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Death comes like the first snow of winter.
There is the last cloudless moment of heat (the flush of fever and blood), the sharp sting of the cold (wracking chills and bloodless skin), and then, the soft silence of snow fall.
(nothing.)
Lan Wangji has lived through many winters at the Cloud Recesses, but in death he cannot bring himself to linger long enough to see the pristine white blanketing the mountainside. He waits long enough to watch his brother crawl into seclusion before the ache in his chest grows too sharp to bear, and then he just… leaves.
It’s easier than he expected. Gusu has been Lan Wangji’s home in every sense of the word. It is the place where he built and rebuilt himself, the place he rebuilt in turn. It is the place where he met Wei Ying. But the world is wide for a ghost, wider still for one not tied in place by resentment, and Lan Wangji is not resentful.
He’s not sure what he is.
He goes to Yiling.
Time, he discovers, is a strange thing for a ghost. As he drifts through the town Lan Wangji can see the half formed images of a-Yuan clinging to his leg and Wei Ying’s smiling face, bending low to scoop the child into his arms. He watches over and over again as a-Yuan cries and Wei Ying teases him, and the shadow of a Lan Wangji who is long gone simply stares, struck stupid at the sight of something he wants so badly to hold but cannot grasp.
Around him, the people of Yiling go about their lives, unconcerned with the ghosts inhabiting their town, like fingerprints on glass. No one notices Lan Wangji either, save a child clinging to his mother’s hand. He catches Lan Wangji’s gaze and his eyes go wide, tiny hand tugging for his mother’s attention. Before she has the chance to turn, Lan Wangji moves on.
He sweeps through the Burial Mounds, and then the Nightless City. There’s no point in denying what he’s searching for.
He does not find Wei Ying.
Instead, he finds more of the strange half-formed memories, and with them more regrets. The ones at the Burial Mounds are the worst. They recollect every moment when he could have turned towards Wei Ying, and away from the cultivation world and away from his sect. When he could have done something, anything.
“What did you do, Lan Wangji,” the ghosts of this deadened place hiss, clawing their way out of the long cast shadows, “What did you do?”
(A child asks his uncle how to do the right thing.
The uncle says, “You must adhere to the moral teachings of the sect.”
The child asks his brother.
The brother says, “You must adhere to the rules.”
The child asks his mother.
The mother smiles, sadly. She says, “When the time comes, when there are hard choices to be made, you must do what you think is right.”
“How will I know what that is?” the child frets, but the mother is already gone.)
(Here is a truth about the late Madam Lan: She killed a sect elder to protect the woman she loved.
Here is a truth about the late Lan Wangji: For all the world’s fear that he would repeat the sins of his father, he is first and foremost his mother’s son.)
Lan Wangji is given to believe that most people have regrets.
His next stop is Yunmeng.
He travels in a slow drift and reaches Lotus Pier with the first rays of the summer sun. The city is abuzz around him, despite the oppressive heat. For once, he is grateful for the fact that his ghostly body does not feel.
Lan Wangji watches as people haggle with the merchants half jokingly, with warm smiles and loud voices. In the midmorning sun, he can almost see Wei Ying weaving through the crowd, the way he would smile at the grannies selling lotus seeds and tease the children running through the streets.
The fact that he has no memories of Wei Ying like that, joyful and carefree, slotted in amongst the bustle of daily life, is just another thread of cruelty in the tapestry of their lives.
(He remembers those final days, when all of Wei Ying’s smiles never reached his eyes. He looked tired. Lan Wangji could not reach him.)
There is no trace of Wei Ying in Lotus Pier, but Yunmeng is warm and bright. Besides, Lan Wangji has nowhere better to be.
He follows the roads to the outskirts of Lotus Pier, where the blooming lotuses sway in the breeze. Tucked behind the thick greenery, Lan Wangji finds a lake, choked with flowers. No townspeople linger here, and the lake is silent, save the buzzing of the cicadas.
Lan Wangji settles by the shore. He doesn’t need to sleep, not really, but the routine comforts him. The lotus lake is as good a place as any to rest for the night, and it’s… peaceful, here, with the low buzz of the insects and the fresh scent of lotus.
Yes, a very good place to rest indeed.
The next morning, he hears it.
Between the low croaking of the frogs and the wind whistling through the stalks of the lotus flowers - there - he hears a whistled melody. It’s bittersweet and longing and so, so familiar.
Lan Wangji knows that melody as he knows his own heart. In fact, he is one of only two people, living or dead, who know it at all.
He follows the crescent of the lake shore to the origin of the melody and finds…
Wei Ying.
More specifically, he finds Wei Ying’s head, peeking out from the water of the lake. His hair is fanned around him across the surface of the water like a spill of ink, and he looks younger, somehow, lighter than he has in years. Surrounded by the flowering lotuses and bathed in Yunmeng’s summer sun, he is the most beautiful thing that Lan Wangji has ever seen.
“Wei Ying,” he says, dropping to his knees by the lakeside.
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying replies, “What are you doing in Yunmeng?”
“I” - was looking for you, he wants to say, I died and I am still looking for you. - “I am travelling.”
Wei Ying’s face shifts slightly at that. The shadows under his eyes darken and the lines of his cheekbones and jaw grow sharper. “Oh,” he breathes, “Of course.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting Lan Wangji’s own. When the morning sun catches them, they are cast in a red so dark that it is almost black. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying continues, “If you are here to destroy my soul-”
“No!” Lan Wangji cuts him off.
Wei Ying blinks once, then again. His expression doesn’t clear, but he plasters an ill-fitting grin onto his face. “Okay, good. Good,” he repeats, as though he’s trying to reassure himself. “That’s good, because if you were here to do… that, I would have to tell you that I’m not really capable of any dark magic these days. I just came here to rest.”
It’s not hard to put the pieces together from that.
(The child plays his first stumbling attempts at Inquiry over and over again until his fingers are sore and blistered and the brother gently bandages his hands.
“Sometimes,” says the brother, “People’s souls can be… hurt. And when they are hurt, they have to go away and heal.”
“Mother is away, isn’t she,” says the child.
“Yes,” replies the brother, “I think she is.”)
“Then,” Lan Wangji says, “If Wei Ying allows it, I will wait while he rests.”
Wei Ying eyes him suspiciously. “Why would you do that?” he asks.
Because I love you, Lan Wangji thinks, a little hysterically, but Wei Ying is not privy to his thoughts, and whatever easy, silent communication may have existed between them disappeared along with Wei Ying during those three months.
Wei Ying’s eyes narrow and he retreats deeper into the lake. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “What are you doing here, really? Something - something’s happened hasn’t it? Something-”
Wei Ying studies his face, searching for something unknown. Lan Wangji tries to wield his silence like a shield between them, but Wei Ying is as he always is: too clever, too quick. He catches the truth and turns it between his hands, studying it, trying to make sense of it. Then, he says, a not-quite question, “You - you’re dead, aren’t you?”
Lan Wangji does not reply, but that only seems to confirm Wei Ying’s suspicions. In the lake, his face goes slack with dawning horror. “How did this happen?” He demands. “This wasn’t - It wasn’t at the Nightless City, I would have known.” It’s not a question, but his voice is uncertain, panicked.
Exactly what Lan Wangji hoped to avoid.
“Wei Ying,” he says, fighting to keep his tone even, “You do not need to know.”
“Lan Wangji” - He winces at the formal address. - “How did you die?”
“It is my burden to bear,” he tries, but Wei Ying is unmoved.
“Bullshit,” he snaps.
They stare at each other for a beat, neither of them willing to concede.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, “Please.”
Lan Wangji caves.
“After Jin Zixuan’s death. It was agreed that my actions warranted… punishment.”
“After Jin Zixuan’s death… you - you were…” Wei Ying pauses, his face caving into a deep frown. Then, something clicks, and he chokes out, “I thought - I thought that had to have been a dream. It was a dream,” he repeats, desperately. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You - you weren’t supposed to be there, you weren’t -”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji tries to interject, but Wei Ying is unresponsive.
“You weren’t - you weren’t supposed to be there,” Wei Ying babbles, and Lan Wangji watches in muted horror as Wei Ying’s face ripples and then dissolves into the lake.
“Wei Ying!” Lan Wangji calls.
Even as the sun falls behind the trees and the cicadas begin to sing, there is no response. But Lan Wangji has always loved patiently (kneeling patiently in the snow, waiting, waiting, waiting) and without expectation (playing Inquiry, not for the response but simply to say I love you, always, always, always).
He can wait.
It takes a week for Wei Ying to appear again.
His head once again emerges from the water, and Lan Wangji catches the occasional glimpse of his hands, as Wei Ying floats to meet him at the edge of the lake.
“Lan Zhan,” he says, sheepishly, “I’m sorry… about the other day.”
“There is no need,” Lan Wangji replies, smoothly.
“There is,” Wei Ying insists, but Lan Wangji is unmoved. “There is not,” he says, decisively.
Wei Ying stares at him for a beat, before throwing his head back and laughing, bright and loud. The line of his throat bobs against the water of the lake, and Lan Wangji’s heart feels lighter than it has in years. Then, as abruptly as his laughter started, it ends, and Wei Ying sobers. “Seriously,” he says, “What is the ghost of the venerable Hanguang-jun doing hanging around with the likes of me? What would the cultivation world say if they knew?”
“I do not care what the cultivation world thinks,” Lan Wangji states plainly.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying sighs, “Haven’t you heard? I am the monstrous Yiling Laozu, murderer of virgins, terrorizer of children.”
“Gossip is forbidden,” he counters.
“We’re not in the Cloud Recesses,” Wei Ying fires back. Then, he sighs again, heavier this time. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “I’ve killed people. I’ve done horrible things. That’s not gossip, it’s - You should just go.”
“I have as well,” Lan Wangji says.
“I do not regret it,” Wei Ying states, cold and factual. “Some of it, I do, but not - not most of it.”
“I would not ask you to,” is his gentle reply.
(It is true. Lan Wangji has nightmares most nights about mountains of faceless Wen soldiers, Bichen plunging into another man’s torso, his hand slick with blood as he twisted and pulled the blade free.
Still, he does not regret it.)
Wei Ying stares at him for a long moment, and then he says, carefully, “You’re really going to stay here, aren’t you?”
Lan Wangji gives a single nod.
“Okay,” Wei Ying breathes, “Okay.”
Things get easier after that. The days slip by in a warm haze, as more and more of Wei Ying emerges from the lake. Some days, they talk. The conversation flows easily between them, and Lan Wangji lets himself be lulled by Wei Ying’s sorely-missed chatter. Other days, they sit in easy silence, and Lan Wangji leaves Wei Ying to the solitude of his own thoughts, knowing better than to push.
Wei Ying does not ask him to leave again.
Today has been a quiet day. Wei Ying’s chest up is visible as he floats lazily between the lotuses, basking in the afternoon sun. He turns his face towards Lan Wangji, studying him in his inquisitive way, and Lan Wangji stares right back, mapping the planes of his lovely face. He still looks tired, but he’s looked better these past few days. Stronger.
Wei Ying breaks the silence, sitting up to face Lan Wangji properly. “Lan Zhan, if I had agreed to go back to Gusu with you, what - what would you have done?” he asks, uncharacteristically quiet.
And oh, Lan Wanji has constructed such intricate answers to this question. All of the ways he could have helped Wei Ying, all the quiet declarations that could have passed between them and the heated fantasy of Wei Ying’s yes, yes, yes. However complex the lace-like layers of his dreams grow, the core is the same: his home bends itself around Wei Ying and keeps him safe.
“I would have played Cleansing for you. We would have studied the forbidden texts, to strengthen your control,” Lan Wangji says.
“Only you would study in your fantasy, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying replies.
Lan Wangji allows himself a small, private smile and continues, “In the evening, I would take you to Caiyi. And- ”
(And you would tease and ask me to drink with you. I would say no, and you would smile anyway and let me pour your wine. Perhaps, I would have tea. Perhaps, you would insist on pouring my tea for me. Perhaps, you would say you were tired and ask to spend the night. I would rent us a room, just one, and you would lean on me as we walked up the stairs, even though you didn’t need to, and then. And then - )
(loosening the sash around Wei Ying’s waist. One bare shoulder, and then a field of skin, and then hands, and then lips.)
“And that is all,” Lan Wangji concludes.
“And that is all,” Wei Ying repeats. He looks troubled. Lan Wangji wants to wade into the water and smooth the divot between his brows.
“Wei Ying,” he questions, softly, “What is it?”
“Nothing, nothing. It’s silly.” Wei Ying says. Then, he catches Lan Wangji’s gaze, and sees something there that gives him pause. “I just thought - ” he continues, “I had just thought about what it might be like, if you had stayed in Yiling with us. It was selfish, but I - ah, Lan Zhan, I couldn’t help it, when it was you. Who could help but love you?”
(Many people did not love Lan Wangji. He was cold, aloof, unyielding in the most infuriating of ways. Hanguang-jun was beautiful and distant, but Lan Wangji was abrasive and strict. He knew, logically, that Wei Ying did not agree with this assessment, that Wei Ying considered Lan Wangji his zhiji, but Lan Wangji was prepared to love him patiently and distantly. Reciprocity was a fantasy to be indulged in, never expected.)
Wei Ying flushes, apparently realizing what he’s said.
“Wei Ying -” Lan Wangji starts, but Wei Ying cuts him off.
“Lan Zhan,” he says, “Just ignore me! I wasn’t thinking, you know how I just run my mouth.”
“Wei Ying, I -” Lan Wangji tries again, but Wei Ying is already sinking back into the lake.
Wei Ying does not appear in the lake until the early evening, but when he does, Lan Wangji is waiting.
“Wei Ying,” he calls, and Wei Ying turns to face him, already flushing with embarrassment once more.
“Wei Ying,” he says again, “If I had gone with you, I would have stayed, in whatever capacity you would have had me.”
“Ah yes, I can see it now, the venerable Hanguang-jun farming radishes,” Wei Ying laughs. Then, seriously, he adds, “You were never meant for that kind of life, Lan Zhan.”
Beneath that, Lan Wangji hears, you were never meant for me.
“And you were?” he counters.
“I am not the second young master of a great sect,” Wei Ying says.
“I was. Now I am dead,” he replies, gently.
“Lan Zhan, even in death you are still Lan er-gongzi.”
“Then, in death, I am leaving the Gusu Lan sect.”
He doesn’t realize the truth of the statement until he says it. For so long Gusu Lan has been the cornerstone of his identity, the foundation on which he built himself, but since the punishment, since his death, Lan Wangji has been set adrift without it. He has found, startlingly, that there is a Lan Wangji that exists outside of Gusu, outside of Hanguang-jun and his duties and obligations to the sect. There is a Lan Wangji who exists here, on the shores of this secluded lotus lake, amongst the buzzing cicadas and frogs.
Gusu Lan will always be the place that formed him, his first home. But here, with Wei Ying, the choice to move forward, to build something new. It is simple.
“Lan Zhan don’t be silly -” Wei Ying cuts himself short, as Lan Wangji stands and drops into a neat bow.
“I am Lan Zhan, courtesy name Lan Wangji,” he says, lifting his head to meet Wei Ying’s widened eyes, “I am the ghost that lives next to this lotus lake. It… it is not my home, but I feel at peace here. More so, because my soulmate is here.”
“I - Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying sighs. Then, he straightens and bends at the waist, mirroring Lan Wangji’s own bow. “I am Wei Ying, courtesy name Wei Wuxian. I am the ghost that lives in this lotus lake. It’s - I feel safe here. More so… more so, because my soulmate is here,” he finishes softly. He is smiling, not his usual blinding grin, but something small, crooked, and genuine. It dances over his features like the warm light of dusk dancing over the waters of the lake.
(There was a boy, then a man. Now, there is a ghost.)
(Here is what no one told him: After the hard choices have been made, if you are lucky, you may find something easy.)
The next day, a figure in striking black and red stands on the shore. He turns towards Lan Wangji with a brilliant grin, and half steps, half glides towards him.
“Lan Zhan!” He shouts.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji replies, cupping his face gently in both hands. His skin is warm and solid to the touch.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji repeats, as he will always, always repeat, a thousand times across a thousand lifetimes, “Hello.”