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He’s in the middle of an open field. Not a lifeless, empty field. His crops, watered and cared for all by himself, are flourishing. His robes are tied up messily, around his shoulders, up to his knees, and there’s dirt everywhere, in his hair, under his nails. He can feel the smile on his face, and the lightness in his chest, even under the scorching sun. He smiles at his land and at the little shack he calls a home, and at the boy sitting on the ground next to him, just as dirty, planted like a radish. Over the horizon, he sees the dots of his family, living in their own little homes, living lives that are far from little, larger than the Jins or the Yaos or any sect leader would ever live.
Wen Yuan makes a little sound as a boy approaches him, picks him up in his arms. He’s older, genuinely stunning in the golden threads woven in his robes. A-Yuan smacks his little toddler hand against Jin Ling’s vermillion mark, and the face Jin Ling makes is just like Jiang Cheng’s. Wei Ying laughs but his own laugh is eclipsed by a different one to his left, a laugh that resonates, that is carried away like the wind carries the tilting windchimes of Gusu.
Wei Ying turns and feasts his eyes upon his shijie , regal in the red of her wedding gown, her headdress clinking softly in the vast space of the carp tower.
“A-Xian,” she says. “Come meet your nephew.”
She holds out the child in her arms – just a month old – for Wei Ying to take, and he goes, and he takes him. Jin Ling, his Jin Rulan, is so small, so much smaller than he ever saw A-Yuan, and something constricts inside himself, almost the way the shadows do, and he lets it. Wei Ying lets it because he made it there, he’s holding Jin Ling in his arms, and the bracelet he spent so long carving is too large for his little arm, it makes Wei Ying laugh. Jiang Cheng laughs too, and Wei Ying has to look at him, at the smile he hasn’t seen since before Lotus Pier burned.
“What are you waiting for?” Jiang Cheng snaps, but it’s good-natured, and the sunlight that peeks through the screens of Lotus Pier touch him differently. They always have, lavender and soft, making Jiang Cheng look young and full of life. “The disciples are waiting for you.”
Wei Ying follows him to the hall filled with familiar faces, all the kids that look up to him with wonder, as if he shines as bright as a star, as bright as Jiang Cheng, their sect leader. As he bows to them – with uncle Jiang and madam Yu as witnesses from their home in the Ancestry Hall –, he takes in the deep purple of his own robes. It ties to a promise, wound tight like the thread of fate between him and his – yes, his brother , in loyalty and–
Soul.
Wei Ying reaches for his waist and finds Chenqing tucked right where it’s supposed to be.
Ah.
It’s been long. A lifetime would be a right assessment, a rough estimate, since he felt like this. Back then, he had been only a fraught existence, caught between devastation and a dream. Floating between the desperate desires of his heart (could the dead still have a heart?), living complete, different lives for sixteen years. For sixteen years, he lived with the Wens in a land with no name, but which they called their own. For sixteen years, shijie lived and she was happy with her son in her arms. For sixteen years, he was one of the Twin Prides of Yunmeng, and he led the sect he helped protect to glory.
Sixteen years, come and gone.
The knowledge washes everything away like a titan wave. The pink lotuses of Lotus Pier and Jiang Cheng’s satisfied smile; shijie ’s happiness in golden splendor, her baby held to her bosom; the hardworking Wens in the close distance of his perfect home. He’s back where he started, in a field with no crops, with no child and no one who ever loved him, because all the ones he ever loved were undone by his own hands.
I still am .
He wants to cry, but what bubbles out of his chest is a laugh. Like his past, present and future mingle together, so do the emotions of his heart, overlapping one another, the waves crashing upon the shore.
Wei Ying.
Where have you been?
For sixteen years, in every lifetime that he lived, in what dreams and desires of his heart did he dare to think he could have him? Happiness does not come easy, and for him, every step of the way was paved with sacrifice. Even in his death, he believed happiness would be achieved. For Jiang Cheng. For the sects. For the world, that moved on without him.
Wei Ying.
How could he dream of having it all and also him, in the all-encompassing happiness that he represented, accepting and smiling and loving him, right by his side?
Where have you been?
His voice is a melody, a song for tortured ears, just like it once was in the darkest of nightmares, when the voices in that cursed sword called his name. His voice was sweet and it was grounding and it was home. Wei Ying falls into it, inevitably pulled, inevitably lulled, because this is the deepest chamber of his heart, one he never dared to open, because if he saw it and lost it, if he lost it just as he lost everything else–
What else would be left?
Where would I be, without you?
“Wei Ying?”
The fall ends abruptly, and he’s in his bed, out of breath. In Lan Zhan’s bed. He blinks, his eyelids still heavy, his eyes still dry, but he sees him, painted by the shy dawn that is only beginning to light up the Jingshi. The scent of sandalwood is still heavy in the air from the incense burner next to the bed, and the whole world feels like Lan Zhan. His hands are warm on him, on his shoulder and head, darling fingers brushing his hair away from his face. His eyes, always so sharp, are still puffy with sleep, but his hair is a black river of perfect course, spilling over his shoulder, and it’s almost too much. Everything is still new, the touching, the bed, and right now, above all, the waking together, limbs still tangled, hair meshing together on their pillows.
Wei Ying takes a deep breath and Lan Zhan is so clearly worried, a look that he rarely shows in the light of day.
“Are you all right?”
“Mn,” Wei Ying says. “Just a dream.”
He pulls on Lan Zhan’s robe lightly, just enough to get him to lie back down, just so he can come closer, and closer, and closer, until he makes his bed over Lan Zhan’s body, and his heartbeats are the score he wants to follow. He closes his eyes, focusing on the chest that rises and falls under him, full of life. On the hands that hold his sides, anchoring him, stabilizing him. He inhales and exhales, feeling alive in the minutes Lan Zhan indulges him before he has to rise and be more than just his Lan Zhan, just his soulmate, the person he has now.
He has him. And A-Yuan and Wen Ning, even Lan Xichen, subdued and wounded these days, but like Wei Ying, still alive. He has so many people in the Cloud Recesses that smile and greet him as every day begins anew, and a future with possibilities to make up for the losses he suffered.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He opens his eyes. He doesn’t know what pulled those sentiments back, if there’s something about the incense burner that the juniors recently found and gifted them, or if he’s just…
Terrified.
His arms close tighter around Lan Zhan, and he nuzzles his neck. Because he can, because it’s his , everything that he can see, just as he is Lan Zhan’s, by his very word and choice.
He presses his lips to Lan Zhan’s chest, right on the mark he knows is beneath his lone robe, then again to the corner of Lan Zhan’s lips. They still have count of how many kisses they’ve shared, and there’s nothing to sacrifice for them. Both of them have sacrificed enough, in the wounds of their bodies and souls.
“No,” he answers, awake and in love with the glow in Lan Zhan’s eyes. If he always looks like this when he wakes up, soft and transparent and so clearly in love with him, then Wei Ying sees the benefits of waking up at 5am.
But then again, ever since he said his confession to the crisp winds of the Gusu mountains, when has Wei Ying been able to see a different Lan Zhan?
He lies his head back down on Lan Zhan’s chest, drowsy with affection, but relieved to feel the reality in the weight of Lan Zhan’s hold.
“Can I make you late though?”
“Yes.”
The ticking minutes carry Wei Ying’s dreams away, like incense smoke. He lets them go. They stop prickling his skin like Wen Qing’s needles once did, and he puts her to rest, too. Not to be gone, never gone, because he sees her every time Sizhui stands besides Wen Ning, just like he sees shijie in the rare moments Jin Ling smiles. He sees them everywhere, so is there a need for dreams?
Lan Zhan hums their song. Wei Ying smiles, deep and aching, and tightens his hold on him still. Outside, the windchimes are always singing, always so white and clear, never a dream.