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Lan Wangji woke up with a start. It was still dark, and the silence was the first thing he welcomed. There was something strange in realizing he’s conscious when the last thought of him was rest. A crippling sense of anxiety seeped into his skin, until he felt it in his unmoving bones; his heart, still beating, was cold.
‘Wei Ying,’ he uttered, as always as his morning prayer. He was alone, yearning for someone who, despite his countless calls, remained lost to him like he always been for thirteen years now. Lan Wangji’s throat began to feel tight as he urged himself not to think, not to yearn, not to be this…this person who hated the thought of the coming mornings. His eyes were starting to burn as he breathed deeply to collect his thoughts and persuade them not to wander in places he’s afraid he wouldn’t want to pull from in the coming days, if—
if he’s still waking and his first words were his name, Wei Ying, and he’s still not here.
It was by far, the most difficult morning as his effort seemed futile because he’s still thinking of him, Is he still dead? Does he not hear me? and Lan Wangji, despite having the best kind of training in cultivation and in knowledge, felt desperate as he didn’t know the answer, wouldn’t have the way to know because he simply couldn’t.
Minutes have passed, and he should have finished his routine, should have started visiting his elders to pay respects, his disciples, his Sizhui, but what started were the tears that fell as he blinked and he knew he shouldn’t be like this. He should not grieve—for Wei Ying was not his. Never been his to love this destructively, this desperately, (please, please come back to me) against the time that kept on flowing, endless as the mornings that kept on coming and taunting him.
A sob finally escaped and Wangji’s cry broke the silence in Jingshi. His tears were abundant and raw; they treaded his face with vengeance as they fell, fell…and fell—the evidence of the heartache which has resided inside him and clawed its way all over his chest and has, ever since he knew of Wei Ying’s death, taken roots upon his heart.
He hated this weakness, hated that Wei Ying died alone and he was not there to tell him how much he wanted to take his place and die for him instead. Wei Ying must have thought he was unwanted until the very end, vilified, unloved, when all Lan Wangji could ever do was love him faithfully despite everything and everyone. He was stubborn and his heart was too.
The first rays of sunshine peeked inside, cloaking him with light, and Wangji moved his arms over his eyes as he continued to cry, his chest heaving in an inconstant pattern. The sobs which escaped him were his plea and he tried to muffle the sounds by swallowing them before they could leave his lips.
Please.
“Wei Ying,” he murmured as though saying his name would bring him back, alive, breathing, burning like the fire Wangji remembered him to be.
I miss you. I love you. Come back to me.
Not for the first time, he wanted everything to end. He wanted the agony to go away—this terrible thing his heart was beating for, but it was a betrayal to his promise that he would wait, because Wei Ying might have been waiting for him too. Wei Ying would be back and Wangji would be here when that time comes, even if it would take years, another decade, this lifetime.
But for now, he would cry until his heart became weary. He would cry until he could tuck his emotions neatly in the ends of his sleeves, in the way he stood and held Bichen steadily, in the words of Lan sect’s thousand rules, in the strand of his forehead ribbon which wasn’t his anymore.
This…would be worth it and it was when Wei Ying did come back and said, “It has been sixteen years. It all feels like a dream.”
And Wangji returned a hum, even though Wangji has not felt the same way. He slept, dreamless, and waking into the nightmare of loneliness for sixteen years after all. But for now, he looked at Wei Ying, his Wei Ying alive and breathing, and Wangji’s heart was steadfast as it yearned and yearned in welcomed silence.