Chapter Text
The world is just a little wrong.
Wei Wuxian can’t remember what happened, but some little instinct in his mind tells him that he is lucky to be awake. The little aches and pains under his skin flare as he stretches, stiff and cotton-mouthed. He grimaces, blinks against the rays of sunlight reaching across the floor like fingers and—
There is blood on his hands, dark and dried like bruises up the length of his forearms. He turns his head, feels his heart skip a beat as he sees it smeared on the floor, scribbled in symbols that raise the foggiest memory. He’s seen those symbols before but he has never seen this room, dusty and barren and draped with talismans. His head is pounding but the meanings swim through his mind, disorienting and discombobulated.
He wrote this spell. What did he call it? It was hidden deep in the cave between the other inventions, a scrap of paper that should have been discarded long ago. Too dangerous to get into others’ hands. He doesn’t know how it has made it here.
It is a soul-sacrificing spell. It is the last cry of the dying, a final condemnation by the desperate.
Wei Wuxian has—forgotten something. There is something at the edges of his memory, clinging to the fringes with broken fingernails. It is foggy, sensory memory. Murmured words and warm hands and hazel eyes.
He knows only one person with golden eyes. He would never lean so close to Wei Wuxian, not even in a dream. Lan Wangji is a distant memory, a fever dream of teenage emotions and things Wei Wuxian does not deserve. It cannot be real, no more real than the world around him.
Wei Wuxian drifts back into unconsciousness, blood in his mouth and blood on his hands, a name on his lips that has not been there for a long time and fingers reaching out for something he cannot find.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The next few days are a flurry of motion.
He learns quickly that he now wears the identity of Mo Xuanyu, a lunatic cut-sleeve cast out by a major sect for an unspoken, shameful reason. It has been thirteen years since the death of the Yiling Laozu—this is the strangest part, listening to the whispers of stories about him as if he is something of a sensationalized legend, a monster to fear in the shadows. His memories are incoherent, an incomprehensible fog that leaves him feeling misplaced, knowing he is forgetting something incredibly important. He hears tales of the siege of the Burial Mounds and how no one survived, that Wei Wuxian lost his mind and lost control of his resentful energy and was cut down by his brother, and it burns at the back of his throat like he’s swallowed flame. Wei Wuxian makes a point not to think of that, does not want to remember if it means he will have to see the pain and hatred on Jiang Cheng’s face when he made the final blow.
But there is still something… wrong.
Wei Wuxian has lived in his body for a long time. He knows all the aches and pains, the scars and freckles. He knows his bones as well as he knows his own mind, and even as the world tells him he is someone new, he knows he is not.
He still has the scar of the Wen brand over his chest, the same fading crisscrosses of a whip along the line of his spine. He has the same constellation of freckles along his arms and the same teeth and his fingertips still looked the same.
He knows the world can create strange magic. He had mastered some of the worst of it and did not fear the unknown. But it doesn’t sit right with him, even as he feels a familiar pang from his knee at the sudden incline of Dafan Mountain. The world has always told him he is nearly invincible but he knows his body and his limits, and he knows he cannot be anyone else.
He knows his spell. It doesn’t exchange the bodies. He wishes he stayed long enough in Mo Village to check—
But he’d seen the flare in the sky, lit up with the symbol of Gusu Lan, and maybe Wei Wuxian is a little bit of a coward but he’d had a feeling he knew who would appear. So, he grabbed a donkey from the stables and ran.
Wei Wuxian’s luck, however, is rarely on his side.
It is inevitable that he will run into old friends and old enemies.
He is used to running into inconvenient coincidences, but luck truly hasn’t been on his side today. Jin Ling has been hurt incredibly by the world, spoiled brat though he is—Jiang Cheng, too, has clearly been changed by all of the wrong Wei Wuxian has done, his attitude cruel and overbearing, a dangerous reputation. It hadn’t seemed like it could possibly get worse until Lan Wangji stepped in.
Lan Wangji has always been different. He is a threat—he’s always wanted to lock Wei Wuxian up, even before he was considered evil. Wei Wuxian saw familiar gold eyes and a stern frown and got the hell out of there before Hanguang-Jun could pay too much attention.
Even if he bowed to Wei Wuxian. Even if he hadn’t known who was piloting his apparently new body.
It doesn’t matter. If Lan Wangji learns he is not Mo Xuanyu, that he is Wei Wuxian, he will be dead in minutes. Lan Wangji has always hated him and there was no way in absolute hell Wei Wuxian was taking the chance.
So he took off. It wasn’t his proudest moment, sure, but he is alive and he’s intending to stay that way. He has too many questions, too many things about his current situation he doesn’t understand.
He leans forward on Lil Apple, rests his head against the donkey’s neck. “Thirteen years and still so complicated,” he moans into the empty air, thrashing his limbs petulantly. His heel hits Lil Apple’s side and the donkey huffs angrily. “They hate me as though it was yesterday. Did I really do so much damage?”
There’s no answer. Wei Wuxian groans, rolls a little so he can squint up at the clear blue sky.
“I’m glad I don’t remember,” he confesses to no one, closes his eyes.
There’s a weird noise—like the whistle of the wind with the timbre of an instrument—and then the sound of crashing through the trees, snaps of branches. Wei Wuxian’s eyes snap back open as he scrambles off of the donkey, reaching for a weapon as Lil Apple brays and takes off running for who knows where. There’s a final crash against the ground, the distinct sound of something breaking apart.
Wei Wuxian stands frozen for a moment, unarmed and holding his breath. Lil Apple is moving faster than it ever has in its life, cries of distress echoing in the rest of the forest. Wei Wuxian creeps forward, cautious.
He finds it quickly, hesitating in his approach. It’s nothing like what he’s ever seen before—it looks like it could have been a bird from a distance but, close up, it seems to be made of silver, or tin.
It is nothing he has ever seen before.
He kneels down to get closer. It seems to have splintered into pieces, little reflective pieces of metal scattered like confetti around its crash site. The main body seems to have a big glass circle on the bottom and he reaches forward to tap it, but nothing happens. A curse? But what kind of curse could do this to a living creature?
Wei Wuxian has no idea what it is but he wants to. He reaches out to grab it, gets a hand around the body and feels the sharp edges of dull metal, warm as if it has flown too close to the sun—
A scream echoes through the trees.
He shocks away from the mechanism, looks up sharply in the direction of the scream. It sounds like a cry for help, but not like the ones from earlier that drew him to Jin Ling. He wobbles on his heels, hesitates as he hears more screams from up ahead, calls to action and warnings carried by the wind. He hesitates, looking back down at the strange little creature, and then makes a decision.
He curses, stuffs the creature into his robes, and starts running.
It’s not too far away, just through a few breaks in the trees. He hears familiar young voices—the juniors of Gusu Lan, probably, and the angry yells of what can only be Jin Ling. There’s another loud yell for help right before Wei Wuxian bursts through the tree line, stumbling onto a path that appears to lead up the mountain.
At first, he isn’t sure why people are yelling. And then he looks up toward the mountain, squinting into the sunlight, and sees it.
He heard the stories from the rogue cultivators as they all made their way toward the mountain, telling stories of people who had recently lost their souls in the area. The tales must have spread far and wide to bring so many cultivation sects here, and Wei Wuxian probably should have paid a little more attention to the bits and pieces mentioned about a stone goddess.
The goddess has come to life.
She moves stiffly, face ticking into twisted smiles, numerous limbs unnatural and spider-like. She swipes out with one of her arms and sends a handful of cultivators rolling into the dirt, crying out. A cluster of teenagers in white robes are attempting to get people out of the range of danger, pushing people ahead with their swords drawn.
One of them turns, sees Wei Wuxian. He immediately runs toward him, face twisting in irritation. Another sees his change in course and runs after him, hot on his heels.
“Hey, lunatic!” the loud one hollers. Wei Wuxian thinks his name is Lan Jingyi—the temperament alone makes the cloud-patterned forehead ribbon even more unbelievable. The junior makes it to him and gives him a strong enough push to send him moving back a step. “Get out of here! What in the world are you looking at? Can’t you see it’s dangerous?”
“That’s not a real goddess,” Wei Wuxian says, ignoring him. The other junior has caught up now, the one Lan Wangji had seemed to trust—that one grabs Lan Jingyi’s arm when he goes to push Wei Wuxian back again, instead offers him a strained smile.
“Senior Mo, it’s best if you leave,” Lan Sizhui tells him, impatience overshadowed by his politeness. He opens his mouth to say more but there’s a sound like a battle cry and a gold blur leaps into the fray with the goddess, cocking a bow.
Wei Wuxian feels himself go cold, and even Lan Jingyi screams, “Jin Ling, don’t be an idiot!”
If Wei Wuxian learned anything from Jin Zixuan, it was that Jin Ling was definitely destined to be an idiot.
Wei Wuxian snatches the sword out of Lan Jingyi’s hand, ignores the loud squawk of “hey!” as he fumbles to recover it. He hasn’t made a flute in years but something is rooted in his muscle memory as he slashes at a stalk of bamboo just behind them, cuts with easy precision. It’s not Chenqing but it’s the best he’s got; he shoves the sword back at the junior, who stares at him with his eyebrows up and jaw dropped.
“What use is a flute?” the junior screeches as if offended, hugging his sword to his chest. Lan Sizhui glances between them and Jin Ling as the statue makes a swipe toward the youth, forcing him to duck. Lan Jingyi continues, “Are you going to play it a song? Do you even know any Lan techniques?”
“I don’t need them,” Wei Wuxian replies, and places the flute to his lips.
It’s not the same, but he didn’t expect it to be. The flute is functional only at its basest use, grating but the notes are clear as it cuts through the action of the air. The cultivators all shoot him annoyed looks but can’t stare for long, and Wei Wuxian doesn’t mind. He plays desperately, a plea to anything nearby willing to listen, reaching for anything that might be able to provide assistance.
The goddess throws Jin Ling back, sends him crashing into the dirt. Wei Wuxian’s notes gain a frantic, demanding edge as he watches, helpless as the goddess takes a step toward his sister’s son. Another. Jin Ling groans, tries to push himself up and wobbles.
And then the goddess—stutters.
She moves to take a step at the same time Wei Wuxian stops playing, bracing himself to kick off and run as fast as possible to intercept, but he doesn’t even get the chance. The goddess statue goes to take a step, and then seems to stumble. The limbs grind to a halt with a lot screeching sound, and the face freezes as well. Wei Wuxian watches in surprise as it just stops, inexplicable and sudden and like the world has come to a halt except everyone else is moving and breathing and alive.
She twitches back to life, finishes her step. It seems to land hard in the dirt, as if it has taken so much effort.
Lan Sizhui sees his opportunity to run into the scene, grabbing Jin Ling and flinging him back. Jin Ling curses him all the while, slamming back into the dirt very inelegantly. Lan Sizhui turns back to the goddess statue, which seems to have come back to life.
Wei Wuxian blinks at the scene. Blinks again.
First the bird, and then this. It’s just slightly too wrong, just odd enough to wonder if it’s a curse, if there is something odd in the energy off the mountain even though Wei Wuxian can’t feel it in this body that seems so much like his.
“Is that normal?” he demands to Lan Jingyi, watches carefully as Lan Sizhui dodges without much effort. “Why did it do that?”
Lan Jingyi sputters, narrows his eyes in fierce judgment. “You—you don’t just get to cause so much trouble and ask all these questions! Get lost!”
He turns and storms away to join Lan Sizhui even as the goddess statue seems to come to an unnatural halt again, allowing the other junior way too many hits against her limbs—and freezes, his eyes going wide as they hear it.
The sound might have gotten lost in the rush, but the silence has afforded the ability to hear the echo of it through the trees, ominous and menacing, entirely unnatural. The other cultivators hesitate as well as the sound of chains grows louder, sinister. Even the goddess freezes, tilts her head as if curious.
A growl cuts through the air, animalistic. A cultivator screams.
“The Ghost General!” someone cries, and Wei Wuxian feels a sudden cold down to his bones. He whips his head around.
Wen Ning should not be here, but he is—less human than he has ever been, eyes dark and veins in his neck pulsing black, sickly lightning strikes tracing up into his face. His clothes are ripped and ragged but it’s the chains that catch Wei Wuxian’s eye, heavy metal links wrapped around his waist and wrists, an albatross around his neck.
But it’s impossible. Wen Ning is dead, handed himself over to Lanling Jin in penance for Jin Zixuan, died with Wen Qing right when the whole world was starting to fall apart under Wei Wuxian’s fingertips—
Wen Ning opens his mouth and roars.
The cultivators panic, rushing toward him with flashing blades. Wei Wuxian acts on instinct, fingers frozen as he hurriedly picks up the flute and plays, silent commands and jolting notes.
Wen Ning has always known the notes the best, doesn’t hesitate even though he seems half out of his mind. He dodges the attacks of the cultivators and launches himself toward the goddess, catches her in midair as she starts to move again. He immediately sends her into the dirt, the chains flashing in the sunlight as he uses them like an extension from his body. They fly toward the goddess and wrap around her limbs, her body. Within moments, they’ve stuck to her like a second skin, ropes tying her down. Wei Wuxian doesn’t stop his rhythm even if he’s suddenly unsure he’s controlling Wen Ning at all—but then the cultivators cry out curses and try to circle Wen Ning to capture him, and Wei Wuxian figures he can investigate later if he can just get Wen Ning out of there safely.
Wen Ning’s movements are too angry, his howls too inhuman. He’s always been unnatural by his nature but this is something new, something impossible. He rampages against the cultivators, sending them into the dirt, fighting as fierce as he had when Jin Zixuan—
Jin Ling attacks Wen Ning and Wei Wuxian cannot watch this. He thinks he might throw up, feels his hands tremble uncontrollably as the tune on his flute shifts, shaky with sudden panic rising up in his chest.
He will not repeat his past.
He knows a song, slow and comforting and drifting somewhere in the back of his mind like something long forgotten, distant and uncertain but solid and warm. He’s never played it but he remembers the memory, knows it will be enough that it brings him peace.
The notes lilt quietly, calmly. There’s serenity in it, a little like coming home, reminds him of comfort out of his reach. It sings of hope and happiness, and it is more than enough to lure Wen Ning from the pack of attackers, stumbling toward Wei Wuxian with interest. His eyes don’t appear to see him but he takes steady steps toward him, following the melody of something good and warm, the promise of a peace Wei Wuxian has never pretended to be able to give him.
Wei Wuxian begins to walk backwards, leading Wen Ning to the trees.
A hand snaps out and grabs his wrist hard enough that he nearly lets go of the flute. He stops playing, whips his head to the side.
Lan Wangji stands behind him, hand tightening a fraction more. His eyes are focused on Wei Wuxian, mouth twitching as if he’s surprised. Wei Wuxian’s stomach drops—he’s made a mistake, he must’ve. Lan Wangji must know it’s him, is staring at him like he knows something Wei Wuxian doesn’t.
Wen Ning escapes and no one chases after him. Everyone seems too distracted by Lan Wangji, waiting to see what he does next. Wei Wuxian is fairly sure that, if his old friend-turned-enemy tightens his hold any further, he might break some of the fragile bones in his wrist.
As if reading his mind, Lan Wangji’s hold relaxes. It’s not enough for Wei Wuxian to break free, like Lan Wangji knows if he lets go too much he will have to chase after Wei Wuxian.
It’s only fair, he considers bitterly. Lan Wangji always wanted to lock him up. This is his second chance.
And then Jiang Cheng shows up, and everything goes to hell.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Wei Wuxian didn’t have much of a choice but he is still definitively not happy to be dragged to the Cloud Recesses.
There’s more rules than there was the first and last time he was here, carved fresh into the mountainside. It’s had a destructive fire since the last time he’d seen it but it all seems just like new, all of the buildings replaced and virtually untouched by time. Lan Wangji hasn’t let him out of his sight since they’d started the journey back but he leaves him alone now, letting the juniors drop him off at the door of the Jingshi with threats to keep his manners or else.
Eventually, he is left alone, and the weight of the last few days feels much too heavy in this silence.
Many things have happened in so little time. He was dead and now he is alive; thirteen years have gone by and yet nothing feels or looks like it has changed; oddities are happening, creatures falling from the skies and goddesses forgetting how to move.
Wei Wuxian is many things but he is not an idiot.
Now that he is behind closed doors again, he pulls the bird creature out from his robes. Pieces seem to have fallen off in the journey but the base is still there, a strange little device with a glass window he cannot see through. Wei Wuxian pokes it but finds nothing else other than unexplainable metal parts, foreign objects that should not be there. He tucks it under Lan Wangji’s bed for safekeeping, hopes the man doesn’t think to check under there when he returns.
It’s always quiet in the Cloud Recesses—Wei Wuxian grew up with the crash of waves and groan of wooden piers, so the silence here in the mountains has always itched at him. He runs out of things to do quickly—Lan Wangji’s clothes are folded immaculately, no sign of a jade token to the gates. There is no contraband to keep him occupied, nothing naughty hidden under the floorboards. For lack of anything better to do, Wei Wuxian rolls around on the floor a couple of times in an attempt to brainstorm.
The sky has darkened, sun dipping below the horizon. As the disciples prepare to adhere to the Cloud Recesses’ strict sleeping rules, Wei Wuxian has no choice but to slip out into the cool spring night.
He barely encounters anyone as he walks, a handful of servants who duck out of the way as if he’s a pariah and a couple of unrecognizable juniors who also go out of their way to avoid him. Wei Wuxian wonders how quick word must have got around and what exactly they were saying if everyone is avoiding him like the plague.
He remembers some of his stay at the Cloud Recesses but much has happened in his life since, enough to blur the memories around the edges. Eventually he remembers the right way and he takes a turn toward the Library Pavilion.
He spent plenty of time there, locked away in punishment with Lan Wangji on Lan Qiren’s orders. He wrote the rules of the clan so many times he can still see them when he closes his eyes hard enough but he got to spend an uninterrupted month poking at Lan Wangji, trying to find his weak spots. He thought they were even close to friends by the end of it. They might’ve even stayed that way if everything hadn’t gone wrong and war hadn’t arrived on their doorsteps.
He’s so caught in his thoughts that, for a second, he doesn’t even notice the voices.
“That is a risk.”
“It’s necessary.”
Wei Wuxian recognizes Lan Wangji’s voice in an instant, figures the other can only be his brother’s. He creeps forward quietly, careful to keep from making loud footfalls. They seem to be in the middle of an important conversation, tones low and serious. Wei Wuxian hovers just within hearing range, straining to pick up more as they continue in low murmurs:
“And you’re sure that he knows? Sure enough to be reckless?”
“I wouldn’t mention it otherwise.”
A sigh. “This is a lot to hedge on another assumption, little brother. You know what happened last time.”
“I know.”
“Does he remember?” A pause, and then another loud breath out. “He doesn’t.”
“I believe he suspects.”
“Suspecting isn’t good enough. You know who he is.”
Wei Wuxian gets a chill up his spine. It’s impossible. If Lan Wangji knows—
Lan Wangji makes a huffing noise. “I won’t fail again.”
“I don’t think it’s as much about failing as—” Lan Xichen stops suddenly, so suddenly even Wei Wuxian glances around to see if something is wrong. Perhaps there’s a silent alarm, something to alert them that he’s there. Wei Wuxian lifts his foot to move away, but before he can he hears Lan Xichen say, surprised, “Is that rolling?”
Wei Wuxian doesn’t get another warning before the doors to the Library Pavilion suddenly open and Lan Xichen breezes out of them, pleasant smile in place and nothing in his body language insinuating the harsh conversation he’s just been having. Lan Wangji follows half a step behind, lips pursed unhappily. Lan Xichen meets his eyes and Wei Wuxian shoots him a goofy smile, dips into a bow that they all know is too deep. Not mocking, but definitely the work of a lunatic.
Lan Xichen appraises him with calm curiosity and absolutely no indication he knows Wei Wuxian’s true identity. “You must be Young Master Mo,” Zewu-Jun greets, cants his head to the side. “I heard you offered the juniors assistance when two of their hunts went wrong. You have my gratitude.”
Wei Wuxian’s eyes slide to Lan Wangji, hovering just behind his brother’s shoulder and eyes only on him. He meets his gaze and grins, cheeky as he can.
“That’s not necessary,” he informs the Sect Leader. “Hanguang-Jun has already repaid me by bringing me here.”
It tastes sour, knowing they know. Realizing that they knew all along, and that Lan Wangji brought him here with full knowledge of who he is. Lan Xichen is lying to his face and doing it so well Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have guessed if he hadn’t just overheard it from the man’s own mouth.
For a sect that so condemns lying, Lan Xichen sure has a perfect poker face.
A small wrinkle forms between his brows but otherwise Lan Xichen doesn’t seem to notice anything is wrong. He keeps his perfect smile as he says, “In that case, I leave the matter to my brother. I hope you enjoy your stay in the Cloud Recesses.”
Lan Xichen nods his head again in an informal bow and takes his leave.
Wei Wuxian watches him go, bemused. The infamous, benevolent Zewu-Jun did not seem incredibly keen to talk to him—unsurprising, considering that apparently Lan Wangji has been aware of his identity this entire time and had divulged this information with his beloved brother. Wei Wuxian’s eyes slide back to Lan Wangji, watching him watch his brother walk away.
He knows. He has known.
Wei Wuxian is not sure what to do with that.
Before, when Wei Wuxian was a disciple studying in Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji despised him at best. As their lives had continued on, entangling through conflicts and war, there were moments it felt like they were friends. In those last days in Yiling, when Lan Wangji had gone out of his way to visit him, Wei Wuxian had wondered if he’d gotten it all wrong. If this was how Lan Wangji had showed his version of friendship.
He didn’t know enough about those final days, couldn’t remember the little details between one thing and the next, all of it lost to a blur between lives. He thinks, suddenly, of that one brief memory that could have been dream, the one he’d thought of when he’d first awoken—golden eyes, a familiar voice murmuring to him.
Perhaps it wasn’t a dream after all.
Wei Wuxian couldn’t be sure of that, could only focus on what was right in front of him. And right now, that was Lan Wangji, staring at him with those stunning eyes and the slightest pinch between his brows as if to ask what is wrong.
Lan Wangji knows and he still looks at Wei Wuxian like that.
This has changed things.
The Jades didn’t seem to realize he had overheard them, or were at the least operating under the assumption he hadn’t. He slaps on a reliable smile, bright and goofy and a hint of the lunatic they both know he is pretending to be. He sways forward, uses a fake madness as an excuse to wrap his arms tightly around one of Lan Wangji’s and beam up at him, simpering.
“Lan Zhan,” he whines, swinging around a little as if Lan Wangji’s entire attention wasn’t already solely on him. “I was so bored without you! It was just me all alone, surrounded by your smell… You can’t expect me to stay in your bedroom with you tonight, Hanguang-Jun! Oh, how they’ll talk!”
And because Lan Wangji cannot stop surprising him, he very mildly replies, “Let them.”
Wei Wuxian gapes up at him. Lan Wangji uses his distress to pull him along as he walks back in the direction of the Jingshi, seeming to be—smug? Wei Wuxian has been told he died, not that he reincarnated into an alternate dimension.
It takes a minute for Wei Wuxian to recover enough to cry, “But your reputation! Hanguang-Jun, you wouldn’t risk all of that just for me!”
Lan Wangji makes a noncommittal humming noise.
Wei Wuxian barely knows who in the world this man even is anymore.
“If I ask you nicely, will you let me go?” Wei Wuxian asks mostly out of a false sense of self-preservation, widening his eyes. “I am feeble and small, Hanguang-Jun—you wouldn’t bully me like this, would you? Someone so innocent with no way to protect himself?”
“This isn’t bullying,” Lan Wangji informs him with enough room to imply that he will bully him if he feels it necessary. Wei Wuxian… has no idea what to do with that.
They soon arrive at the Jingshi, and Lan Wangji wastes no time in hauling him inside, closing the doors with finality. Wei Wuxian doesn’t hear a lock turn but there had definitely been a metaphorical, implied one all the same. He pouts but Lan Wangji doesn’t even blink, crossing the room to sit at the guqin.
Wei Wuxian may not have been the smartest disciple of their generation but he certainly wasn’t the dumbest. Wei Wuxian does best with puzzles and riddles, loves to remove the pieces of things and put them back together to create new, different things. He had done it with little inventions in the Burial Mounds, crafting small parts of scraps together, finding spaces for them to fill. When things do not fit together, Wei Wuxian tinkers with the parts until he finds the way they do—but of all the puzzles he’s held in his hands, Lan Wangji has always been the one he cannot solve.
He leans against a wall and watches Lan Wangji lovingly tune the instrument under his fingertips, expression clear and eyes focused. Lan Wangji sits in a room with the Yiling Laozu, knows Wei Wuxian is actively hiding his identity and does not know why, yet he still risks letting his guard down. Lan Wangji, who has hated Wei Wuxian since the moment they met, who has the least amount of reasons of anyone he knows to protect him, sits across the room from him as if it had all never happened and acts as if a single scar of the time that’s passed has never touched him.
The Cloud Recesses are remote but they are not removed. Wei Wuxian knows from the whispers on the road that Gusu Lan played a hand at his downfall. So why doesn’t Lan Wangji act like it? Why doesn’t Wei Wuxian remember?
It is a puzzle and Wei Wuxian does not know where to begin. Lan Wangji sits in front of him, calm and kind despite years of aggression and dismissal, and he figures he might as well see how far he can push.
The sun is setting beyond the windows, too early in the night for even the strict sleeping regiment of the Cloud Recesses, but still Wei Wuxian whines, “Hanguang-Jun, I’m tired.”
Lan Wangji looks up from the tune he’s been plucking, seemingly unsurprised at the request. “The journey must have been tiring.”
The journey. Yes, of course. “Hanguang-Jun,” he coos, takes one step closer. Lan Wangji watches his approach, says nothing and keeps his face carefully blank even as Wei Wuxian takes another pointed step closer. “There’s no other bed, Lan Zhan. You can’t expect me to join you in yours.”
Lan Wangji’s mouth finally twitches, just slightly. But then he replies, as if entirely natural, “Why not?”
Wei Wuxian knows puzzles. When they are completed, he can take apart the edges and expose the components inside. When they lay in pieces, he starts with the edges and builds inward, finds spots for the parts and knows how to discover the usage of tiny, broken things.
He does not know where to even begin with Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji looks at him as if he is uncomplicated, but he knows—his greatest enemy stares at him as if he should be protected, as if he deserves the whole truth and nothing but. Lan Wangji should have shied away from having a man he hates in his bed but he does not, instead poses a challenge when Wei Wuxian attempts to get him to shy away.
Wei Wuxian—he wants to understand. He has always looked at Lan Wangji and seen priceless beauty, otherworldly elegance. He wonders, for the first time, what Lan Wangji thinks when he looks at him.
He has forgotten so much but could he have forgotten this? Could his memories be so damaged that he forgets something so intrinsic about his relationship with Lan Wangji, something with the effortless ability to tilt the world on its axis, to challenge the very gravity below his feet?
He wants to push the boundaries. He is Wei Wuxian, a man who challenges the world and lets it ruin him if he is wrong. He is a man who does not believe he has died, a man who is not afraid to put one toe over the line before diving headfirst.
So he does not expect good things when he murmurs, quiet into the kaleidoscope of a changing sky, “Will you join me in bed, Hanguang-Jun?”
He certainly does not expect Lan Wangji to look him in the eye and nod.
Wei Wuxian never stopped attempting the impossible; he has never learned how to fail in achieving it.
But he is speechless when Lan Wangji stands and closes the distance between them. Lan Wangji pulls at the edges of his robes, eyes on his task as he strips Wei Wuxian of his outer layers. He feels his face heat up, feels unexpected nervousness bubble up his throat from his chest as if daring him to refuse. He chokes on it as Lan Wangji works as if this is a normal day in the life, eyes clear and expression calm.
This is a world filled with things Wei Wuxian does not understand and he does not know what god to thank for Lan Wangji’s hands on him.
Lan Wangji stops at his inner robes, which is only fair and righteous. But then Lan Wangji begins to remove his own layers and Wei Wuxian is sure, if he truly did die somewhere down the line, that this may in fact be heaven.
He doesn’t say a single word, mostly because he’s nearly certain that if he opens his mouth only blood will come out. Lan Wangji, meanwhile, acts as though this is something that happens to him every day.
There is much to think about.
Lan Wangji’s fingers are warm even through a layer of cloth as he pushes Wei Wuxian softly toward the bed; Wei Wuxian lets himself be manipulated, soft and warm covers against his skin. Lan Wangji settles in next to him as if this is not something that should instead be turning their entire worlds upside down, as if he isn’t scrambling all of Wei Wuxian’s thoughts and beliefs in just a handful of movements.
Nothing makes sense.
(A little piece of Wei Wuxian, a part he has long since buried deep, hopes it never will.)
The candles extinguish, bathing them in the dying light of a very long day. Wei Wuxian holds his breath but Lan Wangji doesn’t move other than to set his hands on his own abdomen. His hair is still up and his forehead ribbon is still securely tied—it is only fair that Wei Wuxian does not get the courtesy of seeing them off, of seeing Lan Wangji with his guard all the way down.
He does not even know how he has gotten here. It has been a whirlwind two days and Wei Wuxian knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Still, he plays his game if only because he can—he loops his arms around one of Lan Wangji’s and hugs it to his chest, revels in how warm Lan Wangji is despite the chill in the air. He sets his chin on Lan Wangji’s shoulder and grins silly and wild.
If Wei Wuxian clings to Lan Wangji, he will know when he leaves. If he keeps him in his bed, body heat warm beneath the sheets as the sunlight dims, he will know if he checks beneath his bed for what Wei Wuxian has hidden there.
He knows it is more than that. Pretends he has no idea.
“Lan Wangji,” he purrs, lets every syllable of his name fall off his tongue like a sweet tease, “I never knew you were so bold.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t make a single movement. His chest rises and falls; Wei Wuxian, in a moment of true madness, considers laying his head over the other man’s heart. Lan Wangji simply murmurs, “Sleep.”
“It’s so early, Hanguang-Jun. How do you expect me to sleep with the sun up?”
The Second Jade of Lan sighs. “Sleep,” he repeats with a deep breath in and out.
Wei Wuxian waits, waits until Lan Wangji’s breathing evens out and the gentle rise and fall of his chest becomes a lullaby. The sky darkens around them as if they are in another world and yet he cannot figure out how to fall asleep when every nerve in his body is a live wire, rubbed raw with energy. He knows he can get up and move—if he is slow and careful, he may not even wake Lan Wangji—and he is incredibly aware of all the ways in which he does not.
Wei Wuxian wonders, briefly, if he has lost his mind.
In the quiet comfort of a new night, he wonders all of the reasons why he is here at all—how he is pressed against Lan Wangji, how the world no longer makes sense, how there are so many questions he does not know how to answer and how it haunts him, just a little bit. As time passes and Lan Wangji breathes, a soothing rhythm in the stillness of a new place, Wei Wuxian lets himself feel tired, relaxing into the simple comfort of another person, not allowing himself the room to wonder if he wants or deserves to be here in this moment, stealing something tender and lovely—and, before he can overthink it too much, he drifts off anyway, unanswered questions on his lips and a mystery blooming in his mind like a flower toward the sun.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Wei Wuxian wakes up the next morning alone. The sun is high in the sky and Lan Wangji is long gone; there’s a cold pot of tea and bowl of congee on the table, clearly left for him. His back is a little sore and his mind races, thinking too much about how it felt to be pressed against Lan Wangji’s front, tucked between him and the sheets as if he was meant to be there.
It was… personal. Intimate. Wei Wuxian covers his face with his hands, rolls onto his back with a big sigh.
And then realizes—he’s finally alone in the Jingshi again.
Wei Wuxian flings himself from the bed in a scramble, knees hitting the floor. He ducks down to look under the bed, reaches a hand out to feel for the metal bird creature. His fingers come up empty. His heart sinks—he lies flat against the ground and peers at the space between the bed and the floor, feels like there’s a giant weight on his chest when he finds nothing.
Impossible. There’s no way anyone could have known he put it there. There’s no way Lan Wangji wouldn’t have noticed someone sneak in to steal it while they were there.
There is no way anyone in the world could have known Wei Wuxian stole that creature and then hid it right there. He feels cold all over, suddenly has the instinct to look around the Jingshi as if expecting a ghoul to dissolve out of a wall.
He hears gentle footfalls outside, shocks up onto his feet. He barely has time to straighten his robes before the door opens with a quiet noise and Lan Wangji is there, expression unreadable, holding a tray with new tea and congee—Wei Wuxian can see the steam coming off of it.
Lan Wangji… does not look especially surprised to see him up.
“Hanguang-Jun,” he purrs, prowling forward to look toward the bowl. This bowl of congee is clearly spiced, not as much as Wei Wuxian would have liked but adding a subtle color—and lessens any further remaining doubt about Lan Wangji knowing his identity, the memory of a meal in Yiling flashing through his mind. “What’s this? Did you make it for me, Lan Zhan? Are you spoiling me?”
Lan Wangji ignores all of his questions as he replaces the tray on the table, balancing the unused food in one hand. Wei Wuxian expects him to leave, sure that the Second Jade has something more dignified to do, but all Lan Wangji has done the last several days is prove him wrong. Lan Wangji sits proper and elegant on one side of the table, eyeing Wei Wuxian as he continues to stand in the middle of the room.
Wei Wuxian lowers himself down in front of the food, evaluates it. It’s made just the same as the other bowl, just the way he likes it. Lan Wangji knows who he is and is still treating him with such kindness, such softness. It’s like whiplash, never knowing what to expect—midnight cuddles and quiet protection, all his favorite foods and never a word breathed about it.
Wei Wuxian sits down slowly, disregards the food to lean across it toward Lan Wangji.
“Hanguang-Jun,” he coos, mischievous and wide-eyed. Lan Wangji eyes him nervously. “There’s a thief in the Cloud Recesses.”
Lan Wangji’s eyebrows rise. “A thief.”
He nods emphatically. “I hid something beneath your bed last night and this morning, it’s gone. You wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you? It’s very important to me.”
Lan Wangji has a face notorious for being unreadable, but Wei Wuxian has always paid a little too much attention. He knows he and Lan Wangji have had their misunderstandings but he looks for the hints in Lan Wangji’s face, the little twitches he tries so hard to hide. Wei Wuxian has paid too much attention to this man and it’s paid off now when he watches the tiny downturn of Lan Wangji’s mouth, the smallest wrinkle on his brow.
But he does not look guilty. He looks… annoyed?
“Hm,” Lan Wangji replies, noncommittal. “That is troubling.”
“It is,” he responds, tilting his head a little too far to the side. “Lan Zhan, you don’t know who it could be, do you?”
“Of course not,” he replies, righteously affronted. “I will look into it.”
Wei Wuxian hums, turning his head to the opposite side until it leaned on his own shoulder, narrowing his eyes across the table with a teasing smile. “It wasn’t you, Hanguang-Jun?”
Lan Wangji doesn’t dignify that with a response larger than a displeased glare. Wei Wuxian believes him immediately, for better or for worse.
He makes a thoughtful noise and turns his attention onto his food, trying not to show how hungry he really is and how his appetite has only grown with the delightful smell of Lan Wangji’s cooking. “Hmm, what a shame. It was rather important.”
Lan Wangji takes a sip of his tea. “Perhaps you should ask around about it then.”
He looks up, interested at the too-innocent tone of his voice. Lan Wangji peers at him over the table before turning his attention pointedly to the cup of tea he pours with an air of nonchalance.
Wei Wuxian doesn’t know what it means, knows he cannot come right out and ask. He chews as he thinks, pretends to consider Lan Wangji’s suggestion.
There is something odd happening, something unexplainable. For Lan Wangji to notice as well, while being unwilling or unable to question it directly, he knows he is not on the wrong track. There is an explanation out there and Lan Wangji knows he is looking for it.
He wants Wei Wuxian to ask questions? He sure knows how to do that.
“What a lovely idea, Hanguang-Jun,” he replies with a grin. He waves his chopsticks at him, ignoring when sauce drips onto the clean table. Lan Wangji’s eyes meet his over the brim of his teacup and Wei Wuxian sends him a sultry wink.
Something is odd. Something has been odd since the very first moments, since he woke up in bleary disorientation on the floor of Mo Manor. For Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen to know his identity but keep him here in secret, for that strange bird to have gone so mysteriously missing the moment he turned his back despite no one possibly knowing of its existence, it has only added to his suspicions. Something is wrong and Wei Wuxian seems to be the only one who seems willing to point it out.
Lan Wangji carefully sips his tea. Lets him come to his own conclusions.
Something is odd, and Wei Wuxian is determined to discover the truth.
And he has an idea of how to make it happen.
~*~*~*~*~*~
If they want him to act like a lunatic, he has no choice but to oblige.
Wei Wuxian makes a habit to pop out from behind corners, startling the Lan cultivators. He asks them questions—what day is it, what is their names, who is he? They stutter through their answers and sometimes he throws worse at them, asks them leading questions about dynasties long past and making up names, asking where he can find those fictional people.
Some try to give him answers. Others stare at him, terrified, and make excuses to run away as soon as possible. At one point, he jumps out in front of Lan Jingyi and almost ends up with a black eye from uncontrollable flailing—not exactly a defensive strategy taught by the Lan clan.
He knocks things over just to see what people will do. He screams nonsense phrases just to check reactions. At one point, he grabs a priceless heirloom he recalled learning about during his stay and threatens to chuck it off a roof.
The responses are off, strange. People either react incorrectly or they don’t seem to care. As if, at this point, it doesn’t matter.
He wrestles his way into Lan Wangji’s bed again the next two nights. He’s mostly surprised Lan Wangji lets him, knows he’s strong enough to fling Wei Wuxian out a window if he is overstepping. Lan Wangji does not.
The day after his worst outburst, Lan Xichen finds them less than an hour after breakfast with a vague smile and a mission. He tells them a grand story about the arm at Mo Village, about how they attempted to invoke the spirit only for it to send Lan Qiren unconscious, pouring blood from every orifice. Wei Wuxian doesn’t point out he didn’t hear the bells of the Mingshi which should have rung in an emergency. He doesn’t have to say out loud he’s suspicious for them to seem to know it anyway.
Lan Wangji doesn’t react like any of this is strange even though it is. He packs a bag and, by the afternoon, he and Wei Wuxian are on the road out of the Cloud Recesses.
Wei Wuxian never found the bird creature again. Knows that, even if he looked, he never would have been able to anyway.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Alone, on a long walk toward a mission that seems unclear despite Lan Wangji seeming to know exactly where they are going, Wei Wuxian sees his opportunity to ask some questions.
“Hanguang-Jun,” he calls when it has been silent for too long, eyes on the man who walks at his side. Lan Wangji turns his head toward him enough to let Wei Wuxian know he’s listening—Wei Wuxian smiles even if his companion can’t see it, simpers even if it’s just to the amusement of the air. “This is a very strange mission Zewu-Jun has picked us for. Why are stray body parts so interesting? Why would he choose for me to go with you?”
If he has learned anything from these nights they have shared a bed without a single word spoken, Lan Wangji has a very good poker face. It’s almost impossible to break it—almost.
Lan Wangji may not know it but there is something telling in the way he does not reveal expressions for even the simple things. Wei Wuxian watches the way Lan Wangji’s mask settles a little more solid on his face and knows, with a rush of satisfaction, that he has asked the correct question.
“It is suspicious,” Lan Wangji replies in that succinct way of his. Wei Wuxian waits for more and snorts when there isn’t.
“This arm is very spooky,” he prompts, tilting his head to one side and then the other, pursing his lips. He feels Lan Wangji’s eyes on him, gaze wary if amused. “Zewu-Jun mentioned you had to do with the summoning.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t say anything. Wei Wuxian is fairly sure that means he’s confirming, letting Wei Wuxian talk his way through the problem until he finds his way to the answer.
“A lot of strange things have been happening lately,” he hums, eyes on Lan Wangji. “All the trouble in Mo Village, the thief in Cloud Recesses… So very strange, Lan Zhan. I’m sure you think the same.”
Wei Wuxian was not used to having questions left unanswered. He likes to have a response even if it is wrong, some words to feed into the air even if there is nowhere for them to land. He likes speaking nonsense until he finds his way to the correct answer, but Wei Wuxian is also used to playing dumb. He has played dumb enough throughout the years that he wonders if people like Lan Wangji do not know he is actually clever, if they let him see these things that are complicated and intricate only because they do not think he will understand.
No. Lan Wangji, for all he has long disliked Wei Wuxian, has never treated him as if he is intellectually inferior.
It makes this mystery even more impossible, makes Wei Wuxian even more eager to find the answers.
Wei Wuxian narrows his eyes on Lan Wangji’s head. If the Second Jade notices his attention, he sure doesn’t show it. It almost feels like a game, at this point—like if Wei Wuxian asks the right questions, Lan Wangji might reward him with an answer.
For once, Wei Wuxian does not know the questions to ask. His head is filled with words but he cannot think of a single one to grace the air between them.
It is all too strange, nonsensical. He is someone else but he is himself; he died but he is alive; time has passed but everything has remained the same. It is all a troublesome contradiction, an impossibility that has never stopped him before. And Lan Wangji seems to be the key to it all, the unexpected keeper of this knowledge he so seeks like a thing of legends.
Wei Wuxian knows if he asks the right questions Lan Wangji will give him the answers.
And yet, he doesn’t ask.
He ascribes it to uncertainty, to wanting to ask just the right things. But if he thinks of the way Lan Wangji lies with him at night without asking, warm skin silky smooth and their ankles tangled together, the easy way in which they don’t mention it in the morning—if he gets distracted by the way the silences that stretch between them are so natural and their stares linger too long—then he keeps that close to his chest, a secret that means a little too much, a little detail in the symphony of his life like the quiet lilt of a flute on a cool spring night.
If the right questions will end this then Wei Wuxian will wait until he knows just what to ask.
If Lan Wangji is part of this beautiful lie then Wei Wuxian will wait.
So, instead, he leans forward until he can wrap his arms around Lil Apple’s neck, huffing out a breath of air petulantly. “Hanguang-Jun, it’s like talking to a pile of sticks! Can you at least save me enough face and pretend to listen? All this silence! You can’t expect me to fill all of it!”
Lan Wangji hums, amused. Wei Wuxian might have thought it was a laugh if he didn’t know better, feels himself grin as if it had been anyway.
Wei Wuxian sighs as if it’s all a chore. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. What am I supposed to do with you?”
Lan Wangji tugs Lil Apple’s reins to pick up his pace, ignores the annoyed bray that echoes his movement. Lil Apple reluctantly moves faster and Wei Wuxian peeks up at Lan Wangji, who glances back at him at the same moment. Lan Wangji raises an eyebrow like it may distract Wei Wuxian from the small, small way he sees Lan Wangji’s lips turn up like he might smile.
“Talk to me,” Lan Wangji tells him easily, as if he is anyone other than the fabled Hanguang-Jun and Wei Wuxian is not Wei Wuxian, as if those little limitations do not and have never mattered.
He lets his head roll back and laughs into the quiet daytime, the still air of this little road in which they travel. Lan Wangji keeps his head forward but Wei Wuxian notices the small ways in which is tilted toward him—another simple, quiet way in which the world is not the same as it has ever been.
“Okay, Hanguang-Jun,” he replies, smile on his face. “If you want me to talk, then I’ll talk. Just remember, you asked for it!”
Lan Wangji just keeps walking, lets Wei Wuxian fill the silence with things that don’t matter, comments on where they have been and where they are going, outlandish theories about their case and all the wrong answers—and Wei Wuxian lets the world listen, lets his voice fill the space so the mystery does not, pretends as though this is the way the world has always been and will always be, as if he is not solving a great big puzzle.
He does not ask the right questions. At least, not today.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Nie Huaisang changes the game if only because he recognizes Wei Wuxian.
He tries to hide it, and he might’ve even succeeded if Wei Wuxian hadn’t known him so well, maybe even if Nie Huaisang had been just a second faster at lifting his fan. It’s the slightest shift of a familiar face, the twitch of his brow and the way his lips parted automatically as if to greet him, as if it were second nature. Nie Huaisang catches himself before his lips can form the name but Wei Wuxian wonders if it would have been his name or Mo Xuanyu’s—thinks he knows without bothering to ask.
Nie Huaisang’s eyes watch him over the edge of his silk fan, intricately decorated with sure brushstrokes—a masterful work. Wei Wuxian has no doubt it’s Nie Huaisang’s own work, knows of the man’s artist soul despite the role he has found himself inhabiting. Nie Huaisang has become a sect leader by necessity, his brother succumbing to a qi deviation far too early in his years, leaving his younger brother as his sole heir. Wei Wuxian watches the way Nie Huaisang’s hand shakes on his fan and know he is not the best person for the job.
Nie Huaisang’s eyes shift to Lan Wangji and flood with nerves, something akin to fear. “I don’t know!” he cries before Lan Wangji can say anything, flinching as though the honorable man would ever strike him. “I don’t know, Hanguang-Jun! You must believe me!”
Lan Wangji doesn’t blink. Unamused. “You were at the mausoleum.”
Nie Huaisang’s eyes dart to Wei Wuxian and away. Wei Wuxian hears rather than sees the man gulp before he yowls, pleading an explanation in panicked breaths—it is Qinghe territory, the mausoleum. It holds the spirits of sabers and swords passed down from the early generation. He does not know what they would have been looking for and what they might have found, alerted only to the alarm set off by an over-curious Jin Ling who should have known better.
The explanation is logical. That is not the problem.
Wei Wuxian has spent many hours with Nie Huaisang. Supposed years have gone by but not much has changed in the little mannerisms of the man before him, not in the way he cowers or flinches or cries out his responses too loudly. Nie Huaisang stumbles over himself to give answers that make sense and perhaps he does not know that gives Wei Wuxian the answers that he needs.
Nie Huaisang, in all of the months he knew him best, would not buckle with words of truth. For all of his doe eyes and wobbly smiles, Wei Wuxian has seen the smug smiles Nie Huaisang hides behind his fans. The intelligence in his eyes when he lies.
Nie Huaisang is a great liar. Wei Wuxian is better.
He knows he is lying, knows Nie Huaisang is simply an intelligent person who plays dumb and clueless. Wei Wuxian knows the game, has been playing it for weeks, so he sees it quickly in Nie Huaisang. He watches the man plead pitifully with Lan Wangji as if he is being sent to the gallows and knows, instinctively, that Nie Huaisang is too intelligent to need to beg.
If he wanted something badly enough, Nie Huaisang would not need to cry.
Another clue on a long list of clues. Another nudge in the right direction.
Wei Wuxian sees Nie Huaisang’s eyes flick toward him as if to see if he’s noticed. He lingers there for a moment. Two.
The pieces are there.
Wei Wuxian simply needs to put them together.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Weeks go by in a blur, a question Wei Wuxian doesn’t dare to ask until he is sure. A question he dares to believe he knows the answer to as he and Lan Wangji crawl toward inevitability, wading through an impossible and improbable mystery. They have made it through unbelievable trials and heartbreaking mysteries, found nearly all of the pieces to a body that is so warped with resentment that it does not look real. Wei Wuxian does not ask and neither does Lan Wangji, seemingly content to keep him company for as long as it takes.
Wei Wuxian has always suspected something is wrong. He is not sure until the Fragrant Palace.
The Lanling Discussion Conference was… wrong. Wei Wuxian has never been a sect leader but he has seen the ways in which they operate diplomatically, and this event just seemed—lackluster. They all arrived with plenty of fanfare and they all attended the opening banquet, but when they all came together it was that same strange dissonance. As if everyone had bothered to show up, had gone out of their way to be there, but… it didn’t matter.
The weeks have been tumultuous and strange and Wei Wuxian knows he is on the precipice. He has fought his way closer to something he does not fully understand, the answer he has been chasing the entire time. He knows it in the unnatural way Jin Guangyao calls him Mo Xuanyu, knows it with the silent conversation that passes between Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji when they meet eyes.
Wei Wuxian has noticed that others will attempt to stop him if he does things that are unpredictable, unexpected. He has learned it in his madman act, takes note of it as carefully as he notices that Lan Wangji is of the few people who will never try to guide him anywhere.
In all of his years, Wei Wuxian has learned how to trust his instincts.
He knows he should show up when least expected, knows it will give him more information than if he announces his intentions or goes in an obvious direction. If this odd rebirth has given him anything, it is the courage to be unpredictable.
So he moves impulsively, Lan Wangji following close on his heels, and he marches straight for the heart of the Fragrant Palace.
Disciples attempt to stop him at first, guards. Lan Wangji knocks them out of the way quickly, trusting Wei Wuxian with an infallibility that is otherworldly as they infiltrate the heart of a powerful sect. Quickly, conveniently, the other powerful sects arrive—Lan Xichen with a confused expression that does not meet his eyes, Nie Huaisang with frazzled uncertainty, Jiang Cheng with a scowl and booming words that crash through the courtyard, rattle the shutters on the window.
With Lan Wangji’s help, Wei Wuxian makes it through them, but it’s not—difficult. Oh, sure, they put up a show of resistance, but it’s halfhearted at best. Lan Xichen reaches for him but pretends to fall short of grabbing him and Nie Huaisang conveniently goes faint and cannot help. Jiang Cheng steps into the way to stop him, ignores how Lan Wangji raises Bichen in challenge—he stares down Wei Wuxian, almost as if he is curious, and asks the most mystifying question: “Are you sure?”
Wei Wuxian hesitates but only for a moment. He pushes past his brother, who puts up no resistance—uncharacteristic of him—and storms toward the door they have so halfheartedly kept him from, the one they’ve called Jin Guangyao’s. As if the thought is a beacon, the man himself appears, stepping through the door and closing it firmly behind him. Jin Guangyao sacrifices a moment to look around at the chaos, familiar faces with mixed messages.
“What,” he begins to ask, imperial outrage in his voice—and then Lan Xichen, the First Jade of Lan, the leader of a great and righteous sect, the first on the list of Young Masters—slaps his hand over Jin Guangyao’s mouth.
Lan Xichen looks Wei Wuxian in the eye and mouths two words so, so clear: the mirror.
Wei Wuxian knows this is the answer to his great mystery, the answer he has been seeking. He is fearless when he pushes his way forward, merciless, pushing past the bedroom door and then, finally, that mirror—
And he—freezes.
So do the horrified faces that stare back at him.
It is… wrong. Inherently, incredibly wrong. They wear the wrong clothes, odd, not of this world. They’re in all black, styles that might have been inner robes if it weren’t for the way they have their hair, if not for the devices in their hands. Wei Wuxian stands, speechless, in the room of his big answer and he does not at all know what he expected.
He did not expect the room to be deconstructed, half of the back wall missing. Chains and torture equipment hang on the incomplete walls—and one of the figures in all black is holding a perfect model of Nie Mingjue’s dismembered head, her expression terrified as her eyes meet Wei Wuxian’s across the space.
It’s wrong. Incomplete. Art in progress.
And it all comes together.
Well, not all of it. He cannot begin to understand who these people are, why the room does not yet exist. It does not explain the people frozen, helpless, and the way the others had so halfheartedly attempted to stop him from seeing it. This is a scene not meant for Wei Wuxian but the others know about it, impossibly. He is looking at a part of his world that does not make sense and the others have known this entire time that there is no logic. He stares into the seam of the world, a place where it splits into what he does not have time to understand, and he feels a hand on his shoulder.
He glances back, instinctual. Lan Wangji stands at his side, expression grim. His eyes cut to the half-finished room—as if it’s a hot poker on the heels of their feet, the impossible people drop what they are doing, start speaking in panicked tones as if something greater can hear them. As if they are praying, but they do not kneel. Wei Wuxian does not understand—
Lan Wangji yanks him around to face him, sends him stumbling into his chest. Lan Wangji curls his hand on Wei Wuxian so tightly that he knows he will bruise, feels the numbingly sharp pain and knows he is still alive. He stares up into Lan Wangji’s focused golden eyes and knows it is real. Somehow, somehow—
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji whispers for the first time, finally acknowledges Wei Wuxian for who he is. It is suddenly, bafflingly amazing. Like he’s been drowning this entire time, as if Lan Wangji has finally pulled him above the surface to gasp in a desperate breath. He squeezes, keeps Wei Wuxian’s eyes on him, and whispers with urgency, “We need to go.”
Wei Wuxian does not understand. There is a roaring noise in his ears that he thinks might be his blood racing and it hurts to breathe, feels like panic except there is no battle. Wei Wuxian has asked for answers and he has found them, and he does not understand—
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji whispers. “Trust me.”
He does. He does. Oh, he does.
Wei Wuxian holds out his hand, numb. Lan Wangji takes it and squeezes it so hard that blood rushes to his fingers, makes him feel a little more like he is real. Like he is truly standing here, staring at impossibility.
He does not understand. Somehow, he knows Lan Wangji does.
He hesitates, still, when Lan Wangji turns to flee. The shouts are getting louder from both sides of the room but Lan Wangji has decided to go back the way they came, as if he knows that is the safer of the two. Lan Wangji stops when he does, turns back to him. There is worry in his gaze, a frantic fear. Lan Wangji’s hand is big and warm but Lan Wangji knew. He has always known, has been waiting for Wei Wuxian to put the pieces together.
Lan Wangji reads the doubts in the lines of his face, sees the anxiety in the tension of his nerves. Lan Wangji’s eyes go soft, sad—his grip on Wei Wuxian’s hand does not fall away but it relaxes, gives him plenty of room to pull away.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji murmurs amongst the calls and cries, soft and quiet like a benediction. Wei Wuxian thinks he knows the emotion in his eyes but perhaps he doesn’t know anything anymore. Lan Wangji swallows as if he knows what he’s thinking, as if he knows what this might look like, but still he murmurs softly, reverently, “I am here.”
Lan Wangji is here. The world is falling apart and Lan Wangji is here.
Wei Wuxian tightens his fingers on Lan Wangji, meets his eyes in that static space that has stood still only for them.
“I trust you,” Wei Wuxian breathes. It’s the biggest piece of himself he’s shown to anyone in a long time, raw and vulnerable and real. Lan Wangji’s throat bobs like it’s hard to swallow, like the taste of Wei Wuxian’s trust is more than he has the palate for. Spicy and sour and bittersweet and real.
Lan Wangji’s fingers curl into his and he wastes no time before spiriting them away, through the shouts and cries and things Wei Wuxian cannot begin to understand—Lan Wangji steals him away and he follows blindly, trusting him with his whole heart, wondering what the world will look like when he puts it right-side up again—and carefully, carefully, does not wonder if this is part of the act.