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Lan Qiren closes his eyes, recites rules fifty-five to fifty-eight, and opens them again to look down at the child gripping his robes.
He adds rule fifty-nine for good measure. Neither of his nephews has ever responded well to impatience; not that it is something he often falls victim to, of course, but he can always do well to be aware of it.
"A-Zhan."
Lan Zhan doesn't raise his head. Lan Qiren hadn't expected him to.
"The lesson is about to begin. Will you make your teachers wait?"
His grip is unrelenting, eyebrows furrowed in a way he would be scolded for, if today were any other day.
Just because he is going to be late for the first of his formal classes, just because no other child hesitates to join the crowd in the lecture room, does not mean Lan Qiren can be harsh; he understands—at least, he hopes he does—just how diverged this child’s upbringing has been from that of his peers. This difference comes as no surprise.
He looks back at the doorway, where only two children remain, distracted by a bug on the ground. One is a Lan, born just a few days before Lan Zhan. The other is a new student, from a family further North, who arrived only recently. The two can’t have known each other for all that long, but they whisper animatedly to each other, pointing at whatever creature was making its way through dew-covered grass, more than comfortable in their proximity.
The Lan child gasps at something, leans to his right to get a better look, and knocks his shoulder into the other; they steady themselves, stifling a giggle, by holding each other’s arm. The bug regains their attention soon after.
Lan Zhan will accept a touch from just two people in the world.
A teacher appears to shepherd the children inside with a light reprimand. They are unbothered, jumping up from the path and entering the classroom ahead of her. She turns to glance at Lan Qiren before following behind, giving not even a hint of opinion.
Lan Qiren sighs, returns his attention to the unmoving Lan Zhan, and searches for a different tactic. A few months ago, he would have knelt to speak on his level. He knows better than to continue with this kind of treatment. Instead, he places a hand on Lan Zhan's shoulder.
"Why will you not go?" he asks, lowering his voice so that Lan Zhan knows this is a conversation between them, and them alone. "A-Zhan, you know you cannot refuse."
Lan Zhan lets go with just one hand, the other still a tight fist. He reaches and takes hold of Lan Qiren's wrist, tugging it back down so he can hold both the hand and the robes close to his chest, looking as if he has just enough restraint left not to bury his face in them both.
It startles Lan Qiren into inaction, and for a moment he can do nothing but stare at the child inching his way closer, a little bemused at the blatant disobedience. Funny how he can be so bold whilst this afraid.
He wants to say, ‘ Look at me ,’ but knows it will achieve nothing. An even smaller part of him, clouded over by the disciplines of the sect, wishes he could allow this; he is all too aware of how quickly it will slip away.
A-Huan is already too grown to hold his hand.
The voices from inside the classroom have quietened; conscious of how the elders of the sect would react to this should Lan Zhan draw attention, he decides it is better not to waste any more time.
“Is your mother waiting to hear about today?” he asks.
Lan Zhan tenses.
“Then you must go and find something to tell her.”
He expects a ‘ Yes, Shufu ,’ or at least a nod, but the only sign of Lan Zhan’s compliance is his loosened grip. Lan Qiren has to further it himself, drawing his hand from the grasp, and it is bittersweet when Lan Zhan does not reach for him again.
Lan Zhan does not speak, but that’s okay. He is praised—as much as the sect will allow—from his first day of lessons, and the compliments continue thereafter. It should come as no surprise to any Lan that he surpasses the other students so soon, but the teachers take it as such, what with his silence, his lowered gaze, his fists clenched tight when another child is loud; he is unmoving, a carved example, perfection of the worrying kind. He is nothing like his brother, his father, his uncle.
But he is the first to learn to write. It’s all okay.
If it was allowed for the future leader of Gusu Lan to run at full pelt down the mountain’s steps, without a care for the other travellers and whilst dragging his little brother behind him, that is what Lan Xichen would be doing.
Instead, he walks as fast as is respectable, quelling all negative thoughts towards Lan Zhan’s shorter legs, the hand in his tugging as he struggles to keep up.
He is not concerned. If either boy was to fall on a step, it would probably be Lan Xichen. Watching where he puts his feet is the last thought on his mind.
He barely registers the heat as they descend from the mountain’s cooler heights, the sweat building beneath fabric not intended for this kind of weather. These are not the clothes he would be wearing for any other trip; they are of better quality than usual, the embroidery more detailed, sculpted by the best tailor in the sect. Although Lan Xichen will grow out of it before the end of the season, the utmost care has been put into each and every stitch. As excessive as it feels for a trip to Caiyi Town, this is what he must wear—an outfit for one sect heir to meet another.
Lan Xichen does, however, notice the loose strand of hair that falls in front of his eyes as they near the base of the mountain. As soon as a group of disciples pass them on the steps, he stops and lets go of Lan Zhan’s hand to tuck it back in place.
“Xiongzhang?”
“One moment.”
When he turns to take the hand again, Lan Zhan stands with his signature scowl, arms stiff at his sides.
Lan Xichen doesn’t often lose patience with him. No matter how often he refuses to wake for classes, refuses to speak, has to be dragged from the Jingshi though Lan Xichen cannot bear to go near it, he does not resent his stubbornness. Shufu tells him it will pass when he grows.
There is plenty about Lan Zhan that Shufu will not tell him.
“A-Zhan. We will be late if we slow down,” he says, understanding exactly what that scowl means. “Are you not looking forward to it?”
Lan Zhan, whom Lan Xichen loves dearly and can never, ever be truly angry with, shakes his head.
“Well,” Lan Xichen continues, taking his hand anyway. “Shufu would not let me go unless I brought you—” he starts to walk down the steps, a little slower this time— “and I did promise I would buy you whatever you liked.”
It’s a weak persuasion. He knows his brother well, and there is nothing that could make the visit to the town more appealing to him. Lan Xichen almost wishes he could have left Lan Zhan at home, but he knows this is an irrational child’s thoughts at play, something that Shufu would reprimand; he must not be selfish, and instead, be grateful that he is allowed down the mountain at all.
They reach the end of the steps and the fork of a dirt road. It is busy with the carts of merchants, entering the town from surrounding farmlands, and Lan Xichen’s bitterness is forgotten—he makes sure Lan Zhan is beside him, continuing on after double-checking the strand of hair.
The town centre brings a face full of summer dust and flies that do not relent in their approach, no matter how many times they are swatted at. A waiter in the inn where they agreed to meet tells them that this is the hottest day of the year, that they are lucky to live so high in the mountain; Lan Xichen, with his hand around a cup of tea, does not tell the waiter that he would choose here over the mountain without a second thought.
When the doors open and a small child runs the length of the room to throw himself at Xichen’s legs, he can’t help but laugh.
“Huaisang!” calls a voice from the doorway, and Lan Xichen’s smile only grows, alongside a swell in his chest.
“Mingjue,” he replies. He pats Nie Huaisang’s head as he grins up at him, giving no heed to his brother’s shout. “You cannot blame him.”
It’s been too long since the four of them met. He catches Nie Mingjue’s gaze and wonders if it would really be so bad to run at him as Nie Huaisang did.
They bow, share the pleasantries that are expected of them, and leave the inn despite the heat to wander aimlessly by the waterfront, talking of nothing; the company of the other is as easy to bask in as the sun above.
Nie Huaisang chats along with them, and Lan Zhan stays behind, keeping to Lan Xichen’s shadow. He has never got along well with Nie Huaisang, but will usually tolerate the other when asked—as much as today’s display of avoidance is understandable, Lan Xichen has to remind himself of that, playing Shufu’s words over and over.
He must be tolerant. Lan Zhan tugs at his sleeve, twice, and Lan Xichen ignores him, choosing silence over whatever his words would betray.
By noon, they find a place to eat. Half of Caiyi appears to have had the same idea—the inn is loud and crowded, though they decide to walk in regardless, if only to escape the heat.
Lan Xichen notices the empty space beside him just before they reach the door. He turns to see Lan Zhan, eyes fixed on the ground, standing a short distance away—he has a look on his face that Lan Xichen has seen many times before, so there is nothing he can do but turn back, sigh, and apologise to Nie Mingjue profusely.
They buy food from a market stall instead, sitting on a patch of grass in the shade of a building. It is hardly fit for four young masters. ‘ Must you be so difficult? ’, he wants to say, as Lan Zhan kneels on the grass beside him, moving minutely from side to side. He is too young to understand why Lan Xichen feels this much shame, so he does not say a word.
Nie Mingjue is pinching Nie Huaisang’s cheek with lighthearted teasing. Nie Huaisang giggles, dodging the next attack by running to hide behind Lan Xichen; he collides with Lan Zhan’s shoulder in the process, barely hard enough to shake him, but Lan Zhan flinches like he’s been burnt, jumping from his knees and moving to Lan Xichen’s other side.
Nie Huaisang freezes. Lan Zhan breathes hard.
The observant Nie Mingjue, who Lan Xichen wants more than anything to spend a day alone with, stands and takes Nie Huaisang by the hand.
“Da-ge?”
“Did you see the man selling watermelon on the way here?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Come. We’ll buy some for Xichen and A-Zhan.”
Nie Huaisang nods with a grin, and Lan Xichen is left alone with a trembling Lan Zhan.
He reaches out and Lan Zhan steps away from his touch.
“What is it now?”
His breath catches in his throat at Lan Zhan’s red eyes—it is so rare to see him cry, even after their mother, that Lan Xichen is suddenly on the verge of tears himself. He kneels in front of Lan Zhan and speaks as softly as he can over the noise of the road.
“A-Zhan, did he hurt you?” After no response, he says what Shufu would— “Tell me, please. Just a yes or no.”
He shakes his head.
“Then what upset you?”
Again, he gets no answer.
Lan Xichen watches the backs of Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang, walking without a care towards the crowded marketplace. Nie Huaisang skips a couple of times, hanging off his brother’s arm when he almost trips over his own feet.
Lan Zhan doesn’t even move to rub at his eyes.
As much as Lan Xichen would give to stay here until it’s dark, watching the evening lights dance on the water’s surface, he knows what he should ask.
Before he speaks, he lets himself think, with something like shame welling in his gut, how nice it would be if Lan Zhan were just a little different.
He recites rules one thousand and twenty to one thousand and twenty-three.
“Would you like to go home?” he asks, and Lan Zhan nods, stepping forward on shaky legs to clutch at Lan Xichen’s arm.
It is a terrible thing to realise what you took for granted.
‘ Do not talk whilst eating ’ stands ready on his tongue, though a lonely road from Qishan is no place for the rules to apply.
It is not the most significant disturbance tonight. The Jiang disciples drink and laugh, which Lan Wangji cannot blame them for, considering the strains of the past few months; everybody has their way of dealing with the tolls of the journey, and he does understand. He just clutches Bichen a little tighter than usual.
Even the Lan disciples have begun to join them. As long as they do not drink, he has no reason to reprimand it—not that he has the energy to do so. Jiang Wanyin drinks too, but is not as loud as the rest. He sits next to Lan Wangji at the edge of the campfire, absently stroking his fingers up and down Suibian’s sheath, staring at nothing.
It has been two days and one night since they left Qishan. Suibian has passed between their hands more times than he can count. It’s become a comforting presence and he would very much like to hold it now.
He tears his gaze from Jiang Wanyin, dismissing such a juvenile thought. His dazed and tired mind slips back to his Shufu, so long ago, who tells him how all the other children have grown out of playing with the ends of their ribbons; he must act respectably, which means keeping his hands still.
He holds Bichen closer.
Jiang Wanyin, who has no such qualms about stillness, is turning Suibian over in his hands. The blade clunks against the inside edges of the sheath with every spin. Every noise sends a tension through his chest, not quite a flinch, but something oppressive—he wants, so badly, to tear the blade from Jiang Wanyin’s hands, grip the handle so it never moves again.
“Han—”
A Jiang disciple shouts and it is followed by a wave of laughter. Lan Wangji presses his eyes closed—
“Hanguang Jun?”
And he glances back up to see one of the Lan handing him a piece of bread wrapped in a cloth.
He doesn’t meet their eye, taking the bread with a nod of thanks. They retreat soon after. He wonders if he should have thanked them out loud, but doesn’t know if he can.
It’s dark enough that their fire is the only light, though there is still a while to go until haishi. Even then, a few of them must stay awake, so it will never truly be silent. If the voices were to stop, it would still not be the same as the Cloud Recesses. Down here, on the lower lands that surround Qishan, every breath of wind is piercing.
A Jiang disciple across the fire takes a bite from a piece of the unlucky bird that they caught on the way here. He shares a joke with the group before swallowing and rubs the grease from the corner of his mouth.
Lan Wangji places the bread on the ground. The smell is making him feel vaguely ill.
“—with you?”
He turns to face Jiang Wanyin, who holds Suibian in one hand and a drink in the other.
“What’s wrong with you?” he repeats. His words slur a little and he slumps forward on himself. He’s not drunk enough to expect an answer, so he says, “Wei Wuxian will have something to say if you turn up half-starved.”
He’s starting to move Suibian again. Faster, this time. Lan Wangji is too aware of the sound of bottles, the overlapping voices, the remnants of the warm bread on his hands; he shudders, and draws Bichen into his lap.
“Think we’ll find him?”
Jiang Wanyin’s tone is casual, but he’s staring at Lan Wangji through the haze of alcohol with such a searching look that he cannot bear to meet his gaze.
It’s the first time he has asked outright.
“Do you, Lan Wangji?” he takes a breath, and his hand stills on Suibian. “Because, I— I don’t. I don’t know. And I want to hear what you feel.”
He has never heard Jiang Wanyin be this open, and knows he should answer; though he cannot say for certain what he thinks, Lan Wangji knows what he wants to hear. It’s what Lan Xichen had said to him when he first left Gusu.
That he is Wei Ying. Of course, he will live.
“I should know, shouldn’t I? How could I not know it if he’s—”
His voice breaks off. He drains the rest of the alcohol and his hand is back on Suibian, the blade rattling this time, and Lan Wangji’s prepared words catch in his throat.
The voices, the laughter, the smell of the food, all build into one sharp pain behind his eyes, and though Jiang Wanyin waits for his response, he cannot bring himself to speak.
He should be used to it by now.
Lan Wangji lifts Bichen from his knees, stands from his seat at the campfire, and walks into the night with one arm behind his back.
“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says, pressing a damp cloth to the dried blood on his shoulder, “I don’t mean to insinuate that you’re incapable.”
Whatever he is about to say—guaranteed to be nothing good—is put off for a moment, as Lan Wangji flinches at a misplaced touch. Lan Xichen moves the cloth away and lets him breathe, reluctant to touch him again. It has been many weeks since the discipline whip and he is still so cautious.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Xiongzhang.”
“Mm.” He returns to the edge of the wound with the cloth. “You should not take this as doubt, but… neither should you take it as a yes.”
Lan Wangji tenses. “A yes?” he echoes.
“Wangji, relax—”
“You’ve heard something more?”
“No confirmation,” Lan Xichen sighs. “As I said. It is nothing but empty talk.”
He’s silent for a minute longer.
Lan Wangji closes his eyes, willing his heart to slow. There is nothing he can do about the sect’s decision, even if he were able to stand from this bed, but his mind is not yet rational about it.
“I meant to say,” Lan Xichen continues, “that even if you were to keep the child—would you handle it well?”
His hand stills on Lan Wangji’s back. The cloth drapes, a corner of it resting on unbroken skin. The fabric is smooth, the kind that is kept aside by the Lan healers for him alone, but the touch is too light; he flinches again, involuntarily.
Lan Xichen moves the cloth. “Children are... loud,” he says, more hesitantly than Lan Wangji is used to, but there’s no need to say any more.
“I will handle it.”
“I don’t doubt that you want to.”
Lan Wangji has said his piece, and that is enough.
Lan Xichen rinses the cloth in a bowl of water and reaches for a dry one. He had offered to take this job as soon as it was safe for him to do so, and the healers were more than happy to let him.
A-Yuan is louder than even Lan Xichen could have guessed. The worst is at night, when the past he has forgotten returns to him in dreams that he cannot understand. Lan Wangji doesn’t ask what they are—he knows from his own, that it is best not to make it a lasting memory—but he comforts him as best he can, with empty words that don’t come naturally.
He is loud in the day, too, more so than any other Lan child. The sect will not go back on their word, but Lan Wangji is well aware of how precarious this arrangement is; he disciplines every shout, be it joyful or angry, as much as he wishes he didn’t have to. A-Yuan still has so far to go until he will be a Lan to anyone else.
Lan Wangji manages. It is quiet in the Jingshi, and A-Yuan is not there all the time. This is a temporary arrangement whilst he heals, so despite the short time they have together before Lan Wangji’s seclusion, the healers are unhappy with allowing a child to live all day in a sickroom.
A-Yuan comes inside with dirt on his robes and eats with sticky fingers. The first time he meets the rabbits he returns caked in mud and fur. A healer, who happens to be inside, scolds him and washes it off herself, reminding him of Lan Wangji’s still-healing wounds.
Lan Wangji thinks about the small pile of clothes the healer took with her, and whether he could stand to touch it if he had to.
When A-Yuan spills soup in the next week, Lan Xichen is there to clean it from his fingers, and Lan Wangji holds him as he cries an apology.
Wei Ying would have done both.
It hurts to lie on his back and it hurts to lie on his front, so Lan Wangji sits upright in front of his guqin, waiting for someone to tell him to stop.
His vision swims with the remnants of alcohol; any other music would be jarring today, but Wangji’s notes are cushioned with a little more spiritual energy than he should be using. It is grounding, a warm and welcoming touch.
The music draws him away from everything he has been told about the night before. From the red-hot scar on his chest.
He has no concept of how much time has passed before the door flies open and A-Yuan rushes across the room, with a shout of “Wangji-ge!”
And his fingers jump on the guqin, letting out a bitter note. He freezes just as the music does.
A-Yuan reaches him, stopping when he would usually touch, biting his lip with a frown.
“Wangji-ge,” he says, the syllables stunted. “They— said I can’t hug you.”
He is saying it like he is sorry. Lan Wangji often hopes that when A-Yuan grows, he will understand just how much worse this would have been without him.
“But Xichen-ge said I can eat with you here, and that if I’m good I can stay until haishi—”
His voice, usually so calming, is grating today. Lan Wangji wants to drown it all out with the guqin, the way he shuffles his feet on the floor and plays with his hands, even his breathing, a little rough from the run to the Jingshi; he wants to hold him close to his chest, the weight on his lap as comforting as the music, but all he can do today is bear it like the sting of the brand.
Lan Xichen steps inside, carrying three bowls and looking somewhat flustered. It is not easy to keep up when A-Yuan has a destination.
“Wangji—”
“Take him out.”
He doesn’t cry. Lan Wangji plays until the sun sets, hoping that wherever he is, A-Yuan can hear it.
One night between cases, on an overgrown road with no towns for many li in either direction.
Wei Ying is frustrated. He so often hides what his new body demands of him, though having to stand back whilst Lan Wangji handled what his own core could not had never been easy. The morning’s work had pushed him into a rare low mood, which he does not take out on Lan Wangji, but it sets a tension over the day as thick as the storm clouds above.
Lan Wangji cannot place what caused his own unease, only that he feels on the edge of something, a rope pulled taut. This is not out of the ordinary; he knew it would be this kind of day from the moment he woke up. They are a common acquaintance that he still struggles not to resent.
Much of the strain that hangs over them both is down to just how rare of an occasion this is—what with Lan Wangji’s new duties, it is not often they are able to escape for more than a day, and they want nothing more than to make the most of it. A bad day only worsens when you will it to be good.
Agreeing that rain is on the way, they tie Xiao Pingguo to one tree and string a canvas between two others nearby. Lan Wangji starts a fire before the weather will put it out, and Wei Ying heads deeper into the forest, Suibian unsheathed.
Lan Wangji sits by the fire as he waits. He removes the metal from his hair, a little earlier than usual, since the usually gentle pressure of it is beginning to feel too heavy. He sets blankets under the canvas—they will need them all, tonight—and meditates until Wei Ying returns.
He reappears with a pheasant.
Lan Wangji does not have to eat tonight; he has bread and dried fruits in Xiao Pingguo’s saddlebags but can go a while longer without food. Wei Ying, however, does not have a golden core strong enough to wait, and chances are he would be eating even if he did not need to. The dead pheasant is a healthy size and will last him until tomorrow—Wei Ying kneels next to Lan Wangji, wiping the blood off Suibian and looking quite pleased with himself. Moreso than he has all day.
“You lot don’t know what you’re missing out on,” he says, setting the bird between them and beginning to pull the feathers. “Lan Zhan, will you help me with this? I want to eat before it rains.”
Wei Ying’s hands are more skilled at this than a regular cultivator’s would be. It’s not long before the neck of the pheasant is bare, and he makes his way down one side. Lan Wangji should start to take the feathers from the other side, as he’s done so many times before.
Blood spills lazily from a gash in the pheasant’s neck, but that isn’t the issue.
He looks at the feathers, damp from the soaked autumn ground, that stick to Wei Ying’s palms—he shakes his hand to rid it of them but they end up on his wrists, his knees, and some do not detach from his hand at all. He doesn’t seem to care.
Lan Wangji considers his own hands doing the same, and stiffens.
“Will you help me or not?” Wei Ying is asking, some of his earlier annoyance spilling into his words.
He cannot begin to phrase it, to explain how just the thought of it makes him want to wash his hands five times over. He has had no problem before—not with this—and should put up with it for Wei Ying’s sake, because that is what they do for each other.
Lan Wangji has scars that will never fade but he cannot touch a pheasant.
“Wei Ying, I—”
“It’s fine if you don’t want to.” He pulls the next chunk of feathers with a little more force than is necessary. “Guess it’s my turn to do some work.”
He can’t think of what to say in response, so he puts another piece of wood on the fire. Lan Wangji is long past wondering why such a small thing is so hard; he’s come to accept that there will never be an answer to why he can only watch Wei Ying do what he cannot.
But Wei Ying’s expression is cold, so he moves to his knees and turns to face the pheasant, pulling his sleeves back.
He’s about to reach forward when Wei Ying says, “Why are you so pale? Are you ill?”
Lan Wangji has often thought he might be.
He shakes his head.
“I said I’d do this.” Wei Ying looks back down at the bird, where his hands are still coated in feathers. “It’ll be finished soon. Could you pass me the knife we brought?”
It’s dark by the time the clouds break. Lan Wangji lies on his back, waiting for sleep to come, listening to the rain on the canvas.
Wei Ying crawls in beside him.
“Leave some for me,” he says, dragging the blankets over his shoulder when he rests on his side, facing Lan Wangji with one arm under his head.
“Wei Ying,” he begins. He has never been good at such a conversation, let alone starting them, but is reluctant to leave the day like this.
Wei Ying hums a response, letting him know to continue.
“I cannot explain why I—” he breaks off, his words too unprepared. “I'm sorry I could not help.”
“With the bird?”
“Mm.”
“It’s alright. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Wei Ying smiles. “It’s been… quite a day, hasn’t it?”
“It has.”
He tucks the blankets a little further around him. Wei Ying gives his corner a playful tug in retaliation. They packed enough that they shouldn’t need to share, but it is right to do so.
“I wanted to help,” Lan Wangji adds, because he is not yet free of the guilt. And though it’s nowhere near an explanation, he says, “I couldn’t touch it.”
Wei Ying considers this, replying, “Like you can’t wear the rough cotton?”
“Mm. But this changes from day to day.”
“Ah.”
The weather picks up and the canvas shakes in a gust of wind, so they’re quiet until it passes.
“Do you... want to tell me how it feels? It’s alright if you can’t explain. I’d like to try,” Wei Ying says. “To understand, I mean.”
It catches him off guard, but Wei Ying doesn’t hurry him. After a moment, he says, “I don’t know how you would understand what I cannot understand myself.”
“Huh.”
They listen to the rain.
“That’s alright,” Wei Ying says again.