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At the soft knock on the door, Lan Wangji paused his writing and frowned slightly. The curfew bell had rang a while ago, and he was just finishing a review of Xichen’s latest sect report.
“Enter.”
As the door slid open, he carefully wrote one last character and placed the brush down. The quiet, unhurried steps were as familiar to him as the knock had been, but he was certainly not expecting them at this hour. He rested his hands on the table and looked up.
“Sizhui.”
“Hanguang-Jun,” Lan Sizhui greeted with an unusually clumsy bow. Although his voice was even, his face, usually so composed, was tearstained, pale and distraught. “I apologize for disturbing you at this hour.”
Lan Wangji simply stared at him, taking in Sizhui’s disordered robes and messy hair. The junior radiated unhappiness and the sight unsettled Wangji more than he cared to admit. He had not seen Sizhui like this since he was a very small child. He frowned when he noticed the disciple’s bare, mud stained feet.
“Not wearing shoes.”
He did not mean this, of course, as a simple comment of Sizhui’s lack of footwear. Words had always been difficult for Lan Wangji. Finding the right words, the right gestures to express himself was like trying to build a bridge to cross an abyss with nothing but chopsticks and a bit of cord — it invariably crumbled before anyone could actually cross. It frustrated him to no end, but Brother and Sizhui were patient with him. They filled the gaps on his brittle bridge and were usually able to reach him.
So when he said “not wearing shoes” he really meant it as a question. What is the matter, child? What made you leave like this? And also as a statement of concern: It rained earlier today. It is still cold outside. You’ll get sick.
Normally, Sizhui would have been able to piece this together, and he would have smiled sheepishly at Lan Wangji’s concern. But whatever it was that was troubling him, it unfortunately made him unable to cross the bridge this time. He blushed and looked down at the muddy footprints he had left on the Jingshi’s pristine floor.
“I’m sorry!” He half exclaimed in a choked sob. “I’m so sorry Hanguang-jun!”
Wangji’s almost thirty years of Gusu-Lan discipline were the only thing that prevented him from groaning out loud in frustration. No, I’m not mad at you, the mud doesn’t matter at all! He was experienced enough to know that showing his irritation at his failure to reach Sizhui, however, would only make things worse, so he swallowed it down. Instead, he simply stood and extended his hand.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice gentle, “come.”
Sizhui hesitated and looked down at his feet again. “But…your floor.”
You were crying, child. I can see the tears pooling in your eyes once more. Who cares about my floor?
“Mn. Not important.”
At his words, Sizhui’s lip trembled, but he remained rooted to the spot.
For the first time in years, Wangji desperately wished Wei Ying could be here instead of him. Oh, he always missed him, to be sure. He missed him with every breath he took, but he was used to his own pain. Even if Wei Ying’s absence was a gaping wound that would never heal, it was old and familiar, and his to bear. Sizhui’s pain was a different matter.
Wei Ying. You would know what to do, how to comfort him. It should be you doing this, it was never meant to be me.
On moments like this, he was painfully, acutely aware of just how poor a substitute for Wei Ying he was. Sizhui deserved better. He deserved warmth and gentle teasing and the bright laughter that Lan Wangji wouldn’t ever be able to provide.
He sighed and briefly closed his eyes. He could never be Wei Ying, could never be kind enough or eloquent enough. But he could be here, and as deficient as he was, he could and always would strive to do his best. He forced himself to look at his ward again. Since the boy had not moved, Lan Wangji crossed the distance between them in three strides and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Tell me,” he said softly.
Wangji didn’t know if it was the words or the touch that did it, but dear Sizhui, who knew him best besides Brother, finally seemed to understand what he meant to convey. It’s ok, my boy. I’m here for you. Tell me what you need. I will do anything for you.
Sizhui sobbed and pressed himself to Wangji's chest.
“¡Ā diē!,” he cried.
The words made Wangji freeze for a moment. Oh, I’m not your ā diē, child. Your father, who was not your father either, was bright, kind and clever, and he would be so very proud of you, except you don’t remember him and I’m not brave enough to speak to you about him. He died defending you because he loved you. I love you too, you see, but I don’t deserve you. Don’t cry, please don’t cry.
Sizhui’s hand tightened on the fabric of his outer robe. The gesture was so small, so childish, that it dragged Wangji out of his grief immediately. His boy was here, and he needed him, so he did the only thing he could think of. He wrapped his arms around Sizhui and pulled him closer, cradling the back of his head with one large hand, and humming softly.
“I’m here.”
He gently ran his hands through the boy’s hair while he cried. When the sobs finally subsided, he thumbed away his tears.
“Nightmare?”
Sizhui nodded.
“Everything had burned down, and everyone was… everyone was gone,” the boy whispered. He didn’t say dead , but Wangji knew that’s what he meant. He knew what he was dreaming of, he had seen it too.
“I was all alone, and so very frightened,” Sizhui continued, and then he stopped abruptly with a grimace. “I’m sorry, I’m too old to run to you in the middle of the night, I know. But I… I needed to see you, to know you were still here.”
Wangji looked into his eyes, his gaze soft and understanding. There is no shame in seeking comfort, my boy.
He would know. Throughout the years, Wangji had relied on Brother’s presence - his kind words, his gentle smiles - more times than he could count.
He hummed.
“I am still here. There’s no need for apologies.”
Sizhui let out a shaky breath. Wangji wrapped him in his arms once more, and allowed himself to enjoy the closeness for a little while longer. At fourteen, Sizhui rarely came to him as he once did. Wangji had missed this.
Still enveloped in his arms, Sizhui whispered, “I guess I should get back.”
“No.”
The boy drew back a little to look at him. His eyes were red and puffy, but his lips held the hint of a smile. “But…”
“It is already past curfew. Sleep here.”
Let me hold you, child. You are not mine, but let me pretend, just for tonight, that you are. Let me be your ā diē.
Sizhui smiled. “Okay.”
They stood like that, holding one another, reassuring each other of their presence, until Sizhui yawned. Wangji smiled then, a soft thing, and tugged him to bed.
Later, after Sizhui had washed his feet, and Wangji had arranged the covers around them, he felt Sizhui pressing to his side, just like when he was a small child.
“Goodnight, ā diē. I will copy the rules tomorrow for breaking curfew. And for making a mess.”
“Mn. We’ll see.”
Wangji waited for Sizhui to fall asleep and then kissed the top of his head.
“Goodnight, A-Yuan,” he murmured.
He would be Hanguang-jun again tomorrow, he was sure. But tonight he was ā diē and this was his child.
Just before he fell asleep himself, he thought he heard a familiar voice say: Aiya, Lan Zhan, when did you become such a softie?