Archive of Our Own

He smiled, curled around the form of the other, sleep lulling him into her blissful embrace like a soft blanket of warmth.

He was safe. He was alive.

Those words echoed in his head over and over and over again; repeating until they became his personal mantra, his personal saving grace.

Never, ever, ever again.

He sighed as he finally succumbed to the warmth and emptiness of sleep.

Mo Xuanyu didn't know when it had happened, in this strange new life of theirs they'd been all granted. It might've been yesterday, or the day before that. It might've happened at the very beginning -- he didn't know, and honestly didn't care.

He was simply glad to have anyone -- both of them -- by his side.

It had been a slow realization; the kind that sneaked its way into one's life without notice and became a part of it.

How he sought one's approval, given freely with jovial smiles as bright as the sun.

How he sought the other's encouragement, a soft hum filled with affection.

How he saw their worry and smiled, hunching into himself whenever they asked. How he tried to please whichever way possible.

One's laugh.

the other's soft look.

How Mo Xuanyu followed every request to the best of his ability. How he always, always kept in the background, never to be noticed (so that they may not touch him again, ever again). How he would smile and nod and shrink away; his own smile never quite reaching his eyes, his posture slumped and head held low.

A pair of eyes gleaming a wicked red, red, red --

another a gaze of molten gold.

Mo Xuanyu would sometimes stare at nothing, for hours on end not moving, only to jump as one laid a blanket over his shaking shoulders, murmuring softly to him, one hand spread apart on his back in support.

He was afraid of closed rooms, now; he had never been, before, not even in his faraway past. Touches of others, however unintentional, made his gut wrench and his breathing shallow, and he shied away from confrontations and indecision like a cat from water.

How he felt calmest when he had precise instructions to follow, orders to fulfill.

Both understood, and made him better for it.

Oh, but how he loved how their hands would weave through his hair, calming him down and easing his worries; how he loved their soft, reassuring touches they both gave freely and without disgust -- he craved the contact, never despising.

Mo Xuanyu sought out their touch and shied away, tried to content himself with watching them and knowing as cold shivers pooled low in his stomach, not understanding why and hating himself for it. He realized - they, all three of them, realized slowly how cracked and broken he was, how close he had been to snap and go crazy, and how he was still brittle and all wrong; sharp and dull and torn apart and held together by the seams. They realized, and held him, kept him from falling apart completely.

(He'd been branded a lunatic in that faraway past, and maybe that was the truth.)

Mo Xuanyu was a blink away from truly snapping when he'd let his careful mask slip once too many times, when he'd felt the knife slide out of his palm and saw it coated in a thin layer of red -- that's when they found him and patched him together again, all three of them.

One's approval was still something he sought, but not out of hollow desperation for something wretchedly-familiar but for a smile and laugh and touch.

The other's words of encouragement warmed his insides as much as warm glances and fleeting touches did, and Mo Xuanyu looked forward to them with a sense of unease and something else he dared not voice.

He admired them both for their good qualities and their bad both past and present, and cherished the warmth, these feelings and emotions as much as he loathed them. And then Mo Xuanyu would wonder in disgust and frown, balling his fist until he drew crimson blood, not stopping; staring into empty nothingness as his fingers clawed at his betraying skin.

One's grin. The other's smile. One's earnestness and cheer, the other's demeanor and countenance. Their unapologetic truth; their former lives and hopes and regrets stained blood-red by the single-plank-bridge path that had been unavoidable.

Mo Xuanyu exhaled softly, his hands loosening, the crescent shaped marks leering at him from amongst their peers.

Mo Xuanyu's eyes were rimmed red from tears and sleeplessness, his jaw drawn into a taut line. He hadn't slept - wouldn't sleep, because his memories and nightmares returned the second he closed his eyes, his body a different entity from his mind.

Instead he stared at the hot and steaming tea in front of him, mulling about, his hand toying with a strand of his hair.

He knew both of them had been watching him for the last few days, now, their features worried and their hands clasped together in solidarity and (more than a) lifelong yearning he was intruding upon with his mere presence these past few months. Then something shifted, and determination spread across their features, handsome and sharp-looking in the low light.

Mo Xuanyu tried to ignore the shiver and low-pooling warmth as always, his gaze dull as he fixed it onto the ground, lips worried between his teeth.

They'd noticed he was awake again.

"Hanguang-Jun," Mo Xuanyu breathed, his ever-guiding light of this lifetime. The other man was at his side in an instant, a steady hand on his shoulder, his brows pinched together slightly, eyes shimmering as if he were in pain. His other hand fond one of Mo Xuanyu's.

"Mn." He said, voice soft. "Follow."

It was a simple word, but it made him glance at the third, a silent "Yiling Laozu," escaping his lips, an adequate address for the vanquisher of his nightmares and demons. Uneasiness and wariness were a constant amongst faintly flickering hope in Mo Xuanyu's mind, until his cup was softly taken out of his hand and another was placed inside.  

The angry red hue in those grey eyes belied the softness of the gesture. "Follow," both of them said, and Mo Xuanyu shuddered, obliging.

He was safe and he was alive and he was warm, cocooned in a bed that was too small to fit them but fit them nonetheless perfectly.

Mo Xuanyu had his first good night's rest since he could remember.

The sword wasn't necessarily something Mo Xuanyu would attach words or meanings such as calming or steadying or safety to, but it was helping in some way.

He was his own master, Hanguang-Jun had said, so he could decide his own fate. That sword would be his and no-one else's, an extension of his own will and belief and hope. Mo Xuanyu had smiled wobbly, clutching the intricate hilt and sheathe close to himself, marveling at the leatherwork and detail it showed. They might have all been cultivators, in their shared past, but Mo Xuanyu was never given the honor of owning his own cultivation blade. He'd never been a master at anything. Mo Xuanyu had never been his own master, not at Lanling Jin, nor at his aunt's house.

He had always belonged to others in a way that still made his skin crawl, in a way that he felt unworthy of even touching such a beautiful blade. Mo Xuanyu was nothing but a stray brought before us for our entertainment, the sect leader had whispered. "I can do with you what I want; I could throw you out this second, and no-one would come to your aid. Not that bastard half-brother of yours. Certainly not your mother or aunt." Mo Xuanyu had been a fucking dog, at the sect. At his own home. A stray dog, a lost dog. Dog, dog, dog… bad dog, good dog, good bitch, good boy, kneel down lick there beg for food begformore--

"...Xuanyu?" Hanguang-Jun's voice brought him back, low and calm and worried, one of the many, many rabbits huddled in his hands and against his chest. It was adorable.

"I'm alright, Hanguang-Jun." The line was practiced and flawless and so obviously untrue that Mo Xuanyu cringed slightly, clutching his new sword closer to himself. Hanguang-Jun just sighed softly before he set down his precious rabbit and walked over, sitting down near Mo Xuanyu. Both were silent for a moment, watching Mo Xuanyu trace the peony-pattern on the sheathe.

He did not know nor wish to figure out how the other two had acquired the blade in this day and age, but he remembered that his therapist had told him that finding something to which he could attach his self-worth to was a step in the right direction. As of now, the sword only brought painful memories of a past life to mind, the has-beens and the could-bes, the knowledge that he's never owned one despite having been old enough, because he's been nothing but a failure and a the sect's little bitch. Wagging your tail for treats and compliments from your elders, aren't you? Even I have a sword, and I'm younger than you!

Mo Xuanyu shook his head to dispel the memory and glanced hopefully at Hanguang-Jun, full-well knowing that the other man had intended for him to name the sword himself.

Hanguang-Jun sighed softly. "... I can give you pointers; do not ask Wei Ying for help." He stood up in an elegant arch. "Come help with the rabbits."

Mo Xuanyu smiled softly and followed, the sword securely tucked back inside a stand.

Their lives were a strange game of make believe and pretend, full of truths and half-lies and crooked grins and smiles and other. Mo Xuanyu didn't know what cruel entity thought it fun to throw him into it as well, without any warnings as he suddenly woke up not in his old shed with a bloody array drawn into the wood and the soul of the Yiling Patriarch in his body but in this modern world, going through a day (or a week or a month, he couldn't remember) on sheer muscle-memory alone while he internally broke down, old memories clashing with new, strange ones.

He was Mo Xuanyu, sole survivor of a fire that took out his whole estate and close family -- he'd been living on his own since then, and he'd had a dissociative episode in a market where he'd gone to buy himself groceries, the moment when he'd gotten all of those dreadful memories back.

But he was also Mo Xuanyu, illegitimate son of the late sect leader Jin Guangshan, thrown out of his sect because higher-ups were uncomfortable with him being a cut-sleeve, and he'd been ready to give up his life for revenge on those who'd wronged him because something in him had broken, that day he'd returned back to the Mo Manor in Mo Village and was branded a lunatic and then abused by his so-called family.

It was scary and confusing and gruesome, and Mo Xuanyu had wanted to do nothing more than rest, finally, when he'd found himself standing on the railing of a bridge somewhere deep inside what he surmised were the modern Burial Mounds, now a grave site where death could be felt even by the living. He'd thought it a fitting end, for himself, and had been ready to jump off into the black waters bordering the cemetery and the wild mountainside, when someone had put a stop to it and finally offered answers.

Mo Xuanyu didn't tell any of those things to his therapist, though -- well, she knew that he'd tried to jump off the bridge, but not the reason why -- she was a good and nice woman, but Mo Xuanyu couldn't burden her with the knowledge of reincarnation, transmigration; of battles and wars and blood amidst which he'd grown up, part of a lost generation caught between the oppression of the Wens and the Siege of the Burial Mounds. Instead he'd told her that he was getting better, truly, his new housemates were helping him immensely.

He'd tell her how he'd once prepared some dishes with Wei Wuxian (how he'd almost died then and there from the ungodly amount of spice and seasoning the other used) or how Hanguang-Jun (Lan Wangji in this new world to everyone, or Lan Zhan, though Mo Xuanyu still felt strange at being allowed to call such a well-respected war hero by his courtesy or personal names. He was getting there, though.) would play his guqin for him whenever the terrors would freeze him once more, or braid his hair, and his therapist would smile and dot down notes, redirecting his answers and questions.

They would circle around each other and the truth, and Xuanyu left at the end of each session, feeling guilt gnaw at his bones for never telling her the full extent of his feelings and impressions, but thought it for the better. He knew, after all, that Doctor Wang Yifei only wished to help him, but the shame and fear kept him in this game of endless cat and mouse.

So, without answers, they kept circling around questions like fools, playing a game of his make-believe better condition and his pretended calmness and normalcy in a world in which he didn't feel as if he fit into.

Lan Wangji worried enough for all three of them, he was aware of it, which is why he decided to ask the doctor if he could be of help, somehow.

"Not really," Wang Yifei has said, "unless Mo Xuanyu wants to be helped. Right now, he doesn't believe he's worth it."

Lan Wangji frowned at the tidbit of information, remembering a still-unnamed sword and countless, countless masks (some finished, some half-done, some nothing more but a sketch on paper with pitch-black ink) scattered around a dimly-lit room and had to admit to himself that that assessment was quite accurate. Then Wang Yifei had asked about Lan Wangji's own observations on Mo Xuanyu's behavior and health, and the former Hanguang-Jun carefully chose some of the better moments to illustrate a recovery that was in truth still slow-going.

Mo Xuanyu would heal, he simply needed more time.

(Still, that didn't make the guilt inside of Lan Wangji lessen, as he thought of a wall filled with thousands of rules that was still partially standing to this day and age.)

They all still needed time, after all.

Wei Wuxian was, surprisingly, the only one of their little group who told more truths than half-lies, memories of the Burial Mounds and lingering guilt towards Wen Qing reminding him of how important it was to trust a doctor, his dreams still filled with death and corpses and the distant war-drum heartbeat of the Burial Mounds.

Wei Wuxian remembered the taste of human flesh and of human blood better than he would like to; felt himself sometimes sympathizing with those people in documentaries that had had to turn towards cannibalism to survive and were shunned by society. He also felt that the woman was an exceptionally great listener, no matter if she thought Wei Wuxian escaped a cult or not, based on their few sessions.

It's not like he could tell her the truth, and anyways, the mental image was way too funny to give up, and helped him admit some things not even Lan Wangji knew.

And Wei Wuxian may not know everything there is to know about Mo Xuanyu or his former situation, nor would he pry unless the information was willingly divulged, but he did his best to help and mend and heal, because it helped and mended and healed him bit by bit as well. He'd told Wang Yifei how the three helped each other better than they could alone, and she smiled at him with that secretive smile all therapist somehow had and let him go.

“So, I simply have to list things I associate with either of them?” Mo Xuanyu had blinked slowly, softly, and looked to the spot slightly under her eyes after holding contact for all of three seconds, as if it was ingrained (or beat) into him to avoid contact and conflict.

Wang Yifei smiled at her patient, nodding encouragingly, observing his reactions and impressions. She had explained their session, and unlike other times, it seemed that Xuanyu intended to follow through without deceits and aversions.

She was not fooled by his placid manner - she noticed how he shifted and looked, guilt seeping into his form every time he left out something important - how his housemates did the same, softly, silently protecting each other. And she knew not if she should be worried for all three of them or glad that the soft-spoken and timid man had such support after what had been his past.

Wang Yifei wished a recovery more than anything, but it was slow going and required patience and reading between the lines more than from any other patient in the past. He was a puzzle, this Mo Xuanyu, but one she wished to solve whole, without any missing pieces. He blinked again and earnestly met her gaze now, none of his previous servant-shyness present, something faraway and old entering his gaze, as it sometimes did.

(She tried not to think about the reason).

And Wang Yifei listened as he spoke: fair and just and humble and strong and silent; nice and smart and impish and proud.

Blue and white -- great and good and well and home and safe; guqin and rabbits and poetry and bearing light against darkness.

Red and black -- earnest and sharp and smart and protective; dixi and crows and lotus pods and vanquisher of demons.

Wang Yifei stopped writing for a second, a small smile twitching at the corner of her lips and daring to break through; this was what she'd wanted him to achieve, all of those held-back and positive emotions of his that were waiting to bubble up towards the surface. Mo Xuanyu's answers were steadily flowing together, both combining into one as his shoulders eased and he'd closed his eyes, lost in thought and emotions as he continued to mutter softly to her.

Soft and warm and safe and home and beautiful and gold and music, guqin, clarity, inquiry, clouds and red and blood and dixi and sunset and ribbon; laughter and crying and worry, worry, worry, worry -- relief and grief and mourning and safety and smiles,,

one's smile, the other's laugh, one's hair pinned back, the other's hair in a ponytail; red, red eyes and molten gold. One's countenance, the other's eagerness, their truth. Their truth. All of it; beautiful and ugly and horrid and old, old, old but not dead -- great and scary alike, still alive today despite being so-long ago.

Wang Yifei smiled.

(Glanced down at her notes, after her client had left, the thrice-underlined guqin and inquiry next to her little scribbles at the end; all three housemates -- or would-be-lovers, she wasn't sure yet, but wished them all the best nonetheless -- loved using some form of code that lent credibility to her belief that there had been a cult involved, somewhere in their past. But these words, in conjuncture with vanquisher of demons and bearer of light, reminded her starkly of those historical novels and shows she loved to watch as a kid -- inquiry, when played on a guqin, was said to be a cultivation technique, after all. One widely popularized because of the historical figure of the little-known-about but well beloved Hanguang-Jun and all of the dramatized adaptions of the fall of the cultivation world.

Maybe, Wang Yifei mused, I should brush up on my xianxia and wuxia knowledge, if they continue speaking in strange codes.)