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Today, Lan Wangji turns thirty years old.
When he wakes up, nothing world-shattering has happened, no major shift in his mind or body. There’s just this: Lan Wangji is a decade older, and it all feels the same. He feels just as weary and old as he did yesterday.
The weather hasn’t been perfect as of late, and today, fog covers the ground. Even inside the Jingshi, he can feel the bitter chill of the air soak into his bones, through his thin sleeping robe. He takes a moment to breathe, wrapping his arms around himself, and curling up into a tight ball in his bed. There aren’t any lessons he needs to teach today or duties he needs to fulfill; his brother had mentioned yesterday that he’d reassigned them. Lan Wangji has a day off.
He finally manages to get himself out of bed, standing and feeling the chilled boards on his bare feet. As he has on every one of his birthdays for nine years, he goes to the wardrobe at the other side of the Jingshi and kneels in front of it. With only slightly shaking hands, he opens the doors and takes a deep breath when he’s faced with what’s inside.
“Wei Ying,” he says softly, “I hope you’re well.”
Lan Wangji takes another breath, trying to calm the nauseous feeling creeping into his heart. “I hope you’re at peace.” He bows his head.
In the wardrobe in front of him is a shrine. He arranged it as soon as he could after Nightless City, after he had recovered from his lashings enough to be able to move without nearly bleeding out. There are very few things inside. A portrait of himself, a jar of wine, a red ribbon, and an incense stick holder. He picks up a joss stick and lights it with a small flicker of spiritual energy before putting it down.
“Be well,” Lan Wangji says again.
After kneeling for a few long moments, he gets to his feet again and solemnly closes the wardrobe. He gravitates back toward the bed and slowly reaches out to take his ribbon from the side table he’d set it down on last night, petting the soft silk. After a moment’s consideration, he sets it back down.
He’ll bathe first. His skin already feels too tight and stifling, maybe the hot water will settle it down. When he opens the doors to the Jingshi, he finds that a servant has already boiled a tub of water and set it on the front steps-- they must’ve done so as soon as the morning bell chimed, because when Lan Wangji presses his hand to the side, it’s still hot in the face of the winter cold. He gathers it under one arm and brings it back inside, slowly sliding the front doors shut behind him.
He grabs his forehead ribbon and a few layers of his more casual robes, slinging them over the privacy screen on the far end of the room, then stepping around it. He tips the bucket of water into the wooden tub, carefully filling it up, then sets it aside. He stands and unclothes himself, folding the white robe into a tight, tidy square and setting it on the floor.
Lan Wangji then steps into the tub, sinking down until only his head is above the water like he were still a child. He is not. He is thirty years old.
As he often does when there’s nothing to distract him, he thinks of Wei Wuxian.
Lan Wangji is thirty years old, and Wei Wuxian will never see beyond twenty-one. He watches the water reflect the flickering light of the candle and focuses on breathing. It has been nine years, and still, when his mind lingers for too long, he almost feels like he did that first night in bed, the skin of his back flayed open and bleeding unendingly. Even his long-healed scars begin to burn with phantom pain.
Breathe in. Out. In.
He digs his nails into his thigh and reaches for a towel.
After bathing, redressing, a meal, and a few songs on the qin, Lan Wangji can’t bear to be inside any longer. He’s never been one to get bored or claustrophobic-- he spent three years in these rooms, confined to his bed, after all-- but something about today makes it impossible. It’s not that it’s a special occasion; in the Cloud Recesses, there are no large birthday celebrations. No, the problem is that the longer he sits still, the more memories his mind cycles through, and the more his heart aches.
He still has smaller, less important tasks to do today, anyway. The rabbits haven’t been fed.
When Lan Wangji is in the Cloud Recesses, and not out on night hunts, he takes care of the rabbits. They are his, even if no one can say so. So after wrapping a thick cloak around his shoulders and opening the doors once again, making his way toward the hutch. Even though Lan Wangji isn’t teaching them, there are still lessons, so there are very few junior disciples out and about. The few that he does see he dips his head at, the slightest bit of warmth settling in his chest as they straighten up and bow back eagerly. Somehow, as Hanguang-jun, he’s found that the junior disciples care for him quite a bit.
Everyone he crosses paths with even says, “Happy birthday, Hanguang-jun,” with a shy sort of smile, which only grows when he thanks them. Sizhui isn’t among them, but Lan Wangji knows he will be in the Lanshi for the better part of the morning.
Sizhui is thirteen now, growing and learning at a brilliant pace. Lan Wangji imagines if Wei Ying were here, and wonders what he would say. Would he like how Sizhui has been raised, or would he be angry to see that Wen Yuan has become Lan Yuan? Would it upset him, to see the loud, energetic boy he knew turn into a quieter, calmer child?
There’s no point in thinking about such things. Lan Wangji shakes himself and focuses on the shape of the rabbit hutch a short distance away. He’s already stopped by the kitchens and fetched a few fresh greens, and now holds them in a basket clutched tightly to his side. When he finally reaches the hutch, he kneels and sets the basket on the ground next to him. The rabbits immediately come bounding out to greet him, a few nosing into his sides or trying to climb into his lap. Lan Wangji adjusts his cloak and reaches out to stroke some of their backs, feeling the soft fur slide between his fingers. He scratches underneath the chin of one of the smaller bunnies, smiling quietly when its back leg thumps once against the ground. He soaks in the feeling of them surrounding him. of their warmth through the layers of his robes, for a while.
Eventually, he grabs a few smallage leaves and carrots from the basket and spreads them out on the ground, leaving space between them so as to avoid an all-out rabbit war over breakfast. He watches calmly as they go to nibble on the vegetables. A few who must’ve already had their fill of grass and hay stick close to him, and he carefully grabs one to settle it in his arms. He gives it a closer look and finally realizes that this one’s name is Baobao, a boy born only a few seasons ago.
Lan Wangji is the one to name all of the rabbits, of course. The only other person who knows this is Sizhui, who’s contributed a few ideas himself (Meimei, Ming-Hua, and a few others, names Lan Wangji has always agreed with and indulged). Baobao is one of the wholly white bunnies, with a small, twitching, three-petaled mouth, and beady black eyes. Lan Wangji holds him up so they can make eye contact and bumps their noses together. “Good morning,” he says softly, “I hope you’ve been well.”
When Baobao’s wriggling becomes frantic and his legs begin to kick the air anxiously, Lan Wangji lets him drop onto the ground and scurry off. He folds his hands in his lap and sighs, a quiet puff of air. After the Cloud Recesses burned down, Lan Wangji had managed to keep the rabbits safe and carefully contained in a different part of the mountain. A few had gotten sick from the thick smoke, but they all managed to recover. It was one of the few good things about those few months, with his home destroyed, his brother missing, and his father dead.
Lan Wangji had never been on good terms with Qingheng-jun (he’d spoken with him three times, at most), but it was less the death of him and more the death of the possibility of a father. Some part of him, deep down, took comfort in the fact that his father was alive, even if not present. Then he died, and Lan Wangji wasn’t sad, but he was disappointed. Ashamed.
Another bunny butts its head against his hand, and he pets it absentmindedly. His birthdays have always made him sentimental. He looks up at the sky and thinks of this life, of all the loss. Three decades of it.
These days, he can admit the good parts too, the days of Wei Ying’s laughter, his mother’s gentle hands, Xichen’s soft eyes, A-Yuan’s wide smiles, and the simple pleasures of his everyday routine. A few years ago, half-dead and bedridden, he’d only have been able to think of the tragedy. He thinks that he’s grown since then. There were good times, and there were bad times. There still are.
Lan Wangji realizes the rabbit beneath his hand has rushed off and he’s now petting empty air, and he huffs a sad laugh to himself. It’d probably be best for him to leave, now. He rises to his feet and brushes off the few blades of grass that have stuck to his robes, then decides to leave his basket where it is. He doesn’t feel like going back to the kitchens and talking to any more people than he has to, and someone will come to fetch it eventually.
He takes a moment to watch the way his breaths turn to clouds of mist in the cold atmosphere, then finally begins on his way back to the Jingshi. He takes a different route so as to not run into any more disciples, lacing through the shadows and hidden paths. But when he finally can see his rooms in the distance, there’s someone on the front porch. Lan Wangji squares his shoulders, readying himself to deal with whoever has come to bother him, but relaxes when he comes close enough to see them clearly.
“Sizhui,” he greets, stopping beside him to place a hand on his head. Sizhui looks up at him and smiles shyly, cheeks and nose rosy from the harsh winds.
“Hanguang-jun,” he says, “happy birthday.”
Lan Wangji pulls his hand away and nods, the corners of his lips carefully uplifted. “Do you not have qin practice today?” he asks, opening the front doors and beckoning Sizhui inside.
Sizhui shakes his head, following behind him. “Zewu-jun said I should take my lessons here today,” he carefully takes off his cloak and sets it out of the way, “if you don’t mind.” He fiddles with the strap of his qin bag where it’s slung over his shoulders. He’s too young to summon it with spiritual energy still, so he’s forced to carry it around on his back.
The qins for the young disciples are considerably smaller, made for them to carry more easily. Lan Wangji can remember when Sizhui tried to hold his instrument when he was six; it was taller than he was and he could only keep it in his arms for a few steps before he got too tired. Even when he wobbled and made mistakes, he kept trying. Sizhui has always been stubborn, eager to learn and refusing to quit.
“I do not mind.” Lan Wangji nods, clearing the table of any papers or scrolls. He summons Wangji and sets it on the table, gesturing for Sizhui to do the same.
Sizhui does, pulling it off of his back and putting it down with a soft thump. He arranges his sleeves so his hands are in the correct positions and looks up at Lan Wangji with a serious expression, his chubby face set in a similar way to his father’s.
Lan Wangji feels a burst of warmth blossom in his chest. Musical cultivation is required for every member of the Gusu Lan sect, and as a member of the main clan (Lan Wangji’s son), Sizhui was able to pick from any of the finest instruments they had to begin his lessons. But he didn’t take more than a few moments to look around the storage room where the instruments are held before declaring, “I want to play the qin. Like A-Die!”
Now, as they run through some basic Gusu folk songs, Lan Wangji proudly watches Sizhui’s fingers dance eloquently across the strings. They’ve practiced together since Sizhui first came to the Cloud Recesses, but recently, as Lan Wangji has taken on more responsibilities, they’ve been forced to play separately. It’s nice to play together again.
Once they’ve run through a few songs, they shift over to Inquiry. Sizhui shows him a few of the new phrases he’s been learning in class, and Lan Wangji nods in approval. He has to correct a few of Sizhui’s movements, but otherwise, he’s perfect. He may have to start taking lessons with the older disciples, with how fast he’s progressing.
In the middle of one of Lan Wangji’s gentle corrections, there’s a soft knock at the doors of the Jingshi. Lan Wangji stands and goes to open them, blinking in surprise when he sees who his visitor is. “Xiongzhang,” he greets, stepping aside. Sizhui straightens his spine.
Lan Xichen closes the doors behind him with one hand. In the other he holds a covered tray, emanating the soft smell of steamed egg pudding and soup. “Wangji,” he returns, a small smile on his face. “Happy birthday.”
“I thought you were meant to be in the Lanshi today,” Lan Wangji says, not unkindly, while carefully reaching out to take the tray from his brother’s hands. Sizhui moves their instruments off of the table to make room for the food.
“I made sure to allow time for a meal with my brother and my nephew.” Lan Xichen turns to Sizhui and nods. Sizhui bows in return.
Lan Wangji arranges the food on the table, sitting across from Sizhui. Lan Xichen comes to join them and sits next to his brother, kneeling with his hands folded neatly together. They each pick up their chopsticks and begin to eat in silence, but with a warmth surrounding them, encasing their little family and separating them from the cold outside.
This is enough. It could be better, perhaps-- Lan Wangji can almost see a faint, laughing shadow out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the other side of the table, with imperfect posture and glimmering eyes. It could be better, but it is good, and it is enough.
Today, Lan Wangji turns thirty-four.
He wakes up with a warm weight on his chest and hair in his mouth. He carefully pulls the strands out of his mouth and pats them down, smoothing his husband’s hair and pushing it away from his face.
This winter season has been even colder than usual. Wei Wuxian has been complaining about it at length, bemoaning the weather (“It’s probably still sunny in Lotus Pier, Lan Zhan, Gusu is so unfair!”) and constantly shoving his cold hands in Lan Wangji’s robes. Now, his face is buried in Lan Wangji’s collarbones, and his nose is a frigid weight in the hollow of his neck.
They had eloped in spring, only a few weeks after Wei Wuxian’s reincarnation. Now, in the body of Mo Xuanyu, he’s quick to get ill and susceptible to the cold, unlike in his original body. Lan Wangji has to force him to stay inside and get him to wear extra layers and cloaks-- every time, Wei Wuxian whines and complains, but he looks quietly pleased with the attention. He still insists on clinging to Lan Wangji’s arm when they do go out, tucked into his side like a human barnacle. The other members of the Lan sect have grown used to seeing them practically stuck together (Lan Qiren excluded, who seems to be on the verge of qi deviation every time he looks their way).
After the ordeal of Jin Guangyao and the Guanyin Temple, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian traveled together. They took night hunts and found hotels to stay in, going wherever they felt the need to. But when Lan Wangji’s birthday neared, Wei Wuxian said they should go back to the Cloud Recesses to spend the day at home. So they’ve been living in the Jingshi for a few days, both of them teaching the juniors and taking them out on night hunts together.
Now, the morning bell rings, and Wei Wuxian, of course, is still asleep. Lan Wangji pats his head a few more times before carefully maneuvering him onto his back and slipping out of bed. He has a while before Wei Wuxian will want to get up, so he decides to call a servant to get their food ready. After peeking his head outside, quietly asking a servant to fetch them a meal from the kitchen, and coming back inside, he blinks in shock. Wei Wuxian is sitting upright in bed, dragging his hands over his face and glaring at him.
“Lan Zhan! Why didn’t you wake me?” He asks, eyes still half-lidded and staying closed a bit too long when he blinks, seeming like he’ll fall asleep again at any moment.
“You are impossible to wake,” Lan Wangji says, which is objectively true. He’s genuinely shocked at the fact that Wei Wuxian has woken up this early of his own accord.
“Yes, but it’s your birthday! There are things to be done!” Wei Wuxian pontificates, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back in a way that’s more than a little distracting. “I can’t be a housewife today-- not unless Lan Zhan is a househusband, too.”
Lan Wangji huffs out a laugh and says, “Alright.” When Wei Wuxian beckons him closer, he comes obediently to sit on the edge of the bed.
Wei Wuxian grabs the comb from the bedside table where they set it down last night and wriggles so he’s behind Lan Wangji, putting his legs around his waist. He begins to untangle the knots in Lan Wangji’s hair, starting from the bottom gently. “The great Hanguang-jun’s hair is so nice,” he sighs, “he doesn’t wake up with a rat’s nest like the rest of us.”
If “the rest of us” wake up looking like Wei Wuxian, that’s true. Lan Wangji’s hair has never gotten tangled easily, but with how much Wei Wuxian tosses and turns in the middle of the night, his ends up staticky and twisted. “Wei Ying’s hair is nice,” he still insists.
“Alright, alright, whatever you say,” Wei Wuxian huffs, a smile audible under his words. He combs through Lan Wangji’s hair until it’s fully smooth, then for a few more extended moments. He begins sorting out sections, and Lan Wangji looks back at him inquisitively. “I’m going to braid it,” Wei Wuxian declares.
Lan Wangji just nods, leaning comfortably into Wei Wuxian’s nimble fingers. They move quickly and gracefully, lacing the strands together easily. “You are good at this,” Lan Wangji notes, nearly slurring his words, lost in the loveliness of it all.
Wei Wuxian laughs, tugging a little. “Shijie taught me,” he says softly. “I was always getting into trouble, you know me. My hair was always tangled, especially when I jumped into the lotus ponds, and Shijie said I needed to learn to braid it so she wouldn’t have to rip half of it off my head with her comb.”
Lan Wangji can feel the familiar, half-sorrowful and half-lovely nostalgia tinting the words. He reaches for the back of his head and, after confirming the braid is finished, he turns around and holds Wei Wuxian’s face in his hands. He leans in to press their lips together, a sweet and careful meeting, like anything harder could shatter the world around them.
When they break apart, Wei Wuxian smiles even more broadly. "Sizhui will be joining us today, I think he's bringing Jingyi, too." He strokes his thumbs along Lan Wangji's cheekbones, back and forth, caressing his skin. "We could see Zewu-jun, too, if you want. I bet he'd let you in, at least."
So many people, here for him. Sizhui nearly fully grown, Lan Xichen secluded but still trying to be present, and most of all, Wei Ying in his bed, married to him. Lan Wangji smiles, and Wei Wuxian's eyes glitter at the sight of it, as they always do. "Yes," he says, leaning in for another kiss.
Now, things are good.