Archive of Our Own

There is a child screaming, crying, and Lan Wangji stirs at the sound. His mind is slow to make sense of it, the choked sobs filtering through layers of fatigue and pain and haze. He can barely blink, vision swimming and blurry. The noise around him shifts in and out of sense, warbling and  shrill, then silent.

For a moment, Lan Wangji feels himself drift back under the warmth of unconsciousness that lays over him with a thickness and heft he doesn’t have the strength to fight. And then the noise resumes, bringing with it a chilling clarity that feels like the icy water of the cold springs.

A-Yuan is crying. A-Yuan is hurt.

He has to protect him. Has to save him. He is the only one left. Wei Ying is gone. He has to save him.

Lan Wangji pushes himself upright, swaying as the world around him spins, tilting to the side, feet slapping on the wood, hitting it and sliding, knees alternating between bearing weight and not. 

He has to find A-Yuan. He has to protect him.

A-Yuan.

The crying continues, and Lan Wangji follows the sound, eyes passing over the white walls that have no place in the Burial Mounds, no place in-- He is in the healer’s pavilion in Cloud Recesses, and A-Yuan is lying wrapped in the twisted sheets and white robes of his clan.

A-Yuan.

Lan Wangji sinks to his knees, gathering the child in his arms and-- he is not wearing sleeves and the cloth against his chest is bound tight into strips. The blankets. Lan Wangji is grabbing for them when A-Yuan starts crying somewhere else. 

A-Yuan is crying.

A-Yuan is in his arms.

A-Yuan is crying from somewhere to the right and behind him, from somewhere else.

A-Yuan.

Panic, fear, bubble up. A distressed cry breaks free of his own throat. Lan Wangji is trapped unable to help, too many people to reach. Hugging A-Yuan tight to his chest, he rises, turns to run to A-Yuan again. He goes, trailing blankets that almost catch and trip him, but he can’t. He has to -- the doors between the rooms are open.

A-Yuan is still crying.

His own back is on fire, sticky wetness searing into it, begging for him to set A-Yuan down. He has to get to A-Yuan.

He is holding A-Yuan.

He slams into a door frame, the impact jostling him, sending him stumbling to the other side, over balancing, canting forward. His feet do not stop, he cannot stop. A-Yuan is crying. He has to reach A-Yuan. He cannot fall. If he falls A-Yuan will be hurt.

A-Yuan is lying on a bed, a large bed, too large. It’s an adult's bed. He’s crying.

A-Yuan is on the bed. A-Yuan is in his arms. He is warm. Everything is warm. Lan Wangji grabs him, collapses on the bed and grabs A-Yaun.

A-Yuan is feverish. Both of him are.

Lan Wangji can barely keep his eyes open. Whatever strength allowed him to walk before is gone, and soon it will not even allow him to remain awake. 

A-Yuan needs him though. A-Yuan is burning with fever. A-Yuan is--

Lan Wangji wraps one hand around one of each A-Yuan’s wrists, and sends a steady stream of spiritual energy to them both.

The healers will return soon. A-Yuan will be safe until then.

Lan Wangji lets his eyes close, but his grip remains firm.

A-Yuan will be safe.

+

Lan Xichen rises from his meditation at five.  He has not slept since Nightless City, but he is a strong enough cultivator to go without. Although, the memories of Wangji’s defiance and punishment flash across his mind frequently enough to interfere with his focus, and as a result meditation is not as effective as it should be, and he will have to rest properly soon.

But it is a new day, and he has old duties to attend.

He does not ignore them, because that would be irresponsible as a sect leader, but if he cannot focus on them until he has seen that his brother continues to draw breath, then it is responsible to do that first.

After dressing, Lan Xichen makes his way to the healer’s pavilion. He is immediately greeted by a harried disciple who bears a far too relieved smile at his presence. Immediately, his own heart stops with the clench of worry.

“Wangji,” he breathes out, pushing past the disciple without waiting for response or explanation. He should not have left his brother’s side. Wei Wuxian’s death--the child’s fever-- If Wangji-- Lan Xichen is spared from further catastrophic worries by the sight of Wangji alive and mostly well on the bed, but his eyes are glassy and glazed by fever, expression muted by the haze of medicine keeping him from passing out from pain.

Wangji is sitting up, slouched and bent protectively over a bundle in his alarms that is too large and has too many limbs for one small toddler. From the front, Lan Xichen can see that the bandages are red again, that Wangji is gripped by the same urge to protect that made him defy the elders, Uncle, that made him tear his back open to save A-Yuan the first time.

“Oh, Wangji,” Lan Xichen says, dropping to his knees.

Wangji takes far too long for his attention to drift around and focus on him, then even longer for a mumbled, “Xiongzhang,” to form. The bundle gets shoved into his arms, a brush of Wangji’s hands and arms betraying a fire in his skin. “I saved both A-Yuan’s,” Wangji tells him, voice firm, firmer than anything Wangji looks capable of before he lists to the side, eyes rolling back as he falls unconscious.

The disciples rush to Wangji’s side, two turning him onto his front to address the weeping mass of wounds on his back, one wrapping deft fingers around his wrist only to frown and mutter, “He used all his spiritual energy on the boys and saved none for himself.”

A fourth healer kneels beside Lan Xichen and gently pulls the mess of blankets away from the bundle revealing two small children, both with hair messed and robes wrinkled, their eyes closed and bodies limp with easy sleep. The healer presses a hand to each of their foreheads in turn and says, “Their fevers have broken.”

Even through the blankets and cloth, Lan Xichen can feel the thrum of energy pulsing strong in them.

“I know my brother made one child appear from seemingly nowhere once,” Lan Xichen says, forcing a small thread of humor into his voice, “but please tell me you know where this second one came from.”

“Both A-Yuan and Jing-er were in the children’s ward. Hanguang-jun woke in a state, rambling that he had to,” the healer stumbles on their words, dropping their voice to barely above a whisper, “to protect the Yiling Laozu… and his son.” When Lan Xichen waits patiently for the healer to continue with their explanation, they gain some confidence and say, “Hanguang-Jun found one of the boys and we were able to get him to settle once we assured him we would not take the child from him. Later, the other child started crying and Hanguang-Jun went to him. We thought it best not to attempt to take either child from him as he appeared to be…”

Wangji was distraught. Wangji was ready to fight them all. Again.

“Why did no one send for me?” Lan Xichen asks, his gaze dropping down to the two boys in his arms. 

“We thought it best not to disturb you, Sect Leader.” The healer is avoiding his eyes. “The children were not in danger and Hanguang-Jun did not appear lucid enough to recognize he was in Cloud Recesses.”

Smiling down at the children in his arms, Lan Xichen says, selfishly, “He recognized me.” There are a half dozen rules Lan Xichen violates by folding against his heart the pride and secret joy at knowing Wangji still trusts him enough to know Lan Xichen won’t hurt these children. “If it happens again, do not hesitate to send someone. I want to know.”

“Yes, Sect Leader.”

“Now,” Lan Xichen says, shifting the children just enough that they stir, but they do not wake, the exhaustion for the fever too deep in their bones. “So, this second child, you called him Jing-er, what can you tell me of him?” Depending on Wangji’s state when he wakes again, Lan Xichen may have to explain to the boy’s parents why they cannot have their child back yet.

“He is an orphan from the main clan,” the healer says, and Lan Xichen lets out a quiet breath. “He had a fever that was not breaking, and so was brought here last night from the children’s pavilion.”

“Then for now he shall stay here until both he and A-Yuan have recovered enough to leave,” Lan Xichen states, throwing a quick glance at Wangji who is being tended to while completely unconscious. “Since Wangji seems to have claimed this child as well, I will arrange for their care  until he is ready.”

“Yes, Sect Leader Lan.”

Lan Xichen will care for them while Wangji is healing and in seclusion. Wangji will not trust anyone else living with it, and Lan Xichen finds himself reluctant to. There is one conversation he must have first.

But that can wait as the boys in his arms stir, bright clarity in the two pairs of eyes that stare at each other, and then up at him. “A-Yuan, Jing-er,” he says softly, and receives nothing but the same clear and confused look.  There is no recognition of their names.

“Their fevers were very high. Their memories may be gone,” the healer says quietly. It is something Lan Xichen will ask about later, and hope that whatever fever burns through Wangji doesn’t do the same. Although some small part of him leaves the gentle thought that it could ease his brother’s pain, he pushes it aside.

For now, Lan Xichen sweeps the sweat mussed hair of one of the boys to the side. A-Yuan has been bathed since Wangji arrived with him, covered in mud and blood that had not been his own. He looks different now, but far too alike Jing-er for him to tell the difference. Wangji will know when he wakes.

“Oh,” one of the healers says quietly, as the door opens to admit fresh disciples. The one who let out the exclamation is the first one through the door and gives the others a couple of nods and orders. There is a flurry of movement as Wangji’s bandages are changed and the events of the previous night are relayed to the new healers.

When all of that is done, Lan Xichen stands, the children still held against his chest and directs his words to the healer who had been speaking to him, “Please inform my uncle that I will remain here until Wangji’s fever has broken.” 

He is given a bow of acknowledgement in return.

It doesn’t take long for the youngest of the healers to approach him, bowing and saying, “Sect Leader Lan, we have a tub and fresh robes for the two children. They should have a bath now that their fevers have broken.”

The boys’ fists are closed around the front of his robes, their eyes struggling to stay open and awake. Their grips are weak and it would be physically easy to detach them. But Lan Xichen is hesitant to disturb them, hesitant to do anything that could make them cry when that is what had distressed Wangji and caused him to tear open his healing wounds.

“Hanguang-Jun should not wake for hours,” the healer says when Lan Xichen’s gaze drifts to the bed.

Wangji is flat on his stomach, arms arranged to encourage blood flow, back covered with a layer of bandages that hide more blood than Lan Xichen remembers of the war. “I was told he would not wake last night either,” Lan Xichen says, and regrets not softening the statement when he gets a flinch to the healer’s smile. He had not meant it as a reprimand, merely too much worry for his brother. “Take the boys, I will stay with my brother.”

They only protest slightly when he shifts to hand them over, but they are easily quieted with gentle sounds. 

Lan Xichen lowers himself to the floor, folding his knees to settle in as he takes his brother’s hand. “Oh, Wangji,” he says and feels his voice crack. But there is no one around to hear. “I am sorry.” 

There are too many things it could be for, and none of them Wangji can hear. He presses his fingers to his brother’s pulse, sends what spiritual energy he can spare, and feels it strengthen in response. 

+

Lan Wangji wakes surrounded by pungent herbs and soft warmth. His body aches and for a moment the pain on his back is the only thing he feels or remembers, then he registers the small hand wrapped around one of his fingers and remembers that Wei Ying is dead. That A-Yuan is not.

He breathes deeply through the wave of pain and regret and sorrow that makes him want to drown again, and then he hears his brother’s voice and slowly he opens his eyes, to the bright whiteness of Gusu linens and the walls of Cloud Recesses. There is a child in Xichen’s arms, fast asleep with a cheek pressed to Brother’s fish-scale robe.

The child is not the one holding his own hand. That one is curled against his side, low enough to avoid the wounds from the discipline whip, which leaves the child, A-Yuan, against his leg, one arm wrapped around his thigh while the other holds tight to his finger. The weight is settling.

It takes effort to shift his hand enough to brush the back of his fingers against A-Yuan’s face. He is expecting flushed skin still, but it is only warm with sleep.

When he meets Xichen’s eyes, there is a small smile playing on his lips, a gentle teasing in his expression that feels too light for the loss of Wei Ying still lodged in Lan Wangji’s chest. That must show on his face, because Xichen’s falls as he breathes out a helpless, “Oh, Wangji.”

“Don’t,” Lan Wangji says, unable to bear any more. As it is, he can feel the wall around his heart cracking like ice hit with a hammer. 

Brother nods, then says, “Do you know who this is?”

Why would he know who the child in his brother’s arms is? There are too many in Cloud Recesses to know them all, and Lan Wangji has never been one to pay attention to them. His internal thoughts must show, because Xichen smiles to cover a laugh and says, “You told the healers he was your son.”

The memory of his fever is fuzzy, but he clearly remembers the motion, the torn distress of trying to protect A-Yuan only to be pulled in two different directions by his mind finding two A-Yuans. Embarrassment heats his ears and he looks away, saying, “I will apologise to the child’s parents.”

“There is no need,” Xichen says, and for a moment, Lan Wangji expects that Xichen has already smoothed things over as is his nature, but then he says, “The child is an orphan. He is yours to care for.”

Closing his eyes, Wangji squeezes A-Yuan’s hand. “I am in no shape to care for anyone.” He can barely move his arms. He will be bedridden for weeks if not months. And there is still the seclusion before him. Three years is too long for a child to be separated from their parent. He is already condemning A-Yuan to it, when the boy has already lost so much. “I-” the words stick in his throat, lodged against the welling of emotion.

Wei Ying is gone. Just like mother.

“Xiongzhang.”

Xichen rises to his knees, and then Lan Wangji feels his brother’s head rest atop his. When Brother speaks, there is a forcefulness to his voice Lan Wangji has never heard. Gone is the gentle flow of words that finds the easiest path to make peace. This is a cutting current of water that carves out rock as it goes, forcing others to go with it or be shattered. “Your seclusion will end and your sons will see you rejoin the world, rejoin them.” You will not be our father, Xichen’s words say, speaking his pain even if he has only ever stated that their father had his reasons, that he did not know if what their father did was right. “Your sons will know you love them, and until you can care for them yourself, I will.”

The knot stopping the words and breath in Lan Wangji’s throat loosens at the sound of the child in Xichen’s arms whining about being squished. “What is my son’s name?” he asks.

“Lan Jing,” Xichen says, breathing out a sigh of relief that is warm against Lan Wangji’s hair. “Jing’er,” he says as he pulls back, shifting the second child, “Do you remember what I said about Hanguang-Jun’s back?”

The boy scrunches his nose as he speaks. “His back is hurt, so I can’t touch it. If I want a hug, I have to ask.” He turns to look at A-Yuan lying on the bed, sleeping and hugging Wangji’s thigh. “But A-Yuan didn’t ask.”

Wei Ying’s son will always be given whatever he needs. Lan Wangji has no strength within himself to deny A-Yuan any scrap of affection, not when his own regret about pushing Wei Ying away burns too bitter. “A-Yuan is my son,” Lan Wangji says.Then adds, because he cannot treat these two boys differently if they are to both be his, “You do not have to ask either. I will not refuse.”

Jing-er’s smile is wide and bright and far too like Wei Ying’s and it breaks open something in Lan Wangji’s chest to rival the wounds on his back, makes it burn as much as the brand had. This boy will bask in attention like it is the sun.

Jing-er climbs onto the bed, jostling both Lan Wangji who winces as the movement pulls on his back, and A-Yuan who rouses just enough to cling tighter. Jing-er wedges himself between Lan Wangji’s opposite thigh and the wooden rail, flopping about until he settles.

Lan Wangji only opens his eyes once the boys have stopped moving, not trusting himself to stomach the pain until then.

Xichen rises to his feet, smoothing his robes. “Now that you have woken, I must speak with Uncle.” Xichen looks at Jing-er, his eyes kept open with a calm reassured smile, and then leaves.

+

“You are late,” Uncle says when Lan Xichen arrives at the Lanshi. Uncle doesn’t bother looking up from his work.

Lan Xichen nods his head in an apology, but does not ask for forgiveness. Uncle is not in a forgiving mood, and Lan Xichen has something more important to ask for than an infraction Lan Xichen cannot find it in himself to care about.

“Wangji’s fever has broken,” Lan Xichen says, after a long moment where Uncle refuses to do anything other than move scrolls across his desk.

Uncle gives a grunt, or something like it.

It is still more acknowledgement of Wangji’s existence than Uncle has given since he ordered the punishment that left Wangji bedridden. Even as Sect Leader, Lan Xichen had been unable to stop it.

That is how they have worked, each unable to change the decision of the other without breaching filial duty or sect hierarchy. Before, it had not been a problem. If not in agreement, Lan Xichen had at least been willing to bend for the sake of peace and Uncle’s wisdom.

Now, Lan Xichen finds himself carved down to bedrock and unable to give. The demands placed on him have scoured the softness away.

“Wangji has adopted one of the orphans in the healer’s pavilion,” Lan Xichen says, slotting his words so that there are no misunderstandings, so that the decision has been made and permission is not being asked.

“He is to enter seclusion as soon as he is well enough.”

With Wei Wuxian gone, Wangji may never be well enough. Lan Xichen does not say so aloud; instead, he closes his eyes and breathes through Uncle’s refusal to acknowledge Wangji’s fragile mental state. But Lan Xichen is an older brother, and remembers holding Wangji late into the night, well past curfew, as they cried their grief over their mother.

And there is more than someone else’s death in Wangji’s eyes.

“If you wish him to come back afterwards, you will give him something to hold onto,” Lan Xichen says. This time, he is not enough. It is a hope that A-Yuan is. It feels like safety for Jing-er to be.

“Wangji already has one son he cannot care for,” Uncle says.

“I will see that both boys are cared for until Wangji is able to raise them himself.”

Uncle looks up at him now, firm frown and anger trapped behind his iron control. “I will not allow you to condemn yourself to--”

Lan Xichen raises his hand, cutting his uncle off and mentally adds to the tally of lines he will copy and hours he will kneel for the interruption. It still accomplishes what he needs. Uncle is surprised enough to stop his tirade mid-breath and falls entirely silent.

The echoes of Uncle's own dynamic with him and their father are too loud to ignore, but Lan Xichen does hit best to set them to the side. “I will not marry or have children of my own. Wangji’s sons are the future of our sect. I will be involved in their rearing regardless of these next three years.” He takes a deep breath and forces himself to keep his eyes open.

“The elders will not tolerate it.”

“The elders will listen to their sect leader on this matter,” Lan Xichen says, then dips his head, the strange unsteady ground of bare unbending conviction is frightening with how many rules he is breaking, with how many possibilities to smooth things over he is passing on. “Lan Jing is an inner disciple. It will pull attention away from where A-Yuan came from. There will be less gossip if one child’s origin is already known.”

“Gossip is forbidden.”

“In Cloud Recesses, Uncle,” Lan Xichen says, and allows his tone to soften, allows himself to sink back into the familiar soft patterns of giving others concessions while standing firm on his end. “But the disciples often break the rules, and the other sects have no prohibition. One child will invite rumor about why Hanguang-Jun has picked him. Wangji cares nothing for his reputation and will make no attempt to preserve it if doing so means people will assume A-Yuan was born an illegitimate Lan.” As opposed to a Wen. “If we allow him to keep Lan Jing, we can control the narrative that Hanguang-Jun is raising two clan orphans and doing his duty to ensure the future of our sect.”

“We both know that is not the truth.”

“Greater lies have been told to protect the reputation of the sect,” Lan Xichen counters flatly, surprised by his own cold tone, and the anger that wells up at the thought of his parents, at his mother’s fate and father’s tangled choices.

“How did I raise two stubborn nephews?! Did I teach you nothing of duty and rules and righteousness? How can you still make the same mistakes as your father?”

Lan Xichen closes his eyes, lets the waves of regret wash over him, lets the pain of  being torn in too many directions pull him apart.

Uncle had. They had always been a united front against the world. Had always been in sync with each other, with the elevation of rules and righteousness. And now, now they are fracturing against the sharp edges of the things they deem most important.

When he opens his eyes again, Uncle’s attention has turned back to his desk.

“I will let you know when Wangji is well enough to enter seclusion.”

He bows, and is waved off.

Retreating through the door, Lan Xichen only lets himself release a shaky exhale once he is beyond his uncle’s sight. He can only hope his choices are enough to save his brother.

+

Three years pass in the blink of an eye, one dragging, tired eye that struggles to open again after slipping closed.

Lan Jing and Lan Yuan grow. A-Yuan into Wangji’s steadfastness and Lan Xichen’s quiet kindness. And Jing-er into all the life that goes unlived by the other disciples. Both are fierce and loyal.

Lan Xichen tells his brother this when he visits, every day. Some days, Wangji gives no response, no indication his mind is present enough to even register Lan Xichen’s presence. On others, the silence is intentional; a glare aimed at the book of rules, as Wangji deliberately ignores everyone in favor of a fire he won’t let burn out.

Eventually, Wangji emerges from the back hill and the Cold Pond Cave, gaunt and pale. He is settled in the way of frozen ice, but brittle.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says when his didi arrives at the Hanshi, robes and hair still damp with thaw.

“Xiongzhang,” Wangji responds, movements and voice stiff. He stands in the middle of the room and blinks, glancing around before he turns back to Lan Xichen. Then, the lost look in his eye hardens into something more familiar, more stubborn.

Lan Xichen smiles and extends a hand towards the table. “Sit.”

Wangji gives the table a glance, then turns back to Lan Xichen. Refusing the invitation to sit. And then, because Wangji did not come out of seclusion for himself, he asks, "Where are my sons?"

"In lessons with Uncle. They are well." 

Wangji is clearly displeased. His expression flattens back into the same blankness Lan Xichen saw when he visited, when Wangji’s gaze was elsewhere. Wangji is still angry with Uncle.

In the face of that, Lan Xichen gently asks, "Are you?"

"...Am I?" Wangji blinks, his eyes refocusing, the confusion once again centering his attention on Lan Xichen.

“Well?” Lan Xichen asks.

Wangji clenches his jaw and avoids answering. It is not an unfamiliar response, not with the past three years, but Lan Xichen had hoped it would change.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen prompts.

“I want to go,” Wangji says slowly, deliberately.

Lan Xichen doesn’t have to ask where.

He already knows. 

“Of course,” Lan Xichen says, and steps around Wangji to locate a disciple waiting outside the Hanshi. “See that Jing-er and A-Yuan are settled into the dorms for the night.”

“Yes, Sect Leader,” he answers, and then leaves with a bow.

When Lan Xichen turns back, he is met with a curious stare from Wangji. “You are no longer in seclusion,” Lan Xichen tells him. “…And if you do not return,” -to Gusu, to Cloud Recesses, to Us- “I wish to know why."

Wangji looks contemplative, and pained. Always pained. "I will return. A-Yuan is here."

Xichen closes his eyes and allows a brief moment of relief. At least that one bit he had said so many times to Wangji over the past three years seems to have stuck. Wangji is not their father. Wangji’s sons are enough for him. Wangji is not lost to them.

Lan Xichen deliberately makes the choice to avoid asking Wangji about Jing-er, too afraid to hear an answer he will learn soon enough, too afraid to doubt his brother’s love, too afraid to find out Wangji’s affections don’t extend beyond what he can tie directly to Wei Wuxian.

Wangji is waiting for him, expression once again bland but expectant. He is waiting, for Lan Xichen to speak, for permission, for directions. It is enough like Wangji’s old self, young, looking to his brother for guidance, that Lan Xichen has to close his eyes against the wave of guilt.

“I can afford to be away for a few days,” Lan Xichen says, and pushes aside his regrets of allowing Wangji to be dashed against the rocks when he was already drowning in a storm. The waters are calmer now, frozen over, but Lan Xichen has no illusions they are churning beneath the surface. “I will not leave you to face this alone.” 

Wangji gives him a cool stare, then a single firm nod.

Another wash of relief. Whatever role Lan Xichen played in Wangji’s pain, his little brother isn’t pushing him away. 

"Do you want to change first?" There is a gift for Wangji in the Jingshi. A guan that will hopefully remind him of who he is.

"Mn."

No. Wangji has decided what he wants and is not going to wait. Lan Xichen grabs Liebing from the table and Shuoyue from the stand, then follows Wangji to the gates.

Wangji mounts Bichen outside the gates, and for one horrifying moment, lurches forward in a way Lan Xichen has not seen him do since they first learned to ride the sword. Lan Xichen reaches forward to steady him, but Wangji rights himself before the moment passes. Recovering from his injuries has left his body weak, but three years of focused meditation don’t seem to have affected his cultivation in any way but to strengthen his golden core. Lan Xichen is the one finding himself fatiguing as he follows Wangji to his destination. 

Lan Xichen is not surprised when they reach the place Wei Wuxian died. He waits, holds his breath.

Wangji lands on the stone of Burial Mounds, and then stands there and stares at the ground and dirt and desolate ruins of what he had to have seen when he rescued A-Yuan, but likely holds only anguished delirious memories of. Wangji just stands there and stares, and Lan Xichen ...waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Wangji says nothing.

Lan Xichen doesn't dare to.

He had been adept at reading his brother, but the three years of death have muted what little there was. Now he finds his brother’s mind opaque, too distant to read anything but a gaping emptiness.

When Wangji leaves Burial Mounds without saying a word, Lan Xichen can do nothing but follow and hope Wangji’s strength lasts long enough to return.

They land in Caiyi Town, and Wangji buys two jars of Emperor’s Smile.

Lan Xichen pauses, recalls clearly the last time Wangji had done so and the brand still on his chest. He searches Wangji’s face and posture for any hint of the same intentions. 

"For Wei Ying," Wangji says, flat in the way of water on a windless day, when he turns and finds Lan Xichen watching him. There is a flash of something, possibly guilt, but it disappears too quickly to place.

Xichen simply nods his understanding and makes no move to stop his brother. He is not certain he could even if he tried.

They fly the rest of the way back to Cloud Recesses in silence.

They return past curfew, or near enough Lan Xichen doesn’t want to disturb the children tonight. Even more, Wangji needs the time to recenter.

“We will move the boys into the Jingshi tomorrow, if that is what you wish.”

Wangji nods. He doesn't even bother with a hum. His hands, even though they grip his sword and the jars of Emperor’s Smile, are lax to the point that if someone bumped into him, the metal and ceramic would clatter to the stone below. 

Lan Xichen measures two breaths then says, “They don't need to yet, if you would prefer more time to adjust.”

“No need."

Lan Xichen doubts that. The focus and anger Wangji had held when he first emerged is gone, and it hasn’t been replaced by anything. But he nods. “Very well. Sleep well, Wangji.”

Wangji gives a nod, but again, it takes a long moment for him to respond verbally. “You as well.”

Lan Xichen has had long years of practice setting aside his worries in order to clear his mind to sleep. It is less useful tonight as his mind loops over the worry of the last time Wangji procured alcohol.

The result had been a brand on his brother’s chest and the last hope that Lan Xichen had of Wangji coming out of things unbroken had shattered like ceramic on the floor.

Rising, Lan Xichen throws on an outer robe and makes his way to the Jingshi.

There is a single candle illuminating the interior and Lan Xichen knows that at the very least, his decision to check on Wangji was the right one. When he makes his way to the door, he slides it open to find Wangji sitting at the table, a jar of Emperor’s Smile split between him and an empty spot. Wangji’s posture is as slumped as it will ever be, his expression blank in a way that speaks of breaking numbness inside. There are tear tracks down Wangji’s cheeks and his eyes are red from it.

Slowly, he turns to Lan Xichen, blinks, then in a voice that cracks along the syllables says, “He is gone.”

Heart breaking, Lan Xichen sweeps across the floor and pulls his baby brother into a hug. In a single breath, Wangji falls apart completely, a gasp escaping him as he reaches up and clings to Lan Xichen. 

Like this, it is all too easy to feel how close Wangji came to death, even three years later; how his muscles are all but gone beneath his too loose robes, how his bones feel like they will snap under the force of the hug and Wangji’s own shaking.

Aware of the warmth of Wangji’s tears finally making their way through the layers of his own robes, Lan Xichen rubs a hand over Wangji’s back, trying to sooth him over the map of scars. Eventually, Wangji stills, breath evening out and quieting.

“A-Zhan?” Lan Xichen ventures. “Didi?”

He gets no response, and when he shifts Wangji slightly, finds him asleep, face slack and as close to peaceful as Lan Xichen could hope for. They stay like that for the rest of the night, like they did when Wangji was the same age as his sons are now and their mother was gone.

Morning arrives and they rise as normal. There is something less brittle to Wangji's edges, and for that Lan Xichen is grateful. They dress. Eat breakfast. And then Lan Xichen walks them to the junior disciples’ dormitories.

There are already children and teenagers milling about, giving quick bows to Lan Xichen when they notice him, and then curious stares when they notice Wangji behind him.

Lan Jing and Lan Yuan are emerging from their shared room, both ready for the day. Jing-er elbows A-Yuan to get his attention before whispering, "Who is that with Uncle?"

A-Yuan turns and gives a narrow look, thinking. "It must be Zewu-jun's brother," A-Yuan says and puts enough emphasis on Lan Xichen's title that it can't be mistaken for anything other than a silent reminder for Jing-er to call Lan Xichen by his title in public.

Xichen reaches them and to his right Wangji stops at his elbow.

"Sect Leader," both boys say with bows, and then turn to Wangji.

"Hanguang-jun," Lan Xichen supplies, and catches the understanding and recognition bring smiles to both of the boys’ faces.

Wangji doesn't nod in acknowledgement, which the two boys quickly share a glance and a silent conversation with very unsubtle looks.

The walkway is immediately filled with whispered exclamations of Hanguang-jun’s name and presence.

Lan Xichen lets it go. Wangji is more important. He is swallowing and appears on the verge of tears, far too full of everything after the past few days; the past few years. After a moment, he bows his head to Lan Xichen and then leaves without a word.

The two boys exchange another round of glances.

"Do not gossip," Lan Xichen reminds them and the disciples around them, and the hall falls silent. The boys nod. Knowing the rules exists will have to suffice for now. Wangji needs him, and Lan Xichen cannot spend an hour ensuring the young abide by the prohibition on gossip.  "You are excused from classes for the day.” He tells the two who deserve more explanation than a quick reprimand, “Come to the Hanshi once you have cleaned your room."

Jing-er gives a guilty smile. A-Yuan nods in acknowledgement.

The crowd parts around Lan Xichen as he heads outside to find Wangji rushing down the path, pebbles scattering beneath his feet.

Lan Xichen sighs, and then follows at a sedate pace.

Wangji follows the white gravel paths, sharp angles and quick turns and only pauses when the cold pond is before him.

Wangji stares for a moment and then steps forward, wading into the icy waters fully clothed. His robes billow out around him like snow floating on the surface, and then sink.

"Wangji?" Lan Xichen asks, concern thick in his throat, weighing down his words, stopping his breath.

Less than a heartbeat later, Wangji turns to him and his eyes focus, then cloud with shame and fall to stare at the water below. 

Lan Xichen waits with an apology on his tongue and gives Wangji time to find his words. Lets the moment slow in the eddies around them, refuses to push his didi back into the rapids.

When Wangji doesn't speak, Lan Xichen does. "It is my fault. I should have anticipated it being difficult for you."

The look Wangji gives him says mountains. "I should be able to handle it. You should not have needed to."

"I cannot imagine seclusion has made being around crowds any easier." Again, Wangji allows his reaction to speak for him, and relies on Lan Xichen's ability to read him. "I also can't imagine seeing Jing-er and a-Yuan was easy."

Wangji doesn't shoot Lan Xichen another look, so Lan Xichen waits for Wangji to find his words. Eventually, he says, "They did not know me."

Ah. 

"I thought it best not to tell them too much. I did not wish for them to ask questions I was unprepared to answer."

He did not want them to hear the hateful gossip. He did not want them to learn of Wangji's rulebreaking from elsewhere if they began to ask questions. He did not want them to hear of Wei Wuxian. For Wangji's sake.

He takes a deep breath. "They know I have a brother who was… working on his cultivation like they were learning how to mediate. They are eager to meet you."

Wangji nods.

"But it can wait until you are ready."

"I am ready." What perhaps he means is that he needs to see them. Those words are just easier to say.

"Of course," Lan Xichen allows. "But first, come out of the pond."

Wangji stares down at his hands, and robes. "It is cold," he says.

It is calming. It is familiar.

It is where he has been frozen for the past three years. 

Lan Xichen tries to be as gentle as he can when he says, "It is time to come out."

Wangji does so. His lips are blue and his limbs shiver without his say, but he holds himself tall. Water drips onto the rocks from his hair and robes, but he ignores it, shows no signs of fidgeting, and meets Lan Xichen’s eyes with a steady gaze. “I want my sons.”

Smiling, Lan Xichen nods. "Go change, I will have tea ready in the Hanshi when you return."

Wangji nods, inclines his head in thanks, and leaves. It is perhaps too soon to expect more.

Lan Xichen closes his eyes, lets everything wash over him and then flow away. He lets himself feel everything he needs to for one held breath, then lets it go and returns to his rooms.

Lan Jing and Lan Yuan are both in the Hanshi when Lan Xichen returns. A-Yuan is sitting at the desk, likely working on assignments they were assigned to complete in lieu of lesions for the day. Jing-er is lying on the floor. Not doing that.

“Zewu-Jun!” A-Yuan says, looking up from his work and smiling.

Jing-er sits up with enough force to concuss himself if he were to hit his head. He also looks decidedly like he is expecting Lan Xichen to know he has gotten into trouble. The speed at which he reaches for the writing supplies on the table confirms anything that Lan Xichen needs to know.

“You may copy your lines later,” he tells the boy and fully steps into the rooms. 

Beside Jing-er, A-Yuan finishes a line and sets his brush aside before folding his hands and giving Lan Xichen his undivided attention. Lan Xichen gives him a warm smile and passes a glance over the work, and freezes.

It is not like A-Yuan to break the rules, but there is no mistaking the columns of doctrines from the book of righteousness.

“A-Yuan,” Lan Xichen asks, as conversationally as he can. It won’t do to have the child think he is in trouble for doing his work. “Who assigned you to write these rules out?”

A-Yuan bites his lip and gives Jing-er a glance out of the corner of his eye. 

“Master Qiren,” Jingyi says, showing none of his brother’s hesitation, or apparent loyalty to the silence Lan Xichen is now almost certain they had been sworn to. Then, with a sigh, he lifts up the page they were both meant to copy from, the rules meticulously written and numbered in Wangji’s hand. It is likely one of the many, many similar pages Wangji had copied in the years between the Sunshot Campaign’s conclusion and Wei Wuxian’s death. “I don’t even understand why we need to know all these rules for our next lesson. Everyone else in class already knows everything about the war and the Yiling Patriarch and their parents definitely didn’t make them copy all these rules before telling them.”

“Master Qiren said it would be better if we did not mention it to you or Hanguang-Jun,” A-Yuan says, head bowed.

There are so many thoughts swirling about in Lan Xichen’s mind, and he feels the need to have a word with Uncle. There can only be so many reasons for choosing now to teach this lesson, and none of them are favorable.

“It would be best if you did not mention this to my brother, no,” Lan Xichen says instead, and remembers that Wangji will be arriving before long. “Put your work away,” he tells them with a glance first at the papers on the table, and then to the two beds in the side room.

A-Yuan’s is clean and neat. Jing-er’s has a hastily-made bed with a few scattered belongings thrown about it. Lan Xichen contemplates asking the boys to properly clean their room, before deciding against it. If they are to move into the Jingshi, Wangji should know that they are children and naturally chaotic in the same way that Wangji gravitated towards neatness and order.

While the boys put their things away, Lan Xichen pulls out tea and prepares it.

“Are we going to have a guest?” A-Yuan asks, walking quietly up to the table and staring at the settings.

“Yes, A-Yuan.”

Jing-er is still putting his things away, pulling wrinkled robes out of his pack and shoving them into their spot by his bed. He doesn’t appear to be paying attention, but his head whips around when A-Yuan asks, “Is it Hanguang-Jun?”

“Yes,” Lan Xichen says, “Hanguang-Jun will hopefully be joining us for tea.”

“Hopefully?” Jing-er asks as he wanders over. A quick glance shows his unpacking is half done. 

Lan Xichen is saved from having to find an explanation for why Wangji would not show up by the familiar silhouette of his brother on the other side of his door.

Wangji slides it open and pauses. He is wearing clean robes and has his hair up in a new flame-shaped guan, and he looks thoroughly unmoored, ready to be swept away if he removes his hand from the doorframe.

Lan Xichen breaks the ice with something easier than the children and tells Wangji, “I am glad to see you found my gift.”

“Mn.” Wangji’s eyes are still focused on the two children, but he swallows and manages to says, “Thank you, Xiongzhang.”

Jing-er is staring up at Wangji, eyes narrowed in a squint as he tries to make out what to think of Wangji. A-Yuan has a quieter uncertainty. He has grown out of holding his fingers in his mouth, but when he smiles, he walks forward and wraps his arms around Wangji’s leg.

Wangji makes no move to avoid it. The expression on his face, so unreadable to everyone else looks like he has been punched in the chest and is gasping for breath. Lan Xichen watches as his brother, for the third time in less than a day, breaks and crumples.

Wangji sinks to the floor, bowing around A-Yuan, burying his face in the child’s hair and trembles like the earth is shaking. A-Yuan twists, attempts to turn to Lan Xichen for some sign of what to do.

Lan Xichen takes Jing-er’s hand and guides him forward. “Wangji,” he says, and gets Wangji’s attention. For a moment, Lan Xichen isn’t sure Wangji is seeing them, but then his eyes land on Jing-er and he extends an arm to pull both Lan Xichen and the child close. 

They stay like that for a few breaths, each slower than the last, until Wangji has composed himself. When he pulls his head back, his face is still pained and there are wet tracks of tears down his cheeks, but to anyone else he is otherwise impassive again.

He gives Lan Xichen a slow nod.

Lan Xichen allows himself an outward sigh and gives both boys a smile when they turn to him. “Your father missed you.”

Jing-er is the first one to respond this time, his head whipping around. “Father?” He turns to where his bed is visible over A-Yuan’s head. Turns to Wangji. Turns to Lan Xichen. “Where is his room?”

“Jingshi,” Wangji manages to answer.

A-Yuan takes another moment to think before asking, “Will we be moving to the Jingshi?”

“Mn,” Wangji says with another nod.

“But only when everyone is ready,” Lan Xichen says, giving both boys a smile, then a firmer look to Wangji, who thankfully makes no objection. “For now, we should have some tea.”

+

It takes three full weeks after reuniting with his sons for Lan Wangji to not feel Xichen’s perceptive stare see through him to the broken frozen core within him when he says that he is ready. 

“They will be happy to hear it,” Xichen says instead of reminding Lan Wangji that he can take whatever time he needs, that he is already present enough in their lives. That he has already come out of seclusion. Unlike their own.

When the bell tolling the hour, and the end of lessons, does not precede the arrival of Jing-er struggling to follow the rules of prohibiting running, and A-Yuan doing only slightly better, Lan Wangji can feel his nerves grow.

“I know I am early,” Lan Wangji says, but that is where the words stop as fear that A-Yuan and Jing-er both have grown bored of him steals the rest away. 

Xichen gives him another reassuring smile and says, “Perhaps we should find them.” There is no hint of concern for them being late that Lan Wangji can tell, so he nods.

Xichen guides them to the discipline pavilion, the sight of which tugs something tight in Lan Wangji’s chest and ignites something he keeps banked and tightly controlled. “Why are we here?” Lan Wangji wants to ask his brother, but the words get trapped behind his teeth, ground together with the force of withstanding too many lashes.

“Ah,” Xichen says, his tone light, then he turns and catches Lan Wangji’s reaction, and the weight of the moment settles in. “Nothing quite so harsh,” Xichen says, “Neither of them have to do much more than copy lines at this age.”

“At any age,” Lan Wangji bites out.

Xichen pauses, and Lan Wangji does too. He blinks, then presses on, clenching his fist around Bichen. “Physical punishment does nothing.” It had done nothing to dissuade him when he was right. It had done nothing to dissuade the students when they were young and wrong. It had done nothing to teach.

It had only given him a short reprieve by replacing one pain with another.

Lan Wangji can see Xichen study him for a long moment before his brother says, “I suppose you would know. I will take it into consideration.”

Lan Wangji shakes his head. Resuming most of his old daily routine had helped  him, centered him, tethered him like each ritual is a cleat on a dock, tying him to the present, to life in Gusu. “Am I still the master of discipline?”

It has been three years. But although Uncle’s and the elder’s anger was harsh, they had made no mention of stripping him of any of his standing during the punishment. They had made no move to remove him permanently from any of his duties.

Xichen is staring at a tree and blinks. There is a moment of surprise on his face, like he is not certain he believes what he is thinking as he smiles. “I suppose you still are.” He turns back to Lan Wangji, and gives an even happier smile, one Lan Wangji knows is meant for him. “I will inform the current one that you will be returning to your duties then.”

Lan Wangji nods.

When they reach Jing-er and A-Yuan, the boys are against a wall, Jing-er on one hand with his feet balancing on the wood as he copies lines, and A-Yuan with his back resting against it.

“Zewu-Jun! Hanguang-jun!” As soon as A-Yuan shouts his greeting, Jing-er looks up and topples, falling forward so that his back bends, hand still on the wood, feet touching down in a way to avoid the papers and wet ink in front of him.

After a second, he rights himself to resume copying his lines, even if he is watching Lan Wangji and Xichen.

It is impressive control and mobility for a child, and Lan Wangji immediately feels anger tighten every muscle in his body. Jing-er’s movements are well practiced. He is too young to be required to do handstands while copying rules.

Xichen gives a soft huff of laughter and smiles through it. “There is no need to react so harshly, Wangji. Jing-er started doing that on his own.”

Lan Wangji turns to his brother, but it is Jing-er who answers his unspoken question, “It helps me focus, Hanguang-Jun.”

Much like Wei Ying, Jing-er had fidgeted and been unable to quietly complete his school work the times that Lan Wangji had spent with him over the past weeks. The remembrance cuts him along the jagged edges of the memory, but Lan Wangji breathes through it. He is no longer at risk of drowning. There are cleats tethering him to the docks and shore.

“Why were you punished?” Lan Wangji asks.

Jing-er sighs dramatically and gestures with the hand holding the brush, which sends drops of ink splattering against the wall and deck. “I can’t sit still, I smile too much, I laugh too often, I was running, I was disrespectful, I broke the rule about fighting when I pushed a kid for being mean to A-Yuan.”

Lan Wangji can feel his anger rise again, feel the bile in the back of his throat as he forces down the urge to scream at the hypocrisy of his sect. They hold so much hatred for Wei Ying that even the memory of him, of a child acting too much like him, is enough to warrant harsh discipline.

“Master Qiren-” Jing-er says, and Lan Wangji stops hearing anything else as his ears ring.

He finds Uncle sitting inside at a desk. It is the first time since passing out from the pain of the lashes, that Lan Wangji has seen him. Despite Xichen’s attempts to mediate, their paths have not crossed since Lan Wangji came out of seclusion.

“You will not punish my sons for acting like children,” Lan Wangji says, before any greeting, before any reprimand from his Uncle.

Uncle scowls and then sets a scroll aside. “I will not see another undisciplined child repeat his father’s mistakes.”

“My only mistake was--”

“You are not the father I was speaking of,” Uncle says, cutting off Lan Wangji, but he leaves no room for rules about interruption before he continues with, “If his son is to be a member of this sect, then Lan Jing will behave as one.”

Lan Jing was never Wei Ying’s son, but Lan Wangji can immediately tell that Uncle has decided which child was the one he brought back from Burial Mounds. Because even in the few short week’s Lan Wangji has known them, it is clear to anyone who knew Wei Ying which child is more likely to have been his.

“He was good,” Lan Wangji hears himself say through the rush of blood in his ears, through the rage still coursing through his veins. “I won’t let you punish his son for being the same.” He looks up, meets Uncle’s eyes and holds them.

It is Uncle who looks away first, guilt overriding the anger in his features, and he turns to grab a new scroll. “I have lessons to prepare for tomorrow,” Uncle says, dismissing Lan Wangji without acknowledging the echoes of the moment between them.

Lan Wangji leaves. The threat of his own disobedience—  of him choosing to raise his sword against his elders to protect his sons—has been made. Either the threat will be enough, or he will be.

Last time, he was too late in realizing where he needed to stand. This time, he already knows. When he returns to the hall of discipline, Xichen is sitting with A-Yuan, both of them keeping Jing-er company.

Without saying a word, Lan Wangji raises his arms, fighting the stiffness in the joints, pulling on the uneven stretch of muscles on his back, to twist the long length of his hair and ribbons into a bun.

“Wangji?” Xichen asks, rushing to his feet, but he stops as soon as Lan Wangji walks up beside Jing-er and plants his hands on the floor. 

The stretch is a reminder of how long Lan Wangji has gone without properly exercising his body. Slowly, and with more effort than it should require, Lan Wangji raises his legs and joins Jing-er in a handstand against the wall. Although his body has healed, it has not recovered. He can’t hold this position for anywhere near as long as he could before being injured, but Jing-er is young, and Lan Wangji only has to last as long as his son.

“Uh, Hanguang-Jun?” Jing-er asks, craning his neck to look at him, “What are you doing?”

“A handstand,” Lan Wangji answers.

“Why?” Jing-er asks, and Lan Wangji catches A-Yuan shoot Jing-er a look of anxious fear for questioning him.

“It is alright,” Lan Wangji tells him. He pauses as he shifts his weight, balancing on one hand for long enough to lift the other out to A-Yuan. “You will never be in trouble for questioning me.”

A-Yuan takes his hand and walks forward, just a few steps. He shoots Jing-er another glance before asking, “Why are you doing handstands with Jing-er?”

“They build strength and discipline,” Lan Wangji answers, and then before his arm can begin trembling to the point either boy can tell, pulls his other hand back and replaces it on the ground. “I did not want your brother to do so alone.”

A-Yuan looks to Xichen and asks, “Is that allowed?”

Xichen smiles, and gives an earnest nod. “You cannot take your shidi’s punishments for him, but that does not mean he has to go through them alone.” The smile he gives Lan Wangji is different from the warmth for A-Yuan, and Lan Wangji returns his brother’s smile with a nod. Xichen’s warmth doesn’t fade as he turns back to A-Yuan and prompts with a knowing, “Would you like to join them?”

The four of them spend the remainder of the hour doing handstands.

+

“How certain are you, Wangji, that A-Yuan is his son?” 

Xichen only asks the question once.

It is when A-Yuan and Jing-er are old enough to receive their courtesy names. When A-Yuan becomes Lan Sizhui and Jing-er becomes Lan Jingyi, and they both honor Wei Ying with who they have become.

Lan Wangji doesn’t bother giving his brother an answer. He knows Xichen can read him, read the certainty in his body language as he pens the names. 

Can read the uncertainty when Lan Wangji watches his sons. When A-Yuan follows the rules, asks questions to better understand them. When Jing-er breaks them for fun, for freedom. When Sizhui grows into the legacy of the Twin Jades, a disciple even Uncle approves of, and when everything that Jingyi becomes is something that Cloud Recesses would snuff out if Lan Wangji weren’t there to shield that flickering light with his own body.

In the end, Lan Wangji doesn’t spare any thought to it. He’s not sure it matters, in the end. Wei Ying is gone. The Wens are gone. Neither child has any memories of a time before they were Lan Wangji’s sons.

Lan Wangji does his best to treat them equally. Love them equally. Nurture the parts in each of them that remind him of Wei Ying.

In the end, they are both his sons, and both his sons.

And then, before the end, Wei Ying appears.

Wei Ying is alive.

Wei Ying is alive, and he effortlessly earns their affection and respect, returning it to them with lessons and protection. And in quiet moments, he stumbles, missing a child who would be the same age as the children he has already enveloped in his fierce unending love.

And Lan Wangji has no idea how to tell Wei Ying that the child he is missing is alive and well and standing before him.

Lan Wangji has no idea how to tell Wei Ying that Wen Yuan could be either Jingyi or Sizhui, that the only thing he had based his guess on was a small child’s instinct to hug his leg.

He doesn’t know how to tell Wei Ying that he rescued the child Wei Ying loved because he loves Wei Ying. When Wei Ying 

And then, Sizhui befriends Wen Ning, and Wen Ning makes the connection Wei Ying hasn’t. And Lan Wangji can’t bring himself to break the heart of the gentle Ghost General when he smiles so brightly at finding a relative he thought he had lost.

“He is happy,” Lan Wangji says, and uses it to hide his own failures and cowardice. “He has no memories of that time,” he says instead of admitting that Wen Ning’s and Wei Ying’s precious A-Yuan might be Lan Jingyi instead.

And that Lan Wangji doesn’t know.

Perhaps it won’t matter to Sizhui and Jingyi. They are happy and loved. It hasn’t mattered who they are or aren’t, and it won’t.

And Lan Wangji has enough faith in Wei Ying to know it won’t affect how he cares for either of Lan Wangji’s sons. And that Wei Ying deserves to know, deserves to have some part of the grief in his heart lessened.

‘There is something I haven’t told you,” Lan Wangji says, when everything else is wrapped up, when there are no more things to distract them all, when Lan Wangji no longer has any convenient excuses to keep the truth from Wei Ying.

“What is it?” Wei Ying asks.

And then Sizhui and Wen Ning arrive, and the moment is inopportune once again, another interruption before Lan Wangji can say what needs to be said.

And then, once more, in the end, it doesn’t matter.

Sizhui remembers… if not everything, enough. And he tells Wei Ying of his existence himself. 

And the look Wei Ying gives Lan Wangji in return, the gratitude, the love, is enough that Lan Wangji cannot bring himself to admit the parts left unsaid.

+

The next time Lan Wangji has almost all of his family together, it is Uncle who refuses to join them rather than Brother. Xichen greets them at the gates, wan but well, and invites them to dinner in the Hanshi. When Lan Wangji and Wei Ying arrive, their sons are already inside, arguing over something that immediately concerns Lan Wangji when he hears Jingyi say, “It’s less dangerous than what Wei-qianbei did on that last night hunt!”

Lan Wangji is ready to caution them when Wei Ying places his hands on his hips and says loudly, “Then you absolutely under no circumstances should do it.” Lan Wangji is inclined to agree. Wei Ying only remained safe because Lan Wangji kept him so.

Jingyi and Sizhui immediately turn, calling out, “Hanguang-Jun! Wei-qianbei!”

“Rest assured,” Xichen says as he steps to the side to let Lan Wangji in, then slides the door closed, “their discussion is hypothetical, no-one is placing themselves in any danger.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Wei Ying says as he turns between Xichen and Jingyi, “I could have died! You shouldn’t do anything I’ve even thought about! I actually died at one point! I died, Jingyi!"

Lan Wangji has spent years breathing through every reminder that Wei Ying was dead, but it still hits him hard enough he bites out a pained, “Wei Ying.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, and immediately throws an arm around his shoulders, smiling up, “I’ve got you to protect me now though. Nothing will hurt me as long as I’ve got you.”

Lan Wangji allows Wei Ying to soothe him, to pull him into Wei Ying’s smile before Xichen’s polite cough pulls their attention back to the room. “Shall we sit?”

“Mn.”

Wei Ying somehow ends up sitting in his lap, arranged so that they can both nominally eat and Lan Wangji gives him a gentle, "shameless," when Wei Ying teases.

Xichen raises a single eyebrow while Sizhui hides his laughter behind his sleeve. Jingyi isn't nearly as polite and says, "but you're letting him sit there! Stop flirting at the table."

Lan Wangji looks at the table, ears burning and is met with a hand on his chest. Wei Ying’s eyes are open in wide innocence, and his tone is mockingly shocked, "Lan Zhan, are you flirting with me?"

Lan Wangji moves Wei Ying so he is seated on the floor. "No."

Wei Ying makes himself comfortable and presses against Lan Wangji's side, then reaches for something to eat. "Aiya, Lan Zhan but there is only so much room at the table. Should we put Sizhui on your lap instead?"

Lan Wangji blinks and waits for Wei Ying to devolve into another laughing fit, but it doesn't happen, instead his attention flits to an adjacent thought and he tilts his head to the side. "Was Jingyi ever a leg hugger like a-Yuan?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head. "Mn."

Behind Wei Ying's head, Xichen's gaze grows distant and he says softly, "Ah, I see. That is how you knew."

Wei Ying's head turns and the rest of his body follows. "Knew what?"

At Wei Ying’s clear confusion, Xichen pauses and then glances up to meet Lan Wangji's eyes. Oh, you haven't told them?

No. Lan Wangji glances back down. He had been too ashamed to, and then it had not mattered.

"Lan Zhan, what's wrong? Am I missing something?"

"Mn." Yes, you are missing information. No, I am fine. Do not worry.

"It is nothing, Wei Wuxian," Xichen says, coating the words in kindness and a smile, breaking the rule about lying easily for someone else’s comfort, "simply something I had wondered about. It is not important."

"Brother was curious how I knew which child was A-Yuan."

"Why wouldn't you know which kid was which?"

Lan Wangji doesn't answer when he sees Xichen take a deep breath in preparation. "When Wangji was… unwell after your death, both Sizhui and Jingyi lost their memories due to fever. One night when his own fever was high, Wangji took both of them from their beds in the healers pavilion. Neither I or the healers were able to tell who was who in the morning. When Wangji awoke though, he seemed certain. Now I see that it was because Sizhui had fallen asleep hugging his leg."

Lan Wangji can feel his ears heat. He was right. Sizhui's returned memories are proof. But it doesn't change the fact that until then, he had been uncertain.

Wei Ying bursts into laughter, falling forward to lean across Lan Wangji's lap even as he holds his own waist. “Is that why I have a second radish? You mixed them up and decided to keep both?”

It is a relief that Wei Ying does not mind, but Lan Wangji still finds it difficult to look anyone but his brother in the eye.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his laughter and movements stilling, then his hands are cupping Lan Wangji’s face. “Of course you knew which one was my A-Yuan. You knew it was me.” Wei Ying’s words are calming, soothing, and Lan Wangji closes his eyes and lets Wei Ying pull his head down to pepper kisses over his face. “And you managed to give him a brother and bunnies! They are so lucky to have you for a father. You are the best.”

“Mn. Wei Ying is better.” Lan Wangji opens his  eyes when Wei Ying stops kissing his face, and stares at him. 

“Did you kidnap Jingyi so Sizhui would have a brother?”

That is absurd, and Lan Wangji gives Wei Ying a stare to tell him as much.

“Jingyi’s parents were already deceased by the time Wangji adopted him,” Xichen says.

Wei Ying laughs again. Once he quiets, Jingyi turns to Sizhui, lips pulled into a smirk and says, “Jingyi, do you think we should thank Hanguang-Jun for being a good father?“

“Mn. I think we should, Sizhui,” Sizhui responds, completely serious, but with enough of a smile to return the joke, the gentle teasing to let Lan Wangji know neither of them are up set with what has been revealed.

And then they are both bowing to him.

“Thank you, Hanguang-jun, for raising me. Thank you for caring for me when the Wens and Xian-gege could not.”

Then Jingyi. “Thank you, Hanguang-Jun, for raising me. Thank you for taking me in. I never felt unloved or unwanted around you.”

Tears stick in Lan Wangji’s throat, clogging it with words. Instead, he nods in acknowledgement, and then meets Xichen’s eyes. Brother returns the unspoken thanks with a smile of his own.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan, how did you raise two perfect radishes?”