Chapter Text
Wei Wuxian is tired of forgetting.
No, that’s not really it.
Wei Wuxian is tired of letting go of memories that are precious to him.
The feeling of safety and unconditional love he found in his shijie’s lap, the soft look in Wen Qing’s face after the lotus pond bloomed against all adversity in the Burial Mounds, the way his throat burnt with Uncle Four’s fruit liquor and the grounding weight of A’Yuan when the boy fell asleep on top of him during the harsh winters.
He would never admit this to anyone, but he mourns his old body as well. The scars that reminded him of everything he had endured and overcome, the slightly uneven strands of hair he got after disastrously trying to give himself bangs, the slightly crooked fingers that resentment could never fully heal after his fall in the Burial Mounds.
Wei Wuxian has a terrible memory, so he decided to find a way to immortalize what he didn’t want to forget… And that’s how he ends up painting.
He tries and fails many times with the brush and the silk before he even tries to paint something as precious as Jiang Yanli’s smile. He starts with gentians and pheasants, he messes up the mix for the silk and Mo Xuanyu’s untrained hands tremble too much when outlining the figures.
The first painting he feels proud of just happens to be a rabbit with a forehead ribbon. He thinks it’s because he was thinking of his beloved during the process and he tells his husband just as much.
He tries not to pressure himself into learning, but as time passes, it sweeps the details in his memory with it.
And so nine months after he has settled down in the Cloud Recesses, he does his first masterpiece.
He decides to do it a day his husband has left the Cloud’s Recesses to attend to minor sects’ business. Separation from his beloved hurts, but he also needs to be alone in order to allow himself to regress to his past life and try to recollect as much as his foggy mind can.
He grabs a sheet of rice paper and starts drawing A’Yuan sitting down in the fields while holding a butterfly toy with his left hand, grinning at the sky. He then makes the solution to make the ink and pigments stick to the silk, putting the end of the mixing stick against the tip of his tongue is how he decides it’s adequate enough to use. He varnishes the silk and waits for it to dry.
Wei Wuxian traces A’Yuan’s crescent moon eyes and chubby cheeks and thinks of the usually calm expression Lan Sizhui shows these days. He proceeds to apply a layer of paint to the background and lets it dry while he chooses the pigments for the clothes. He grabs the brown and ochre pigments, remembering the cheap hemp fabrics they used.
Learning how to switch between brushes has been challenging, but he makes no mistake as he painstakingly manages to get the right skin tone. He adds the final retouches, some blush on his cheeks and some dirt specks across the robes. He can almost hear Wen Qing’s palm brushing against them and the reproaching tone in her voice as she tells him the next batch of clothes will be cleaned by him alone.
He sees rather than feels the tears running down his cheeks and quickly turns his face away before they fall on the silk.
Wei Wuxian feels selfish most of the time, («greedy brat!» his mind supplies with memories of Madam Yu’s screams). He feels like a terrible person for mourning A’Yuan when Lan Sizhui is just a few li away from the Jingshi, healthy, happy and alive.
He feels like a terrible person for missing the boy who clung to his knees and playfully twirled his hair all the time when the teenager outside has become an outstanding cultivator at such a short age and has had more opportunities to live rather than just survive here with the Gusu Lan than he ever had with the Wens and him.
Everyone may look at him and think that’s all Lan Xichen’s influence, but Wei Wuxian can only see the blinding smile Wen Qing got whenever she looked at her small brother; high cheekbones and perfectly aligned teeth.
Wuxian wonders how Sizhui’s birth parents looked like, but it seems his creativity and energy have run out because he can only pray that they have found peace wherever they may be and send them a heartfelt thank you for the existence of Lan Sizhui, Wen Yuan, his son, before falling asleep.
Hanguang-Jun hadn’t outright asked Sizhui to accompany Wei-qianbei during his absence, however, Sizhui knows how to read between the lines.
He was walking the well-known path to the Jingshi with Lan Jingyi by his side, hands touching while he talked about how he was completely sure he was slowly but surely making Lan Qiren dislike him a bit less. Sizhui knows his great uncle had always had a soft spot for the boy, but Jingyi didn’t need to know that, so he just softly shakes his head and smiles all the way to his dad’s home.
Jingyi doesn’t hesitate before knocking on the door with his knuckles and screaming “Wei-qianbei! Open up!”
Sizhui knows better than reminding him of the rules.
No sound is heard coming from inside, no footsteps indicating Wei Wuxian is coming to open up or a small explosion warning them that he is currently busy.
Sizhui shifts his weight from his left foot to the right one and bites the inside of his cheeks, he knows his gege often forgets to properly take care of himself when Lan Wangji isn’t around. He has lived his whole life without caring about his own well-being and the only people who had ever cared for him in the past were long gone.
He sends a small prayer to the heavens and hopes he isn’t intruding on Wei Wuxian’s privacy and he slides the door open. They enter the main receiving room and the first thing that catches his eye is the black-clothed figure taking a nap on top of the desk. Jingyi huffs and mutters something along the lines of “how come he gets to do nothing all day?”
As they get closer to him and Wei Wuxian starts to stir awake, the painted silk in front of him captures his attention.
Lan Sizhui’s breath hitches, making Jingyi rapidly look his way and follow his gaze.
He can talk wonders about his gege’s paintings to anyone willing to hear and he always tries his best to point out how much he has improved over the past months, however, his skills aren’t what have moved him so deeply.
There is Wen Yuan.
In all of his three-year-old glory.
Hair a bit tangled, incredibly chubby and flushed cheeks, and dirtied robes.
A care-free smile on his face and familiar butterfly toy on his hand.
“Aiyo, what are you kids doing here so late?” Says Wei Wuxian slowly coming to consciousness, rubbing his eyes. As soon as his eyes fully open, he finally realizes how unusually quiet the juniors were.
As Jingyi did just a few moments ago, he follows Sizhui’s gaze and, even in his stupor, manages to understand the situation.
A soft sigh leaves his mouth and he leans back, his arms positioning behind his back to hold him up.
He props his head to the side and his gentle smile makes Lan Sizhui feel like a child again.
He only remembers being Lan Yuan.
He can no longer remember what it was like being Xian-gege’s A’Yuan.
But as he crumbles to his knees and feels slender but strong arms surround him, he realizes Xian-ge hasn’t forgotten.
And he realizes he doesn’t need to remember those years to still feel at home in Wei Wuxian’s arms.