Chapter Text
“I must return something to you,” Hanguang-Jun’s voice rung out like a shout to Xingchen’s sensitive ears.
They were in a guest room in Cloud Recesses, kneeling by a table, having just finished their first meal (breakfast? Dinner? Xingchen didn’t know) since Xingchen had awoken in his body for the first time in seven years. The Gusu Lan Sect food had been bland, but Xingchen had been grateful for that. Any warmth burned, any spice stung, any sweetness was sickly. His taste buds were used to dust and stale air. The scent of freshly cleaned linens and sandalwood was sharp to his nose. He felt full, but was unused to a body that could feel empty. His arms were weak. Zichen had taken the spoon from his hand after his shaky grip spilled nearly half the soup he had picked up back into the bowl. He was delicate, feeling more solid than he had in a long time, but he had also never felt so vulnerable. He was glad to be indoors, since he felt that right now, even a gentle breeze, so tied to his reputation (or previous reputation) in the cultivation world, would seem threatening to him.
“I kept it safe,” Lan Wangji continued to read aloud from the hastily scrawled words as Song Lan reached towards Xiao Xingchen, Shuanghua laid out across his palms.
Xiao Xingchen felt Song Lan’s shaking but warm hands fall into his, slowly sharing, then passing the weight of the sword back to its true master.
Xingchen flinched. He had been expecting the sword’s usual coolness, but the metal seared his skin with a cold he had been unprepared for, a jolt through his palms as the weight of the familiar sword hit his hands, and the backs of his hands hit the table, unable to hold the sword unsupported with the atrophied body he had returned to. He was not sure he wanted to carry the sword anyway.
It thrust forward. He felt the impact. “Is that you?” he had asked, not knowing that his question should have been directed at Shuanghua’s victim, not his seeming companion.
“Zichen? Zichen? Is that you?” he had said, this time directing the question to the right person, but far too late. The realization. The sharp kiss of the blade against his throat… no more until… until…
He swallowed, hands clenching tight on the sheathed blade. A touch on his shoulder, Zichen’s gentle hand, stabilizing his shuddering form as he held Shuanghua in his hands again. The blade that had done such damage. That he had trusted to such devastating effects. It made sense that his body, so unused to feeling, to touch, would be particularly repulsed by the blade that had destroyed first the innocent, then his heart, before finally turning on himself.
Though he was sure the others could see the hot, iron-scented tears he felt running down his face, he forced his mouth into a soft smile. The weight was his to bear. He was not at fault, he understood that now, after all these years of reflection, of slowly putting his soul back together. But it had been the pair of them, his hand and his sword, who had been the instrument of all this hardship, who had trusted each other and those around them too readily. And that would be his burden as the one who bore this hand, this sword, for his life to come.
He breathed, “Thank you, Zichen,” he said, managing to keep a quiver out of his voice as he leaned into the hand. Xiao Xingchen rose to one knee, then a foot as he stood up, unused muscles thrumming back to life as he used them to draw the sword for the first time since it had taken his own life.
Lan Wangji, meanwhile, watched Song Lan’s face. The soft frown, his brows laced with caution. The not so subtle glances from Xiao Xingchen’s face to Shuanghua, gleaming dangerously, no less sharp than it had been all those years ago, trusting the holder, but unable to forget the power of the weapon. Song Lan was a mirror of everything Lan Wangji had felt coursing through him four years earlier in Guanyin Temple, watching Wei Ying easily catch Chenqing and draw it to his lips, memories of quiet nights in the midst of the Sunshot Campaign, a flute and a guqin singing together through the night, overwhelmed and tainted by flashes of tears, blood, pain, Chenqing falling off the cliff first, and, as always, calling its master to follow its descent down… down…
Lan Wangji hoped Song Lan would write something, that it would be made clear that he was still meant to be here. The two rogue cultivators were silent and still, but for the slow circles Song Lan’s hand drew on Xingchen’s back and Xiao Xingchen’s fingers slowly travelling over every inch of the sword, as though looking for some physical defect to confirm its scarred history. Red tears streamed down Xiao Xingchen’s face. Song Lan reached for a still damp cloth from the tray where the now empty spirit pouch lay, reaching to catch the tears before they had a chance to reach white robes. Lan Wangji looked away. This felt like a private moment, but he could neither leave without a word, in case Song Lan wanted to say something, nor did he feel like he could interrupt to excuse himself. But the two, for the moment, seemed to recognize little else but each other.
He tried to clear his mind, closing his eyes and senses to the world around, blurring out the sound of Xiao Xingchen’s gentle whispers of thanks, of reassurance that he was ok, turning away from the tender but hesitant look and touch with which Song Lan refamiliarized himself with his beloved. Lan Wangji longed for a more concrete distraction from the scene before him, both out of courtesy and also because this reunion served as a painful reminder of the long years of separation leading to his own.
He was considering the merits of playing his guqin to remind the couple that he was still there, when Wei Ying, as always, came just in time to save him.
He entered the guest room with a handful of loquats. He grinned openly at Lan Wangji, whose reflexive response was a relieved if still restrained smile. Wei Ying tossed him a piece of fruit. Only after he confirmed that Lan Wangji, having easily caught the loquat, would actually eat it did Wei Ying turn to the guests, then back to his husband, who was still carefully avoiding any glance to that side of the room.
Wei Wuxian let out a quiet laugh, understanding Lan Zhan’s dilemma at once.
“Xiao-xiong! Song-xiong!” Wei Wuxian called. The two cultivators’ faces snapped towards the door, Song Lan blinking as though coming out of a dream, “I’m just going to grab Lan Zhan for a little bit if that’s ok? We’ll be by the warren if you need anything.”
Xiao Xingchen smiled, bowing his head mildly, seeming much less disoriented, or at least better at masking it, than his partner, “Of course, Wei-gongzi. We will come find you if anything comes up.”
“Thank you,” Wei Wuxian bowed quickly, then beamed, grabbing Lan Zhan’s wrist, “Let’s go, Lan Zhan!”
The two left the guest room, making their way to the rabbit colony. Wei Wuxian noticed that Lan Zhan’s hand, which had crept its way up to take his wrist’s place in Wei Wuxian’s hand, held his own more tightly than usual.
“What’s wrong?” Wei Wuxian asked, earning himself only a slow, barely audible breath from his husband in response.
Wei Wuxian was not deterred. He had spent years decoding, studying, now practicing the subtle language of Lan Zhan’s expressions. He prided himself in its mastery, revelled in the looks of surprise whenever he correctly guessed even the most well-hidden of worries, (celebrated the rarity of the fearful, tearful, frustrated expressions that had often marked his previous life’s study of a face that should never bear anything but a smile).
While Lan Zhan might not be so forthcoming in the public, well-travelled areas of the Cloud Recesses, the bunnies’ warren provided just the privacy and comfort they needed.
They sat amongst the sea of fluffy snowballs, both silent, enjoying the quiet and the sun. Wei Wuxian felt a tickle on his hand, which was pressed into the ground as he leaned back. He looked down to see a small rabbit sniffing curiously at it.
Wei Wuxian smiled and picked the bunny up, stroking its ears gently, “Little rabbit, little rabbit, can you get my silly husband to tell me what thoughts are going through his head?” he asked, before turning to lay the bunny in Lan Zhan’s lap, “Let’s see if you have any luck.”
Lan Zhan’s eyes widened as though it was still a surprise that such a small creature would settle so cozily against his form. His mouth curved into the smallest smile as he lifted the bunny to his face. Wei Wuxian’s eyes crinkled as he grinned at his husband, who seemed unaware both that Wei Wuxian was watching him, and at the fact that his eyes crossed gently as they followed the bunny closer to his face.
Wei Wuxian settled back. He still wanted to talk to Lan Zhan about his conflicted expression in the guest room. He guessed it might be related to the bittersweet memories of their own reunion that their guests, one smiling, one silent, that had been brought to the front of his own mind since Xiao Xingchen had awoken. But Lan Zhan seemed to need some distance from the cause before he could discuss the effects. He knew Lan Zhan would talk to him once he had had the chance to regain his usual calm.
Closing his eyes to the warmth of the sun, the wind carrying a gentle floral scent towards them from somewhere upstream, he remembered a time when Lan Zhan was not simply quiet, peaceful as he was now, but closed off. He remembered the moments he had broken through that wall, first provoking anger, then concern, and finally, the first smile at a bunny on a lantern before they had made the pledge that would define so much of what followed.
He remembered having to slowly ease open the various gates and doors keeping others away from where Lan Zhan was most vulnerable. Admit to pain, to grief, to love. He remembered the simultaneous feeling that Lan Zhan was doing the same to him, tearing down barriers he hadn’t even known he had. The sheer intensity of the initial exposure of long hidden parts of himself to another, of uncovering wounds long concealed, many reopening before they could heal. He remembered a gradual climb, travelling apart, together, building and rebuilding parts of themselves that finally had the space to fall apart. Eventually able to settle into the synchronicity, the stability, the love that had now come to define their every day life together.
The looks on Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen’s faces reminded him of the them of before, shortly after Wei Wuxian’s return, the awkward reversal of grief, of guilt examined, forgiveness denied due to a refusal to blame. It drew them both to a time before so much healing, so much growth.
Wei Wuxian kept his eyes closed and felt sideways blindly until he found the hand he was looking for and squeezed. Lan Zhan, silently squeezed back. Not a word was spoken, no glance exchanged, but everything that needed to be said was understood.
He was glad that Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen were now able to start their long journey forward together. He and Lan Zhan would help however they could. He was though, perhaps selfishly, glad that this new beginning was theirs and nothing but a distant memory for him and Lan Zhan.