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“A-Yuan,” Wen Ning asks, “are you all right?”
Lan Sizhui then notices the slowing of his steps, and he turns to his uncle with parted lips. It has not been long since they have been reunited, and in reality, it wasn’t very long at all that Lan Sizhui was familiar with Wen Ning—not in this life, at least, if Lan Sizhui had to choose a way to differentiate between then and now. Even so, he knows that Wen Ning is one of the kindest spirits he has ever known, and perhaps the softest despite the blood on his hands, and he sees nothing but loving concern in his uncle’s eyes. Lan Sizhui hesitates, closing his mouth, but Wen Ning’s patience never wavers. He remembers that he was raised by Hanguang-Jun, and he was always encouraged to speak his mind when feelings were on the verge of spilling over.
Lan Sizhui lets out a small sigh. “I don’t want to go to Qishan just yet,” he admits.
Wen Ning nods. Sizhui doesn’t know if it’s solemn—it might be his uncle’s bloodless face, or just the fact that Wen Ning has always been somewhat of a meek person. “I understand,” his uncle says.
“Wei-qianbei,” Lan Sizhui starts, and then shakes his head with a small but defiant hum. “I just got him back,” he settles on. “I know I just got you back, too, Wen-shu, but I can’t go to Qishan just yet. For the first time in a very long time, all my family members are together. I want to be with all of them.”
“Sweet boy,” Wen Ning says softly, “you have grown so well.”
Lan Sizhui kneels on the floor, staring at the window. There is nothing but the deepest of greens, spring drowning the Cloud Recesses in a flood, and it’s lovely enough to make Lan Sizhui wish that he was nothing more than a plant in a field. Perhaps, in another life, he will be able to live so contently. But right now, with his father combing his hair, he thinks not even being a plant can compare to this bliss.
“Baba,” Sizhui says softly, on the verge of sleep due to his father’s soft and gentle fingers, “I can tie my own hair today.”
“Okay,” Lan Wangji replies just as softly, as if he knows a louder volume would burst the bubble of tranquility his son is currently in. He pats Sizhui’s shoulder to let him know that he’s finished combing his hair, and Sizhui holds up his forehead ribbon for Wangji to grab—because, yes, Sizhui might be seven years old now, and it’s about time that big boys should learn to comb and tie their own hair, but his father loves him so, and who is he to deny his parent from wrapping the ribbon around his forehead? Once the ribbon is fastened, Sizhui reaches to part his hair with his thumbs, pulling two thick strands of hair from his temples to secure the ribbon in its place, and wraps another ribbon of a different shade of blue to tie the hair at the top half of his head in a ponytail. Once he’s done, he turns back to face his father for approval, and Wangji smiles softly from where he sits atop the bed. Carefully, he pulls two strands of baby hairs from Sizhui’s forehead, and they frame his face perfectly. Wangji rests his thumb on his son’s face and caresses his cheek as his smile grows.
“What?” Sizhui giggles, curious to know what has his father in such a good mood. “What, what, what?” he laughs, wrapping himself around his father’s calf.
“Nothing, my sweet boy,” Wangji murmurs. “A-Yuan just looks like his father.”
“Mo-qianbei,” Lan Sizhui says with a smile on his face, “I volunteer.”
It might mostly be the fact that his comrades are sick and in danger, in addition to the fact that his father always tries to help people no matter how small or trivial the problem may seem, but if he was really honest with himself, Sizhui trusts Mo Xuanyu. Upon their first meeting, he might not have expected he would see any more of him once the Lan juniors had taken care of the spirit, but his father trusts Mo Xuanyu. Now, with his father taking care of other matters and with the newfound ability to form opinions of his own, Sizhui quite likes Mo Xuanyu’s company. With a duty to do what’s right, and Jingyi’s life in possible danger, Sizhui easily follows Mo Xuanyu into an abandoned kitchen.
“Sizhui,” Mo Xuanyu says as he holds a pepper in between his fingertips, “go fetch me a bucket of water to clean the kitchen hearth.”
“Okay,” Sizhui responds immediately, even if this isn’t what he quite had in mind when he was asked for help. He makes his way outside the kitchen, frowning slightly as he wonders if this woman even has a reliable source of water, but if they managed to find a kitchen, he must be able to find water as well, right? He trusts Mo Xuanyu, and he trusts that the man knows what he’s doing so he can save the inflicted juniors. Sizhui will let Jin Ling maintain a monopoly over skepticism.
Once Sizhui has returned with water, Mo Xuanyu and Jin Ling have removed a significant amount of dust from the kitchen. He is pleased to find that the hearth is completely dusted, and begins to wash it. The three of them work in silence, Jin Ling dusting what’s left to be cleaned of the kitchen, Sizhui adding wood to maintain the fire in the now-clean hearth, and Mo Xuanyu preparing the ingredients for whatever remedial concoction he plans on making.
Sizhui is carefully fanning the flames when Jin Ling asks, rather rudely, “You’re making congee?” And, well, now that Sizhui looks back between the fire and Mo Xuanyu’s assorted ingredients, it looks rather obvious, but he really can’t say he expected it in the slightest. Mo Xuanyu has got to be the most… interesting cultivator he has ever met (although Jingyi would probably argue that he’s not a cultivator in the slightest).
“Mo-qianbei,” Sizhui asks from beside the hearth, “is that the congee that can cure poisoning?”
Mo Xuanyu hums. “Yes. Sizhui is clever,” he says, and Sizhui feels a heat in his face that is very distinct from the fire in front of him. It’s a usual reaction to unexpected compliments, but he feels something tug at his heart. It’s weird to think, and even stranger to admit, but Mo Xuanyu saying this reminds Sizhui of the praises his father gives him. And he wonders, perhaps a little more than briefly, just how Mo Xuanyu became acquainted with his father, and how long they have known each other to have this level of familiarity between them. Looking back at the hearth, Sizhui begins to smile as he continues to fan the flames. Mo Xuanyu and his father are a lot alike, he hypothesizes.
He decides to test his theory.
“So that’s why you didn’t want to use an abandoned house,” Sizhui says. “Only a house with someone living inside could have a kitchen, and only a kitchen could have glutinous rice.” Sizhui is looking up at Mo Xuanyu and Jin Ling again, eyes focused on the elder. “Am I right?”
“You’re right,” Mo Xuanyu agrees with a nod of his head, curt and brief like a response from Hanguang-Jun. And then he spares Sizhui the slightest of glances like he knew the teenager was up to something. Lan Wangji was always able to tell when his son had a little trick up his sleeve, but Sizhui had figured that it was his paternal sense. Considering Mo Xuanyu for a little longer than what might be necessary, Sizhui wonders what the elder might be like as a father. Mo Xuanyu is already making a remedial congee for the poisoned boys, taking his job of watching over them seriously, somehow knowing that they would be so much more willing to eat food than take some ghastly medicine.
It’s like Mo Xuanyu knows how to take care of young, sick children.
But he also knows how to kill them, it seems, because that congee made Lan Sizhui want to rip his own tongue out. He coughs at the taste, and it reminds him of when he was much younger—and therein lies the issue. Sizhui was sure that, if he can’t handle this level of spice now, he definitely would not have been able to eat this when he was a child. His father never had a penchant for spicy food, and neither did his uncles. How strange.
Mo Xuanyu snorts quietly, much like the way Lan Wangji attempts to hide his laughter. Sizhui continues to wonder.
Wen Ning watches as Mo Xuanyu and Hanguang-Jun make their way back inside Yi City, and there’s something about him that Sizhui just can’t point out. Admittedly, he doesn’t have a lot of time to focus—Jingyi is too busy crying, and Sizhui tries his best to be there for his friend, but he can’t help but let his curiosity wander towards the direction at the infamous Ghost General. He is surely not the ruthless, cold-blooded, murderous puppet he is said to be—Wen Ning clearly has his consciousness and his own set of morals. He only fought with Song Lan to keep him from hurting anyone else, and as soon as he was no longer under Xue Yang’s control, Wen Ning stopped. There was no bloodlust in his action, only the instinct to protect. Who was the Ghost General, then, really? There must be a certain quality of his that coincides with his legend. This whole time, the most he has done, besides deterring Song Lan away from the group, was follow Mo Xuanyu and Hanguang-Jun like a child follows their savior.
Lan Jingyi’s tears have mostly subsided by now. Sizhui uses his handkerchief to wipe what’s left underneath the other boy’s eyes, and then he looks around the rest of the crowd. They don’t know how long it will be until Mo-qianbei and Hanguang-Jun return, and upon burying A-Qing, no one is in the mood to keep themselves entertained. Sizhui turns to his other side. Ouyang Zizhen has stopped crying, alerting the group of his status with a sniffle here and there. Jin Ling looks towards the ground, eyebrows furrowed, his grip tight on his sword. It’s a very foolish question to ask, and yet—
“Jin-gongzi,” Sizhui calls softly, “are you okay?”
Jin Ling looks startled at the question, but only for a fraction of a second. The expression on his face is immediately replaced with a glare, and he turns his back to Sizhui with a huff. Sizhui frowns.
Jin-xiong, Lan Sizhui can’t help but think, you and I are a lot more alike than you think. Sizhui looks at the intricate styling of Jin Ling’s hair, and he wonders if he has someone who pours as much love into the young heir’s head as his father does him. He wonders if Jin Ling, despite not being able to be raised by his own biological parents, can still find serenity in a family he calls his own.
Sizhui can’t help but think that, in another life, maybe, he and Jin Ling would have grown up together.
Jiang Wanyin steps out of the boat with a look on his face that seems to tread the fine line between stern and concerned. “A-Ling!” he calls. Lan Sizhui takes a step back, increasing the distance between him and Jin Ling, and resolutely looks down. “A-Ling, why are you crying?” Jiang Wanyin asks. “Come here now!”
Jin Ling roughly wipes the tears from his face with his arm before he sheathes his sword and rushes toward his uncle. Sizhui frowns to himself, knowing that if he were in the same position, if he was hurt to the point that he was reduced to nothing but tears, he would want nothing more than to run into his father’s arms and stay there.
“A-Ling,” Jiang Wanyin says softly, “what’s wrong? Who made you cry?”
Sizhui has always been one to look for the quickest solution, and within a fraction of a second, he thinks bitterly, I made him cry. But that wasn’t the whole truth, was it? In his haste, Sizhui was looking to put the blame on himself, but Jin Ling’s feelings were a lot more complicated than that. Just like whatever Sizhui feels towards Wen Ning, whether it be strange familiarity or a bond he can’t explain, there was no denying that, whether deliberate or accidental, whether directly or indirectly, Wen Ning has hurt Jin Ling.
As Jiang Wanyin looks out at the crowd Jin Ling had just left, there is something hard in his glare. He looks at Wen Ning, whose chin is practically tucked into his chest, then at Wei Wuxian, who doesn’t quite lower his gaze. Sizhui looks to Jingyi, who looks back at him with a puzzled look on his face. There’s quite a bit to unpack here, Sizhui thinks. Jiang Wanyin seems to sigh, almost resolutely, and Wei Wuxian continues to maintain his gaze, like a conversation held between… well, brothers, like they once were. Still are, perhaps. Jiang Wanyin looks over the crowd once again, and when his eyes land on Sizhui, the boy feels his blood freeze. He’s not scared of the sect leader, despite his stone-cold visage; it’s just that, now, Sizhui can see the amount of love Jiang Wanyin holds in his gaze, hot and fierce like the spiritual whip wrapped around his hand, and Sizhui understands. He understands, because people say the same thing about his father. So long has Lan Sizhui heard about the Second Jade, the man with a face so cold he might as well have been sculpted from ice—but the truth was that Lan Wangji was, is, so terribly misunderstood. Jiang Wanyin’s love for his nephew is fierce like lightning, ready to strike at those who dare hurt him, an unfortunate instinct he had picked up as a result of traumatic events he faced as a child. Lan Wangji’s love for his son is like water, warm like that in which he bathes a mere babe, mellow like the springs in Cloud Recesses, submerging his son in it at all times—and if it came down to it, it could be the most dangerous thing in the world, able to drown enemies before it is too late for them to be saved, bodies disposed of without anyone to remember them.
What a thing that can so easily be taken for granted, the love of a parent.
Sizhui offers a small, weak smile to Jingyi before stepping away, moving to meet his father at the end of the line they had formed. He stands behind Hanguang-Jun, not so much that he covers himself, but enough that people pay no mind to the hand that Hanguang-Jun always holds behind his back, or the way that he squeezes his son’s hand reassuringly, softly, lovingly.
Before he makes his way back inside the boat, Jiang Wanyin does the same to Jin Ling.
Lan Sizhui feels overcome with, well, everything. With love, with sadness, with the feeling of almost having lost. Wei Wuxian could have easily been killed by Jin Guangyao. Hanguang-Jun had sealed off his own spiritual powers, leaving himself vulnerable, as did his uncle. Even Wen Ning had put himself in danger, fighting the vengeful sword spirit to keep it from hurting anyone else. But everyone was safe; his uncle stayed behind to oversee the damages, but his father and Wei Wuxian were nowhere to be found.
Wen Ning, however—
“A-Yuan,” he says, pleasantly surprised but equally urgent.
“Wen-qianbei,” Sizhui says. He pauses for a moment. “Wen-shu,” he fixes. Wen Ning’s eyes soften, and Sizhui is so overcome with everything, even with a newfound bravery being poured into his sink—everything is threatening to overflow, but his father always encouraged him to speak his mind when feelings were on the verge of spilling over. “You look different without charcoal on your face,” Sizhui whispers.
Wen Ning laughs, so softly Sizhui almost didn’t hear it, but the smile on his face is there, and he’s not dreaming.
“Thank you,” Sizhui continues, “for holding onto the butterfly for all these years. I should probably come clean to my father and tell him I prefer butterflies over rabbits.”
“I’m sure he would understand,” Wen Ning says, a smile still on his face. “Hanguang-Jun was the one who bought it for you, after all.” He pauses, like the words he wants to say are caught in his throat, and Sizhui waits. “I know I’ve told you this already, but he has treated you well, and you can’t know how happy I am that he has cared for and raised you all this time. Especially since, well…”
“Since Wei-qianbei couldn’t raise me anymore,” Sizhui suggests. “Since you and Wen-gu couldn’t help anymore, either.” Wen Ning’s eyes widen, obviously surprised that Lan Sizhui was able to remember, finally, after all these years. “Wen-shu,” Sizhui says carefully, all the love in his body falling over the edge of a cliff like a waterfall, “where did my parents go?”
Lan Sizhui runs, probably faster than he ever has in his life. All those years of not being allowed to run have added up, and was it not for Wen Ning guiding him, he would run faster. The trees at his sides remind him of home in the Cloud Recesses. The dirt under his feet remind him of home in the Burial Mounds. They make a left turn to another path, where they see a figure in black, one in white, and a donkey, and Sizhui wants to cry. He’s so happy. He’s so sad. He’s so happy.
Almost out of breath, Sizhui makes sure to stand by Wei Wuxian’s side, and greets the men. “Hanguang-Jun.” He takes in a breath, “Wei-qianbei.”
There’s a small laugh in Wei Wuxian’s breath as he leans against Little Apple. “Sizhui,” he says, tapping Chenqing against the palm of his hand. “Why are you following us? Aren’t you afraid of Old Master Lan calling you out?”
And Sizhui, frankly, has no time for his games. “Wei-qianbei,” he says again, completely ignoring Wei Wuxian’s questions, and from his periphery, he can see the corner of his father’s mouth curve up in a small smile. “I have something important that I must ask you.”
With a small frown and eyebrows furrowed in concern, Wei Wuxian turns to look at Lan Wangi, who does not interfere. Sizhui has never been more grateful to have such an understanding father. Wei Wuxian stops leaning on the donkey, straightening his posture as he turns to Sizhui again. “What is it?”
Sizhui has finally caught his breath, but it seems like all of it is trapped in his lungs. “I have been recollecting memories for the last couple of days,” he states, like he’s reporting the details of the juniors’ night hunt to his father—and that’s when he realizes that he is reporting to his father. Just a different one. “But I can’t be certain. So I wanted to ask Hanguang-Jun and Wei-qianbei.” As Sizhui looks towards his father, he immediately forgives him. He had spent his whole childhood wondering why he only had one parent, why he could not remember anything before the age of three, why Hanguang-Jun had missed someone whom he couldn’t give a name, and now, Sizhui understands.
When he looks back towards Wei Wuxian, the man has narrowed eyes. He looks towards Lan Wangji with a raised brow before turning back to Sizhui. “What is it you want to know?” he asks.
Sizhui looks down. He’s spilling over; there is no dam but his heart to prevent water from falling and no dam but his eyes to stop the river down below from overflowing. He tries to catch his breath again, but all these emotions are going to cause his heart to burst. Wei Wuxian frowns, ducking his head to try to look Lan Sizhui in the eye, and Sizhui looks up at him. There’s so much concern in the man’s eyes, and Sizhui remembers, and it might not be everything, but he remembers those eyes, and to a boy that found a father he once thought he’d lost, that’s more than enough. He takes another deep breath and smiles, and the dam in his heart breaks.
“I knew someone who was confident as a chef,” Sizhui starts, “but what he cooked was extremely bad.” Extremely bad like congee that’s too spicy. So extremely bad that Wen Qing took over the duty of feeding everyone because her workload as a doctor would be twice as heavy had Wei Wuxian done the cooking. Sizhui is being vague on purpose, challenging someone as intelligent and stupidly oblivious like Wei Wuxian to figure it out for himself. But the man only laughs nervously, briefly looking to Lan Wangji for an explanation.
“He planted me in the radish field,” Sizhui continues. “He told me that with watering and sunbathing, I would grow faster, and would also have some buddies to play with me.” Sizhui takes another breath, because he’s certain that Wei Wuxian has caught up by now. “You invited Hanguang-Jun for a meal saying it was your treat, but you ran without picking up the tab. Hanguang-Jun ended up paying for the food.”
Now, Wei Wuxian is looking at Lan Sizhui with tears glossing over his eyes. Do you feel it, Sizhui wants to ask, the waves of the water crashing down on you? It is the love of Lan Wangji, Hanguang-Jun, my baba. You, Wei Wuxian, Yiling Laozu, my die, are the hollowed-out ground at the bottom of the waterfall, safe and secure, and I, Lan Sizhui, A-Yuan, am the lake that results.
“It might be because I was so little,” Sizhui admits. “There are a lot of things that I couldn’t fully remember. But I can be certain that… Wen was once my surname.”
And Wei Wuxian must think for a second that this is incredulous, for he laughs nervously, looking around quickly, grasping for something that is right in front of him. “Wen was your surname?” he asks, doubtful. “Isn’t Lan your surname?”
Sizhui only looks at him, because this is his father, and he knows the truth deep in his heart. So stupidly oblivious Wei Wuxian is, he thinks, but how impossible is it to not love him so.
“Lan Sizhui,” Wei Wuxian whispers to himself. “Lan Yuan. Lan Yuan.” And the man lets out a laugh again, like he wants to be hopeful, and he looks at the boy in front of him with so much pain and love in his eyes. “A-Yuan,” he says, like he doesn’t want to let himself believe it.
Lan Sizhui nods fervently, because the man has indeed put the pieces together, but he’s too much of a fool to believe that he can get another part towards a perfect happy ending.
“Wei-qianbei,” he calls, so unbelievably filled to the brim with love lost and love gained again, “I am A-Yuan.”
“A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian sighs again, a tear rolling down his cheek. “Didn’t A-Yuan pass away already?” Wen Ning and Lan Wangji want to tell him no, A-Yuan is right here, but it is not their place. It is fully Lan Sizhui’s right to reconnect with his dad, not Wen Ning nor Lan Wangji’s right to tell Wei Wuxian they found his long-lost son. “He was left alone in the Burial Mounds.” Then, finally letting himself be washed over with hope and happiness, Wei Wuxian turns to Hanguang-Jun. “Lan Zhan,” he asks, “was it you?”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji replies with a nod of his head, curt and brief like a response from the Yiling Patriarch. “This was the thing I haven’t told you about.”
Tears finally spilling from his eyes, Lan Sizhui throws his arms over Wei Wuxian. “Wei-qianbei,” he cries, holding him tight and never wanting to let ago again, “I really missed you.” Wei Wuxian hugs him lightly, like he still can’t believe this is real, and Sizhui continues to cry into his shoulder. “I really missed you,” he says again, softer this time, like the calm river that was born from the rapid waterfall.
Wei Wuxian sniffles, holding Lan Sizhui tighter. “Silly boy,” he says through tears, “why are you crying?”
Lan Sizhui takes a step back and wipes his tears. “I didn’t cry,” he says, because he doesn’t cry in front of his fathers and his uncle, or a donkey. “I was just feeling really sad. And yet thrilled at the same time.” Wei Wuxian laughs, a real one this time. “I couldn’t put it into words,” Sizhui continues.
“Then don’t,” Lan Wangji suggests with a smile, because it really is that simple.
“Right,” Wei Wuxian agrees, leaning back against Little Apple. “No need to say anything.”
Sizhui nods once, curt and brief. He has the rest of his life to be with his family.
“Damn,” Wei Wuxian grunts, pressing into his chest with his fist, “you little ones are so strong. You were indeed raised by Hanguang-Jun,” he says, pointing at the other man with Chenqing, teasing.
“He was raised by you as well,” Lan Wangji says, catching Wei Wuxian off guard, but he quickly recovers.
“No wonder he is such a handsome boy,” he says, caressing the side of Sizhui’s face, and he wants nothing more than to lean into his father’s touch and stay there. But, with all the love and pain floating in a new lake, Sizhui only has mischief left in his bones.
“Wei-qianbei didn’t teach me anything,” he states.
“I did!” Wei Wuxian immediately denies. “It was because you were so little and you forgot.”
Sizhui looks away, pretending to reconsider. “Yes, I seem to recall,” he lies, because this is not the Cloud Recesses, and he learned how to tease people from his father. “I remember now.”
“You see?” Wei Wuxian tells Lan Wangji and Wen Ning, as if confirming a fact that is decidedly true. “I’ve mentored him.”
“For example,” Sizhui starts, pulling a story that his father had told him of his best and oldest friend, A-Ying, “switching Portrait of a Beauty into—”
Wei Wuxian covers Sizhui’s mouth, keeping him from speaking any further. Wen Ning looks at them, confused, because he knows of Wei Wuxian’s teenage antics, but he would surely not teach a toddler such things. Lan Wangji, however, tries very hard to maintain a straight face; were it anyone else, there wouldn’t be a difference in his expression, but Sizhui can see the effort his father puts into keeping his smile in his eyes.
Now that he is no longer restrained, Sizhui tries to think of another story about the infamous A-Ying that Lan Wangji has told the junior disciples. “And when a pretty lady passes by—”
“Nonsense!” Wei Wuxian yells, stunning Sizhui into silence, and the boy is trying so hard not to burst into a fit of laughter. “Nonsense,” Wei Wuxian continues, pointing at Sizhui with a finger that can bring serious punishment. Surely, his other father would protect him, but Wei Wuxian keeps trying to back Sizhui into a corner. “How come you are remembering these kinds of things?” Wei Wuxian demands. My father told me this story a few months ago, Sizhui thinks, when Jingyi asked what he was doing when he was our age. “How could I teach little kids these things?” You didn’t.
“You did!” Sizhui lies again. “Wen-shu can testify!” He looks at his uncle and hopes that he can see the apology in the boy’s eyes. Throwing his uncle the burning potato was one thing, but exposing his father’s longing for a love once lost was another.
“There is nothing for your Wen-shu to testify,” Wei Wuxian says, flabbergasted, and interestingly, he sounds a lot like Jiang Wanyin. “Stop talking nonsense! I’m telling you, little boy. Lan Zhan! What did you teach him? When A-Yuan was little and with me, he was a good boy.”
“It’s the truth,” Sizhui says, determined to continue even though there’s an obvious smile on Lan Wangji’s face.
“Nonsense.”
“It was true!”
“Do you see that pit?” Wei Wuxian yells. “Hey, no matter how big you have become, I will still plant you into that pit. Understand?”
There is still so much water left, and Lan Sizhui really can’t hold it in anymore.
“What are you laughing at?” Wei Wuxian deminds. “You dumb boy! You—”
Laughing, letting whatever traces of water remains out of his system, Sizhui lets himself fall down the waterfall and into the lake. He holds onto Wei Wuxian’s leg like he did when he was a toddler, and he never wants to let go.
“A-Yuan,” his dad says, “you are too old for this. Do you remember you used to grab Hanguang-Jun’s leg when you were little, just like this?”
Sizhui remembers. He remembers holding onto Wei Wuxian’s leg at the Burial Mounds, onto Lan Wangji’s leg when he first met him in Yiling. He held onto Lan Wangji’s leg until he was too heavy of a weight for Hanguang-Jun to walk around, but even when Lan Wangji could no longer walk with a rabbit attached to his leg, he would still hold on when he had his hair combed. He holds onto Wei Wuxian’s leg, because he has years of catching up to do. The man pats his hair, and Sizhui snuggles into his thigh.
“A-die,” he says, still giggling. “A-die, a-die, a-die.”
Lan Sizhui bows, Wen Ning at his side, ready to depart for Qishan. He wants nothing more than to learn about his roots, his family, and yet—
It’s really difficult to leave Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian like this.
The men are not at the path where Wen Ning and Lan Sizhui had left them. Sizhui is not surprised by this, and even so, he can’t help but let the disappointment flood his heart.
“Perhaps Wei-gongzi and Hanguang-Jun have made their way back to Gusu,” Wen Ning suggests. “It has been a long couple of days. It’s very likely that they have returned home to rest.”
Home, Sizhui thinks. The Cloud Recesses in Gusu is his home, as much as it is Lan Wangji’s, but is it Wei Wuxian’s? He is a man that constantly goes beyond people’s expectations of him, and no one can predict what he is going to do next, no matter how many algorithms they try to come up with. Sizhui doesn’t even know why Wei Wuxian had suddenly come back after all these years, nor does he know the specifics about how he was granted a second life, but Sizhui knew that, above all else, he wanted to be close to him.
“You can’t fly, can you, Wen-shu?” Sizhui asks.
Wen Ning shakes his head, but he doesn’t look concerned. “You go on ahead,” he assures. “I will meet you in Caiyi.”
“Are you sure?” Sizhui asks, hesitant to leave his uncle.
“Go find your parents,” Wen Ning says. “Your whole family will be reunited soon.”
Lan Sizhui has cried plenty of tears today, but the waterfall in his heart still pushes out water from his eyes, and he reaches forward to wrap his uncle in a warm embrace. He unsheathes his sword and begins his departure for Gusu, ready to find his fathers.
Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are nowhere to be seen.
Lan Sizhui is left to kneel for an hour to contemplate his decisions about abandoning the rest of his sect at the temple. Lan Qiren believed he was being lenient, as the only reason the boy left was to look for his father (fathers plural, Sizhui almost corrects, but he doesn’t want to go through an extra hour of kneeling, much less add copying the sect rules to his punishment), and Sizhui was going to take whatever he can get. Lan Xichen had just returned from the temple, looking more physically and emotionally exhausted than Sizhui thought a person could be, and he knelt with his nephew for the remainder of the hour until Lan Qiren dismissed them both.
“Sizhui,” his uncle says, so soft it might has well been only an exhale. “I don’t know how long I’m going to stay in seclusion.”
To say that Sizhui wasn’t expecting that in the slightest would be a grave understatement. He thinks, and he wonders, and he supposes he understands. His uncle’s relationship with Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao was something within its own league, and Sizhui supposes he will never understand the exact parameters of that relationship. But he knows that his uncle must be in a lot of pain, losing both of his sworn brothers, losing one at the hand of the other, losing the other at the hand of himself. Sizhui can’t even imagine what that must feel like—and his uncle might have never even thought of the mere idea of the possibility until a few hours ago.
Lan Xichen holds Sizhui in a tight embrace, like he can hear Sizhui’s thoughts and feel the concern in his eyes. Sizhui finds that he doesn’t want to let go. Wen Ning is on his way to Gusu, and Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are sure to return at any moment. His family is about to come together for the very first time, and he can’t have anybody missing—not even his great-uncle, even if there is a high chance of Lan Qiren strangling Wei Wuxian to death, but Sizhui is willing to take those odds.
“My sweet boy,” Lan Xichen whispers. “You can visit me anytime you’d like.”
“Not yet,” Sizhui whispers into his uncle’s chest. He’s sure that Lan Xichen felt what he said more than he heard it. Sizhui might have cried a waterfall of tears today, but water is always relentless, and he still has plenty left in his system. “I finally have my whole family coming together, Bobo, please.”
With a small sigh, Lan Xichen ends up acquiescing to Sizhui’s plea. Who is he to deny his nephew anything?
“No running in the Cloud Recesses!” Lan Qiren yells.
As always, Wei Wuxian is unstoppable. “No yelling in the Cloud Recesses!” he retorts, swerving past each and every disciple in his path, and he keeps running in the direction of the Jingshi. Lan Wangji follows, walking at a regular pace, because everything will come together in due time. Wen Ning is right on Hanguang-Jun’s tail, too afraid of Lan Qiren to follow Wei Wuxian as he normally would, carrying the pass to Cloud Recesses in his fingers like it’s something sacred and precious.
Lan Sizhui has already been punished once today, but when he sees Wei Wuxian running towards him, he runs to him just as quickly.
“A-die!” Sizhui cries, breaking yet another rule. There’s not that much distance in between Wei Wuxian and the patio of the Jingshi, but even so, he feels so far away. Too far away. Sizhui can only keep running.
“A-Yuan!” Wei Wuxian calls back, picking up his pace before leaning down to scoop up his son like he’s still a toddler and not a teenager. Sizhui laughs as he crashes into his father, and continues laughing as Wei Wuxian spins him around and around. He doesn’t know if he’s crying from laughter or crying from the fact that he’s missed his dad so much. Wei Wuxian puts him down with a groan, already complaining about how Sizhui has grown too much, saying that he’s old and his back is already being affected. Before either of them can catch their breaths, Lan Wangji comes up from behind them and wraps both of them in his arms—a difficult feat, considering Wei Wuxian is just barely shorter than him, and Sizhui just barely shorter than his dad. The three of them fall to their knees on the grass in front of the Jingshi, Sizhui wrapped in the embrace and love of both of his fathers, and two of his uncles on the patio, and he would not trade this moment for anything in the world.
“Hm,” Jiang Wanyin says, sparing Lan Sizhui a quick glance. He turns to Wei Wuxian with a stoic expression. “Aren’t there two of them?”
“Two—? Oh, you mean Jingyi?” Wei Wuxian asks. “Don’t tease, Jiang Cheng.”
“So you’re the only one who’s allowed to tease?” Jiang Wanyin grumbles. There’s a small smile on Wei Wuxian’s face, as if he is carefully treading through the debris in the chaos that is his relationship with his brother. Slowly, carefully, he and Jiang Wanyin are cleaning everything up, but there is still a lot left to go.
Wei Wuxian turns to Sizhui with a soft look on his face. “How do you want to do this?” he asks quietly.
Sizhui smiles, appreciating his dad’s concern. “I know you want to talk to him,” Sizhui says back just as quietly, even if Jiang Wanyin can hear them. “I’ll talk to Jin Ling first.”
Wei Wuxian looks back at him just as gratefully, and cups his cheek before lowering his head to press a kiss to the top of it, his bottom lip on his hair and the upper lip on the headpiece Sizhui inherited from his father. With a pat of his shoulder, Wei Wuxian sends his son off. Sizhui bows to Jiang Wanyin before making his way further inside Lotus Pier.
Jin Ling is playing with Fairy in the courtyard, probably trying to teach her tricks. When Sizhui gets a better look, Jin Ling is sitting on the floor in front of the dog, throwing his head back with a groan.
“What’s wrong?” Sizhui asks.
Jin Ling quickly looks up at him, cheeks reddening with what seems like embarrassment. He looks back at Fairy and sighs, grumbling.
“What was that?”
“Fairy won’t hold my stupid hand,” Jin Ling says.
Sizhui can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips. “What is it they say about teaching an old dog new tricks?” he asks as he sits down besides the other boy, legs folded in the same position.
Jin Ling frowns. “Fairy’s not that old. I think she’s just stubborn. She gets it from my uncle.”
Fairy sniffs at the ground and quickly approaches Sizhui. As Sizhui raises a hand to pet the dog, Fairy puts her paw on top of it.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Jin Ling says. His head snaps towards the spiritual dog. “Why don’t you ever do that with me, huh? Do you just not love me? Is that it?”
Sizhui looks at Jin Ling and, not for the first time, sees them as very similar. It is not only their pain they have in common. Lan Sizhui is a product of Wei Wuxian’s love. Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin, whether or not they will allow themselves to admit it to themselves or each other, are two parts of the same whole. Jin Ling is a product of Jiang Yanli’s love when she was alive, and Jiang Wanyin’s love today. They share the same parts of each other, Sizhui thinks. They’re family.
“Jin-zongzhu,” Sizhui says.
Jin Ling scrunches his nose in disgust. “Don’t call me that. We’re, like, the same age. It’s weird.”
Sizhui is not fazed. “May I call you A-Ling?”
Jin Ling stops suddenly, his hand frozen where it lays on top of Fairy’s head. He looks at Sizhui with wide eyes and parted lips, and he looks like he really doesn’t know how to react. Fairy seems to be discontent at the pets she is not receiving, and she nudges Sizhui’s knee for attention. Sizhui ruffles the fur on the dog’s neck halfheartedly, still waiting for a reaction.
“You want me to call you biaoge?” Jin Ling asks, still discomposed.
“If you want,” Sizhui responds softly. Fairy snorts, not happy with the lack of undivided attention.
Jin Ling looks back at Fairy and begins to pet her ears. Sizhui wonders if it’s hard for him to make eye contact while he feels this vulnerable. Fairy seems to read the crowd and rests her head on Jin Ling’s knee, swishing her tail on Sizhui’s.
“It’s not easy,” Jin Ling starts, eyes downcast. Sizhui can still see that they’re glossed over. “I’ve only just recently learned the truth about what happened to my parents. I spent my life wanting to give anything to kill an uncle who turned out to be innocent. I spent my life loving another uncle who was truly responsible for all those crimes. I spent my life being raised by a man who had lost both of his siblings many, many years ago; his brother was resurrected after sixteen years, and his sister lives on through her child. I spent my life wondering just exactly what I had done to deserve this, what my parents did to deserve this fate, but it’s just as he said, right? Even if there is no feud, somebody will always attack first.” Jin Ling laughs, a wet and broken sound. “My parents were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“And it’s hard to unlearn everything that I convinced myself was true about Wei Wuxian. It’s hard, because he is a good man, and he gave me my name, and he is my uncle, but he caused my mother and other uncle pain. Just not in the way everyone thinks.” Jin Ling looks at Sizhui, a tear running down his cheek. “It’s the most painful, isn’t it, having to abandon a fraction of your heart? Having to pretend to hate one of the people you love most in the world? Having to live without a sibling despite the promise of being together forever, all because of something as arbitrary as politics? Not being able to protect them when you know they’re not safe?”
He looks back down at Fairy, who’s trying to lick the tears falling from Jin Ling’s eyes.
“My mother was not killed by the Yiling Patriarch, nor was Sandu Shengshou the one to bring the Yiling Patriarch to his demise. What happened is that everyone else just capitalized on their broken hearts.”
Sizhui sighs, a heavy feeling in his heart. “A-die is trying. I know that,” he whispers. Fairy whimpers, trying to comfort him as well. “His family means the world to him, and I know that he is not complete without Jiang-zongzhu, or without you.”
“Da-jiu is stupid,” Jin Ling says with a sniffle. “All these years, my jiujiu has never hated him. He loves his stupid brother too much do to that.” He laughs again, but it’s not so choked up this time. “Our family is just really bad at expressing feelings, huh?”
Sizhui looks up and thinks about his fathers, madly in love and not believing that the other feels the same way. “Tell me about it,” he laughs.
Jin Ling snorts. “Biaoge,” he says, causing Sizhui’s eyes to widen, “your dads are on a whole other level of stupid. They don’t even know they’re married.”
“My father told me that your dad took years to confess his feelings to your mom,” Sizhui retorts.
“At least he told her!” Jing Ling scoffs, knowing full well he has the upper hand.
Sizhui admits defeat with a chuckle, and Jin Ling huffs proudly, crossing his arms over his chest and smiling despite his tear-stained cheeks. Fairy barks at them, thinking that the boys are finally ready to give her more attention, and they laugh again with much lighter hearts.
Sizhui bows in front of Jiang Cheng, and the man lets out a sound that’s more of a cross between a laugh and a scoff. Sizhui isn’t quite sure which one it is.
“Do you bow to your father?” Jiang Cheng asks.
“No,” Wei Wuxian says with a pout, crossing his arms.
“I wasn’t talking about you, dumbass,” Jiang Cheng snaps with a roll of his eyes. He looks back at Lan Sizhui. “Well?”
“Yes,” he replies immediately. “I always bow to Hanguang-Jun.”
Jiang Cheng scrunches his nose with distaste. So that’s where Jin Ling picked up the habit. “You don’t call him that to his face, do you?”
“Only in the company of others.”
“What do you call him, then? Fuqin?”
Sizhui shakes his head. “I call him baba,” he corrects.
Jiang Cheng’s eyes widen just the slightest bit—it’s almost unnoticeable, as is the way his lips part in surprise. He closes his mouth shut, trying to suppress the laughter that shakes his shoulders. He snorts, quietly at first, before loud laughs escape his mouth, his head falling back against his throne and his hand smacking his knee.
“Baba?!” Jiang Cheng asks through his laughter, eyes wide and full of mirth. “We are talking about Lan Wangji, correct? You call Hanguang-Jun, the Chief Cultivator, His Excellency, baba? The man whose expression is as frigid as the cold springs in Cloud Recesses? The man whose face makes babies, including his own son, cry? You call that man baba?!” Jiang Cheng bursts into a fit of laughter again, almost falling off his throne in the process, and Sizhui is willing to wager that Jin Ling would give anything to see this. Once his laughter subsides, the sect leader wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, and he sighs.
“Hanguang-Jun is an excellent father, Jiang-zongzhu,” Sizhui says. Jiang Cheng snorts. “He has raised me well.”
Jiang Cheng exhales, sparing a glance at Wei Wuxian before looking back at Sizhui. “What you see in this man, A-Xian, I will never understand,” he sighs. Sizhui looks to his dad, and he doesn’t know if the surprise on his face stems from the fact that his brother talked of his feelings so candidly or the fact that his brother was using such affectionate terms. “Very well,” the sect leader says as he stands up. “I didn’t think my big brother would come back from the dead after sixteen years and bring me a second nephew, but I suppose two is better than one.” He takes a careful look at Sizhui, taking him in, and Sizhui feels far more scrutinized than he has ever been.This is a very different kind of affection than he was used to, if he could even call it that. Jin Ling has complained plenty of times of how emotionally repressed his uncle is, and Sizhui understands. “Although I could have seen both of my nephews grow up if Lan Zhan had only said something,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, “but the past is in the past. Attempt the impossible, right? I have sixteen years of absent love to make up for, boy, so you better visit often.”
Wei Wuxian looked completely dumbfounded, and while Sizhui has spent many years learning not to express his emotions so openly, he felt exactly the same way. This was… a lot easier than expected.
“I didn’t expect this to be so easy,” Wei Wuxian wonders aloud.
“Why wouldn’t it be easy?” Jiang Cheng demands, the blitheness in his eyes gone in an instant. “You idiot, do you think I would take out my anger with you on your son? Who do you take me for? Get out of my house!”
To be honest, Sizhui is quite relieved that there’s a lot of work his family has left to do. There will come a time when his dad and uncle have learned to deal with the pain of their past. Their bickering reminds him of when he was much younger, of faint conversations between his dad and Wen-gu. Sizhui smiles.
He feels at home.
“A-die,” Sizhui hisses, trying his best to keep his pain at bay, “you’re pulling my hair.”
“Nonsense,” Wei Wuxian tuts. He parts some hair near Sizhui’s temple and pulls before starting a new braid. “Your father has babied you all of these years, A-Yuan. You may take after my handsome features, but you have yet to learn that beauty is pain!”
“You are being too rough,” Lan Wangji interjects. He takes a step closer to inspect the progress Wei Wuxian is making on their son’s hair. He doesn’t look displeased, nor does he give a disapproving hum, so Sizhui assumes that Wei Wuxian is actually doing a good job.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian sighs, seemingly exasperated, “I am trying to make our son’s hair look pretty. If you don’t support my endeavors, then please leave the room.”
Lan Wangji sighs just as dramatically, making his way to sit in front of his guqin.
“No, baba, come back,” Sizhui whines. “A-die was just being mean.”
“I’m never mean,” Wei Wuxian insists. He tugs on a strand of Sizhui’s hair a little too harshly.
“A-die!” Sizhui yelps.
“I will do his hair,” Lan Wangji says, coming back and sitting next to Wei Wuxian on the bed to take the braids from his hands. Sizhui immediately feels the difference between his die’s rough grip and his baba’s gentle fingers. He can’t even feel the way Lan Wangji braids his hair.
“This is ridiculous,” Wei Wuxian grumbles, and Sizhui is willing to bet his dad has his arms crossed over his chest like a petulant child. “I braided my shijie’s hair all the time, and not once did she complain.”
“Your sister loved you too much to say anything,” Lan Wangji muses. He wraps the small braids around the hairpiece on Sizhui’s head, and he pats his shoulders to indicate that he’s finished. Sizhui is grateful that he has completed his punishment for today. Perhaps he can talk to his uncle about making this a practiced punishment when he visits him today. His great-uncle is sure to approve, he thinks. Having your hair done by the Yiling Patriarch is a punishment even Lan Qiren would hate to give; it shall introduce a new level of torture.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji calls softly, “you are staying for breakfast, correct?”
Wei Wuxian sighs, but he agrees with a soft smile curving his lips. As much as it hurts to have his die comb and style his hair, Sizhui would suffer through it a hundred more times than have to see his dad leave. He almost couldn’t believe that his dad was going to leave before anyone else in the Cloud Recesses awoke. Sizhui reasons with himself, grateful that Wei Wuxian decided to stay for a little bit before going on an adventure of his own. He was going to come back, after all.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Wei Wuxian had said, when Sizhui had asked him with tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “Look what I have waiting for me.”
Sizhui and his fathers eat breakfast in silence, as per the rules, but he finds himself too anxious to eat a sufficient breakfast. Lan Wangji spares him a glance, beckoning him to continue eating, and Sizhui tries his best to bury the nerves in his stomach with food. Wei Wuxian is doing the same thing to a far greater extent, stuffing himself with food before he embarks on his journey, leaving no opportunities for his mouth to be empty even for a second. Lan Wangji finishes his food first, waiting patiently for his son and friend to finish their food before speaking.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, at the very same time Wei Wuxian forces himself to swallow and whisper, “Lan Zhan.”
“You first,” they both say to each other, and Sizhui does not have the patience for this.
“If you two are about to profess your love for each other, please don’t do it in front of me,” the boy says.
Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji both snap their heads in Sizhui’s direction, and the shock is evident on both of their faces. Wei Wuxian laughs nervously, sputtering, trying to insist that this isn’t what it looks like. Lan Wangji’s ears have gone horribly pink, and the blush is starting to spread to his cheeks. Sizhui lets out a cross between a laugh and a sigh, and he excuses himself from the table.
“I’ll be outside when you’re finished,” Sizhui says, leaving his fathers sputtering again.
Outside the Jingshi, Sizhui thinks. They are well into spring, the rain blessing them ever so often, and new flowers coming into bloom. His dad will leave with Little Apple and return within a few weeks, maybe months, and his father will work hard in his new role as Chief Cultivator. He will leave with Wen Ning to Qishan and pay respects to their relatives. It’s hard, Sizhui thinks, to be without all the members of his family for elongated periods of time, especially after just having gotten them back. It hurts the most that he won’t be able to protect his fathers if they need it, or knowing that they will be uneased to leave their son on his own for so long, even at the supervision of his uncle. It must hurt for his fathers in respect to each other, loving each other but having different duties to their hearts at this time. But they will come back to each other in time. Sizhui is sure of it.
Sizhui hears the door slide open, but he doesn’t look back. Before he knows it, there are two figures kneeling at his side, wrapping him in a loving embrace. Wei Wuxian presses his nose into Sizhui’s left cheek, and Lan Wangji hooks his chin on top of Sizhui’s head. The three of them lie there for a moment, not caring about the time that passes, letting Wei Wuxian postpone his departure and Lan Wangji put aside whatever responsibilities he has to attend to at this time. They just want to be together for just a little bit longer.
“My sweet boy,” Wei Wuxian murmurs into his skin, “how I love you so.”
“I love you, too, A-die,” Sizhui whispers back, something thick starting to grow in the middle of his throat. All of a sudden, he’s three-years-old again, hanging on to the Yiling Patriarch’s leg. But he’s almost grown now, and he is about to embark on his own journey, and his dad is going to continue his. Sizhui leans a little to his right, trying to feel his father’s heartbeat against his back. “I love you, too, Baba.”
“And I love you, A-Yuan,” Lan Wangji says.
Lan Sizhui closes his eyes softly, slowly, gently, like the way a butterfly flaps its wings, and he finds that he is quite ready for the future to come.