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The instrument laid out before him was overwhelming in size. He'd seen a guqin before, but it'd never been near enough for him to touch. From sight alone, he could almost feel how smooth it would be.
But surely it wasn't meant for him.
It'd been laid out for a reason, and the likeliest one was that it was meant to be a gift for his brother. After all, his brother's birthday had just passed, and despite the restrictions, their mother enjoyed giving them gifts in secret. But usually they were small things, candies that they could tuck into their sleeves.
The longer he stared at the instrument, the more the ache in his heart grew. It felt like hunger. It was calling to him in a way that toys and other trinkets hadn't.
“Why do you look so sad?”
His mother stopped her pacing. Lan Wangji stared down at his hands. It felt like the safest place to look.
"You’re so quiet."
His mother settled beside him.
"You have so many thoughts in your head, but you refuse to say them aloud." She sighed and wrapped her arms around him. "If you won't even tell your mother, who will you share them with? Do you speak about them with your brother?"
“Sometimes.”
His mother gently brushed his hair aside and then rested her hand upon his cheek. The light touch was a weight that prevented him from turning away.
“What’s wrong?”
She followed where his gaze had drifted. Behind her was the guqin. Her eyes were brighter when she faced him.
"Is that why you’re upset?” His mother pulled him into another hug. He felt her whisper into his hair but was unable to hear what she’d said.
“The guqin is for you.”
"Mine?"
"Yes." His mother stood up and crossed the room. She beckoned him to follow her, and he nearly tripped over the table. Once beside her, she reached to hold his hand, and they stared down at the guqin together.
“But I don’t know how to play.” He looked up and found his mother’s eyes already on him.
“I’ll teach you.” She squeezed his hand, as if to prevent him from throwing himself at the guqin in excitement. "But let's eat first. There's no need to rush."
His mother returned to the table, and he followed after her. She picked up a dumpling, set it down on his plate, then plucked one for herself. She took a bite and grimaced. "Perhaps we should've rushed when it came to eating, the food is cold."
He didn't mind the cold food, not when the guqin waited for him at the end of their meal. He wondered how it sounded. Which string would he pluck first? How smooth would it be? What kind of songs would his mother teach him?
His mother cleared her throat. "Do you like my present?”
He nodded, and she smiled. “Good, let’s play as soon as you’re done eating.”
If she noticed that he began eating faster, she'd been kind enough to say nothing about it.
---
He was so tired, but he didn't want the evening to end. They'd played the guqin for so long that his fingers twinged slightly. But why would he want to stop when his mother was smiling and laughing as he fumbled with the strings? Unlike his uncle, his mother just kept smiling. She'd lean in close, kiss his forehead, and tell him to try again.
And so he did. He tried, and tried, and tried until he couldn't.
"A-Zhan," his mother whispered. Her voice pulled him back to wakefulness. He looked up at her, and she pushed his hair back soothingly. "You can't sleep on the guqin . Come lay down."
He let her draw him away, hoping that they he could stay the night. He knew he wasn't allowed to stay with her, but maybe this time, it’d be okay. His uncle had brought his brother along on a trip to the Jin clan, and nobody else was nearly as strict as his uncle.
As he settled into his mother's bed, he felt himself feeling more hopeful. Maybe there was a chance that all of the disciples had forgotten about him. He was sleepy, so surely it was late, and since their tiny room was chilled by the winter breeze that kept slipping inside, it was probably too cold for anyone to want to go out and retrieve him.
His mother left his side once he was tucked in, but he reached for her for immediately. His fingers brushed against the soft fabric of her robes as she turned away.
“I want to play more,” he mumbled.
His mother's laughter made its way across the room. "You'll have more chances. This time, let me play for you." He watched her settle in front of the guqin , determined to fight against sleep. He caught glimpses of her through his heavy eyes.
She began to play, and all thoughts in his head grew quiet.
“I want -“ He faltered. Words escaped, and it was getting harder for him to keep his eyes open. Her music was a warm embrace that lulled him to sleep. He could practically feel the soft touch of her hands and smell her floral perfume.
His mother was speaking now, but her voice had become a melody that blended with the sound of the guqin , and drowsiness made it difficult for him to distinguish one from the other. He could only catch brief parts of what she was saying, but before he fully lost his senses to sleep, he managed to understand one thing.
"Whatever you play is a reflection of your heart, so only play for those who will listen."
Then everything went black.
But even the calm of slumber couldn't last. A sudden feeling of weightlessness startled him awake, only for him to realize that someone was carrying him. He turned his head, desperate to find his mother, and managed to find her eyes just as he crossed the threshold to her room.
She was smiling, but whether there was more to it - a message that she'd hoped to convey, was lost in the haze of sleep.
His eyes drifted back shut.
When he woke up, she was gone.
---
He’d been gone for far too long. Lan Wangji was sure that his uncle would come looking for him any second, annoyed and prepared to dole out an appropriate punishment. But regardless of how things turned out, he wouldn’t leave the room without the text in his hands.
Music for A-Zhan
It had been more than ten years since he’d last seen anything of his mother’s. The value of the object in his hands weighed upon him, leaving him unable to move. The composition book’s paper had yellowed slightly with time, and its contents were mostly bare. His mother had written out a few notes, but the song she’d been working on was largely unfinished. It didn’t even have a title.
“Wangji?”
His uncle’s footsteps were heavy with his disappointment. Lan Wangji turned around to face him, and he bowed appropriately. The text remained firmly in his hands.
“You’ve disobeyed me. I entrusted you with the responsibility of entering this room, and you’ve decided to play around instead.”
“I have the text that you requested for.” Lan Wangji retrieved it from the nearby shelf and presented it to his uncle. It was taken out of his hands immediately.
“Then what are you doing with that?”
“It’s mine. I believe it should be returned to me.”
His uncle stepped closer so that he could get a better look at what his nephew was holding. Once he realized what it was, he took a step back. “Return to class immediately, and return that to wherever you found it. It shouldn’t be with you.”
“But it’s mine.”
“And when did you become so materialistic? You should know better.” Lan Qiren’s voice was firm, and Lan Wangji could hear the anger that was simmering underneath. It was a rare moment for his uncle to hold back his usual temper. “Leave the past where it belongs. If it hadn’t been for your father-”
His uncle’s eyes widened. He’d said too much. His mouth open then closed, unsure of where to carry their conversation. In the end, he settled for nothing. Each of them waited for the other to do something about the silence, but they were immovable mountains, firmly rooted in their contrary beliefs.
But where Lan Wangji was comfortable in silence, Lan Qiren couldn’t leave words unspoken.
“I thought you had moved on.”
“I have,” Lan Wangji replied. “But that doesn’t mean I have to forget.”
He’d already lost too much. His own mother’s image had become blurred, and he and his brother no longer shared consistent memories of their visits. Their father was an even more distant memory. But Lan Wangji felt the powerful grip of possessiveness that had taken ahold of him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if his father had once felt the same.
He looked down at the book and loosened his grip immediately. He’d unintentionally added new creases to it. Guilt washed over him. He’d been too careless. In his desire to cling onto his mother, he’d damaged the one thing he had left of her.
He lifted up his chin and forced himself to keep his back straight. They held each other’s gaze before Lan Qiren turned away sharply. It was a familiar sight. His uncle was only comfortable with bearing his anger, anything else was meant to be locked away.
“The book cannot leave this room. When your mother passed, your father agreed to surrender her belongings.” His uncle paused. “I will allow you ten minutes to recollect yourself, and then you must rejoin the session. But do not expect that you will go unpunished for causing a delay.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
HIs uncle left the room without a backward glance.
Once he disappeared through the door, Lan Wangji immediately went to work. He set down his mother’s gift carefully and gathered writing materials. It was easy for him to copy down the notes, and once finished, he could already hear its melody in his head. And although his mother’s inexperience with composition was evident, he knew that he’d spend his coming days practicing the piece.
This gift was his to keep, and no punishment would make him forget that.
---
"You could join them."
He averted his gaze from the disciples that were gathered together. They'd all just learned to play another song, and their instructor had given unusual praise that had set everyone aglow. So now, with nothing left to do until dinner, a majority of his classmates were all toying with their instruments idly, filling the air with the kind of sounds that bordered on the edge of unnecessary noise.
Just the day before, his peers had been complaining about how a guqin was nothing compared to a sword. Someone had boldly declared that the sounds of clashing blades were more soothing than any instrument.
Lan Wangji wondered if that disciple would feel the same once he experienced a real battle. Clashing swords were always accompanied by cries of pain and screams of fear. He could imagine that the only peace one could find in the music of war was in the silence of death.
"I'd rather not."
His brother didn't protest. As always, he was too kind to ask why.
He spared one last glance at his classmates. They were now practicing together, but pausing every now and again to change the music into something of their own.
"Shall we go?"
Lan Wangji followed after his brother, the music and laughter growing fainter with every step.
---
He couldn't understand why Wei Wuxian couldn't keep quiet.
Every time he opened his mouth, he was filling rooms with his noise. He kept talking - and sometimes he made sensible, creative statements, only to follow it with nonsense. And at the rate he was going, Lan Wangji was sure that his uncle would just trap Wei Wuxian in a cave until he went deaf from the sound of his voice's echoes.
It would be a pity, but it wouldn't be undeserved.
"Lan Zhan."
Against his better judgment, he looked up. Wei Wuxian's grin widened.
"I think I would work faster if there was music."
He turned his eyes back to his text. He'd been on the same section for about five minutes, but that was only because of Wei Wuxian's non-stop distractions. First he'd say something, and then he'd lean in, far closer than what was appropriate. The noise was hard enough to deal with, but now Wei Wuxian refused to leave him alone.
"Lan Zhan."
Even if he wasted his words, it wasn't like Wei Wuxian would listen. When he told Wei Wuxian to be quiet, he would laugh loudly. When he told him to stop running, he darted out of sight. When he told him to behave, he'd find some other way to make trouble.
"Lan Zhan."
He set his text down loudly then picked up another. Better to be safe than sorry. Knowing how observant Wei Wuxian was, he wouldn't be surprised if he'd noticed the lack of actual reading progress being made.
"Lan Zhan."
His own name had become annoying to hear. Perhaps it was another one of Wei Wuxian's secret talents, along with his inability to stay quiet.
"Lan -"
"No."
“It’s rude to interrupt someone.” Lan Wangji could catch the glimpse of Wei Wuxian's smirk. Cornered between clan rules and unyielding determination, he set down the scroll and met the other’s gaze.
“Could you play something? Please?”
"No." He paused. “It’s not allowed here.”
"Okay, fine. But what about later? When this is over?"
"No."
"Why?”
“Why should I?”
“Lan Zhan! You’re so stubborn. Fine.” Wei Wuxian leaned forward. "Then when would you ever play for me?"
Lan Wangji considered. "Maybe." He picked up his text. "If you were dying."
“That’s -“ Wei Wuxian spluttered. It brought an odd joy to see him speechless. Lan Wangji concealed his amusement behind his reading material.
"If I turn into a vengeful ghost, I'm making sure to haunt you first," Wei Wuxian declared as he returned to his seat. He pointed his brush at Lan Wangji threateningly, but his smile was growing wider with its every movement. "Then you'll be forced to play for me until I go away."
He had nothing to say to that, so he ignored it. Then oddly enough, Wei Wuxian was content to leave things as they were. Silence returned, and so did their uneasy peace. He was finally able to genuinely read the text he'd picked up.
However, once he was a few words in, Lan Wangji realized that the text was about the different mating habits of animals found in Cloud Recesses. It made his ears burn, but he couldn't just pick up another one. Not when Wei Wuxian kept looking up at him in steady intervals.
He'd just reached the chapter on rabbits when a piece of paper flew onto his lap. He unfolded it.
It was a picture of what he assumed was Wei Wuxian as a vengeful ghost and an intentionally poor depiction of himself, playing the guqin unhappily.
He shoved the drawing under a stack of texts. Wei Wuxian's laughter filled the room once more, and despite a lack of any further responses, continued to chatter for the rest of their afternoon together.
And later, once a genuine silence had returned to the room, Lan Wangji retrieved the paper. He smoothed it out and took a longer look. Time hadn't made it any better, but now he was safe to view it without judgment.
It was ridiculous. Ghost Wei Wuxian had fangs, and his own appearance was hardly more than quick strokes that sort of resembled a person. It was completely unlike the portrait of him that Wei Wuxian had made only days earlier.
It was nonsense, but it was his to keep.
He took one last lingering look before rolling it and then setting it aside. There were things to do. He returned the texts he’d mostly pretended to read, organized the materials that Wei Wuxian had used, then swept the room to ensure everything was orderly.
Once finished, he returned to his desk, picked up the drawing, and brought it with him.
---
“Lan Zhan, do you know what they’re playing?”
Lan Wangji pointedly looked away and set his eyes on a festively colored paper lantern. It was decorated with a rabbit, but the drawing was of rather poor quality. The longer he looked at it, the more he wondered whether what he’d thought was a tail was actually a fifth leg.
Wei Wuxian nudged him. “Not as nice as ours, right?”
He glared, but Wei Wuxian’s smile only grew wider. There was no point in lecturing him about humility. He knew what Wei Wuxian would have to say about that. So there was only one thing that would suffice.
“Shameless.”
They’d meant to leave Tan Zhou ages ago, but Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang had the attention span of children. The actual reason for their journey was immediately forgotten once they encountered anything colorful or noisy, and just as they were nearing the town’s outskirts, a group of travelling musicians crossed their path.
“They play very well,” Nie Huaisang commented as the musicians started up a new song. He fanned himself and glanced at Wei Wuxian. “I wonder how many songs they know.”
“We should stay for their entire set.”
Lan Zhan glared. “We -”
“Three more songs, and then we can go.” Wei Wuxian held up his hand. “I promise.”
“One.”
“Two?”
“Be quiet, I can’t hear anything anymore,” Nie Huaisang muttered. Wei Wuxian latched onto his arm and quickly launched into a series of loud, teasing apologies, which only frustrated his friend further. Nie Huaisang elbowed him and escaped so that he could join the rest of the musicians’ enraptured audience.
Lan Wangji expected for Wei Wuxian to follow after him, but he remained by his side. He glanced at Wei Wuxian, who turned his head at just the right time.
“I think I know this song. I’m sure I’ve heard it during festivals at Lotus Pier, but I think it was played a bit differently.” Wei Wuxian shook his head and laughed. “Though I wouldn’t know for sure. I don’t have an ear for music.”
Lan Wangji turned his attention to the musicians. He wasn’t familiar with what they were playing. Unnecessary noise wasn’t allowed in Cloud Recesses, and celebrations were silent affairs. The majority of the songs he knew were limited to the clan’s musical techniques. The only exceptions were his mother’s gift, and personal compositions that he played mostly for himself, and on rare occasions, for his brother.
He wondered what Wei Wuxian would think of his compositions. His brother praised him consistently, but he was biased. What would Wei Wuxian, who’d travelled and seen much of the world, think? Would he consider them boring too?
The thought of that scared him.
He spared one last look at the musicians and then turned to Wei Wuxian. He meant to remind him that it was time to go, but his words now felt heavy on his tongue. There was a smile on Wei Wuxian’s face, completely unlike the ones that were usually directed at him. He looked at peace, and at least, while the song played, like all of his worries had been forgotten.
“Is it time to go?”
He hadn’t done anything, but he felt an unsettling feeling of guilt. But there were more pressing matters at hand, so Lan Wangji pushed those feelings aside and nodded. Two songs had passed.
Wei Wuxian didn’t put up a fight. He collected Nie Huaisang, and they set off.
The sounds of the town’s celebrations were gradually replaced by the noise of two bickering friends, but Lan Wangji carried the musicians’ melodies with them. They repeated in his mind, and when he glanced at Wei Wuxian, he could recall the smile that had been on his face. It was a memory worth keeping, a bright spot amidst the shadows that were growing around them.
He didn’t know where their current paths would lead them, but perhaps one day, they would hear the music again.
---
His fingers moved over the guqin with the same ease as breathing. But while years of practice could keep his body focused, his mind was anything but. He could sense his own desperation in the way he played - his tempo increased at the slightest movement from the room's main occupant and would slow as he surrendered himself to disappointment.
But for tonight, he could rest a little easier.
Lady Jiang had been called to other duties, leaving him alone to watch over Wei Wuxian. He was thankful for her support, but her presence was unsettling. There was a certain tone in her words and a look in her eyes that made him feel like she knew him better than he wanted her to. And while she continued to keep a respectful distance, he couldn't shake off the unease of having his innermost feelings exposed.
And while the burden of everything unspoken weighed heavily upon his heart, he would gladly suffer in privacy until he was ready.
His gaze drifted to the other end of the room. Wei Wuxian was still asleep, and silence had reclaimed its place in the room once more. But while quiet had never bothered him before, it didn't feel right anymore. His heart longed for afternoons in the library pavilion, filled with nonsensical and continuous chatter that leaned closer to a monologue, rather than an actual conversation.
He picked apart his thoughts, and in his head, he replayed memories that felt more distant than they actually were. His childish words resounded in his ears. He'd meant what he'd said as a joke, but fate proved itself unkind and presented it to him as a reality. Wei Wuxian was hurt, had been on the verge of dying, and now Lan Wangji sat by him every morning and evening, playing songs that he couldn't hear.
---
His ears were still ringing from his last session. The disciples were being taught to play Inquiry, and like all first timers, their struggle was reflected as noise. The overzealous students were off tempo, and the hesitant ones were playing through notes rather than attempting an actual melody. For now, there’d been no happy middle.
But there were more days to come, and hundreds of more exercises to go through. He was sure they’d eventually understand. It was not about throwing out a lure - to embody Inquiry was to be an anchor. In a space where time no longer mattered, a spirit needed a constant to keep it pinned in place.
He supposed his brother carried the same view.
With Wei Wuxian gone, Lan Wangji was an untethered boat, and his brother was determined to bring him back ashore. Instead of calming a restless spirit, his brother was trying to re-introduce a sense of stability into his life.
They shared meals together, they oversaw each other’s classes, and they practiced their skills with one another. It was almost like when they were children, both of them too young to find security in anything but each other.
It was almost stifling, but it was his brother’s expression of love. Where he was stubborn and persistent, his brother was understanding and malleable. Lan Xichen would shape himself to be anything that he felt his brother needed. And while Lan Wangji was still in the process of figuring out what it was that would fill the ache in his heart, his brother was determined to find solutions until something would fit.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
Lan Xichen looked up from his letter. He smiled and beckoned him to come in. “There’s no need to apologize. I meant to stop by your lesson today, but uncle wanted to speak with me.”
There was no need to explain further. Lan Wangji had seen his uncle earlier in the day. Lan Qiren had found him playing Inquiry, but being unable to chide him for lingering over Wei Wuxian’s death, had stormed off with an intense expression on his face.
But while Lan Qiren was a children’s book of emotions, his brother shared in Jin Guangyao’s ability to hide behind smiles. Despite a different upbringing, Lan Xichen had found his own ways to develop such a skill. And even when they’d been younger, his brother had been able to disguise the conflicting emotions that arose with every visit to their mother.
His brother poured him tea. Lan Wangji knew that he was waiting for him to explain himself.
“I have too many questions.”
“Then you can ask me about them, rather than the dead,” his brother replied. He set down the teapot and looked up at Lan Wangji. “I may not have all of the answers that you want, but I can still help you.”
“You can’t fix everything -”
“And neither could Young Master Wei, but that didn’t seem to stop him, did it?” The weight of the name hung between them. His brother had managed to keep his tone even, but he was no longer attempting a smile.
Wei Wuxian had believed that he could win a battle bigger than himself. And in his own way, Lan Wangji hadn’t been much different. His love had blinded him to the reality that all the demons that plagued Wei Wuxian couldn’t be dispelled through his own effort.
“I will find my own way, eventually,” Lan Wangji promised. He held his brother’s gaze. “I know I’ve betrayed your trust in the past, but once again, I must ask for it.”
Their father’s emotions had led him astray, leaving him wracked with guilt and unable to recognize their mother for who she’d really been. Lan Wangji had walked down a similar path with Wei Wuxian, and his brother, being unable to give him the distance he needed to grieve, was making the same mistake. And after losing Wei Wuxian, the last person he wanted to lose was the only person left who could understand him.
His brother took a deep breath. “You don’t need to ask. It’s always been freely given.”
The silence that settled between them was unburdened of a pressure to speak further. Lan Wangji poured his brother more tea. Any moment now, he was sure that the dinner bell would ring, and they’d be forced to return to their uncle and to the rest of the clan.
“I remember when you first played Inquiry in front of me.” Lan Xichen set his cup down, and his eyes were lit up with amusement. “You had such difficulty understanding what the spirit wanted to say. You must have asked for its name at least ten times.”
“I...I don’t remember.”
His brother’s smile softened. “Believe me, it’s true.”
But before Lan Wangji could question the story, the dinner bell interrupted him, and its shrill sound chased away their easy peace. Lan Xichen stood up first, and he waited for Lan Wangji to follow him out of the room.
They walked side by side quietly. Not quite perfectly in step, but gradually, they were falling back into the same rhythm that had guided them for years.
---
He'd decided to present A-Yuan with a guqin on his eighth birthday.
It was a mere secondhand instrument that he'd been gifted during one of his journeys. A head of a minor noble family had presented it to him after he'd dispelled the ghost that haunted a nearby forest. The guqin had supposedly been in their family for generations, but none of the man's heirs had any interest. He'd claimed that he could rest at peace knowing that the great Hanguang-Jun appreciated its value.
When he'd returned, his uncle had frowned at it in distaste but said nothing. Then Lan Wangji had announced his intentions to give it to A-Yuan, and his uncle had left the room, making it clear that he believed that the gift was excessive for a child. His brother had merely chuckled.
In any case, the gift wasn't against any of the clan rules. A-Yuan would be learning musical techniques in a few weeks' time, so the gift was practical. Its appearance was elegant but not excessively so. Its age showed in faint scratches that were only visible up close.
His decision was final. His uncle's continuous assault of disapproving looks and muttered complaints wouldn't dissuade him.
But while Lan Qiren couldn't affect him, it was on the day of A-Yuan's birthday that he came to a sudden realization. He hadn't actually considered whether A-Yuan would actually want a guqin . His thoughts had been naively self-centered. As a child, he'd appreciated the instrument, and as an adult, he'd wanted his son to enjoy the same things he did.
Perhaps A-Yuan would’ve preferred some sort of training sword or a cute trinket. His thoughts drifted to Wei Wuxian, who'd never been a fan of the guqin . He could faintly remember a time when he'd said it was a boring and oversized instrument.
If Wei Wuxian were around, perhaps he would've thought of something better to give A-Yuan on his birthday.
Lan Wangji took a deep breath and shuttered away such thoughts. There was no point. For today at least, he had every intention of celebrating life. And if A-Yuan didn't like his gift, there would be more opportunities to get him something else.
He was nearly at his room when he realized that the doors were already open. He could hear the familiar sounds of inappropriately fast footsteps.
A-Yuan was already inside.
He approached the doorway as if he were sneaking upon a creature, rather than an overexcited child. He watched as A-Yuan approached the guqin. The young boy dropped to his knees gracelessly then leaned over it. After a few seconds, a small hand reached out and stroked its smooth surface.
Lan Wangji finally exhaled.
"A-Yuan," he crossed into the room with renewed confidence, "why are you already here?" He swept his robes aside and knelt down beside him.
"Uncle brought me." A mere look from Lan Wangji seemed to remind him that his excitement was getting the better of him. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "He said you had a gift." A-Yuan reached out for the guqin once more. "Is this it?"
Lan Wangji nodded. "Yes, it’s for you."
"Thank you."
His heart swelled with pride. It was ridiculous to be pleased over a small gesture of appreciation, but there was nothing he could do. "You're welcome."
A-Yuan set his hand atop the guqin . Its width was more than thrice the size of his palm. "It's so big." He whispered before looking back up at Lan Wangji. "I can't play this."
"It may seem too big, but one day, you will be big too." He took A-Yuan's hand and placed it over his. He squeezed gently before adjusting his posture so that he could face the guqin better. "But for now, let me help you."
He led his son’s hand over the instrument. They ran their hands along it together, and it took mere seconds before A-Yuan had the courage to try plucking one of the strings. The resulting sound delighted A-Yuan, who let out a sharp burst of laughter before quickly getting his hands on the rest.
The room was filled with noise as A-Yuan played at random, creating a joyful harmony out of his laughter and his experimentation with the instrument. Lan Wangji felt himself relax as he watched A-Yuan go through familiar motions.
He idly wondered if his mother had felt the same mixture of pride and relief, many years ago. And he hoped, wherever Wei Wuxian was, that he could somehow feel the same.
"Do you want me to play a song for you?" Lan Wangji asked. If A-Yuan went on for much longer, he was sure that one of the disciples would report the noise to Lan Qiren. The last thing he needed was to give his uncle a reason to take the instrument or to give out a punishment on a birthday.
A-Yuan nodded.
He wasn’t familiar with songs that children would like, but he recalled a melody that he’d overheard in one of the towns he’d passed on his way back home. He didn’t want to disappoint, so he started playing immediately.
To his ears, the tune came out clumsy. His fingers faltered after he played a wrong note, and silences stretched on for too long as he figured out how to continue.
He glanced at A-Yuan, curious to see his reaction.
His worry had been misplaced. A bright smile stretched across A-Yuan’s young face, and he tugged at Lan Wangji’s sleeve eagerly. “Can you play it again please?”
It was getting late. They hadn’t eaten dinner yet, but A-Yuan stared up at him with such expectant, hopeful eyes. And although he should’ve known better than to compare, his eyes reminded him of Wei Wuxian.
Lan Wangji’s heart twinged with a familiar ache, but the pain receded as A-Yuan began to chatter about how his father was certainly the best guqin player of all time. He smiled but reminded A-Yuan that excessive compliments weren’t allowed.
His fingers settled over the guqin , well-acquainted with every inch of the instrument. A-Yuan continued to talk, and in the distance, he could hear the faint sounds of crickets and the rustling wind. He let out a deep breath.
This was their life now, and he would make the best of it.
He began the song once again.
---
To have Wei Wuxian back in his life was one thing, and to know that he carried the memory of their song was another. He took a deep breath and stopped playing. His hands were shaking. His body was alive and thrumming with an energy that he hadn’t felt in years.
It felt foolish to hope. He didn’t even know what he was hoping for.
When he’d first hummed the song, it’d been a hastily strung together melody. A reflection of scattered thoughts and unnamed feelings, yet it had somehow been enough for Wei Wuxian.
Once the dust had settled, he decided to finish the song, if only to give himself a better chance to move on. But he was no longer the same person and circumstances were different. There was no more possibility of a future together, but if there was one hope he allowed himself to carry, it was that Wei Wuxian, wherever he was, could be at peace.
The song took shape as he drifted through a river of memories for the perfect notes to put into place. It was in composition that he could allow himself to be fully emotional. He re-lived his longing and loss, and it was only his discipline that kept his back straight and his attention focused. He was crafting this piece not just for himself, but their memory. He wouldn’t allow for it to be left to the wayside.
But regardless of how many times he’d tried to finish the song, it always sounded incomplete. If he attempted to take things in a different direction, the additional notes felt like a betrayal of their story. And so, in the end, he’d let things be. Perhaps the song was meant to be that way. There had been too much left unfinished, it was to be expected that their song would turn out the same way.
He glanced at Wei Wuxian, who’d fallen asleep once again.
Perhaps there’d been another reason the song had felt incomplete.
He strummed the strings of his guqin softly. Its familiar touch was grounding, and although he played without intent, he felt himself settle. His heart was beating at a steady pace, and his mind was clear enough to think.
New melodies came to mind. And unlike before, he could see how they would fit into his composition, how they would diminish the strength of his pains and fill the song with the liveliness of hope.
If he played it aloud, he knew it would completely change everything.
Wei Wuxian let out a soft groan and turned. He was waking up. Lan Wangji drew himself off the floor and moved to be at his bedside. For now, there were more important things to attend to.
The song could wait. Their story was still unfinished.
---
His body ached. He’d condensed a week’s worth of travel into three days. In his younger days, he hadn’t put much thought into how long things would take. If a journey extended by several days, he hardly noticed. After all, when he returned home, everything would be the same. His uncle would be critical of minor things but visibly pleased, and his brother would smile and welcome him back warmly.
But now, during the rare occasions he journeyed alone, he was constantly thinking of when he could return home or seeing things that he felt would be interesting to Wei Wuxian. He’d never been interested in trinkets, but now he gathered them. He calculated how badly any delays would affect his return trip.
He longed to be back, and even now, mere steps away from his home, he played out the scenario that he’d built up in his head.
The disciples would rush out to meet him, and Wei Wuxian would be running with them. They’d drown him in noise, then Wei Wuxian would link their arms together and lead him aside. They’d return to their home, Wei Wuxian would prepare his bath, and -
There was a terrible noise.
His body protested against the strenuous movement, but despite that and thousands of lessons about how running was not allowed in Cloud Recesses, he rushed inside. In his haste, he didn’t recognize the familiar voices that were arguing. All he could register was that something wasn’t right, that meant that there was a problem, and that meant -
He jerked to a stop at the doorway.
Wei Wuxian was kneeling in front of his guqin , their son and Lan Jingyi were beside him, and for some reason, Jin Ling was with them too. And due to their raised voices, none of them seemed to have noticed that he was standing right in front of them.
“You should just quit. You’ll make Hanguang-Jun deaf.”
“The only thing that’ll make him deaf is your fat dog.” Lan Jingyi snapped, “Isn’t it supposed to be special? But all it does is bark for food. Don’t you know that pets -”
“If you can keep useless rabbits, Fairy -”
Lan Sizhui noticed his presence first. Their eyes met, and he stood up and nearly knocked over the guqin in the process. “Hanguang-Jun!” His fellow disciples followed right after, with Jin Ling mumbling a barely passable greeting.
Wei Wuxian was last to stand up.
“What is happening?” The question was openly directed, but his eyes were fixed on Wei Wuxian. The disciples made their best impression of koi as they gaped, unsure of how to answer his question. Wei Wuxian held his gaze and merely smiled. His eyes were lit up with familiar amusement as he challenged his partner to figure things out on his own.
But there was no time for that. Jin Ling gave him an answer immediately. “He’s learning a song for you.” Whether it was a result of being under unexpected pressure, or a desire to pay back some of the embarrassment his uncle had caused him, Lan Wangji didn’t quite know. But what he did know was that he needed to talk to Wei Wuxian.
Alone.
“I need to talk to Senior Wei,” he said finally. The disciples shuffled out immediately, their noise following after them as Lan Jingyi elbowed Jin Ling and started off another argument that was bound to be overheard by Lan Qiren.
But that was a problem for another time. For now, he had something else to deal with.
“Welcome home.” Wei Wuxian bowed with saccharine politeness then watched as Lan Wangji approached. “I wanted to prepare a surprise, but I’ve unfortunately discovered that our son is clearly perfect in all things except teaching and choosing friends.”
He’d imagined coming home so many times, but nothing could quite capture what it was like to actually be home. He crossed the remaining distance between them. His lips brushed against Wei Wuxian’s, a kiss to confirm that it was all real. Familiar hands settled against his body and pulled him in closer.
The next kisses were full of eagerness. Because while he’d missed Wei Wuxian for many reasons, there was no denying that he’d missed this as well. He felt the familiar thrum of hunger that settled into his gut, and any previous thoughts were overwhelmed by more primal urges.
But just as he was considering that they move to bed, Wei Wuxian turned his head away. In a clumsy movement, Lan Wangji’s lips met his jaw, rather than his mouth. The interruption startled him, and he pulled back with wide eyes.
“Aren’t you going to ask?” Wei Wuxian asked.
He cupped Lan Wangji’s cheek, holding him back but also ensuring that he remained in place. Wei Wuxian tilted his head. “I know Jin Ling revealed everything, but surely you’d like to know more.”
“Can it wait?” He asked. His hands found the sash around Wei Wuxian’s waist. Muscle memory guided him, and he untied it in seconds, his eyes still fixed upon Wei Wuxian’s. “I’ve missed you.”
He leaned in for another kiss. This time, Wei Wuxian didn’t turn away.
“Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian laughed. “You’re shameless.”
“Later, I promise,” Lan Wangji whispered before he pulled Wei Wuxian with him to the floor.
---
When he woke, it was dark outside, and Wei Wuxian had returned to his place in front of the guqin . It was a disorienting reversal of positions, and he lingered in bed for a few moments longer than usual.
His reflective mood was soon interrupted by Wei Wuxian plucking a string on the guqin sharply.
“You forgot to close the door,” Wei Wuxian’s words were then followed by a series of incorrect notes. “The children are traumatized, and I know because Jin Ling told me before he took Fairy out on a walk.”
Lan Wangji collected his scattered clothes and began to dress. “Nothing they haven’t heard before.”
He drifted over to Wei Wuxian and knelt beside him. Sheet music rested between the two of them, but Lan Wangji spared it a mere passing glance before moving it aside. He knew what Wei Wuxian was trying to play for him.
“This is too difficult for you,” he murmured. He moved Wei Wuxian’s left hand. “You should’ve started with something easier.”
Wei Wuxian glanced at him. “When have I ever desired to do something that was easy?”
Lan Wangji shook his head. “Stubborn.” He swatted Wei Wuxian’s hand as it moved in the wrong direction. “Making unnecessary noise is against the rules.”
“Says the person who ran into this room,” Wei Wuxian replied. He lifted his hands off the guqin and angled his body toward Lan Wangji’s. “It was meant to be a gift for your birthday, but you came home early and ruined everything.”
He pressed a kiss to Wei Wuxian’s forehead. “I’m happy with it. It’s perfect.”
“Lan Zhan, lying will get you punished.”
“I’m not lying,” Lan Wangji replied. He looked into Wei Wuxian’s eyes. There weren’t enough words for him to express everything that he felt. How could he even begin?
He’d known Wei Wuxian for years. He knew the way he laughed, the way he looked in the morning, and the way he fought. There were thoughts of his that he would never know, but sitting together, Lan Wangji felt overwhelmed with the satisfaction that this was all more than enough.
“You’re quiet.” Wei Wuxian leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to Lan Wangji’s jaw, as if to steady him and his thoughts. As usual, he could read him like a book. “Could you play a song for me?” he asked.
“What would you like to hear?”
“Anything,” Wei Wuxian replied.
He drew away slightly to give him space, but Lan Wangji didn’t feel the difference. It still felt like Wei Wuxian was right beside him. He set his hands over his guqin and started to play. Their song filled the room and was soon joined by the sound of the dinner bell, and then the familiar chatter of approaching disciples.
The disciples knocked at their door. Jin Ling asked if they were dressed. Lan Jingyi protested loudly. Their son simply slid their door open and poked his head in.
“Will you join us?”
Lan Wangji knew what they were going to get into. The dinner would start off silently, Wei Wuxian would start talking, Jin Ling would follow, then so would the other disciples, and inevitably, his uncle would throw Wei Wuxian out.
Despite the flow of time, there were some things that remained constant.
He held out his hand and led Wei Wuxian out of the room.
They trailed behind the disciples, but Wei Wuxian grew tired of that and left to bother his nephew. Lan Wangji watched as they bickered, constant back and forths that reminded him of earlier days. But as with all of their recent arguments, it ended with Jin Ling calling for Fairy.
The dog began barking in the distance, and Wei Wuxian ran back. “Lan Zhan! Save me!”
He welcomed his partner back into his arms. They’d gone through this many times before. Wei Wuxian was breathless, no longer quite as fearful, and his eyes shined with delight. They were already close to the dining hall, yet he linked his arm with Lan Wangji’s anyway, well aware that he’d set off Lan Qiren’s temper with such obvious affection.
Lan Jingyi and Jin Ling were arguing, while their son tried and failed to mediate. Fairy trotted innocently beside her master. Wei Wuxian began whistling a folk song. He could already hear his uncle complaining about the noise.
Lan Wangji met Wei Wuxian’s knowing eyes.
There was nothing that he needed to say.
This was their life.
It was a harmony composed of Cloud Recesses’ calm, the disciples’ noise, everything that had happened, and everything to come. And it was imperfect and unfinished, but it was theirs.