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Jin Ling stomped through amber-lit streets. His mouth was drawn in a deep frown, and he emanated a dark aura that convinced those around him that he might be a vengeful ghost himself. People thus ignored him or steered clear of his path, which was all the better, he thought, as he did not feel much like interacting with anyone after what had just happened.
He passed by another shop selling lanterns, and his chest tightened. He looked away abruptly, quickening his pace.
"Foolish," he muttered angrily to himself, the crimson hues of embarrassment washing over his face.
He had been foolish to think it would mean anything. He had been foolish to purchase the most expensive, gold-gilded river lantern, thinking that it would somehow help his message stand out to his parents in the afterlife. He was exceedingly stupid to have believed and most of all, let Wei Wuxian's words get to him.
...whoever believes that is a big fool! The dead cannot hear a thing!
Everything had been going fine before he had run into them. He was meant to spend the evening in peace and silence, paying respects. Instead, his throat felt like it was full of ash. He could not bear with the thought that he would never, ever reach his parents — that he was nothing but a stranger to them.
It seemed so cruel that they had the power to speak to resentful ghosts, could have the undead walking among them, even sentient, but his chance to communicate to his parents had been taken away from him before he could even form memories.
He wanted desperately to believe they were still watching over him, could still hear him and listen to his prayers.
The ground ahead of him grew blurry, his vision rendering out-of-focus blobs of light. He blinked, and the shapes distorted. Furious with himself, he swiped the treacherous drops from his eyes with a sleeve.
"Jin Ling?" came a voice, smooth and calming like a gentle waterfall. The sound rolled down his shoulders and back in crystal-clear cascades, almost drawing a full-body shudder from the relief it brought.
He would know that voice anywhere.
He could not be around that person.
Unfortunately, there was nowhere he could run once a hand curled itself around his upper arm firmly. He stiffened.
The hand was warm.
"It is you." It was said so brightly with wonder. As if it was a pleasure to see Jin Ling. He could hardly comprehend it, after feeling so unwanted and alone that evening.
"Lan Yuan," he acknowledged, the tone coming out flat and emotionless unconsciously, out of pure defence rather than dislike. The Lan disciple was the only person he referred to this intimately, by personal name. He would not go so far as to call the two of them close — they still fought and disagreed over many things when they would meet for night-hunts — but they had been through significant events together. They could not go through such ordeals without leaving the other side as friends, at least.
Jin Ling was aware he was coming across rude by not turning around to greet him, but damn him if he was going to let kind, perfect Lan Sizhui see whatever was going on with his face.
He did not want pity.
"I came here with some of the other disciples, and Wei-qianbei and Hanguang-jun," Lan Sizhui explained, and Jin Ling had to fight back the urge to flinch at the mention of those two. "We lost them earlier, though, and I somehow managed to get separated from everyone else."
Jin Ling was not looking at him, but he could hear the sheepishness in his words. He raised his brows in surprise. Mature, responsible Lan Sizhui wandering off on his own and getting lost? Perhaps he had not paid attention and accidentally stepped into a parallel dimension. Strange things could happen during the Hungry Ghost festival.
He chose to snort inelegantly. "I just saw those disgusting lovebirds by the river, if you're looking for them. They were nauseating as always, so I left."
Lan Sizhui let go of his arm, and Jin Ling fully expected him to be on his way. To his surprise, the older boy rounded him until he was standing in front of Jin Ling.
"You look upset," he said, with soft, grey eyes and worry written all over those fair, refined features. He seemed to glow like a deity in his white mourning robes, stark against the warm tones of their surroundings.
Flushing scarlet, Jin Ling crossed his arms and looked away heatedly. "I'm fine. I was just so repulsed by their antics. It made my stomach upset." He was tempted to spit out more vitriol to get Lan Sizhui to leave him alone, but something stopped him.
A-Die, A-Niang, I have grown up. I'm not impulsive, don't get into fights, and don't scold people anymore.
He sobered up, remembering the promise he had made to his parents earlier. They can't hear anything reverberated in his head.
But I want them to. Wei Wuxian was wrong. He simply had not received any lanterns in those thirteen years. Not even from Hanguang-jun, who never believed him to be dead.
And, a little voice whispered in his head, jiujiu never believed it either.
"Oh, Jin Ling, that's no good." Sensible, clever Lan Sizhui clearly was not completely convinced, but still managed to look concerned. "Have you eaten yet? I haven't. Let's get something warm to soothe your stomach."
With that, he managed to drag a weakly-protesting Jin Ling to a nearby stall.
Moments later, when Jin Ling was finally full of food yet feeling much lighter than he had all day, they continued to idle around the streets, catching up with each other.
It was nice, Jin Ling found himself thinking. Just the two of them in the solemn evening, without the topic of family and other questionable affiliations butting in the picture, complicating their dynamic and throwing tension between their interactions. Dry, witty Lan Sizhui was agreeable company, and he maybe teased Jin Ling a little too much, but he wasn't mean about it.
He couldn't help but find himself laughing along sometimes, and then he would get a sweet smile in return and it would make him feel seen — as if Jin Ling was someone whose feelings mattered enough. The paper lanterns tied on strings swayed above their heads, tickled by a breeze.
They passed by the river. Wei Wuxian and Hanguang-jun were long gone, and so Jin Ling breathed out a sigh of relief. He scanned the waters, trying to find his lantern, but no matter how covered in gold it was, it was drowned out by the sea of light.
It was a rather bleak thought, and he suddenly felt as hollow as those silly paper things.
He felt someone shift closer to him, the warm scent of cedarwood drifting into his personal space, intermingling with the other smells of smoke and incense from the festival.
"It's beautiful," the boy beside him said.
Jin Ling's gaze swivelled to him, and he was taken aback by the serene, almost bittersweet expression he saw there. The thousand lights of the river illuminated the Lan disciple's face, painting a picture that stole away his breath.
He realised suddenly — a crashing wave of memories of whispered stories they shared back-to-back tied up in the Demon Slaughtering cave — that Lan Sizhui too had never known his parents. He didn't remember them. He had been taken into the Lan Sect, a fever-stricken child saved from the war, and had grown up alongside other Lan children.
He was like Jin Ling, raised by a too-young generation worn down by loss and bloodshed. Jin Ling had his jiujiu and — he remembered with a pang — xiao-shushu. Lan Sizhui had Hanguang-jun.
Jin Ling wondered if he had sent out a lantern of his own. He did not ask.
Instead, he blurted, "Do you think they actually receive the lanterns?"
He realised too late he failed to be specific. He realised even later how silly his question was, and backtracked, "N-Nevermind. I'm just—"
"Ah, Jin Ling." Lan Sizhui stopped him suddenly, grabbing his wrist like he could just do that whenever he wanted. And maybe he could, because he was nice to Jin Ling. Sometimes. "I wanted to show you something."
Gulping, and grateful that he was not being prodded and questioned, Jin Ling nodded.
The Lan disciple smiled, withdrew, and reached into his sleeve, pulling out...
Jin Ling blinked. Paper butterflies?
There were two of them, flimsy and delicate little things mounted on thin sticks. They were a pale golden colour, and rather resembled his sect's messenger butterflies.
"I don't remember much of my childhood," Lan Sizhui said softly, twirling one of the toys around his finger. It spun, translucent wings catching the light. Jin Ling watched, mesmerised despite himself. "But I saw these being sold earlier. I remembered playing with them all the time, bringing them home to show granny and everyone else."
He extended one to Jin Ling, who took it speechlessly. Is that what compelled him to wander off? It felt so tiny and fragile, so ephemeral in his clumsy grip. How had elegant, graceful Lan Sizhui managed to hold them without looking ridiculous, like Jin Ling probably did at that moment?
"They are long gone now, my family. Moved on without resentment," and there was a whole other story there in the weight of his voice, that Jin Ling was too afraid to ask for. Perhaps one day, he would have the privilege to know, or perhaps not. "While they are at rest now, it is my responsibility to continue to reassure them."
A breeze blew across the river, and the hairs on Jin Ling's body all stood up. Lan Sizhui's eyes were bright like the moon.
Jin Ling often wondered what it would have been like to grow up with his parents, to taste his mother's lotus and rib soup and to have his father train him with Suihua. He wondered if he would have become mild-mannered like his mother, or if he would be more like his father, arrogant but honourable. He wondered what kind of life he would have, if he knew his parents more than snippets of adventures trickled down from broken hearts.
He looked at the paper butterfly, precious in his grasp, and tried not to cry.
"Do you..." he swallowed his words, unsure of what exactly he wanted to say. Lan Sizhui had understood him, and answered his question.
Do you feel as I do? Do you feel loss the same way? Like it's burning your heart like those candles to remember, and your lungs are full of smoke but you can't run or stop because you want to keep breathing them in? If so, how are you so...
"Keep it," lovely, strong Lan Sizhui said, a ghost of a smile on his face like he could see through Jin Ling and into his soul.
He nodded limply, and held it close to his chest, over his painfully thudding heart. He thought back to Wei Wuxian getting gifts from Hanguang-jun to comfort him for not receiving any lanterns, and found that he just could not care about it anymore. He thought back to his parents and everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to do to make sure they knew he missed them, wherever they were.
"Earlier—I didn't get to finish—" he turned to stare out at the floating lights desperately, near indistinguishable.
"Then, would you like to pray with me, Jin Ling?" Lan Sizhui suddenly offered, holding the butterfly up to his smile.
Jin Ling smiled back.
They bought two paper lanterns, lit them, and knelt next to each other by the riverbank under faded, quiet stars.