open and Jin Ling bellowed, “I found your Emperor’s Smile, Uncle,” in a slurred voice.
So his nephew, now clan leader of LanlingJin, got drunk on his contraband. Jiang Cheng is going to be furious. Wei Wuxian is over the moon and half pissing himself at the sight of arrogant, prim Jin Ling wandering around the room, almost passing for sober—if he didn’t list slightly to the left and occasionally knock into things.
“You’re right, this stuff is really good,” Jin Ling says, tipping back an empty jar and swaying only slightly.
Wei Wuxian is laughing. “Take it easy, nephew mine. How much have you had?”
“Two—no, three? Jars.”
“Three jars!” That’s all of the stash in the jingshi. Jin Ling makes a beeline for where Nie Huaisang’s precious fan is splayed on the table, and Wei Wuxian holds him back by the collar of his robes.
“We were going to bring it to share,” Jin Ling says, still trying to shuffle forward. He looked annoyed enough that Wei Wuxian suspects that his golden core must beginning to burn off the alcohol. “But then I thought, why, you know?”
“I’m touched,” Wei Wuxian says dryly while Nie Huaisang rescues his fan, looking peeved. “How did you even know where to look?”
“Was gonna get some in town but then Sizhui said—”
“Sizhui?”
There’s a moan at the door and Wei Wuxian spins, dismayed to see Lan Sizhui leaning against the doorframe looking like he’s about to be sick.
“Wei-qianbei?” Sizhui mutters, casting about for Wei Wuxian, but apparently his eyes can’t really bear to focus on anything. He pitches forward, and Wei Wuxian lunges to catch him.
“He only had five sips,” Jin Ling snickers.
Truly Hanguang-Jun’s son, Wei Wuxian thinks, smothering a chuckle as he steers Sizhui down to the mat before the table.
“Not bad, considering who his dad is,” Nie Huaisang says, then “Aiyah!” when Jin Ling goes to pour tea and overshoots into Nie Huaisang’s lap. At this point, Wei Wuxian can’t tell if Jin Ling really is drunk or just pretending.
“This is bad,” Wei Wuxian says, giggling a little hysterically as Sizhui falls forward to lay his head on the table. Like Lan Zhan did once, Wei Wuxian thinks with a stab of fondness. “This is really not good.”
The wedding is in a handful of hours, at the ass-crack of dawn because the Lan don’t do anything unless it’s completely inconvenient and mildly painful for everyone involved. There’s no telling how long five sips of Emperor’s Smile will affect Sizhui. Barely one cup did Lan Zhan in for an entire night.
Suddenly, Sizhui gasps, sitting up. He blinks, then scrambles with the ties of his forehead ribbon, pulling it off and folding it reverently before laying back down on the table.
“Wait, no—don’t sleep here—”
Suddenly, Wei Wuxian thinks about what might happen if Jiang Cheng comes to fetch Jin Ling, or Lan Qiren swoops in like an indignant white bat. He can’t have either of the juniors getting in trouble the night before his wedding—mostly because he’ll certainly be the one everyone blames!
“All right,” Wei Wuxian says, hoisting Sizhui up. He’s fairly cracking up at the realization that he’s the most responsible person in the room right now, which doesn’t happen often. “Nie-xiong, I’m taking Sizhui to the jingshi. Can you get Jin Ling to his room?”
“Me? He’s your nephew!”
And Sizhui is my— he almost says, but doesn’t.
“Consider it my wedding present.”
“I already got you a wedding present.”
“Well, don’t you think you owe me more than one, Nie-xiong?” Wei Wuxian snaps pointedly, trying not to think about the rule he’s breaking as he sweeps up Sizhui’s ribbon and stuffs it in his pocket.
“Fuck. Fine.”
“I can walk, Wei-qianbei,” Sizhui mumbles, sounding so eager to please but with the physical strength of a rag doll.
“Good, because you’re a bit bigger than you were the last time I carried you,” Wei Wuxian laughs as he pulls Sizhui out into the night. It’s past curfew, and it’s dead quiet, and Wei Wuxian can hear the hisses and squeaks of Nie Huaisang wrangling Jin Ling in the opposite direction.
“Haha.” Sizhui laughs too, head lolling a bit. “Xian-gege.”
Wei Wuxian radiates with happiness at the same time that he feels gutted. He’d go for a jar of Emperor’s Smile right about now.
On the way to the jingshi, Wei Wuxian tightens his hold on Sizhui’s wrist and channels what little spiritual energy he has into Sizhui. It’s not much, really, but it might help him sober up faster, which is paramount if they’re both going to make it to the wedding on time.
In the jingshi, he spills Sizhui onto the bed, but the kid seems really disoriented.
“Hanguang-Jun?” he calls.
“Fuck, I hope not,” Wei Wuxian mutters. “He’ll think I did this to you, and then he’ll rethink marrying me, and let me tell you, Sizhui, if I don’t marry that man, I’m going to start another war.”
Sizhui finds this hilarious, laughing until he can hardly move, and then he shuffles a bit on the bed and groans.
“Hang in there, kid,” Wei Wuxian says fondly as he tucks the quilt over Sizhui, head throbbing in some kind of sympathetic hangover. He’s glad he doesn’t need much sleep to function. And if he’s honest, he was never going to sleep the night before the wedding anyway.
He draws out Sizhui’s forehead ribbon, trying to barely touch it as if that would make a difference, and sets it next to Sizhui. He settles next to the bed and watches Sizhui drift into a dream, watches the shadows in the room deepen and then slowly, slowly lighten, all the while watching Sizhui’s sleeping face, looking for an indication of the little boy he had helped to raise.
Though “raise” implies that Wei Wuxian was there from start to finish, there to see him grow up into the young man he is, and he hadn’t been. He had abandoned A-Yuan when he had needed someone most.
He listens to Sizhui’s even breathing, watches his eyes move behind the thin skin of his lids, thinks about a dirty little boy with a smile like a cut moon, half-buried in a radish patch.
Sometimes, when Lan Zhan wakes at his usual ungodly hour and Wei Wuxian sleeps on, Lan Zhan will dress silently and then sit on the edge of the bed, watching Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian only knows because once he had woken with Lan Zhan and kept his eyes closed, comforted by the near-silent sounds of Lan Zhan moving in the half-light. And sometimes, Lan Zhan will very gently lean down to press his ear to Wei Wuxian’s chest, as if needing the confirmation of Wei Wuxian’s steadily beating heart.
That’s what Wei Wuxian wants to do right now, listen to Sizhui’s heartbeats and remind himself that this is A-Yuan, who he had thought died in terror, alone. But he’s alive, he’s safe and happy and he’s sleeping, and when he wakes up, he’s going to have the worst hangover, because he is the lightweight son of a lightweight.
When Sizhui finally wakes, the jingshi has turned a cold blue with the lightening sky. Wei Wuxian dozes with his head rested on his fist, dreaming about Lan Zhan in red.
“Oh no, oh no,” comes out as a litany from Sizhui. “Oh no, oh no—”
“It’s fine,” Wei Wuxian is saying before he’s even opened his eyes. “Calm down—”
Sizhui bolts upright, hair askew. “Wei-qianbei—what—”
“You’ve been sneaking around my stash of Emperor’s Smile,” Wei Wuxian says with a knowing grin. “I never would have thought it possible of such an upright Lan disciple.”
Sizhui looks mortified as he looks around the jingshi, suddenly aware that he’s in bed and Wei Wuxian is not. “Did I sleep—?”
“Not so much ‘sleep’ as ‘pass out,’” Wei Wuxian yawns. “Sizhui, it’s fine—”
“It’s not!”
“Do you honestly think I’d get a good night’s sleep before my wedding? If it hadn’t been for you and Jin Ling getting drunk, I would have crept off to find Hanguang-Jun.”
Sizhui flushes, and Wei Wuxian laughs. “I know, I know. I’m shameless! I’ll make you tea,” he says. “It’ll help with the headache.”
Sizhui lifts a hand to his head and seems to understand the full extent of his disheveled state. “I’m supposed to accompany Hanguang-Jun. It’s almost five! He’ll be awake soon!”
He kicks off the quilt and tries to roll out of bed, but he makes it to his feet, groans, and sits back down. “This is a disaster,” he mumbles.
“Come on, now,” Wei Wuxian says, busying himself with the tea. “It’s not like Hanguang-Jun will punish you on his wedding day. Even Lan Qiren will probably wait until tomorrow.”
Sizhui alternates between running his hands through his tangled hair and pressing down his wrinkled robes. “That’s not what I mean!” he says, sounding more desperate than Wei Wuxian would like. It was just a little alcohol, after all. And Sizhui has broken other rules before.
“Then what is it?”
“I can’t ruin your wedding!”
Ah, A-Yuan. Wei Wuxian stifles a fond laugh and brings over the tea. “Here.” He shoves a cup into Sizhui’s hand. “Drink.” And then Wei Wuxian takes on the task of taming Lan Sizhui’s appearance. He finds a comb and employs it while Sizhui nurses the tea.
“I’m sorry, Wei-qianbei ,” Sizhui says.
“For drinking my Emperor’s Smile? I should think so.”
“For that too. And for sleeping in your bed. And for—oh, taking up your time! You should be getting ready.”
Wei Wuxian chuckles. “It’ll be your turn to help me next! You have to make me beautiful for Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian preens until he gets Sizhui to crack a smile, and then he sobers. “Sizhui, tell me. Why did you choose last night of all nights to get drunk?”
Sizhui’s ears go a little pink. “Jin Ling says it relaxes you. Alcohol.”
Wei Wuxian nods. “That it does. Did you need to relax?”
A shrug. “I guess I’ve been a little nervous.”
Wei Wuxian’s hands go still. “Because of the wedding?” Because of me? he thinks.
But Sizhui shakes his head as best he can with Wei Wuxian tying it half up. “No! I promise. I just—get like this sometimes, that’s all.”
“Right, I see,” Wei Wuxian says with a sage nod. “But if it were about the wedding—”
“I’m really happy you’re marrying Hanguang-Jun,” Sizhui says, and Wei Wuxian stills his hands. “For years, I knew he was missing someone. Mourning someone. I used to think it was my mother. But then you came back, and I started to remember you and miss you too. I’m sorry I didn’t remember before, Wei-qianbei .”
Wei Wuxian smiles and says wetly, “You called me Xian-gege last night.”
He thought Sizhui might flush and apologize, but he just laughs. “That’s because I still think of you as Xian-gege !”
With Sizhui’s hair combed and tied back, he looks better—a little happy, and a little weary, but not in a way that would attract attention around Cloud Recesses. He’ll have to hightail it back to his rooms to freshen up before he goes to Lan Zhan. Wei Wuxian’s done a pretty good job, he thinks, and then he remembers the ribbon the same moment Sizhui says, “Where’s—?”
Sizhui finds it on the corner of the bed, folded neatly where Wei Wuxian left it, and his fingers go still above it.
“I touched it,” Wei Wuxian says regretfully. “Sorry.”
Sizhui turns to smile at him. “Tie it on for me, Xian-gege?”
Wei Wuxian is beaming as he does it, beaming as Sizhui leaves to prepare for the wedding, beaming as he dresses himself and thinks about the ceremony where he will marry Lan Zhan and gain both a husband and a son and fit himself into the family that had waited for him.