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Lan Sizhui is a boy of many talents. He has a keen eye, can analyze things that his fellow disciples cannot wrap their heads around, and has a very precise cultivation style. From his impeccable memory to his soothing voice, he truly is the son of Lan Wangji. As a result, it doesn’t surprise Wei Wuxian that little Sizhui also has the ability to appear anywhere at any time.
That includes, it seems, his bedside.
“Senior Wei.”
“A-Yuan,” groans Wei Wuxian as he tries to curl further under the blankets. “What are you doing here?”
“It is not like you to want to sleep before curfew,” he replies, crouched down by the bed. “Are you feeling alright?”
Wei Wuxian manages to mumble out, “The journey was long, and I am tired,” although he knows that it will not quite be enough to deter Lan Sizhui, who is eager for his company and brimming with filial concern. He’s been travelling for a while, has been away from Cloud Recesses for months, and though he should be longing for the freedom the world offers him, Wei Wuxian has been finding himself drifting closer and closer to these mountains. He’s made trips back to Gusu before, trying to see how long it takes him to crawl to the warmth of the jingshi despite the layer of freshly fallen snow that seems to coat the Cloud Recesses every other week. He’d lasted about a year this time before turning tail at Lanling’s borders to trek his way to Gusu again.
He turns onto his side and fixes his child-turned-teen with a look, his eyes glinting. “What about you? Aren’t you tired of all your 4000 rules, A-Yuan? Don’t you just want to go wild?”
“Wild like you, Senior Wei?” The pair of them laugh together. “I’m quite alright. Jingyi and Jin Ling are wild enough for me. By the way, you did not send word you were coming to visit.”
“I wanted to surprise him.” They both know who the him is. There is no further need for explanation.
Lan Sizhui nods. “I shall be sure to keep your arrival to myself. Have you eaten?” he asks instead. “Dinner has just ended, but I’m sure I could find you something.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I think Jingyi keeps his rose crisps stash above the towels in our dorm, so I could grab that for you.”
“A-Yuan, you do love me after all.” Wei Wuxian laughs. “Perhaps in a moment or two. It’s so rare to be in the jingshi by myself. I’m sure Lan Zhan is off doing his usual duties, so I’ll be free of some scolding for now." Lan Wangji is often busy with being Chief Cultivator. It is a huge responsibility, one that he accepted with all the grace his Lan blood could offer him. Every time Wei Wuxian returns from his adventures out in the world, Lan Wangji is off saving the world and settling disputes, however, there has never been a time he missed seeing Wei Wuxian at the door of the jingshi, as if knowing when he would arrive. Tonight is a rare occasion, if only because it means he has successfully slipped past whatever sixth sense Lan Wangji has for his arrivals. "Talk to me, Sizhui. How has life been to you since Wen Ning dropped you off here?”
The words flow as steady and constant as a stream, and the tales that he tells of his visits to Yunmeng and the night hunts with his fellow disciples have Wei Wuxian in a state of absolute happiness. It leaves him warm with pleasure knowing that his little Wen Yuan has grown up and is spending time with his friends, that he has not been completely beaten down by the Lan rules and has thrived instead. Once he has been lulled into submission by Lan Sizhui’s tales, the boy sees it fit to ask him something that he’s been wondering for a while.
“The song that you play with Hanguang Jun,” he begins, “it’s a duet with your dizi and his qin. Did you write it together?”
“In a way.” Wei Wuxian leans back against the pillows, surprised by his son's question and only because it took him this long to ask. “What makes you think that?”
“I’ve never heard it played by anybody but two of you, and there’s nothing in the library’s repertoire that has any melodies quite like it. Somebody from Gusu must have composed it. But there’s more to it than that.”
Ah, Lan Sizhui is so clever. He’s not surprised that their boy has pieced together this much. “You could say that I was his muse.”
The way Lan Sizhui’s eyebrows raise has Wei Wuxian in a fit of laughter. “He wrote it for you?”
“That’s what he says.”
“Hanguang-Jun plays all music so beautifully.” Lan Sizhui nods, slotting this new piece of information into his brain with careful consideration. It looks like he has finally completed a very complicated puzzle, with this last detail making up the full picture. “It makes sense that he is able to compose such beautiful music as well.”
“He is very talented despite how boring he is most of the time.”
Lan Sizhui stifles a laugh at that, putting in less effort to hide it and revealing how comfortable he is. “It must be his favourite song,” he says absently. “Did you know that I recognized it when you played it back at Mo’s manor?”
“Did you really?” What he wants to say is “Is it really his favourite?” but he’s not sure if that’s a question he should be asking a Lan disciple.
“Little bits of it,” Lan Sizhui admits, resting his head at the edge of the bed. “He only played it once when I was younger before he was taken away by some of the doctors and I was given to the nannies, but I’ve heard it more since then. I thought it was a lullaby for the longest time, but it sounded nothing like the lullaby Hanguang-Jun once sang to me when I first arrived here. It always made me feel comfortable, safe. It was familiar.”
The idea of Lan Wangji singing A-Yuan to sleep makes warmth blossom in his cheeks. There is a great deal of guilt he feels from his years spent dead, and he has heard much from his friends about Lan Wangji’s punishment and seclusion. But hearing it alluded to vaguely from Sizhui, who was by Lan Wangji’s side most during those first few years after the Yiling Patriarch’s death, strikes a chord that resonates deep within his chest.
“It would be,” he says softly. Chenqing sits on his dresser just within reach, the tassel bright red against the deep browns and pale whites of the jingshi. “I played it when you were little too. Just some music to help the clan relax in the evenings.” When Wei Wuxian thinks of his time in the Burial Mounds, he tries his hardest to focus on the good that happened there; on the miraculous lotus pods, of the dinners that felt like he was eating with a family. Whenever he played music for the remains of the Wen clan, he felt more like himself. And it was when he played this song - his song, drunk on fruit wine or trying to lull A-Yuan to sleep - that he felt a little more human. “I’m surprised you remembered it at all.”
“I don’t remember much,” admits Lan Sizhui. His knees are drawn up to his chest, and he looks so small at Wei Wuxian’s bedside that he can’t help but remember little A-Yuan, who clambered into dirt holes and smiled brightly at him whenever he brought meat home for dinner, “but more and more of it comes back every day. What I thought used to be dreams are more memories than anything, I think. And that song… I know it always meant something more to you. You always looked so sad when you played it.” The look he gives Lan Sizhui is nothing short of surprised. “Hanguang-Jun is the same.”
“Does he-” Wei Wuxian tries to swallow his question, but cannot help his own blasted curiousity as he asks, “Does he still-?”
“Sometimes.”
That thought is...reassuring. But there is something that Lan Sizhui is holding back - spotted in the sparkle of his eyes - and it takes only a couple moments of pouting before he loosens the boy’s lips a little more. Lans may be known for their restraint, but Wei Wuxian will be damned if he meets one that he can’t wrestle a secret out of. “When he plays, he sort of tunes out everything else and always keeps the door open,” says Lan Sizhui, “and once he’s done, he’ll look up and outside as if…”
He pauses and they look at each other, knowing the words without needing them said.
This admission comes softly, well-worn and familiar. “He knows that you’re out and travelling, but I think he plays that song when he misses you.”
Wei Wuxian sits up a little more, an idea creeping into his mind. “Do you know the song?”
“A little.” Sizhui is eager to prepare himself, summoning his guqin and settling in on his lap. His bright eyes and brighter smile are truly a sight to behold. Lan education has contributed to his intuitive nature, but unlike Lan Wangji, who has an absolute disregard for other people’s feelings and opinions, Lan Sizhui knows how to read a room like no other. “My first real song was Inquiry, which Zewu-Jun always said was a very difficult first song since I need to learn the qin language first, but Hanguang-Jun said I picked it up very quickly. I’ve heard this song enough to know the basics of it.”
“You were a fast learner when you were little. You still are.” Wei Wuxian reaches for Chenqing and twirls the flute in his hand. “Perhaps we should give it a little test, hmm? Play with me, Sizhui. Shall we try and summon the esteemed Hanguang-Jun from his Chief Cultivator duties?”
Lan Sizhui’s smile is as playful as ever. “It would be my honour to assist, Senior Wei.”
The pair of them start slow, the music building in the same, steady way it would between two musicians who have never practiced together. They watch each other carefully to ensure they have the right rhythms and pacing. While Lan Sizhui knows most of the notes, he is just as enthusiastic as he is careful in the way he follows Wei Wuxian’s cues. Playing together suffuses him with joy, and as the music swells and their harmonies intertwine, he is reminded of all the memories he’s associated with this song. He thinks of Xianwu Cave, of the Burial Mounds, of using this song to fill the silence and the loneliness of his own heart on his journey.
But he is not alone anymore, which is precisely the point. Another guqin plays with him, steady and calm. The flourish of Lan Sizhui’s wrist is not quite as fluid as Lan Wangji’s are, but his sound is clear as mountain water. It’s obvious through Lan Sizhui’s technique that he learned much from Lan Wangji’s teaching. A teacher’s habits and techniques become their trademark after a while, and Lan Sizhui proves himself to be a mini Hanguang-Jun in just intonation alone. He knows exactly how to leave space between his notes - a sign of an experienced qin player - and follows Wei Wuxian’s lead with a tempo reminiscent of Hanguang-Jun’s.
They get about half-way through the piece when Wei Wuxian senses that something is rapidly approaching the jingshi. He opens his eyes just as Lan Wangji steps through the threshold, his eyes wide and his mouth parted. He looks a little out of breath, and the lamplight casts its glow along his friend’s cheeks and makes them appear flushed. It makes Wei Wuxian wonder if Lan Wangji ran here, even though he knows that one of the rules of Cloud Recesses is not to run and Lan Wangji is nothing if not a stickler for the rules.
He and Lan Sizhui continue with the song, and he can spot Lan Sizhui looking between the two of them, as if unsure that they should continue but knowing, inevitably, that he is in the clear as long as Wei Wuxian is still playing.
Lan Wangji would never interrupt this song.
When they finish, and Lan Sizhui places a silencing hand over his strings, the boy is beaming with barely restrained pride. Lans are meant to be humble and to never have their deeds praised excessively. They are taught to be quietly aware that they have done things correctly, but that they still have to improve. Wei Wuxian is unsure what method Lan Wangji took when teaching Lan Sizhui how to play the qin, but surely he was not so harsh as to deny the boy a well-deserved compliment.
Wei Wuxian is no different.
“Ah, Sizhui, that was absolutely stunning! Clearly you’ve been working hard. I thought I was playing with Hanguang-Jun for a while there.”
The tips of his ears are red, just like Lan Wangji’s tend to get when he’s embarrassed, and it endears Sizhui to him even more than before (if that’s even possible).
“Thank you, Senior Wei. Music is always a continuous journey, so I look forward to learning more from you and Hanguang-Jun now that you’re here.”
Both of them turn to look at Lan Wangi, who stands before them as if carved from the jade he was named after, lips parted with words he cannot say. Perhaps he is stunned silent by Wei Wuxian’s return. From his seat on the bed, he meets Lan Wangji’s gold eyes from across the room and allows himself a smile. A steady, golden gaze is matched perfectly with the ever so slight raise of his eyebrows, as if Lan Wangi is surprised. “Ah, Hanguang-Jun, a pleasure for you to join us.” He twirls his flute again, heart beating in his chest. He feels more alive than he has in a while. Perhaps more full of life would be an accurate description. His aimless wandering and adventuring had gotten a little lonely with only Little Apple by his side, even though that was how he started. His mother's grandmaster was a wanderer, as was he for a time.
But while his blood may be of Sanren and Wei, his heart is still Jiang. He was raised to explore, to go where his heart desired, but to never forget to return home in time for dinner. He’s missed having a constant place to come back to and, as he looks between Lan Wangji and Lan Sizhui, he thinks that maybe he’s missed the people more than the place. It’s all he can do to stay seated, to not move immediately to Lan Wangji’s side like his body wants to. “I didn’t know you taught Sizhui how to play this song too,” he says brightly.
The strangled noise that makes its way out of Lan Wangji is barely a whisper, but every single person in the Jingshi hears it anyway.
“How cute.” Wei Wuxian’s eyes meet Lan Sizhui’s and they share a conspiratorial look for success. “You see, A-Yuan? Our Hanguang-Jun is nothing but a puppet. We play the song and he comes.” In unison they turn their gaze on Wangji, who seems to realize what has happened and has his lips firmly pressed together again, posture straightening. He once more looks like the paragon of righteousness that he is known to be, despite the lamplight making him look more and more like a blushing maiden. “The Yiling Patriarch strikes again.”
“What does that make me?” asks Sizhui curiously, and Wei Wuxian can hear Lan Wangji carefully shut the door behind him as he remembers himself.
“Hard to say. Perhaps a fully grown turnip,” he muses, “or perhaps a mini-Yiling Patriarch, although I doubt that Hanguang-Jun would like that title very much for you.” Lan Sizhui is entertained by this answer but wisely says nothing, so Wei Wuxian turns to Lan Wangji for his opinion to find him much closer than he was before. There is only a brief moment of hesitation, the slightest tilt of his head up, before he says, “Thoughts, Hanguang-Jun? What are you thinking about right now?”
“Wei Ying.”
In all the time he’s been travelling, through all the letters he’s received from Lan Wangji, there is truly nothing quite like having the man say his name. Lan Wangji’s peerless calligraphy is nothing compared to the low timbre of his voice, familiar and ever welcoming. Wei Wuxian has missed those sounds coming out of Lan Wangji’s mouth, both an answer to his question and a statement. It feels like his own summons, far more powerful than any tune Chenqing churns out. No, Hanguang Jun does not need to play a single note to draw Wei Wuxian to him.
As youths, Lan Wangji’s call meant his absolute focus. Whether it was in the tone of concern or bite of a complaint, Wei Wuxian revelled in being the center of attention. Now, there is something more easily recognizable in the way Lan Wangji says his name, in the way his gaze is steadily re-memorizing the lines of Wei Wuxian’s face, tracking the column of his throat in a dry-mouthed swallow. To the untrained eye, he is unaffected by this visitor in his home who was just lounging in his bed as if Lan Wangji was the guest instead. But there’s heat there, inconsistency in his regular poise that lets on just how affected he truly is. The arm he normally has tucked behind his back is loose at his side, the other still slack on his sword.
No, nothing is quite like Lan Wangji calling out his name, and Wei Wuxian knows more than anybody what it means when it is said with that tone.
“Ah- Lan Zhan, welcome home.” Lan Wangji’s eyes dip down to where Chenqing sits in Wei Wuxian’s hand and, despite the instinct to immediately hide it, he tilts it upwards. The blood-red tassel swings back and forth at the motion, and the gold eyes of one of his oldest friends follow it faithfully for a moment before flickering back up to Wei Wuxian’s face. “We were playing together.”
“Is it?” he says, and Wei Wuxian finds himself looking up just as Lan Wangji takes a step closer. It’s so small -his question doesn’t even make sense with what was just said- but it makes the Jingshi feel too small all at once in somehow the best possible way. Chenqing’s tassel brushes Lan Wangji’s smooth white robes.
“Is it what?” asked Wei Wuxian, unsure where Lan Wangji is going with this particular conversation.
“Home.” There is another step coupled with a hand covering his, gently drawing the flute away from both of them. Their eyes never stray from one another. “Is this home?”
A lifetime ago, he might have tried harder to brush aside such a question. The implication of it burns hotter than his golden core ever did, and Wei Wuxian finds himself wanting more than anything else. He’s been struck by this urge before, the need to tell this wonderful, stubborn man just how lovely he is. The thoughts swarm so quickly that it takes his breath away most days.
Now, his tongue is heavy in his mouth, unsure that it wants to move at all because there are so many different things he can say and he wants whatever comes out of his mouth next to be right. He is, unfortunately, drawing a blank as he looks up at the man before him, whose gaze sits just as intensely as it always has. Lan Wangji is standing so close by, and with blood rushing to his head, he says, “You are here. It could be nothing but home.”
The answer is seemingly enough for Lan Wangji, who dips his head down and, very carefully, presses their mouths together in a lover’s greeting. And it is so so welcome. Despite the chill outside, Lan Wangji’s mouth is warm against his and there is a barely restrained sigh lingering in Wei Wuxian’s throat. It’s quite the expression of affection if Wei Wuxian has anything to say about it; although he’s unlikely to say anything at all at this point with his heart just about burst.
Lan Wangji pulls away just as smoothly as he approaches, and at the sight of flushed cheeks and reddened ears, Wei Wuxian cannot help the fond, “Lan Zhan,” that falls blissfully from his mouth.
“Mm.”
“Lan Zhan,” he says again, just for the effect, “how shameless of you, to kiss me in front of our son.”
The pair of them turn to gauge Lan Sizhui’s reaction, who looks like he’s just seen a shooting star. Despite having essentially seen his parental figures kiss before his eyes, he doesn’t appear too traumatized, which is a good sign. It’s not like Lan Sizhui doesn’t know exactly what Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian mean to one another, or what they do in private. Wei Wuxian is certain that he and Lan Wangji haven’t been as sneaky as they think they have been during his visits to the Cloud Recesses, and Lan Sizhui is incredibly astute. While it is unlikely the boy would be against such a relationship - he’s known longer than Wei Wuxian, it feels, how much he and Hanguang-Jun love one another - that did not necessarily mean he wanted it to be advertised so, well, shamelessly in front of him. They’ve never kissed in front of him, in front of anyone before. Moments stolen in tavern rooms and beneath low umbrellas are not quite the same as ones in the jingshi before the one they raised.
Still, Lan Sizhui is nothing if not expressive in the privacy of their home, so at the light blush on his cheeks and sly grin, he begins with: “I can go-”
Both of his parents immediately protest, Wei Wuxian’s voice the loudest as he draws himself up and pulls Lan Sizhui close in a side-hug. “Don't even think about it. You're here to welcome me back, remember? Sit, stay awhile.”
“But curfew-”
“Sizhui.” The boy turns his face upward immediately to face his father, the one who he adores and looks up to, the one who scolds and soothes with a single look. “You have time.”
If Wei Wuxian hadn’t already known of Lan Sizhui’s origins, he would have assumed he was the sun incarnate.
“Of course.” Lan Sizhui bows low and straightens himself with the brightest smile he can muster. “Shall I make tea?”
Lan Wangji’s nod of approval has Lan Sizhui set to work immediately, and Wei Wuxian allows himself to relax back into the bed, hands behind him to keep himself sitting up. His face is still a little warm, but pleasantly so. The pair of them survey their young disciple as he flits about the jingshi and arranges their teacups on the table, and it feels so domestic that Wei Wuxian could cry. He’s got a family and a home. (He’s got two of them, really. Lotus Pier, for all its memories, is becoming a home for him again under Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling's steady supervision, but this, with Lan Wangji and Lan Sizhui, is where he’s meant to be.)
A small noise in the back of his throat draws Lan Wangji’s attention. His regal features turn towards him, both expressionless and questioning to the right person, and Wei Wuxian’s response is to tilt his chin up, like a sunflower turning towards the sun. “Hey,” he said. “Come here.”
Lan Wangji’s eyes narrow ever so slightly with suspicion, but he shifts his body a little bit to show that he’s listening.
“I have a secret.”
The tilt recedes immediately, and Wei Wuxian laughs out loud, allowing himself to fall back onto the bed, hair splayed out beneath him.
“Don’t be like that, Lan Zhan. You’ll like this secret.”
“No.”
He opens his legs enough to make sure he knees Lan Wangji and earns himself a sharp look in response. “You will. I promise.”
Lan Wangji throws a glance at Lan Sizhui, who very quickly pretends like he’s not looking and ducks outside to fill the kettle with the water pump. With their audience out of sight, Lan Wangji slots himself between Wei Wuxian’s legs so fast that the man himself sits up as if by reflex. There is a daring and dangerous look in Lan Wangji’s eyes that has Wei Wuxian carefully swallowing whatever half-baked flirtation he was going to attempt. Though his lips part, no sound comes out, and his not so intentional silence is rewarded by Lan Wangji’s warm hand on his cheek, leaning down to bestow a kiss on Wei Wuxian’s brow.
“Be good,” he says, “and perhaps I will listen to your secret past curfew.”
Leave it to Lan Wangji to simultaneously make him feel like a child being bargained with and being suggestively teased by the love of his life. It really is difficult being the lover of the Chief Cultivator, especially one with such a straight face.
“You promise?” What should come out flirtatiously just sort of sounds hopefully breathless, but Wei Wuxian really can’t bring himself to care.
Lan Wangji straightens himself and turns away, moving towards the table in the center of the jingshi just as Lan Sizhui returns. “Sit and you will see.”
He tries not to rush to the table, he really does, and Wei Wuxian manages to find his seat without tripping at all. He does, however, reach out to hold Lan Wangji’s hand, unwilling to spend another moment where he does not have the other man’s skin on his. Lan Wangji does not even spare him a glance, but Wei Wuxian’s experienced eye can see the relaxing of Lan Wangji’s shoulders, the softening of his mouth. He allows Wei Wuxian to do as he pleases, twining their fingers together on the mat and letting the sleeve of his robe hide the connection naturally, protecting the warmth there like a promise.