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Sizhui is glad he remembers.
Remembers that Wen Ning is Uncle Ning, and Aunt Qing's brusque bedside manner, and Granny's smile, and Uncle Fourth's laugh, and the rest of his past family. How they had raised him and loved him and protected him. He's glad that he can remember toddling after Xian-gege and all his adoring smiles and bright laughter as the man played with him among the hills of the Burial Mounds. He's glad he can remember the first time he met Father and the three of them had sat down together to eat lunch as a family.
He's even glad he can remember being buried in the dirt like a radish (though he will never, ever, admit this to Xian-gege.)
Sizhui is glad he remembers now. He is.
There are just...some things, and he feels selfish for even thinking it, but there are some things he wishes he didn't remember.
Because remembering hurts.
It hurts so much.
---
The overwhelming scent of copper and smoke flood his senses. The smoke is too thick to see through but he catches glimpses of gold and white. He can hear the crackling flames and screams that fill the air, shrieking in the night as sparks fly. Groans and roars of lurching bodies, pale in death but unrelenting in their pursuits of the living. The clashing of metal against metal as swords meet again and again on blood soaked ground.
Louder then all of that, though, is the sound of footsteps drawing closer.
Granny fades before his eyes no matter how desperately he tries to cling to her. She fades away like wisps of smoke through his fingers and he is left alone. His throat burns and his eyes sting as he struggles against invisible bonds that keep his feet anchored where they are, not allowing him to run. He tries to shout, to call for help, but the smoke chokes him. His vision blurs as he looks up at the shadowed figure that looms over him. A pair of eyes gleam wickedly above a smile as sharp as the sword they're carrying.
Suddenly the blade is moving, slicing through the air and—!
Sizhui wakes with a jolt.
The silence of the room is almost deafening as he tries to orientate himself. His heart's pounding in his ears and he reaches up to wipe sweat from his forehead. He takes one deep, gulping breath, then scrambles blindly in the dark for his outer robe and boots. His clammy hands fumble with the door for a second before he forces it open, stumbling out into the night.
Cool air kisses his feverish skin but it barely registers. Screams and groans and the smell of death and smoke still cling to him, echoing in his ears as he runs, a strange fog clouding his mind.
Run, run, run, the mantra in his head chants. They're coming, the bad men are coming, and they need to run, run, run. He needs to find them and run before the men reach them, before the fire claims them, before the corpses get them, before he is left alone again, before before before, run run RUN!
He nearly trips at the familiar sight of the jingshi. Unthinkingly, uncaringly, he throws the door open, a panic driven cry of “Xian-gege!” already on his lips.
Sizhui's heart stops.
The jingshi is empty.
“Xi-xian-gege?” he flinches at his own voice, too loud in the eerie quiet of the moonlit room. “Papa?”
No answer.
He doesn't know why his feet carry him into the room. Doesn't fully register what he's doing as he looks behind shelves, in chests, and under blankets. His lungs burn as breathing becomes harder with every chest he opens, with every blanket he rips back. He's vaguely aware of an unsteady voice, his own voice, calling for them over and over.
The words start catching in his throat as only silence continues to answer him.
Where are they, where are they, where are they? They need to go, before the screams get closer, before the flames get higher, before the yellow men find them again. Did they go without him? Did they leave him behind? Why? Why why why where are they where are they where ARE THEY—
“Sizhui?”
Sizhui looks up.
His uncle stands there in the doorway staring at him, his usual serene smile replaced by a look of concern. His rapidly beating heart calms the tiniest bit, because if his uncle is here then surely they have time to find his parents before anything happens. His uncle would not just be standing there calmly waiting for him to speak if immediate danger was upon them.
There's time. There's still time to find them.
Sizhui swallows the lump in his throat. Clutches the blanket he's holding to his chest and says, in a very small voice;
“I...I can't find them...”
Lan Xichen takes a moment to fully absorb the scene he walked in on; his nephew standing in the middle of a ravaged jingshi, eyes not quite clear, clutching a blanket like a lifeline in the middle of his parent's bedroom with tears running down his cheeks.
It's been a long time since he's seen Sizhui look so utterly lost.
Lan Xichen's gaze softens. “They went on a night hunt a few days ago. Remember?”
Sizhui stares blankly as the words struggle to penetrate his foggy haze. Lan Xichen steps forward with slow, steady movements and reaches out to ease the blanket from Sizhui's death grip on it. Sizhui hesitates, briefly holding it tighter, before relinquishing it. He watches blearily as his uncle sets the blanket down, then kneels and takes both of Sizhui's hands in his own.
Sizhui hadn't noticed he was shaking.
“They went to investigate a ghost sighting in a nearby village. They told you they were leaving before they left,” Lan Xichen says quietly. “And that they would be back in a few days time. Wangji reminded you to take care of rabbits and Young Master Wei promised to bring you something.”
Lan Xichen keeps talking, low and soft like he's soothing a spooked rabbit, and bit by bit the haze of panic leaves Sizhui's eyes and the rigid tension bleeds out of his shoulders.
“Night hunting...” Sizhui repeats slowly, and Lan Xichen nods. “So they're...they're safe?”
“Mhm. I'm sure they'll be back home tomorrow. In fact, I bet they'll be expecting you to greet them when they walk through the gates like you always do.”
“Back...then they didn't...they didn't leave me?” Sizhui's voice is barely above a whisper and Lan Xichen's heart aches at the broken sound of it. He gently pulls his nephew into a hug.
“Oh Sizhui...” he murmurs as Sizhui clings to him. “No, no they didn't. They would never do that.”
Sizhui buries his face in Lan Xichen's shoulder with a shuddering breath. If his uncle feels the damp spot on his robes, he doesn't comment, just soothingly rubs his hand on Sizhui's back. Like Father would do when Sizhui was small and clingy and desperate for even the smallest gestures of affection.
(Father had always indulged him, never scolded or made him feel ashamed for seeking such gestures, despite how many elders gave him disproving looks about it.)
(Father always stared them down, his own disapproval radiating from him in waves.)
They stand there for a while, in the quiet jingshi, with crickets chirping outside and Sizhui's increasingly steady breathing the only sounds.
When Sizhui at last goes to pull away, wiping a sleeve across his face, he doesn't meet his uncle's eye, face pink with embarrassment. He looks around the jingshi and winces at the mess.
“I, ah, I should clean this up...” he mumbles. “Before they return.”
Lan Xichen shakes his head with a smile. “I think it would be best if you return to bed, Sizhui. I'll take care of this. After all,” he holds up a hand to stop Sizhui's protest, “I'm sure Young Master Wei will be eager to tell you all about their hunt and it won't do for you to be too tired to sit through it all, will it?”
Sizhui struggles internally for a moment before his body betrays him with a huge yawn. Lan Xichen's eyes twinkle as he levels his nephew a pointed look.
Sizhui bites his lip but nods, relenting. Then he looks to the door and falters.
Lan Xichen lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Why don't you have a cup of tea in the hanshi first? I always find that helps me sleep better.”
Sizhui gives a small but grateful smile.
Not even an hour later, Lan Xichen is tucking his sleeping nephew into his own bed in the hanshi. He waits to be sure the boy won't wake again before quietly leaving the room and heading to the jingshi. Tidying doesn't take long, thankfully, and Lan Xichen returns to the hanshi just as the sun begins to rise over the mountains. Sizhui is still asleep, undisturbed, so Lan Xichen settles himself with a book at his desk.
He'll let his nephew sleep in today, he decides.
-----
Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji's return is announced in the usual unceremonious way.
In other words the door of the hanshi bursts open as a familiar figure in black and red barrels into the room, already shouting for Lan Xichen before the man can even blink.
“Zewu-jun! Where's Sizhui?! He wasn't at the gate when we got here! Which, okay sure, he always is but of course we thought he might have been busy with his chores or something and just didn't know we were back, but then we saw Jingyi and Jingyi said he hadn't seen him yet today and none of the other disciples have either and we even saw Old Man Qiren and he hasn't seen Sizhui since last night and—!”
Lan Xichen quickly holds up a hand to shush him, glancing back at the entrance to the bedroom. When he turns back he has to hide an amused smile at how offended Wangji looks on Wei Wuxian's behalf, despite Wei Wuxian looking more surprised then upset at being cut off.
“Welcome back, Wangji, Young Master Wei.” he says. “If you could please keep your voice down. Sizhui is fine, but he had a...bit of a rough night so I would rather we not disturb him just yet.”
Before either Wei Wuxian or Lan Wangji can ask further, there's the soft padding of footsteps and a sleepy voice calling out;
“Uncle Xichen? What time is it? Did I miss...”
Sizhui steps around the corner, rubbing sleep from his eyes, only to freeze when he sees his parents.
The tension in Lan Wangji's shoulder's ease. Wei Wuxian somehow manages to simultaneously relax and perk up at the sight of their son. He flings his arms open wide. “There's my little lotus!”
Sizhui blinks once before all but throwing himself across the room and into those welcoming arms.
Wei Wuxian falls back at the force with a startled laugh, sending them both to the floor, but doesn't let go as Sizhui burrows into his hold.
Lan Wangji pauses just long enough to receive an “I'll explain later” nod from his brother before he kneels to join his husband and son on the hanshi's floor.
If either of them notice how Sizhui clings a little tighter, his smile a tad watery, they only respond by holding him closer.