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It’s as Wei Ying holds up the red robes to his chest with a shy and delighted smile that Lan Zhan decides he must have committed a grievous sin in a past life. It is the only reasonable explanation for the excessive amount of torture that he’s received in his present one. Perhaps he spurned one too many lovers. Perhaps he was a neglectful husband, ignoring his spouse in favor of his personal interests. Perhaps, even, he killed his spouse, or left them to die, or something equally gruesome and viciously unsavory. Ridiculous notions, perhaps, but.
But what else is a man supposed to think when he sees his very-much-not-husband-but-definitely-still-boyfriend in proximity with wedding robes?
“What do you think, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks from in front of the mirror. He’s pressed the red robe flush against his person, twirling back and forth so the gold-trimmed sleeves sway in the air. “Does this make me look like a proper husband? Are you convinced?”
A special kind of torture, indeed.
It is an extra special kind of torture to know that Wei Ying will soon be wearing said robes, and that the two of them will be performing a real, certified wedding, in which, painfully, they will not be the ones married. It will be a wedding in which they are merely the puppets performing the parts of a play, not just a man and his lover finally sealing themselves together for the rest of their mortal lives and beyond. This is merely a ghost liberation. Nothing more.
It’s not that he cannot have Wei Ying. It’s not that they haven’t been very much together, and it's not that they haven’t been dating for the past ten years. They have. They very much have. Even with all the bumps and scrapes getting to this point, there is no doubt in Lan Zhan’s mind that he and Wei Ying will be together until the very end. Perhaps even beyond that into the afterlife, and even beyond that, in the next.
It’s marriage wherein lies the issue. Marriage that Lan Zhan very much wants. Marriage that Wei Ying very much does not.
“Marriage seems like a bit of a scam, don’t you think, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying had said one evening on the couch, draped across Lan Zhan as they watched—or tried to watch—the final episode of a drama he can no longer remember. This was many years ago, long before they had thought about dating, about the possibility that they might love each other, but the conversation nevertheless replays itself in his mind over and over, like a record on his uncle’s old player, stuck in the grooves of the vinyl and unable to move to the next song.
“In what manner?” Lan Zhan had asked, more focused on the chili oil stain at the corner of Wei Ying’s mouth than whatever was happening on screen. A wedding, in all likelihood.
“Like, committing yourself to someone forever,” Wei Ying said with a scoff, unaware or uncaring of the direction of Lan Zhan’s thoughts. “Like, when have you ever seen any marriage last happily ‘til they die? I can’t think of anyone’s, with the exception of jiejie’s, and that’s only because Jiang Cheng and I will grind that peacock’s bones to dust if he so much as thinks about divorcing her.”
The statement was enough to jolt Lan Zhan out of his daydreams to really look at Wei Ying’s face, at the all-too bitter twist to his smile. He knew of Wei Ying’s family life-–of Madame Yu and of Jiang Fengmian. Of their bitterness towards each other. It was impossible not to know. Was that what Wei Ying thought of marriage then? That love’s wine was destined to sour to vinegar?
“There’s Lan An,” Lan Zhan settled on after a moment’s contemplation, quietly averting his gaze back to the screen, watching but not really seeing the motions of its star characters. His own parents’ marriage had also been a cruel and all too deadly joke. He had no room to have hope for himself either. If anything, the creeping fear of repeating his father’s mistakes often permeated his every relationship. They usually ended with him freezing them out or cutting them off if only to avoid the other extreme that his father so dutifully exemplified. And yet. And yet there was still a small part of him that often dreamt of a hall swathed in red, of gold so bright it blinds, and more than ever, of… of that someone by his side.
Spurred on, he then perhaps more riskily tacked on, “And… your own parents, no?”
Silence.
Silence that was heavy enough that he did not dare look down. Still, there were no regrets with his words. He meant every syllable. With how Wei Ying spoke of them, he could only assume they were happy together.
Only after the couple on screen completed their third bow did Wei Ying finally speak, the music reaching its crescendo in a brilliant flourish of dizi and guqin, leaving the air around them charged and expectant. Of what? Lan Zhan couldn’t be certain, or couldn’t hope to be certain, anyway.
“Sure,” Wei Ying hedged at last, voice almost too low to hear above the music. “But love like that only happens once in a million years, and it’s not gonna happen to me. And I won’t marry hoping it will anyway.” Shifting, he tipped his head up to meet Lan Zhan’s eyes then, smile still twisted into something bitter, but wistful now, too. “Maybe you will though, Lan Zhan,” he said quietly, reaching up to give Lan Zhan’s cheek a gentle pat. His fingers burned like ice into Lan Zhan’s skin. “I’d hate for you to marry any less than you deserve.”
It’s a statement that carries a different meaning now that they’re together though. Would Wei Ying risk marriage for them? Did Wei Ying find Lan Zhan worthy enough to make that final leap to marriage? Or, better question yet, did Wei Ying find himself worthy of being Lan Zhan’s husband?
Torture. Complete torture.
Realistically, Lan Zhan is certain this mission is just his brother’s very cruel sense of humor, but there is also the possibility it's his past life’s misdeeds that cursed him with such an elder brother. He is more inclined to believe the latter at this point.
A particularly mischievous look in Xichen’s eye was enough to set his suspicions off immediately as Xichen had brought them into his office two weeks ago and explained the details of the assignment. A couple had died in a terrible fire before their wedding some thirty years back, and the bride’s spirit had managed to attach itself to the wedding venue, becoming resentful enough that all other weddings within the venue had since been doomed to disaster in one form or another. The last had ended in death.
“We’ve tried a number of things,” Xichen had said, handing over the file. “But to no avail. Most of our other cultivators have come back unsuccessful, none desiring to continue. We’ve tried liberation, we’ve tried repression, and we’ve tried elimination. There are few options left. With such a difficult case, I could only think of asking you two to intervene.”
“We’re flattered, Xichen-ge,” Wei Ying said, taking the file from him eagerly and flipping through the contents of the manila folder, eyes already flitting through the pages. “I’m sure we’ll make a breakthrough, eh, Lan Zhan?”
“Mmn,” Lan Zhan hummed distractedly, engaged in a staredown with his brother. A wedding. Something was afoot here, clear from the all-too-pleasant smile plastered on his brother’s face and the way Xichen’s eyes kept sliding back to Wei Ying almost too pointedly.
“Actually,” Xichen said, in a way that made Lan Zhan tense. His gaze slid to Wei Ying a final time. “I had an idea. One, in fact, that is only accomplishable with your assistance.”
“Oh?” Wei Ying tilted forward with an unmistakable gleam in his eyes. Lan Zhan allowed a very long sigh to escape through his lips and quietly resigned himself to whatever terrible idea his brother had.
“Empathy,” Xichen had said, nefarious smile widening, to which Wei Ying had shot out from his chair in delight and Lan Zhan had snapped “Ge,” with vehemence. However, there was no way Lan Zhan could stop this plan once Wei Ying and Xichen were united in pulling it off.
Empathy with the spirit revealed just how desperately she’d wanted to marry, and the only way to appease her was a wedding itself. The plan was therefore thus:
First, Wei Ying will allow the ghost of the dead bride—Lu Mengying—to possess his body for the majority of the wedding (despite Lan Zhan’s very vehement protests; after all, once Wei Ying sets himself upon a certain path, there is no diverting him). Next, they will enact the final portion of the wedding, leading the bride to the prepared altar and performing the three bows which the couple had never had a chance to complete. Finally, they will ensure the spirit’s safe passage into the afterlife.
This is how Lan Zhan now finds himself in the venue’s bathrooms, changing into wedding robes that are not his own and thinking to himself that he must have been a very sinful man to be tortured with thoughts of something he very much cannot have.
Still, he won’t waste this moment. Even if this is only a fake wedding, he’ll wring every droplet of sweet wine from it that he can.
Eyes now glued to Wei Ying’s waist, Lan Zhan allows himself a very long, indulgent look—long enough that red starts to creep up Wei Ying’s neck—before he at last relents with a smug smile and a hummed affirmative. “Red suits you very well,” he comments mildly, turning back to his own clothes. “Hurry and dress.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, turning with a spluttering gasp. “Don’t be a tease. How can you say these things so casually? People might think you want to marry me for real.”
It’s Lan Zhan’s turn to go red. The tips of his ears burn uncomfortably as he focuses on adjusting the buttons of his changshan, fingers now clumsy in their efforts. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have right now, especially in the middle of a night hunt as risky as this one. “Who’s teasing who now?” he mumbles at the fabric anyway. “Get dressed, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying only laughs. “So eager to see me wed, Lan Zhan? Very well. I won’t keep you waiting!” He grins at Lan Zhan one last time before disappearing into one of the bathroom stalls to change and adjust his veil. It’s far from a traditional wedding, lacking all of the grandeur and ritual that Lan Zhan used to indulge himself in fantasizing about, but it should be enough to appease the ghost.
It’s a few minutes before Wei Ying peeks his head out from the stall, just enough that Lan Zhan can see his face but nothing else. His expression is serious now, eyes no longer twinkling like the universe has let Wei Ying in on a joke no one else is privy to. “Lan Zhan? Can I give you something? Just in case this goes poorly?”
Lan Zhan’s heart seizes. “It won’t go poorly,” he answers automatically.
Wei Ying sighs, exasperated and fond. “Silly man. I know you won’t let anything hurt me. That’s what this is for. Just in case.” Wei Ying frees one red-sleeved arm from behind the stall, beckoning Lan Zhan forwards. “Please.”
Wei Ying is correct. There isn’t a chance in heaven or on earth that Lan Zhan will let anything happen to either of them this evening, but the thought that something might is enough to set Lan Zhan’s heart aflutter. It takes a gargantuan effort to move his now-leaden legs forward, just close enough that Wei Ying can reach him, but far enough that he won’t yet glimpse the fullness of his red robes.
“Here,” Wei Ying says, arm disappearing into the stall once more and reemerging as a closed fist. Lan Zhan holds out his hand in answer, and Wei Ying deposits something cold and spherical into his palm. His clarity bell.
“Ah,” Lan Zhan says, both in understanding and embarrassment. Of course.
“What, did you think I was going to give you—my most prized possession? I need Chenqing for this!” Wei Ying teases, but it’s gentle. He reaches up to run his thumb along Lan Zhan’s cheekbone, fingers still cold enough to burn against the warmth of Lan Zhan’s flushed skin. They’re always so cold. “It’s just to help me kick this ghost out if anything goes wrong. Some life insurance, you know? It’ll be okay.”
Lan Zhan releases a shaky breath and manages a small, wan smile. It’s always difficult talking about the potential of Wei Ying’s death. A faked death isn’t a real death, but to Lan Zhan it had felt very real for a number of years, at least until that fateful night at Mo Manor. “Mmn. A wise choice,” he says at last. “Let’s not delay this any longer than we have to.”
Wei Ying gives a solemn nod, teasing smile disappearing. “I’m going to summon her, then, alright? Wait for me.”
“Mmn. Always,” Lan Zhan hums, tying the bell to his side. Wei Ying gives his cheek one last pat and disappears back into the stall. A low whistle, eerie in the echoing chambers of the changing room, reverberates against the walls as Wei Ying summons her spirit, bringing with it a bitterly gentle breeze that bites at Lan Zhan’s cheeks and nose. It’s a tune Lan Zhan recognizes, one of the many he’s caught Wei Ying composing in the small hours of the night, intent on whatever idea has flooded his brain at the time.
The tune stops abruptly.
Wei Ying’s stall creaks open. He—no, she, for her presence is as unmistakable as the moon in the sky—emerges in a billowing, black cloud of resentful energy. It floods Lan Zhan’s lungs almost immediately, a thick sludge with chilling power and violent intent. It is only his many years of training his golden core that render him capable of casting it out so quickly.
Lu Mengying comes to a halt when she at last stands before Lan Zhan, face completely masked by her veil. For this, Lan Zhan is grateful. He’s seen Wei Ying take on spirits before, each experience perhaps more horrifying than the last; it is both strange and painful to watch Wei Ying’s expressions shift in ways they shouldn’t. To be spared this experience, at least this once, is a blessing in disguise.
His expression must betray his thoughts, because her voice suddenly crackles through the room. “What’s the matter?” comes not-Wei Ying’s voice from behind the veil. “Are you imagining my face right now?”
In lieu of answering, he thrusts the other end of the marriage ribbon into her hands, the red silk ball hanging between them, and represses a shudder as their flesh meets. When he glances down, Wei Ying’s fingertips are purple.
He’ll be glad when this is all over.
Painstakingly, Lan Zhan leads them both from the changing rooms and out into the main hall. It’s an old university event center, unused for the better part of the last five years because of Lu Mengying’s resentment driving away any potential renters of the space, and it certainly shows. Some of the paint on the walls is peeling and the floor, likely once polished to shine, only has a dull gleam.
Still, Wei Ying had excitedly insisted on tidying up and decorating it with bursts of red flowers and sashes, shuangxi plastered in every spot Wei Ying could fit it. “I missed helping set up jiejie’s wedding,” he’d explained with a wistful sigh. “And besides, if we don’t do this as properly and as beautifully as possible, Lu Mengying will be trapped here forever.”
“Better to do it right the first time,” Lan Zhan had solemnly agreed.
Lan Zhan and Lu Mengying begin walking down their aisle. They had prepared it as best they could, placing an apple from Wei Ying's kitchen on a cheap saddle, setting up flickering electronic coals, and arranging a small altar at the end. It’s covered in as many photos of the bride and grooms’ families as Wei Ying could find, long gone from this world now.
Now, he quickens his pace, pausing only to wait for Wei Ying—no, Lu Mengying, to step over the flames. She doesn’t, though, instead coming to a stubborn halt, cold tendrils of her resentment curling forward to caress Lan Zhan’s cheek. Frowning, Lan Zhan gives the ribbon a gentle tug. He has no patience for games. “Lu Mengying,” he warns.
“Lan Wangji,” she says, surprising him with the use of his courtesy name. “What is it that comes to mind when you think of marriage?”
A knot begins to tie itself in his chest. “That’s irrelevant to the task at hand.”
“Task?” Lu Mengying repeats with Wei Ying’s voice. “Is that what you see weddings as? A task? If I am to be married, this must be more than a task.”
Lan Zhan exhales. “My apologies. I understand this is important to you.”
“You want to marry Wei Ying.”
Her words send a jolt through his body, a burst of winter in the worst of ways, and he nearly drops the ribbon in surprise. “Lu Mengying,” he warns again.
“You want to marry Wei Ying, but you fear he does not want to love you back,” she continues anyway. “You want to marry Wei Ying, hold him as tight as a songbird in a cage, and never let him go. You let him free once, and look at what happened. He left you. Disappeared. You thought he was dead. But you can’t risk that happening again, can you?”
“What is the purpose of this?” Lan Zhan hears himself say faintly, ears ringing.
“You know what will happen though, if you do that, don’t you?” she says, ignoring his question. “Like anything held too tightly, he will break and fall to pieces. His spirit will wither, shrivel under a sun that burns too hot and atrophy in a cell with no room to so much as shiver. He will be as good as dead.”
The ground seems to tilt uncertainly beneath him, every word a breath stolen from his lungs and a thundering pulse to his ears.
“But you know, deep down, Lan Wangji, that you would be fine with that. Lans only love once, and a wilting flower safe from the storms is better than a flower rotting in the ground, no? You can’t see it in yourself to let go.”
“Enough,” Lan Zhan says weakly, fumbling for the bell. The truth of words sink into his skin like ill-placed needles. It is all he can do to ignore her. This is not going according to plan. Not even close.They had gotten it wrong: Lu Mengying never wanted another wedding. It would never liberate her from this world. Her dying wish had been to ruin as many weddings as possible.
“He will never marry you,” she’s saying. It’s her turn to give the ribbon a yank, and Lan Zhan stumbles forward, nearly colliding with her and only just missing the electric flames. Wei Ying’s lips, purple from the cold, are just barely visible as the veil shifts with her movement. “I’m in his head, Lan Wangji. I saw it in Empathy. I see it now. He can never be a Lan. Will never be a Lan. He despises the principle. Despises you, even.”
The veil slips as she gives Lan Zhan another yank. Wei Ying’s eyes, irises red and sclera shot through with burst veins, meet his own.
Wei Ying smiles. “I will not become your mother.”
Something in Lan Zhan breaks. Not his heart, because he is still cognizant enough to understand that this is not his Wei Ying. But something, and he lunges forward to strike Lu Mengying to the ground, Bichen flying to meet his grip from the corner where it had been waiting. She dances away, tugs the veil back over her face, and ascends into the air, laughter cold and rippling across the walls.
Great gusts of resentful energy batter Lan Zhan this way and that, but he persists, resorting now to using Wangji, pulling it from the qiankun pouch at his side and striking chords in rapid succession as Lu Mengying deftly avoids them. It’s between notes that she finally advances, surging forward in a great burst of speed that knocks them both into the wall, Wei Ying’s cold fingers pressed against his throat. Something cold and metallic brushes against Lan Zhan’s hand from his side.
The clarity bell.
“Let’s not waste any more time,” she says, fingers tightening. “We both knew this wedding was meaningless anyway.”
He reaches down, straining, and feels the cool press of the metal against his fingertips. He rings the bell.
The effect is immediate. Lu Mengying—no, now Wei Ying—slumps against him, the black cloud surrounding him pulling outward to hover in the center of the room. After gently lying Wei Ying to the ground, Lan Zhan pulls Wangji to his grip once more. One final twang pushes Lu Mengying over the top of the electric flames. There’s a sound like gunfire—a sharp crack that shakes the very ground he stands on—as the cloud bursts into flame and shrivels until it disappears in a rush of wind that once more pushes Lan Zhan back against the wall.
Someone coughs beside him.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says weakly, and that’s all it takes for Lan Zhan to return to his side, guiding Wei Ying into an upright position.
“Wei Ying,” he says, helpless.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, coughing. “Lan Zhan, you have to understand, none of that is true. I don’t believe any of that. You know that, right?”
Lan Zhan hesitates before replying, an acrid taste creeping onto his tongue. “There were… some truths. To her words,” he manages.
“But I know you,” Wei Ying says, and he takes Lan Zhan’s hands in his own. They’re warm. “You’re Lan Zhan. Lan Wangji. Hanguang-jun. We both know you would never do that. I– Lan Zhan, you’re the only person I’d ever want to marry, the only person I know I can trust my entire self with. The only man I can envision—no, who I know will love me to the end of my days, no matter who I become.”
Lan Zhan looks away, unable to bear Wei Ying’s earnestness. It’s normally he who has this effect on Wei Ying, but now the power of Wei Ying’s words settle over him like a warm summer rain, coating him in something like relief. There’s truth in his words, and they ring clearer than any bell.
“Do you want to get married?” Wei Ying asks, silk soft.
“Yes,” Lan Zhan admits, turning back. Tentatively, he reaches upward to at last remove the veil from Wei Ying’s face. Wei Ying looks back at him, radiant, warm, and smiles.
“Then let’s get married, soon, yeah?” he says.
Lan Zhan’s heart soars. “Soon,” he agrees.