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It is rare that Lan Wangji has the chance to remain so long in the jingshi, undisturbed by happenings in the Cloud Recesses. It is rare, and so he holds onto the time. He has risen early, as he always does, and he sits at his low table now, back to the calm scene framed by the large window. The room faces the west, and so against the serene morning sun it casts a shadow into his courtyard, the lines from the building overlapping just so with the dappled shade cast by the leaves of the solitary tree.
In front of him sits his guqin. The seven strings lie still, his fingers poised over the main board of the instrument. He has yet to begin playing, reveling in the sounds that he can hear only faintly from more distant places. There is the sound of his uncle beginning the junior disciples’ lessons, his words stern and tone steely as usual; more distantly there is the braying of a donkey, something he would not normally tolerate, but that he has long gotten used to. There are sounds of disciples walking to and fro, those left to their own devices doing what they must. In another building, he is sure that yet more disciples of the sect do the same thing he is about to, wearing the skin of their fingertips thinner on the strings of their instruments.
He gently places his fingers upon Wangji’s strings. With the ease of practice, his hands know exactly where to fall upon the board, the calluses on his fingertips seeking out the places where frets would be if he required the guides. The limpid sound of the guqin rings out, the notes quiet and subdued, deep and melodic. He moves his hands gracefully, giving each sound its due diligence, neither too long nor too short, before the next rises to take its place. The sound of the guqin is naturally melodic, each note beginning strongly before fading with a grace lent by his fingers as they ease the pressure from the strings.
He has barely played for minutes before his ears catch the sound of fabric rustling, his fingers still over the strings again, and his head turns slightly so that he can see the edge of the veranda. The last notes have not yet faded when the source of the sound rounds the corner, black clothing so out of place among the Lan white, and yet so familiar to Lan Wangji that he softens at the very sight.
“Lan Zhan!”
The quietness of the jingshi is filled with the sound, but it is far from unwelcome. It livens the angles of the room, the coldness of its white walls, washing it with a coat of the sun. Lan Wangji turns proper to look at him, eyes gentle. “Wei Ying.”
“Oh, were you playing just now?” Wei Wuxian asks. He shucks his boots, steps up onto the wooden veranda, and settles down just behind Lan Wangji, looking over his shoulder and placing his chin boldly close to the crook of Lan Wangji’s neck. Wangji has grown used to such gestures and merely nods.
“Mm.”
“Then… how about playing something for me? Or—don’t mind me, just keep going! I’ll behave, I’ll just watch.” Wei Wuxian smiles, the type of smile that looks cheeky but is nothing but true. Lan Wangji nearly returns it out of reflex, but his expression barely shifts.
“I will play for you,” he says instead. Wei Wuxian looks surprised for a moment before his bright grin widens and softens.
“Then, take it away, Lan Er-gege.”
Lan Wangji turns back to the guqin, his hands finding their places once more. Wei Wuxian moves to allow him range of motion, instead resting his own back against Wangji’s and facing out to the courtyard. Wangji hears soft scuffling as he stretches out his legs. The weight on Wangji’s back is solid, grounding: Wei Wuxian is here, and he will be here, throughout this song and the next, and the next.
And so he plays. The notes fall languidly, perfectly in time. At times they are familiar to Wei Wuxian, at times they are not; the Lan sect learned much more of music than he did, but he knows enough. And now, he remembers enough, enough to know the song that Lan Wangji plays now. The notes are gentle, but the sound of the strings strong. They do not echo this time, as they did in that cave years upon years ago, nor are they strung through by the sound of a cheap whittled flute. This is how they are meant to be heard, ringing bright and soft in the clear air.
Wei Wuxian smiles and closes his eyes.
Lan Wangji feels the shift against his back, the weight of Wei Wuxian moving. He has been curiously reticent this entire time, listening quietly to Lan Wangji play, but the steady breaths that come from behind him tell him something else. Sometime during this last song, the deep, constant sounds of the guqin keeping him company, Wei Wuxian has slowly fallen asleep.
Strands of black hair tickle Lan Wangji’s cheek. They hold a curious curl, unruly no matter whether or not they are tamed back or not, something that has held constant from Wei Wuxian’s first body to this one. Lan Wangji plays the last notes of the song, unhurried for once, the rhythm of his fingers steady, and as the sound fades, he finally allows himself to card his fingers gently through Wei Wuxian’s hair.
He doesn’t wake—he always has been a heavier sleeper, more than Lan Wangji himself—but he simply sighs, turns his head slightly. His cheek rests softly on Wangji’s shoulder. Lan Wangji can’t turn to see his face, for he will most definitely wake up then, but he has looked at Wei Wuxian in sleep many times now. He has long memorized the softness of his face, the calmness of his smooth brow in sleep; he looks more peaceful resting than he does anytime else, the bright vitality of his personality replaced with a simple contentedness that Lan Wangji could look upon forever, if it weren’t for the fact that he would miss the loud, boisterous voice and the animated expressions too soon.
Lan Wangji removes his hand and returns it to the board, and he continues to play. The notes are played with utmost care, vibrating through the glossed wood of the table and through the surrounding air as though a lullaby. He smiles, a soft, simple, happy curve of the lips.
The sound of the guqin rings out long from the jingshi once again, just as it has often these past years, but this time it does not inquire. The sound is warm, gentle, and it welcomes the one it seeks back home.