Work Text:
Song Lan wakes, stretches. His hand hits the empty pillow next to him and his eyes open in alarm. It’s dark.
It’s cold. He’s alone.
Panic floods him as he sits up, looks around the empty room.
Where is he?
Outside, snow blankets the ground. Frost creeps up the windowpane.
A clatter and a shriek shatter the silence.
It takes Song Lan a minute to register where he is. And when he is.
He spent so many lifetimes alone, after letting them go. Wandering, hoping. Holidays ceased to hold meaning.
What did it matter, if there is no one to celebrate with?
❆❆❆
Yet, somehow, in this life, on the first day of first grade, a boy with the biggest smile he'd ever seen skipped up to him before recess. Grabbed his hand. Proudly announced: “Hello, my name is Xiao Xingchen. What’s yours?”
He didn’t talk back then. He later learned it was selective mutism.
He didn’t tell the boy his name that day, or the next, or the next. Eventually he wrote it down, but for a long time Xiao Xingchen introduced him simply as “my good friend.”
He still does, sometimes.
When he finally said it out loud, Xiao Xingchen smiled huge. “You sound nice.”
In first grade, they made pasta angels in class, for Christmas. Xiao Xingchen gave his to Song Lan.
“Merry Christmas Zichen.”
The wings were crooked, it had no halo, but it had the softest smile drawn on its face. Song Lan held it to his chest like he wanted to meld it to his soul.
Xiao Xingchen played with him when no one else did. Encouraged him to raise his hand, and spoke for him when the teacher called on him.
Once, in high school, Xiao Xingchen punched someone in the face for him.
Song Lan put bandaids on his knuckles afterwards.
When they went to separate colleges, it felt like he’d been hollowed out. He realized how much Xiao Xingchen meant to him.
And when an accident suddenly triggered several lifetimes’ worth of memories, Song Lan realized, past life or not, he was madly in love with his good friend.
They were always meant to find each other. Fate, and modern technology, was kinder to them, after so many lifetimes.
All it took was one phone call, and for Xiao Xingchen to say, quietly, “Zichen, I always knew. I always remembered. Why do you think I grabbed your hand?”
❆❆❆
Song Lan hears another shriek. With a sigh, he rolls out of bed. Why are people awake before sunrise?
The smell of fresh coffee fills their small apartment. Paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling, brushing the top of his head. The narrow hall is lit with twinkling lights.
He walks into the living room. Xiao Xingchen is there, softly backlit by the early morning glow coming through the windows. Cup of coffee in hand.
Seeing him is like… seeing Christmas morning.
A-Qing, a girl they’re fostering, is busy shaking the presents under the tree.
Xiao Xingchen sees Song Lan and smiles. Holds out a hand. It’s closed around something.
As Song Lan approaches, he opens up his hand to reveal an old pasta angel, crooked wings and all. There is a ring glittering around its neck.
“Merry Christmas Zichen.”