Work Text:
Dearest Lan Zhan,
...
Wei Wuxian checks into a hotel in the middle of Boat Quay. His body is aching, tired from the long fight he had with a particularly stubborn ghost. She is, he learns, what they called a pontianak , which is apparently rare in the middle of the city. Her home was uprooted, chopped down to make way for a line of restaurants and bars. Forced out with no home to go back to, she could only take her grief out on passers-by. The only thing left of home was the lingering scent of frangipanis that she carried in her long hair. Childless, homeless, her resentment swallowed the street, determined that everyone who crossed it felt as miserable as she did. As angry as she did. Be punished as she had been.
The woman working at the front desk barely looked at him. “How long?” Her fingernails click mechanically at the computer in front of her.
“Just for tonight.”
“Shared toilet, okay?” He nods. “$35. Cash or card.”
He winces. It is still slightly above his budget, but it would have to do. He pulls out his wallet and hands over some cash. He completes the registration as she scrolls impatiently on her phone, glancing occasionally at the papers with a soft ‘tsk’. She hands him the key card when he’s done.
The room is small but relatively clean. The air is stale, and there is a strange, unpleasant, unidentifiable scent lingering in the room. He takes off his shoes, peels off his socks (he needs to wash them soon) and settles down. He needs a shower. There is crusted blood on his arm and leg from a particularly bad fall. He is half-sure that the cut on his back has opened again. Thankfully, he was wearing an old black shirt he did not care much about. Still, he wonders if he could wash the blood out. The scent of blood is dizzying. Then again, the scent of blood has long seeped into his skin, and no amount of washing or scrubbing could rid himself of it.
(When he was 20, in the Burial Mounds, blood was all he smelt. Funny, because he never thought that corpses would smell like blood, nor did he think resentful energy had a smell at all, but the air was thick with the scent of blood and death, heavy and sharp and metallic, like broken swords. Blood had seeped right into the soil, and then, into his skin.)
(When he was 21, during the war, he learnt how blood leaks from wounds, learnt how blood splattered onto walls and floors, how it clung onto your skin. The wetness of blood on his face didn’t feel so different from tears, he had thought. Everyone learnt to live with blood on their hands. Everyone had blood on their hands.)
(He had always been familiar with blood. Blood from his knees, leaking after a fall. Blood from his palms. Blood from his chin, when he fell on the dock at Lotus Pier. He had his fair shares of cuts and wounds, grew up with small scars and scabs over his body. Jiejie would carefully clean each wound up. Sometimes, he would whine and pout, seeking comfort from her gentle care. Sometimes he would laugh at Jiang Cheng, who would wince. He didn’t think much of blood then. Didn’t think much of pain.)
(Blood, he learnt, was a sign of life. He had died once, not too long ago. He didn’t think he had any more blood left in him. But there was. Blood still pumped through his veins. Sometimes, he had to check, witness the red liquid seeping from his body.)
(Blood was power when written on talisman. Blood topples. Blood protects. Blood is power.)
(Blood could be horrifying, terrifying, heart-stopping. Blood, when it came from Jiang Cheng, eyes dull and empty, voice barely a whisper when he said that his golden core was gone. Blood, when it came from Jiang Yanli, a bullet in her stomach, caught in the crossfire. Blood, when it came from Lan Wangji, a bullet in his leg. Blood, when it stained the grounds of his home.)
…
I have been thinking about
He places chenqing on the small bedside table and finds the complimentary toiletries in the drawer.
It is midnight, and the shared toilet is unoccupied. The shower hisses when he turns the knob, and a blast of freezing water sprays out. He yelps. The cut on his back stings. He fumbles for the knob and tries the other direction. Just a smidge. The showerhead splutters for a second, before a stream of water gushes out. This time, it almost burns his skin off. Wei Wuxian cannot decide which is the lesser of the two evils. His cut sort of hurts either way. Water and exposed flesh are not friends, we all know that.
He clenches his teeth. Let him burn, he thinks. He deserves it. (Or rather, the stream of cold water reminds him too much of a distant memory, when the cold did not and could not pierce his bones, when it was shared with a man with eyes sharp and golden. But now his body is weak, and his bones are always cold, and the cold seems like it will never leave.) His skin turns red under the water, angry and raw. The heat would be nice, if he were back in Gusu, where the winter is long and freezing but he is now in Singapore, in Southeast Asia, where it is perpetually hot and humid and sticky.
He scrubs himself clean, washes away all the grime and dirt and dried blood. His body is covered in mysterious bruises, purple and tender to the touch. There is one on his hip, and another on his inner thigh. The one on his chest is particularly tender. There is one at the bottom of his dantian , at the spot where his golden core would have been. He presses on it, sending a small jolt of pain through his nerves. Tender, sore, angry. His wrist has a ring of bruises, where the pontianak had gripped him. I just want to go home , she had screamed. She would have cried, if she had tears. But she is dead, and there were no tears to spare.
(I want to go home too , he had let himself think, for a second.)
(Once upon a time, he had found a home at Lotus Pier, with the Jiangs. Home then, was blue skies and equally blue lakes full of lotuses. It was lotus root and pork rib soup made by jiejie, the meat so tender they simply melt in his mouth. It was running around the pier with Jiang Cheng, mock-fighting. It was walks through the city, where they would have mala hotpot, no matter how hot the weather was. It was secret evenings spent in the internet café, and then sneaking back home before Yu furen realised it (she mostly did, and they would get punished but even that was fun with Jiang Cheng around.)
(Then, it was with the Wens, all of them cramped in an abandoned house on a hill in Burial Mounds that looked like it had time-travelled. It wasn’t ideal, but they had made it work, leaking roof and all. They made the inhospitable hospitable. It was cold all the time, and there wasn’t any internet, and the signal was sparse, and he couldn’t help but think of those he had left behind but— it was still home, sort of, at least. They had managed, had created a small home and even had a small farm, where they grew potatoes and turnips and whatever vegetables that were stubborn enough to survive in the harsh environment. It was trying to bury A-Yuan in the soil, squabbling with Wen Qing, drinking Fourth Uncle’s wine, watching Wen Ning and Popo bustle about.)
(In between, he once thought of his dormitory room as a home. It was big enough to house him and Lan Zhan, who was probably stuck with him because of an administrative error that never got corrected.
“All done,” he would grin at Lan Zhan, hands full of grocery bags. Lan Zhan would take the bags from his hands with an “Mn.” Lan Zhan would take a look at the contents of the bag and frown disapprovingly. Wei Wuxian would always throw in bags of chips (always spicy), soft drinks and other snacks that Lan Zhan definitely would not approve of when he was not looking. Wei Wuxian would laugh, head thrown back and eyes glistening.
“Come on, let’s go home,” he would gently bump Lan Zhan’s shoulders. He would nod, and when they were back, Lan Zhan would watch as Wei Wuxian inhaled a bag of spicy chips in one sitting. Wei Wuxian would annoy him, tempt him, crawl closer so that they were one chip apart until Lan Zhan took a small nibble and watched as his ears turned a faint pink from the spice.
Some nights, they simply sat next to each other, studying. Some nights, they would be in the music studio. Some nights, they just lived.
Then, Lotus Pier burned.
Then, his small home in Burial Mounds burned.
Once, Lan Zhan had softly asked, “Will you visit Cloud Recesses?”
Once, Lan Zhan had said, “Go back to Gusu with me.”
Once, Wei Wuxian had scoffed at Lan Zhan, pried his arm away from his grip and walked away.
See – he doesn’t have a home anymore.)
…
I
Wei Wuxian twists his arm, fingers searching for the cut on his back. It doesn’t feel that serious or deep. It hurts, though. Of course it does. But pain feels like a comfort, familiar, almost a friend. It grounds him. When the world feels like liquid around him, pain feels solid, real. He desperately wants to grasp at it.
The water is tinged pink.
He dries himself off, bandages his cut (it has become second nature, really, to bandage himself without a second thought. He should probably put on some medication or something, but he doesn’t have any on hand, and pharmacies only open in the morning. Wen Qing would kill him if she were here. You will be the death of me she would sigh, and gently slap on some medication on his back. And Wen Ning would be there, hovering with worry, a bottle of water in his hands. He always had water on him. And A-Yuan will tug at his sleeve and ask if he was okay, eyes huge with worry. And he would press a sweet he was saving into Wei Wuxian’s palms and - )
Wei Wuxian brushes his teeth. The fan in the toilet buzzes quietly. Someone knocks on the door.
“Coming!” He manages to say, mouth full of toothpaste. He hurries, rinses his mouth far too vigorously for such a simple task, and sweeps everything into a plastic bag. He opens the door to a man around his age, eyes half-opened from sleep.
Wei Wuxian falls onto the bed with a small thud and a wince. Right. There is a cut on his back that he had quickly forgotten about. The noises from the street filters in. There is the sound of tires screeching, the occasional honking, and shouting. It is late, but the streets are still busy, bustling. Life pulses in the air.
He turns his phone on — an old xiaomi that is barely hanging on, half of the screen cracked, held together by a particularly stubborn screen protector he had bought in Thailand. He was in Malaysia for a month and a half, he estimates, travelling from Penang to Kuala Lumpur, and finally to Johor Bahru, before finding himself in Singapore. Before that, he spent two months in Thailand. And even before…
He connects to the wifi and he immediately receives notifications from WeChat. They are mostly from his shijie, and one or two from Jiang Cheng.
When are you coming home? His shijie asked. We miss you. Please. I cooked some lotus root and pork rib soup today. I saved some for you.
You made jie cry again. I don’t want to see your fucking face. Jiang Cheng sent.
And, there are the texts from Lan Zhan (Wei Wuxian mouths his name silently) that span across a few days.
I hope you are well.
Have you eaten?
I hear from Nie-zongzhu that you are in Malaysia.
Remember to bring an umbrella with you. It is the monsoon season.
Do you need any money?
The weather is turning cold here. The rabbits are getting restless.
The leaves have turned orange. The back of the hill is covered in fallen leaves, all orange and
golden under the sun. I played 秋意浓 qiu yi nong on the guqin for the rabbits. It sounds
strange without your accompaniment.
Call me
If you need anything
Wei Wuxian turns off his phone and squeezes his eyes shut. He sucks in a deep breath, trying to quiet his racing thoughts, the carefully crafted bubble holding a wreck of emotions threatening to pop. His fingers hover around the keyboard, itching to craft a reply. I am fine. Or Leave me alone Or howareyoulanzhaniamsosorryfordisappearinghowisuncleoryourbrotherhowiseveryonedontworryaboutme. He has toyed with the idea of calling. But he shouldn’t. What would he say? He can’t possibly say I am sorry. Come get me, please. I am tired. I wouldn't mind it too much if they want to imprison me. Who would answer? Lan Zhan is just being nice. He feels somehow responsible for Wei Wuxian and that’s why he checks in, sending texts to a person who shouldn’t even exist. His Lan Zhan, Hanguang-jun is too kind. Wei Wuxian really shouldn’t bother him any longer. He turns cold at that thought. His heart clenches. Yes - he shouldn’t be a bother. He has been one, for far too long. He will just drag him down, see.
Burden boy. Useless boy. Evil boy. Alone boy.
He should disconnect his number. If he were to disappear, he should vanish thoroughly right? But everyone was right - he is a coward and everything he touches falls apart. Nothing good comes with him.
He needs to stop thinking about The Past.
But Wei Wuxian’s mind traitorously goes to Jiang Yanli, with her warm smile and gentle voice. He thinks of Jiang Cheng and his loud voice and fond glares.
And his mind goes to Yu furen (dead), Jiang shushu (dead), and then A-Yuan (dead). Wen Qing (dead). Wen Ning (dead). Fourth Uncle (dead). Popo (dead) .
All dead. All dead because of him. Stupid, stupid. Stupid. Stupid boy. Useless boy. Burden boy. Drown in your resentment boy. Drown in your idiocy boy. Drown in your arrogance boy.
He thinks of Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji and his golden eyes and beautiful hands. Come back with me to Gusu. He wants to cry. He doesn't. He swallows his tears, ignores the ache that throbs inside his chest. He thinks of the first time he meets Lan Zhan. They were 18, in university. Wei Ying was a chemistry major and he was a Chinese literature major. They were both in the orchestra together. They shared a room together. They took classes together. Ate together. Went grocery shopping together. Played music together. Then the War came and both their houses burned and then Burial Mounds happened and then Wei Wuxian had to – And of course Wei Wuxian had to ruin everything.
...
(Wen Chao was dead. He had taken revenge. For Jiang shuhu, for Yu furen, for Lan Zhan.
Warm fingers were curled around his wrist. “If you continue down this path, you will have to pay. There are no exceptions.”
Wei Wuxian stared right into the pair of golden eyes. “I can.”
“It will damage your body, and eventually your heart.” The roar of sirens was deafening.
“It’s none of your business.” It came out too harsh. Beat. “My heart is mine to worry about. I know what I am doing.” Outside, people were yelling, screaming out an old song.
“Wei Wuxian!” His eyes flared. Something in Wei Wuxian cracked.
“Lan Wangji!” He snapped back. He was tired. Angry. He was empty.
He had left in a cab with Jiang Cheng, leaving the corpses of Wen Chao, Wen Zhuliu, Wang Lingjiao for Lan Wangji to clean up after.
That was not the last time they met. That would be a year later, amidst ashes, corpses, and falling leaves.)
…
Will you fo
How long has it been since Wei Wuxian left? Four, five years, maybe? It is what he does best. Ruin everything and then run away, leaving a puddle of shit for everyone, for Lan Zhan to clean up. He is too good for him. Hanguang-jun is too good, too pure, too full of light.
Wei Wuxian almost died today, when he had “let his guard down” and allowed the pontianak to sink her claws in his back. He was distracted, see – he thought he saw A-Yuan with his toy butterflies. The pontianak had looked at him in the eyes and laughed. A fellow wanderer, with no place to call home. He took chenqing to his lips. The pontianak had only laughed harder. You have lost a child, too. So much hatred. So much guilt , she said, almost gently. And then she sunk her nails into his back.
It isn’t fair of the pontianak, he thinks, to distract him. Everyone knows that you don’t talk about home or children when you are fighting. Isn’t fair of her to make him think of A-Yuan. But yes, he almost died. He almost died two days ago too, when he was dealing with the earth demon (he learns that they call it the jempalang tanah ) he found near a village in the outskirts of Johor Bahru. Or a few days before, with that water ghost. And a week before. Two weeks before... It seems like he is always dying, somehow. It is fine, though. He is still alive, see. Fine and dandy. Still breathing, heart still beating. Still manages to find a place to sleep almost every night. Manages to cross borders, somehow. He has a notebook full of letters and a body full of scars to prove it. Prove that he is still alive, still moving. Always moving.
It is what he does best. Move. Run. Runs until he can't breathe. Runs until he doesn’t feel. Runs until he is tired, until his body breaks and he knows that it would be the end. He is waiting for it - the end, whatever it entailed. But when it comes, and he knows it will, he is ready for it. Right now, as long as his heart is still beating, he will move. It is easy to run. It is also the hardest thing.
What are you running away from, my dear child?
…
( A fire blazing. They are calling out for him. Wei-gongzi. Wei-gongzi. Gege. He is too late. The smoke is thick and billowing and he cannot see, except the brightness of flame. The heat surrounds him, chokes him, singes his skin. Too late.
Too fast. Go back.
A fire blazing. They do not call out his name. They call for Jiang Cheng and his jiejie. Their bodies are being swallowed by orange and black. And then, his name, which is spat out like a curse, ashes on the tongue. His fault. Everything is his fault.
Go back. Go back. Go back.
A fire blazing. His name is called, as if it were being cradled gently. There is a pair of soft hands, warm hands that pushes him out of ashes. His name twists. Then – )
…
Has it already been five years? Singapore is small but it feels impossibly large
The outside clings onto his (was) inside clothes. It feels almost invasive but he should be used to it. He is used to it. Lan Zhan wouldn’t like it, he thinks. But the bed he is going to sleep on is not Wei Wuxian’s, and he will dirty his clothes again anyway, so it is fine… right? What Lan Zhan doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
It doesn’t take long for him to stumble onto a 24/7 7-Eleven. The groggy cashier with hair the colour of the ocean gives him a small smile when he enters, a bell chiming in greeting. He stares at the alcohol fridge. He does some mental calculations, converting SGD to yuan, and then trying to remember how much money he has left in his wallet. There is a promotion going on. A can of Tiger beer is on sale, and he needs alcohol in his system. He also needs food, remember? He hasn’t eaten the entire day.
The tomyum flavoured cup noodles are on sale - $2 for a cup, which is 10 yuan, which is relatively affordable. “Sorry, no sale of alcohol past 10.30 pm,” the cashier says, and points at the sign. Wei Wuxian blinks. Right. He puts the can back, and chooses to grab some yogurt drink instead.
The cashier spares a look at him as Wei Wuxian pays for his food and drink. She slides a sausage over. “For you.”
Wei Wuxian blinks. “Thank you,” he manages to say with a tired smile. He fills his cup noodles with hot water, inhales the sausage while waiting, and then promptly finishes the noodles in a few large bites. It tastes like ashes in his mouth. In another life, it would be a right mix of sour and spicy.
He is still hungry, he thinks. He never really knows anymore. Hunger clings onto him, gnawing at his stomach, always demanding for more, but when he does fill his stomach up, tries to satiate his hunger, he throws everything back up. He can’t win, can he?
A group of tipsy tourists stumbling out of a bar bumps into him. They greet him enthusiastically, giggling and laughing. One of the men badly tries to flirt with Wei Wuxian. Watching them reminds Wei Wuxian of him when he was 20 and reckless, about five years ago, maybe. That night started with him dragging Lan Zhan to an end-of-semester party towards the end of their third year, two weeks before Everything Went to Shit.
...
It was a happy buzz. The right sort of tipsy-drunk where the world seems brighter, softer, laughter hiding at every corner. There were many different kinds of drunks. Jiang Cheng swung between “I am going to murder everyone” angry drunk and a sappy sort of drunk. Sometimes both, in a “I am so angry that I care so much about you” way, which is not so far from his usual self. Nie Huisang and Yanli jie was giggly drunk, always laughing at something or nothing at all. Mianmian and Wen Qing don’t get drunk, period. Wen Ning was a sweet drunk, water always on hand. And Lan Zhan was a …
Well. Lan Zhan had taken a sip of Wei Ying’s drink and promptly fell asleep at the table, his ears tinged pink. Jiang Cheng was at the bar, ordering more drinks (“I need to go . I can’t stay here any longer or I will puke,” he spat out, glaring at Wei Ying and Lan Zhan). Nie Huaisang was engaged in conversation with some stranger. Wen Ning was at the toilet and Wen Qing and Mianmian were off somewhere.
Wei Ying stared at the sleeping Lan Zhan in utter disbelief. Sleep? Lan Zhan was sleeping? After one drink of alcohol? At least Lan Zhan looked peaceful when he was asleep. He always did. (Wei Wuxian might have snuck looks at Lan Zhan those times when he had accidentally fallen asleep in the library, buried within neatly stacked towers of books.) His fingers reached for Lan Zhan’s forehead, in between his eyebrows, heavy with the urge to trail down his nose, and to his lips, which are so pink, so soft, so -
Lan Zhan’s head jerked up. Wei Wuxian’s retracted his fingers, burned.
“Lan Zhan? Lan Wangji Hanguang jun? Lan-er gege?”
Lan Zhan looked straight ahead, almost expressionless. He looked absolutely normal, except for his ears. He slowly turned to look at Wei Wuxian, blinking slowly. “Mn.” His eyes were glazed, and his lips were slightly parted.
“Are you… drunk?” Lan Zhan was silent. Wei Wuxian could almost see the cogs turning in his mind. “No,” he replied. Then, “yes.”
“Lan Zhan ah, Lan zhan, what sort of drunk are you? Why can’t I tell at all?” Wei Wuxian leans in, drinking in the sight of drunk Lan Zhan. He wanted to remember everything about this moment, commit it to his memory. He wanted to remember everything about Lan Zhan.
“Don’t know. Never tried.” Lan Zhan frowned. He grabbed Wei Wuxian’s right hand and pressed his palms against his chest, right at his heart. “Here.”
His fingers were warm, almost burning, against Wei Wuxian’s wrist. And all Wei Ying could focus on was the sensation of his fingers, and the urge to take then in his mouth, run his tongue around their lengths. He was a breath away, the smell of huangjiu lingering in the air. Wei Wuxian could kiss him, he thought. He just had to lean forward, just a little. A kiss, with his palms against Lan Zhan’s chest, over his heart.
Lan Zhan looked at Wei Wuxian expectedly. Wei Wuxian darted his tongue out, wetting his lips which had gone awfully dry. Lan Zhan’s eyes were like pools of molten gold. Did he want Wei Ying as much as he did?
“Your heart. It’s beating so fast,” Wei Ying whispered. His own was pounding as quickly that he thought he might die, just there and then.
“Mn.” Lan Zhan simply nodded. “That’s how you know.”
“Does your heart only beat this fast when you’re drunk?”
“... No.”
Wei Wuxian’s heart skipped a beat. “When?” The question was barely a whisper. “Tell me what makes your heart race, Lan-er gege.”
Lan Zhan looked away. “Look at me.” Wei Ying’s demand sounded almost like a plea. Of course it was one. Wei Ying had spent the past three years in university trying to get Lan Zhan to look at him, always vying for his attention, trying to annoy him just so Lan Zhan would look at him. His fingers found Lan Zhan’s chin, and so gently pushed it, so that Lan Zhan was looking right at Wei Ying again. All was right again.
“Sometimes it races when Wei Ying is around.” He said it with the straightest face, all serious and sincere with a tad bit of embarrassment. The baritone of Lan Zhan’s voice sent shivers down Wei Ying’s spine, and made his chest all hot and heavy.
Wei Ying felt a flush rushing through his body, leaving him weak and utterly terrified. “You can’t just say things like that! I will die!” He groaned, burying his face into Lan Zhan’s shirt (so very soft. Very luxurious).
“No. Wei Ying cannot die.” Wei Ying didn’t know if he wanted to cry, laugh, or kiss Lan Zhan there and then. Kissing, he knew, was obviously out, because Lan Zhan didn’t like him that way and he was drunk and he didn’t want to ruin their friendship and –
His stomach growled. “Wei Ying is hungry.” Lan Zhan (gently) pushed Wei Ying away from his chest (Wei Ying almost pouted. Almost.) Lan Zhan stood up abruptly, and stalked off. Wei Ying took deep breaths in. Stay calm. Keep your cool. Everything would be okay. Would Lan Zhan be okay? Wei Ying was about to chase after him when Lan Zhan had come back, followed by two waiters carrying plates of… chicken? There were sesame oil chicken, spicy chicken feet, mala chicken, salted egg chicken, and spicy fried chicken. Wei Ying stared at the plates that covered the table. He laughed, so hard that his sides hurt, and tears escaped his eyes.
“Lan Zhan, this is too much.”
Lan Zhan frowned. “Wei Ying. Eat.”
“Will you feed me, Zhanzhan?”
He turned away.
“Pretty please?” Wei Ying smiled, eyes glistening. Let him enjoy this, just for a little while.
Lan Zhan took his chopsticks, and picked up a piece of chicken.
...
The night sky is pretty. Wei Wuxian cannot see any stars, not in a city like this, but it is still pretty. It is the right shade of deep blue. The street lights look like artificial stars, with their diffused rays that dissolved into a ring of rainbows. Stare long enough, hard enough, and everything becomes a blur and quiets down. He wonders how he looks to a stranger. He must have looked really strange - long unkempt hair tied quickly into a ponytail, wearing old, scrawny clothes, staring right up at the sky like he stepped out of a Chinese melodrama. He just needs rain, a love interest, and background music. He laughs at that thought. Enough of being all melancholic. There is no point dwelling, not on the past, not on his emotions, and definitely not how he fits right into a Chinese drama cliche.
This is the very street the pontianak had haunted. He heard about her the moment he arrived in Singapore at an ungodly time of 4 am. Two men were talking about it in harsh whispers as they loaded their truck and of course Wei Wuxian and overheard, and of course he had to check it out. He managed to convince them to drive him as close to the road as they were willing to (they even treated him to a plate of fried noodles, mee goreng , with sambal chili.)
The stretch of street was engulfed in resentful energy when he arrived. There was a grief that hung in the air, so heavy and thick it felt like sticky goo in his lungs. She appeared in front of him, eyes a bottomless pit. She targeted only men, leaving their stomachs gaping open. The lucky ones got away with nightmares that haunted their every moment.
Liberate. Suppress. Eliminate. That was what cultivators were taught. Wei Wuxian tried to liberate as often as he could. Suppress, if he had to. Elimination was something he tried to avoid but it turned out that was what he had to do. He didn’t know how to help, didn’t know how to liberate the pontianak. He used his talismans, used empathy, thought of everything and tried everything. He failed. Simple as that. He couldn’t even help a ghost.
(A ghost wronged when she was alive, forced to her death by her own husband, her child dying with her, still in her body.)
(He realises he couldn’t even ask for her name. She has forgotten it. It had been too long. Here is a thing about names: It can only exist in someone else’s mouth.)
…
Wei Wuxian stumbles back into the hotel room, body heavy from sleep deprivation. Lan Zhan will disapprove, he thinks, as he throws himself onto the bed. Outside clothes on a clean bed. Then again, there is no outside or inside clothes for him anymore. Clothes are just clothes. (He has to wash them soon, especially the blood-soaked one. Tomorrow. He will do it tomorrow, when he finds a cheaper hostel. He will find a job that pays and he will have money, and then he will continue his travels.)
His head is throbbing. His body aches, and all he wants is to shut his eyes and have the world drop dead at his feet. Or have him disappear. His body feels all wrangly and empty and wrong. He is hyper-aware of the lack in his body, how it hollows out where it should be full. He is too skinny. He feels his ribs jutting out, moving up and down with his breath and he thinks he could dig his fingers into the gaps between bones and touch his lungs. His hip bones are almost sharp. He feels the ghost of a golden core in his lower dantian, whispering about loss. At least, it is a whisper now. It used to scream. But hey – he willingly gave it away, and he was thankful that Wen Qing was as gentle as she could. She was incredibly skilled, considering how she was in her final year of med school before her residential training. The ghost of a knife, the ghost of Jiang Cheng’s sob, and the ghost of the pain.
Resentful energy hums inside of him. Calling him and enticing him into their embrace. He wonders what his heart looks like. Would it be all pulpy, with dark smoke swirling around it? What would it be like to hold his own heart in his palms, to turn it over and dissect it, to witness how deep the resentful energy has seeped into the core of his being? Wen Qing had shown him and Wen Ning an open heart surgery video (or rather, they had peeked while she was watching it). The heart is a strange thing. How strong is his, how fragile is it?
Okay, he really needs a distraction. Please.
Dearest Lan Zhan,
He starts a letter in his head.
I have been thinking about
I
Will you fo
Has it already been five years? Singapore is small but it feels impossibly large.
He should continue it. When a letter starts, it demands to be completed. He pulls out the notebook, a small white and blue one imprinted with bunnies on the cover. It is his third. He had bought it in Vietnam, from a seller whose eyes were always smiling. He had thrown in a matching pen for free (“For the handsome man”).
He begins to write.
…
He doesn’t remember exactly when he started writing things down, or how it became a habit. Maybe it was six months in, when he was in the countryside near Kyoto, Japan, fresh out of a fight with yet another ghost. Or was it when he was in Seoul, in the middle of the bustling city, overwhelmed by the lights and constant chatter, when he was knocked over by a car, of all things, and had broken his left arm. But he finds himself writing, whenever he can, jotting down notes and stories about his travels.
They all begin with “ Dearest Lan Zhan”:
Dearest Lan Zhan,
I almost died today. There was a particularly difficult case. It involved corpses, as usual, but also!! A flying !! Car!! Like in Harry Potter! The car sort of… rammed into me… but that is not the point! Anyway.
It rained today and I had forgotten to bring an umbrella. I was drenched from head to toe. A kind man invited me into his tea shop and passed me a towel to dry myself up. He had a wide collection of tea and very interesting blends. I think you will like it here. He makes it all traditional with all the steps. And the swishing. And those fancy tea pots and cups. He let me try this Scarlet Robe blend. It had notes of … ripe fruits? And wood? I think that is what you would say. I bought a small packet of loose tea leaves. I don’t know when I will get the chance to properly brew it, but.
How have you been? I wish you happiness and health.
Dearest Lan Zhan,
A kid held my hand in the middle of Oxford street today. He must have thought I was his father, or something. He called me baba. His hands were tiny and sticky and warm. He looked up at me and started crying when he realised I wasn’t his baba. He was so small, Lan Zhan. A-Yuan was that size when I first saw him. Do you remember that time he clung onto your leg
We found his real baba together. I bought him a doughnut and he had stopped crying. I miss eating tanghulu and the sweetness of the sugar armour that cracks and makes way to the sourness of hawthorns, leaving our fingers sticky and wanting more. His father was very thankful when we found him. He looked like me, Lan Zhan! Just with shorter hair. He is a cultivator, too, I think.
I don’t think I can stay in London. Everything is so expensive, and you know, money is hard to come by when you are on the road, living on the goodness of others. I don’t think I will miss it.
I wish you happiness and health.
Dearest Lan Zhan,
I tried a dessert called cendol today. It is made of shaved ice drenched in coconut milk with green worm-like jelly and a large scoop of red bean. The grandmother tanning the booth was telling me about the dessert, how she had made each ingredient from scratch. It is sweet, but not cloying. I think you will like it, especially on a hot summer’s day.
I had helped a ghost that was haunting her house, and she gave me some money, and a place to stay, and of course, as much cendol I wanted. She told me about her two children, who went to the city to work. They only come home during the New Year. She looks sad, Lan Zhan.
How was your New Year? Did you have niangao? Or peanut candy? How are your brother and Uncle? (don’t tell your uncle I am asking after him. He will probably have a heartattack.)
I wish you happiness and health.
Dearest Lan Zhan,
Amsterdam has beautiful tulips. I snuck into a tulip field (there was a particularly stubborn spirit there, and I was there to help). They were so vibrant, Lan Zhan. A sea of pink and yellow that stretches out into forever. I could stand there forever, but I don’t think I suit such vibrancy. They are too bright, too innocent. Did you know, yellow tulips once represented hopeless love? The girl working at the florist nearby told me that. I bought a yellow tulip (see! I bought it! I did not just… pluck it) and tucked it inside my shirt. I bought her a flower too!! I am not selfish!! She had such a nice smile. Smiles are good.
Remember that time I stuck a peony into your hair when we were in the library? You were so mad that your ears turned all red and told me to, and I quote, “fuck off”. How could you swear!! Zhanzhan, you are really too vulgar. I thought you would kill me there and then. Do you still have my drawing of you? Please say that you do. I took so long to draw it. Although I would perfectly understand if you had ripped it apart into pieces. I don’t think you actually like me.
Sorry, Lan Zhan. I must have been so annoying back then. I just wanted your attention see - Sorry, Lan Zhan. At least now you don’t have to deal with me!
I hope summer is kind to you. I wish you happiness and health.
Dearest Lan Zhan,
I am tired, Lan Zhan. My bones feel tired. I just want to lie down, and sleep, and never wake up.
I haven’t been sleeping very well. I dream of many things. And
I almost died today. I am always on the verge of dying, I think
I started this letter trying to write about the bunnies I saw in a pet store. They were so small, and soft and I think you would really like them. The curse I had to break was related— i do not just wander into stores just to stare at rabbits. It was a rabbit yao, which is pretty rare but really cool. I think you two would be friends, if you would like.
He heard about me -- the irreverent yiling laozu, who had totalled the Wen clan with his army of corpses. He wanted to protect his family, which was being hunted down by humans. He wanted me to help; he thought I could help. There were other cultivators around and they were so determined to kill him and...
Sometimes, Lan Zhan, I think everyone was right. I think you were right. I might be more demon than human.
Enough of this - the bunnies. In the shop. They were very cute. I wanted to buy them all, and let them free, but I know that will hurt them. If I could, I would have sent them to you; I know you would take good care of them.
I wish you happiness and health.
There are more, there are too many. And tonight, there is
Dearest Lan Zhan,
Has it already been five years? Singapore is small, but it feels impossibly large. The streets are always busy and there is constant chatter buzzing around. Can you believe that they can’t sell alcohol past 10.30 pm? At least for convenience stores. Remember how I snuck alcohol into the dorm the first day we met? You were furious with me and had poured all the alcohol away. Then we got into a small fight that may or may not have involved our swords and we both got punished. Detention! Who gets detention in university?
I bought a tom yum flavoured cup noodles and a yogurt drink instead. I must have looked like shit because the cashier at 7-Eleven gave me a sausage for free.
I met a pontianak today. She was haunting this particular street. Her home used to be a banana tree, but it got uprooted, and now she is homeless. Was. I had to eliminate her. Maybe if you were here, you could play clarity, maybe the ending would be different.
There are so many trees in Singapore. Flowers, sometimes. It is so hot though, hot and sweaty and humid. My hair sticks to my neck, and it is always so limp and lifeless, no matter what I do. I think your hair will still be all flowy and beautiful, if you ever do visit.
I wish you happiness and health.
He addresses each entry to Lan Zhan, pretends that they are letters sent. Belated conversations that spanned across time and space, products of a desire to connect, despite everything. Someone is waiting out there to receive it. And that’s the beauty of it. He knows Lan Zhan wouldn’t read any of his letters because he doesn’t ever send them, but he can pretend that he does, pretend that he will. Wei Wuxian doesn’t need to deal with the disappointment of getting nothing in return. He doesn’t need to deal with the empty beeps of an unanswered call.
…
He tries to find sleep. Any form of rest would be good. He hasn’t slept for two days. He wants to sleep, needs to sleep —
Freud writes that dreams happen when the unconscious slips into the conscious mind. Because repression demands energy, it relaxes during sleep and allows what that is repressed to slip into the mind in the form of dreams, albeit censored. Freud goes into wish fulfilments, yada yada.
Wei Wuxian is plagued by dreams, no matter how well rested, no matter how tired, he dreams. When he was younger, in the orphanage, before Jiang shushu had found him, he dreamt of faceless figures, gentle and soft. He dreamt of dogs, in the streets, loud and huge, sharp teeth glistening before they clamp down onto his body.
Then, when he was slightly older, his dreams softened. He dreamt of days in Lotus Pier, laughing and playing with Jiang Cheng and jiejie. Sometimes, nightmares about an earlier time would slip in but they would be chased away by Jiang Cheng and jiejie, who would distract him or hold him or just by being there.
Now, his dreams are all mangled, bastardised memories he rather not have that blend and warp (well - all dreams are warped memories but.)
Time bends in his dreams see - they compress and reduce everything to a singular moment, a rush of terror and horror that he can never shake. He dreams of the voices he heard during the three long months in Burial Mounds, the stench of blood and corpses do you want revenge my dear boy come to is poor unloved boy look at how much they hate you despise you useless boy . Dreams of the fires that took everyone and everything from him, the heat, the ashes, the smoke that clung. Dreams of corpses littering at his feet. Dreams of the cold touch of knife to skin, and the horror of watching his golden core being lifted from his body, the sudden deafening emptiness that had ensued. He dreams that the transfer fails, dreams of a dead Jiang Cheng, a dead jiejie. He dreams of Jiang shuhu and Yu furen.
He dreams of Lan Wangji.
In these dreams, Lan Zhan doesn’t look at him. He drives bichen into Wei Wuxian’s stomach. It is abject hatred he sees in Lan Zhan’s eyes. These dreams hurt, but at least they are not dreams where Lan Zhan dies because he couldn’t control the resentful energy.
He dreams and dreams and dreams.
…
He has new texts from Lan Zhan:
Wei Ying, It has been five years since you left
I have something to tell you, if you would allow me.
The sun streams in and he wakes. Time to pack. Check out. Find a new place to wander to. He finds jobs on the internet, posted by an agency looking for someone who could help them with certain ghosts and curses and beings around. They pay rather well.
He learns that most of the ghosts in Singapore have no home. They are displaced, evicted with nowhere else to go. It is a mark of a city, a country forced to grow up too fast, stuttering forward at full speed without being able to look back, to breathe. What is being left behind? What is being forgotten?
At least, that is what he learns from the two cultivators he meets, Affiq and Yanting. They tell him about the landborne abyss that formed in Bukit Brown cemetery (took them about two days to liberate), and the curse of the old Changi Hospital (it took almost five days). He slept in hostels, until Affiq offered him a temporary room at his home, which he shared with his parents and a sister. Apparently, it was the first time he had gone home in a year.
Now he is on a boat towards Sisters’ Island, where various boats and people have gone missing at sea. He grew up surrounded by water. He should be familiar with this. Affiq and Yanting suspect that it is a waterborne abyss, driven from the Singapore River. When he was 19, Wei Wuxian dealt with one with Lan Zhan. That same year, there was the cursed radio that wouldn’t stop playing Teresa Teng’s tian mi mi which didn’t sound like a problem, but it was honestly quite creepy especially at 3 a.m. surrounded by clay dolls.
His favourite ghost (sorry, he didn’t even realise he had a favourite ghost but now that he thought of it, he does have one) would be the one that haunted music room #3, which had locked Lan Zhan and him inside the studio. Best ghost ever. Well, it wasn’t the best ghost because Wei Ying spent most of the night delirious, barely remembered anything and took 3 days to recover. The title of best ghost is given entirely in hindsight.
It began with students falling sick, mysterious sounds coming from the music room at exactly 1.34 am, and a cursed piano. And of course, Wen Chao, in his final year, had to be involved.
…
Wei Ying was cold. Why was it so cold?
“You are shivering.” The voice is deep. Yes, Wei Wuxian must be shivering. The cold was sharp against his bones. A palm — so warm, so soothing — was pressed against his forehead.
The man in front of Wei Wuxian, who smelled of sandalwood, was frowning. “You are burning up.” He looked concerned, Wei Ying thought. Why was Wei Ying here again? Right. A ghost. A curse and a bad ghost that was harassing students, which seeps the warmth out of bodies and trap them in a state of sleep. And then there was Wen Chao, who was supposed to handle this case but pushed it onto Wei Ying and Lan Zhan and locked them into the room after angering the goddamn ghost and now -
Wei Ying could not stop the tremble that wrecked through his body. “I am fine,” he said. “I am not some weak maiden that needs your protection, Lan gege. Unless that involves being in your arms, then yes, protect me please.” He was teasing again.
Lan Zhan was silent. Ah, he must be angry.
Then, a pair of warm arms surrounded Wei Ying’s body and he was pressed up against someone’s...Chest? He looked up, and all he saw was Lan Zhan’s burning eyes. He was warm, and all Wei Ying wanted to do was sink into the embrace and bury his face into the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck, inhale the deep sandalwood scent and steal whatever warmth that was radiating from Lan Zhan’s body.
“Ah Lan Zhan, your arms are so strong, so muscular.” He had to flirt, or he might actually do something stupid, like say that he loved him.
He must still be shivering, for the grip around him only tightened. Lan Zhan’s lips were pressed tightly in annoyance (?). “Quiet,” he said. “Conserve energy.”
“Anything you say, Lan Zhan,” he murmured. Yes. Wei Ying was tired. Conserve energy. Sleep. The arms around him were warm and he felt safe and the cold did not feel as biting anymore. He was so, so tired. His mind wanders off to a place he’d rather not access. Was he dreaming? “Tell me a story,” he almost whined.
The chest he was leaning against rumbled. He did not catch much of the words, but the voice was soothing, and he felt like he could fall asleep just by listening to the voice.
He closed his eyes. “Do not sleep,” the voice commanded. The voice was starting to get annoying. Wei Ying just wanted to sleep.
“Wei Ying.” Ah, his name sounded beautiful when spoken with that voice. The voice gave it gravity, gave it power, as though this name was something precious. He wriggled closer, pressing against the body that held him, trying to close the gaps between them. “Don’t sleep, Wei Ying,” the voice said.
“Play for me,” Wei Ying sighed between yawns. “Maybe then I wouldn’t sleep.” A pause. He was about to sink into a deep sleep, when a pair of arms lifted him up. There was a sudden loss of heat when he was put down again, which made him whine. He was so cold.
A song is played – ah, he recognised it. It is an old song. He was listening to it on repeat the entire month – because autumn is coming – and had bugged Lan Zhan to play it with him. Qiu yi nong that was the song. The song ended and a new one started. It was something unfamiliar, something entirely new. It calmed him down, soft and gentle like the curl of the sea around his ankles. He wanted to lean into the song, let its notes embrace him like a lover – ah, it was a love song.
“Wei Ying.” The voice called for him, and he swore that he could and would follow that voice wherever and whenever, no matter how far, how long.
...
The sea is a hypnotising shade of blue and Wei Wuxian is homesick. The breeze is sharp against his face, and he can taste the salt on his tongue. Water should be familiar, but there are no lotuses, and there is nothing familiar about this sea. It is eerily still, as if life has been sucked from its depths, living only a ghost, a skeleton of the sea behind.
When he first took a small wooden boat in Lotus Pier, he had leaned right over the edge, his fingers skimming the surface of the waters, disrupting its peace. The clear lake parted underneath his light touch, ripples radiating from that single point of contact. He was completely mesmerised. Jiejie laughed and told him to be careful, then, she plucked a lotus from the water and taught him how to tease lotus seeds from the pods while Jiang Cheng showed him how to eat a palmful all at once. That was how they spent their afternoon, in the middle of a lake full of lotuses.
Dearest Lan Zhan,
The small motorboat stutters. Wei Wuxian takes out his compass of evil and watches as the needle spins. This is the fourth edition of the compass, almost perfect but not quite. He has been working on it throughout his travels. Now it can show the exact distance (plus minus 200 meters) they were from the source of resentment, as long as they are within a five kilometer radius. It can show the type of ghost/yao/demon/guai if it was once identified (yes, he took inspiration from the Pokeindex. He still dreams of being a pokemon trainer.)
Just a little bit more –
He remembers the sailor’s tale that the boatman told him before he allowed Wei Wuxian to rent his boat.
“Careful ah boy. A lot of people go missing, don’t know mati or what,” the old man says as he unties the boat. “Good thing you are not wearing green. Remember, never wear green.”
A sailor told me that the sea is an envious one. We should never wear green out to sea. She will take you and swallow you whole with a song on your lips. Good thing we don’t ever wear green.
Maybe the ghost needs a little prompting. Should he have worn green? He doesn’t own any green clothes. He brings chenqing to his lips and plays, breaking carefully protected peace of the sea. Come to me. The needle starts spinning wildly. The sea starts to swirl, awakened by Wei Ying’s call. The boat begins to rock, pushed and pulled by the wild tides of the sea.
An arm creeps up the boat, slithering across the floor, and coiling itself around Wei Wuxian’s ankle, then another, and another, all wrapping themselves around his body, pushing and pulling and dragging him towards the edge of the boat. They are cold against his skin, as corpses should be. He considers letting the arms swallow him, take him. That would be easy. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, as the arms multiply and he hears the familiar whispers of resentful energy.
He plays, each note chaining together to form a melody that calls more resentful energy on board, that grabs and pulls at the arms. They grapple, resentful energy against resentful energy, eating and grabbing onto whatever ugly feelings they can find for fuel.
Give us more, Wei Ying, Wei Wuxian. We feel it inside you.
He has nothing. Maybe he has everything. He just needs to give himself to them. It is easy. It is always easy. Take him, then. They have almost taken him once, they can take him again. But there are other voices in his head, soft and gentle and loving and all he wants is –
What does he want?
Then, coldness hits him like a truck (he knows this, because he had been hit by one, around two years and three months ago, which had left him with another broken arm). Water surrounds him, holding him, pulling him deep within its depths. The sea enters his body, fills up his lungs, takes him by the wrists and kisses him. He has learnt that the sea is a possessive one.
His lungs are burning, desperate for oxygen. He closes his eyes, let himself sink into the pain, the desperation, the fight to survive. He wants to laugh, and so he does, spitting out air bubbles that disturbed the serenity of the sea, not like his presence isn’t already one.
Then, a figure, then, a soft voice.
Linah…
We were two halves of a jambo, remember?
...
Wei Wuxian sees a girl, barely sixteen, hair loose around her waist. She twists her hair, braiding and curling them into a bun that sits atop the crown of her head. Her hair reminds him of the sea. She notices him and smiles brightly. She is golden under the sun. Kak , she says, look at all the jambos I harvested .
He finds himself smiling. We can share them with Mak and Pak later , he finds himself saying. Empathy? No – not quite. This is an echo of a memory, and he is simply caught up within it. The girl gathers the fruits, small and round with a green skin tinged with pink.
Kak , she looks at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. If the sea takes me as a bride, what will you do?
He rolls his eyes. No one will want you. The girl pouts, sighs, and makes a show out of sulking. He laughs. Bodoh Linah. Of course I will join you. Minah and Linah two halves of a jambo, remember? His – Minah’s – heart swells as Linah hugs them tight.
They spend their days under the sun. Sometimes, they sit under a rambutan tree, a pile of rambutans on their laps. They dig their fingers into the red fruit, peeling away the rough skin to reveal translucent flesh. They talk, fingers sticky from the juices, the sweet smell of rambutans lingering in the air.
(He did that once, with lotus seeds in the middle of a lake. And once, with Lan Zhan, in the middle of the school field. They were eating durian instead, which Lan Zhan secretly loved. He thinks Lan Zhan secretly loves it.)
The sea does claim Linah for their own. They come in packs, large and tall, carrying bows and arrows and spears. Linah went near the sea that day, you see. She was wearing green, a new set of clothes that pak had commissioned for her. It shimmered under the sun, liquid emerald that flowed down to her ankles. The sea must have been jealous, and wanted her for their own.
So the men drag her away, claiming Linah as their bride.
…
When Wei Wuxian was 12, he almost drowned. See, there were large, scary dogs chasing after him. He was supposed to meet Jiang Cheng at the arcade. They were going to win plushies for jiejie’s birthday. But then the dogs came and so he jumped into the river. The moment he hit the water, sounds of barking loud above him, he had promptly forgotten how to swim. His arms felt like jelly, all soft and wriggly and devoid of any strength. Useless arms, he thought. Useless Wei Wuxian, he knew.
His lungs burned. He was losing consciousness. All he heard were echoes of his name, and he so desperately wanted to answer. Then, he felt a pair of hands grab him, dragging him as he kicked and gasped, pushing him up the pier.
Jiang Cheng was crying, Wei Wuxian thought, when he woke up, when the sting of sudden light faded. “Don’t tell me you were crying!” Of course, he had to point that out.
“Idiot,” Jiang Cheng gasped, snot and all dripping from his nose.
“Disgusting,” Wei Wuxian laughed, wincing slightly when Jiang Cheng shoved him in the shoulder.
“Told you I will protect you,” Jiang Cheng puffed, and he gently dragged Wei Wuxian home. “You owe me an MP3.”
…
Wei Wuxian jumps into the water after Linah, desperation clawing at his chest. Linah , he shouts, but there is no answer, except for the harsh whistle of the wind. He swims, as fast as his limbs could carry him.
We are two halves of a jambo remember?
We were going to explore the world, remember?
It is dark, and the wind is howling. It is pouring, Minah thinks. The sea is angry, a cesspool of darkness and resentment. Linah is just in front, on that ship, just a little more. A little more. Minah continues to swim, calling out for her sister until her body simply refuses to move, heavy as if her limbs were made of rocks. As if her limbs were made of rocks.
Wei Wuxian looks down at his body. His fingers are grey. Rough. Heavy. He is turning into –
He looks up, and sees the face of Jiang Cheng Yanli Linah.
You said you will join me
Wei Wuxian wants to say, yes, yes I have joined you, see? I kept my promise. I am here to take you home, my Linah. We can go home now, together. Two halves of a jambo. But nothing comes out of his mouth, except foam, except leaves, except sand. There are roots digging into his flesh. His limbs are rough rocks and his skin, sand.
A-Xian, A-Cheng, time to go home.
Linah stares at him, eyes sad, angry. But she jumps into the swirling sea. The wedding clothes she was dressed in fans out, like a crown, like hair, like rocks. Her body hardens as sand spills from her hair, which turns into leaves.
Aiya, stupid Linah, why you follow me?
A-Xian, we will protect you, right, A-Cheng? /A-Xian / A-Xian, jiejie is getting married.
We are two halves of a jambo, remember? / The two pillars of Yunmeng, remember?
Wei Wuxian, is it worth it?
Let’s go home, kak.
Water, he learns, is like resentful energy. Resentful energy, he learnt, was like water. Drowning, he realises, is what he does best.
…
Jiang Cheng had visited Burial Mounds once. In his hands was a set of Avengers figurines. He was scowling, which meant he was nervous and embarrassed.
“Here,” he gritted out, shoving the box into Wei Wuxian’s hands. “For…” He waved his hands vaguely. Wei Wuxian lifted an eyebrow. Jiang Cheng looked like he could die right there and then. “You know who I am talking about! That small one… Fine. A-Yuan.”
“You didn’t have to.” Wei Wuxian could only smile, which deepened Jiang Cheng’s frown.
“I know, asshole.” Jiang Cheng sounded angry, for real. They stood awkwardly at the door, hands all clammy. “Well. Are you going to invite me in or not?”
A-Yuan peered curiously from behind Wei Wuxian’s legs. Jiang Cheng sat uncomfortably on a yellow stool that is too small for him. His weight was mostly on his feet, afraid that he would break it.
“Scary gege is on my stool,” A-Yuan pouted.
Jiang Cheng looked like he wanted to smack his own head with said stool.
“This scary gege has a present for you.” Wei Wuxian pulled out the figurines, and A-Yuan smiled brightly.
“Like the show!” He hugged the box tight. “Thank you, scary gege!” He ran towards Jiang Cheng, arms open. But he stopped short, dropped his hands, and bowed politely. Jiang Cheng cleared his throat.
“They think you are raising some army,” he said, staring at A-Yuan as he started playing, sprawled all over the floor. Currently, Black Widow was kicking Iron-man as Captain America watched on. “Not… this.”
“If army you mean a bunch of people forced to live like it’s the 60s, sure,” Wei Wuxian shrugged. He passed A-Yuan a small ragged doll.
“Are you paying rent?”
“Why, do you want to be our landlord?”
“Gege! Look! Sailor Black Widow won Sailor Iron Man!” Sailor… What? Wei Wuxian laughed and ruffled A-Yuan’s head. What sort of shows had he been watching on that old, dingy television?
“They want answers,” Jiang Cheng was glaring at Wei Wuxian again. “Is this worth it?” Was this worth leaving Lotus Pier? Was this worth breaking all those promises? We will be the twin prides of Yunmeng, better than the two Jades of Gusu .
Was anything worth anything?
Jiang Cheng came back a week later, and left with a broken arm. He left behind a new television, a washing machine, a new phone, and a single photograph.
(taken when they were 18, and Yanli jie 22, at her graduation. Jiang Cheng was scowling at Wei Ying, who was grinning mischievously back at him. In the middle, Jiang Yanli, in her graduation gown, smiling indulgently at her two infuriating brothers.)
…
It is too bright. Everything is too bright, and too loud, and his body feels like it’s made of rocks. His body feels like an island, with trees sprouting from his chest. He can almost feel the footprints imprinted on his body.
“Is this some little mermaid thing?” Wei Ying hears a disembodied voice scoff. “Does this make us Ariel?”
“Good thing we came in time.” Another voice, this time a woman’s, Yanting’s? “This idiot .”
He tries to speak but his tongue feels like sand. He tries to lift his hand, but cannot. He tries to turn his head, but cannot. He is frozen in place, staring up into the sky, at the bright sun which blotches his vision.
“Ah you’re awake,” Affiq says. Wei Wuxian watches as a leaf falls from a tree. Jiejie, he wants to call out. Jiang Cheng. Lan Zhan. He is tired. His bones are tired. He wants to catch the falling leaves. He wants so many things and wants nothing at all.
Then, “oh, you’re gone again.”
…
The last time he saw Lan Zhan, saw Jiang Cheng, saw jiejie, it was autumn, which meant the leaves were dyed golden, which meant falling leaves, which meant eminent winter, and with that, emptiness. It meant that he was 23, and the Wens were dead, and he was inconsolable, like the maple leaves outside.
There was blood at his feet. There was blood on his hands. There were ashes, too. Ashes, blood and smoke. It made a good band name. Could he...Could he call back the Wens? Will they live again? His mouth tasted like metal.
He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. Come to us, Wei Wuxian. We will give you what you want. Yes, he wanted to say. Yes I will. Take me. I am yours. He looked at his hands and wished it would rain.
“Wei Wuxian!” Someone shouted his name. Again. He can still see the blazing fire behind his eyes.
Someone cursed him. Someone was yelling about honour. Someone yelled about the pride and face of his ex-brother. Ex. Now he had an ex-family and an ex-brother who would probably take all the friends in the break-up, not that he really cared. It didn’t rain.
He stared at the crowd – the army – that faced him. Even now, they were so caught up in cultivator pride that they would not employ any “mortal” instruments against him, except for the gun, which had already been proved futile. So swords it was. Swords and talismans and fire.
“Wei Wuxian!” Jin Zixun was leading the army. “Surrender!”
That was it? Surrender? And they would imprison him at best.
“The Wens deserved it!” Someone in the crowd shouted. “You deserve it!”
They deserved it? Who? Wen Ning, who just wanted to be a kindergarten teacher? Wen Qing, who was one of the best med students? Fourth Uncle, who just wanted to open a small pub selling his wine? Or popo, with her soft, wrinkly hands that could cook up a storm? Or A-Yuan, dear A-Yuan?
He brought chenqing to his lips, and played. Then, chaos.
Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you
Corpses rose beneath his feet. Resentful energy came to life. If they could kill, so could Wei Wuxian. If they wanted a villain, he could become one.
Flick. Stab. Punch. Kick. Slash. Flick. Stab. Punch. Kick. Slash. Stab. Punch. Kick. Flick. Stab. Punch. Kick. Slash. Flick. Stab. Flick. Punch. Kick. Slash. Punch. Flick. Stab. Slash.
Flick. Stab. Punch. Kick. Slash. Flick. Stab. Punch. Kick. Slash. Stab. Punch. Kick. Flick. Stab. Punch. Kick. Slash. Flick. Stab. Flick. Punch. Kick. Slash. Punch. Flick. Stab. Slash.
Jin Zixun lunged at him but was swallowed promptly by a wisp of resentful energy.
Then, music. Gusu Lan Clan . Lan Zhan.
“Wei Ying!” He shone, even amidst the darkness. Of course he did. He belonged to the light.
“Hanguang-jun. You know this will not work on me.”
“Focus. You are losing control.” Lan Zhan gripped his wrist. There would be marks, he thought. He wanted to laugh.
“I am in control!” His words sound like knives. He hates you, see. He wants you dead.
At least if I die, I can die under his hands.
“Come back with me.” Lan Zhan’s eyes were dark, full of emotions that Wei Ying refused to put a name on.
“This again?” Wei Ying glared at the other man – his ex-soulmate .
“Please.” His voice is almost soft, almost broken. Wei Ying paused. Stop. Please, don’t look at him like that.
“Wei Wuxian! You will pay!” He heard someone yell. A bullet was lodged in Wei Ying’s shoulder.
The resentful energy was pulling him under. He could not breathe. It filled his lungs. He could feel them inside his veins, through his fingertips. Then, he heard his jiejie’s voice, heard the cry of a baby. There was blood everywhere and corpses and his jiejie’s blood, and chaos, and Jiang Cheng’s blood, and Lan Zhan’s blood.
He heard the sound of Clarity , which made his flesh all soft and malleable, that felt like a dull blade against his heart. The wind was cold and sharp. The leaves were falling all around him. In another life, this would be a beautiful scene. In another life.
“Wei Wuxian!” In Jiang Cheng’s mouth, his name was all rough and sharp, like a broken piece of rock, as if saying it cut his mouth.
“A-Xian, please stop,” jiejie whispered. Her blood was on Wei Ying’s hand.
He listened. He will always listen to jiejie. The world dropped dead. He wished he were dead.
Then, a bullet. Then, a splatter of blood. Then –
Leave. Go away. Wei Ying. I am here. Leave.
The next thing he knew, he woke up in a hospital. A familiar song was playing in the background. There was a man next to him, clutching onto the edges of his blanket and a phone. “Jiejie,” he croaked.
His eyes flew open. “You are awake,” he breathed. Wei Ying wanted to shout but there was nothing in him. He was made of nothing.
“Jiejie...”
“She is stable,” but in a coma , Lan Zhan left out. Wei Ying closed his eyes in relief, in guilt. The room smelt of sandalwood and disinfectant and blood.
“Stay here, let me call the doctor,” Lan Zhan said almost gently, fingers ghosting his forehead. Wei Ying looked out of the window, watching the leaves fall.
When Lan Zhan went back, the bed was empty. Outside, the autumn breeze is crying.
…
Wei Ying is never fond of hospitals. It is always cold and always smells of disinfectant that stings. There is always the underlying smell of blood. He breathes out and his ribs hurt. His senses are dull. Everything is a blur, except for the pain. He can feel every ache, every hurt that his body carries. Ah, he is still alive.
“Ah, you’re finally awake,” a nurse says. She bustles about, checking his vitals and charts, starring and adjusting the needles that poke into his arm. “You got us worried for a bit. Ah, slowly. Here.” She presses a button and the bed slowly folds up so Wei Ying can sit up supported.
Ah, his ribs really hurt. “You have a few bruised ribs, a hairline fracture on your left metatarsal, a sprained wrist, a dying phone—”
Wei Ying lifts his arm and winces. “And you dislocated your left shoulder. Sorry. You cultivators are siao .” She shakes her head disapprovingly. “Who let you out? The cut on your back is infected and Christ … Good thing you were saved in time. Could have died. Anyway. I should probably get the doctor. Get some rest.” She pats his good shoulder lightly.
His fingers found the needles. “Don’t,” she says sharply, swivelling around, “pull those out or I will make sure you are dead .” The nurse reminds him of someone.
The doctor arrives and gives him a thorough check. “You don’t have a golden core,” she says simply when he asks how long will everything heal, “that’s why you don’t heal as fast. If you rest , you will be fine in 4 to 6 weeks.”
Wei Ying freezes. That’s right, he has no golden core. His body is slower now. He is fragile now. The only thing he has left is resentful energy, but even that is failing – they need something from him that he can’t give. He takes and takes and takes, first from the Jiangs, Lan Zhan, the Wens, resentful energy, the goodwill of everyone around. He has nothing left to give. He takes, but he can’t give.
The doctor refuses to discharge him, not for another day or two at the very least. “Can’t have you dying under my watch,” she smiles, which sends chills down his spine. What’s with the doctors and nurses in this hospital?
He sinks back into the bed when the doctor leaves. His mind whirls. He cannot breathe, cannot find the strength to take in air, to let his lungs expand and deflate. Everything is constricted, his lungs, his vision, his mind.
He almost died. Again. He is still alive. Again.
He looks out of the window. The buildings are tall and overbearing in the background. Right in front of his eyes, a tree, with small white flowers dotting its crown.
He falls asleep.
…
The first time he met Lan Zhan in school, it wasn’t at the dormitory. It was spring, on the cusp of summer, and flowers were blooming across the campus. It was the university’s open day, and Wei Ying was there to accompany Jiang Cheng, who was forced to attend by Yu furen. It was decided that Jiang Cheng had to attend this particular university, where all good and honourable heirs from important and respectable sects attended.
He snuck off during the tour, wanting to explore instead of following the student guide, who had been trying to flirt with a fully oblivious Jiang Cheng. He found himself in a dark corridor, lined with dark, empty rooms when he heard the keys of a piano, the notes hanging in the air, stringing together to form a familiar song. Mozart . He followed the notes.
He found himself outside music room #3. The music changes from Mozart to Debussy. He peered through the window. Light flooded his vision. When he finally recovered some semblance of eyesight, all he saw was a figure, hair long and free, cascading down his back, with long, elegant fingers that danced lightly across the black and white keys, like a swan taking flight.
He stared, and stared, and stared, even as a name formed in his head – Lan Wangji, from the Lan Sect . He had seen him, of course he did, in passing, as a child when they were maybe eight. It was different, seeing the famed, adult , Lan Wangji in person, consumed by light amidst the darkness of the corridor. He was the prettiest person Wei Ying had ever seen in his life. His face was cold, stoic, but when he played, there was a hint of softness, that was illuminated by his melody.
Beautiful. He was so beautiful. Wei Ying thought he could spend a lifetime watching him play. He could die, like this, right now, drowning in Lan Wangji’s music.
It would be worth it. He stood there and listened, until his legs were numb. If it wasn’t Jiang Cheng who found him, and dragged him away from the spot to a nearby Internet cafe, he would have stood there and listened, until the world ended.
…
When Wei Ying wakes, it is two in the morning. He hears the beeping of the machines, the soft snores of the other patients, and the occasional grunt of pain. He sees his reflection through the mirror. He looks horrible. He looks like he is in need of sleep for the next year or so, and a desperate need for a good haircut.
He reaches for his bag, which is on the chair next to his bed and digs out his notebook. Maybe he could write.
He stares hard at the blank page, writes the standard Dearest Lan Zhan , and
A sailor told me Have you heard of the legend of the Sisters’ island? I almost died today
He freezes. Dear Lan Zhan. Dearest Lan Zhan. Dear Lan Zhan Dear Jiang Cheng Dearest jiejie Dear…. And what? And what? What is the point of this. What is the point of anything. There is nothing to this. There is no meaning. Everything is meaningless.
But he needs to write .
The ink splotches, seeps into the pages.
He lifts the pen from the paper and lets the tip find itself against his wrist.
He falls onto his back, ignores the pain. He writes. Dearest
I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health. I wish you happiness and health.
The words curve over his wrists, down his arm, his ribs, his hips. The dark ink swirling like resentful energy on his body, inscribing, engraving.
He falls asleep with unspoken desires on his lips.
Jiejie, I want to
Jiang Cheng, will you
Lan Zhan, I
...
The leaves are red. He is approaching a small house in the suburbs. It is evening and the sky is dyed a soft pink, like the cotton candy he is holding. “Baba!” He hears the voice of a child before something - someone - crashes into his right leg. He looks down. A small boy, A-Yuan, oh, A-Yuan, clings onto his leg, small arms wrapped around his calf. “You are home!” A-Yuan smiles widely at him and his heart breaks.
“Welcome home.” Wei Ying’s heart stops. This voice, soothing and deep and quiet, is hauntingly familiar yet so far away, like a distant memory on the verge of disappearing. It is one that he dreams of, sometimes, one that he allows himself to imagine, secretly, when the world is too loud.
The man steps into view, long dark hair billowing in the wind, held lightly together by a pale
blue ribbon. Lan Zhan . Wei Ying’s breath hitches. Lan Zhan is smiling. Smiling . “I made you dinner.” He walks to Wei Ying and takes his hand. His hands are warm. The summer breeze is soft against his skin.
“A-Xian!” Jiejie? Is it jiejie? “A-ling has been waiting for you.” Jiang Yanli smiles, stepping out of the house. She is glowing.
“Took you long enough. The food’s all cold because of you.” Behind her, Jiang Cheng was half-scowling, half-smiling. Then, “Welcome home.”
Home . He is home. He takes the hand of his soulmate and the hand of his son and walks to the small house. Home .
…
Wei Ying gasps awake, shaking, all choked up with tears running down his face. He cannot breathe. He can’t –
It is a nice dream. A happy dream. Why is he –
A sob wrecks his body. He lets himself cry, ugly and loud. Lets his body tremble, break. He wants to die. He wants to disappear. He wants to go home. Please .
He finds his phone, hands trembling. He dials.
It rings and there is no answer. It is a sign. Wei Wuxian, don’t you already know that you are unloved unwanted unneeded a nuisance you dont deserve anything good look —
“ Wei Ying?”
He cannot speak. Cannot move.
“ Wei Ying.” The voice is all soft, all gentle. All heavy, dripping.
“Lan Zhan, ” He finds his voice, which feels like broken glass lodged in his throat, all sharp and sad. Lan Zhan sounds all foreign and familiar at once in his mouth. It feels as if he had forgotten the weight of his name on his tongue. He wants to say so many things.
He wants to say i am tired of dying i am tired of travelling i just want to sleep and disappear lan zhan i don’t want to exist can you help me with that or nothing makes sense anymore i am so tired or will you forgive me lan zhan i am so sorry will you leave me by the seaside and forget me? But nothing makes sense so all he says is:
“Will you come get me?”
“ Yes. Always. Yes. ”
...
我祝福您幸福健康
但我不再能完成您的旅程
我是個過客。
全部我所接觸的
真正使我痛苦
而我身不由己。
總是有個什麼人可以說：
這是我的。
我，沒有什麼東西是我的，
有一天我是不是可以驕傲地這麼說。
如今我知道沒有就是
沒有。
我們同樣沒有名字。
必須去借一個，有時候。
您供給我一個地方可以眺望。
將我遺忘在海邊吧。
我祝福您幸福健康。
I wish you happiness and health
But I cannot complete your journey
I am a visitor.
Everything I touch
causes me real suffering
And does not belong to me.
There is always someone who says:
This is mine.
But I did once say proudly,
I have nothing of my own
For now I know that nothing means nothing.
That one does not have a name.
And that sometimes one must borrow one.
You can give me a place to look at.
Forget me by the seaside.
I wish you happiness and health.
- The Suspended Step of the Stork, Theo Angelopous
Translated to Mandarin by Qiu Miaojin,
To English by Ari Heinrich