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Lan Zhan was six years old when he first stole something, when he defied the self-restraint that his newly bestowed forehead ribbon represented. The world had already taken something from him, and he, who could barely understand the consequence, still felt the ache of it. He felt the ache of it in his numb and frostbitten legs, in the cold sting of his lips, in the gentian held softly yet firmly within his tiny little fists, blue in blue.
When hai shi came and went with no sign of the little Lan, his uncle found him then, kneeling and barely conscious. He escorted Lan Zhan back to bed wrapped in a blanket, and Lan Zhan did not know how the gentian ended up within the deepest folds of his robes, crushed and damp against his chest.
After his uncle left, Lan Zhan had cried then, large choking sobs that filled the empty room. He cried that he broke the rules, cried that he plucked one of his mother’s cherished flowers, cried that he took it from its home. He cried harder still, when he dared to wonder — maybe, his mother would not come home, the same way the wilted gentian held in his lap would not.
—
As time went on, Lan Wangji did his best to fight the rising urges, the anxiety, but to his immense guilt, he could not stop the unrelenting itch in his hands, the sudden elation of taking something he did not need. They were mostly insignificant things — a worn ink stick from the Lanshi, a tea cup from the kitchens, a shred of discarded paper from the library pavilion — but he felt dishonest, shameful, undisciplined. Wrong. So terribly wrong.
He’d discreetly return items as soon as he noticed he had them, or if he was out in the market, he’d go back to leave money for the stolen wares. Lan Wangji knew he gave more money than what would have been asked of him, even if the shopkeepers and stall owners often upped the prices upon seeing his attire, but it felt like the proper penance for his wrongdoings. He did not admit it was more for himself than for anyone else.
Determined to suppress this shameful and disobedient side of himself, he meditated. He’d read over the sect’s three thousand rules until he could recite them forward and backward in his sleep. His sect and his peers came to view his long periods of meditation as a sign of his outstanding discipline, yet he felt as if he was barely restraining a wild beast and failing. Eventually, Lan Wangji learned to grip Bichen tight, keep his other hand held firmly behind his back. He kept his hands on his guqin where he could always see them, playing with a singular focus, the tension of his shoulders transformed into the tension of each string.
—
It has been years without any major incident for Lan Wangji — meditation and training in seclusion both giving his mind little room for stray impulses — yet in an instant, he feels his carefully crafted self-restraint unravel at the sight of a boy sneaking over a rooftop past curfew, two jars of alcohol in hand.
It’s Emperor’s Smile! I’ll share a jug with you, so pretend you never saw me, okay?
The liquor seeps into the earth, the same way Lan Wangji feels tension seep back inside of him, held tight within his chest, radiating down through his clenched fists. Wei Wuxian is a typhoon touching down on the coast of Lan Wangji’s life, and it leaves his mind in ruins. He finds himself meditating more often, returning things more often, having to hold onto Bichen so tight he almost worries he won’t be able to separate his skin from the hilt. He grips his sword tighter still, when he dares to wonder — maybe, maybe his life will never be the same after this, yet he cannot even begin to understand why.
—
“Get lost!” The shreds of paper flutter to the ground as he lunges at Wei Wuxian with his sword.
“Get lost it is, then! No need to see me off!” Wei Wuxian’s fading laughter accompanies the papers’ dance, littering the ground as the room goes quiet.
Lan Wangji sweeps up the debris and sets to restoring the library pavilion to its proper order. When he picks the portrait of himself up off the floor, ink still drying, he can’t help but study it once more. The brush strokes are confident yet careful, thoroughly committed to capturing his likeness as remarkably realistic as possible.
“…Ridiculous.”
When Lan Wangji returns to the Jingshi at curfew, removing his outer robes and preparing for bed, his fingers unexpectedly brush against paper. When he pulls it out from its hiding place, Lan Wangji flinches at the lewd art still visible on the shredded paper. He incinerates it promptly with a bit of spiritual energy, and instead of sleeping, he sets himself down for meditation once more, mentally reciting the three thousand Lan precepts — a comfort, a lifeline. When Lan Wangji opens his eyes, he realizes he never made it to bed the night before. Along with the background chorus of three thousand rules in his mind, Wei Wuxian’s laughter has now become the melody, and it isn’t as unpleasant as he thought it would be.
—
Lan Wangji has taken many things in his life, usually unintentionally, but the feverish and starved child in his arms is the one thing he takes without any guilt or shame, the one thing he chooses. The only guilt he feels is that he cannot, could not do the same for Wei Ying.
Take him, hold him, keep him.
With A-Yuan wrapped in his arms and a bloodied red ribbon around his wrist, Lan Wangji leaves the Burial Mounds and does not turn back.
—
As A-Yuan grows, color returning to his pallid face, so too does Lan Wangji’s collection beneath the floorboards, both well-fed. His urges have waned a great deal in the last two years, yet a gaping hole has replaced the space where tension once lived. He fills that space with things much similar to before, but most are bought. Hand-crafted. Freely given. Jars of Emperor’s Smile, a clumsily woven butterfly. A dizi in the wrong color.
The shame and guilt lessen in time. Lan Wangji continues to consciously collect items that bring him comfort. He buys some of the items he steals rather than returning them and leaving. Hanguang-jun becomes known for the generosity of his pockets as well as his kindness to the people. The itch of his hands and the anxiety of his heart will still be there, but he will manage as he always has.
—
Lan Wangji takes once more, fulfilling a promise to himself he once thought forever broken. He will have him, hold him, keep him, as he wish he could have done all those years ago, as he will do so now with no regrets. When Wei Ying requests he hold him tight, what can he do but hold him even tighter?
—
Lan Wangji gingerly returns the hair stick to its place among the shopkeeper’s wares. Wei Ying threads their hands together, soothing the back of his hand with his thumb. He realizes lately that where a stray item may have ended up in his grasp before, Wei Ying’s hands are now there to fill the itchy space more often than not.
The collection beneath the floorboards sees daylight once more, placed on the shelves and tables, memories brought forth to the surface. A peony pressed between pages, a spring book, a red ribbon. Reminders of life, reminders of a life returned. Now, aside from Bichen in his grip and his guqin beneath his fingers, Lan Wangji finds that Wei Ying’s hands are always in his, and neither of them will ever let go.