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Yin time had melted into Mao, and Zewu-jun was awake once more. The winter air had seeped into the Hanshi, nipping at his skin, which was covered with only one silk robe. He was wrapped in Jin Guangyao’s arms. From the slow of his breath, Lan Xichen could tell he was still asleep. He always did take especially long to wake on winter mornings like this. He pressed his back further into Guangyao’s chest, and placed his hands on his. Lan Xichen closed his eyes, ready to accompany his san-di in sleep again.
“A-Huan,” Jin Guangyao’s small, tired voice interrupted the silence.
Lan Xichen’s eyes fluttered open, “mphm…A-Yao, you’re awake,” he breathed.
Jin Guangyao didn’t respond for a few seconds, then murmured, “I’m cold, A-Huan.”
Lan Xichen let out a soft chuckle, turned himself over so they were face to face, wrapped his arms around his san-di and whispered, “you’re okay.”
Jin Guangyao made an annoyed grunt, but there was a humorous tone to it, then kissed Lan Xichen’s nose.
Lan Xichen began slowly stroking his fingers through his san-di’s hair. It was undone, the pins lying somewhere on the floor. His hair was glossy, slipping across Lan Xichen’s hands like fine silk. The sun was yet to rise, and so the deep brown colouring of his hair was nothing more than a grey shadow. As he almost began to drift off, his fingers continued to twist through the shadow, almost as if by their own accord.
“A-Huan?”
“Hm?”
“...What do you dream of?”
“What do you mean, A-Yao?”
“When you’re asleep, what do you dream of?”
Lan Xichen was so sleepy, he felt like he was still in a dream, “hmm… many things, I suppose.”
Silence fell upon them for several moments.
“Would you like to tell me about any of those things?” Jin Guangyao asked.
Lan Xichen thought about asking Jin Guangyao why he was imploring such a question in the first place, but decided against it; whilst he always shared a special understanding with A-Yao, sometimes his mind seemed like a distant, mysterious, yet nonetheless beautiful, place to Lan Xichen. Was it possible to ever completely understand another mind, anyway?
“I could,” he replied.
“Do you want to?”
Lan Xichen considered that for a second, “... yes.”
“I often dream of my mother,” he started, “when I dream of her, I can see her face so bright and clear, it’s as if I were awake, and she was there, in front of me. Though, when I think back on a memory, her face is more blurred, the details obscured.”
He felt his breathing become heavier.
Jin Guangyao, who had recently tucked his head under Lan Xichen’s chin, gave a comforting little kiss to his collarbone.
“I think my dreams are of real memories,” he continued, “the rare days I got to spend with her. She never asked me of it, but I always showed her my calligraphy, my paintings, and played the xiao for her. She gave me only words of praise, no matter if I accidentally smudged the ink of my calligraphy, no matter how much improvement my paintings needed, and no matter how wailing the notes I played from my xiao. To her it was all perfect.” He let out a sad sigh, “it made me so happy to make her proud. She’d tell me how talented I was, how much she loved me, and… she’d never stop smiling.” He could feel his eyes starting to dampen, “when I was very young, I thought she was so happy; she was always smiling, but then… as I got older…after she died… I realised,” his voice was hoarse with tears, “those were the only times she ever smiled.”
He sobbed.
“A-Huan,” comforted Jin Guangyao, now with his face to Lan Xichen’s. He placed a soft kiss on the crying man’s forehead, then began to gently stroke his hair, as he had done for him a few minutes ago.
“And… once or twice she told me I should’ve smiled more - I’ve had dreams about it,” he sniffed, “I tried so hard to be the best, most respectable Lan I could, when really I was just a very small child, who wanted to laugh, play and see his mother more,” “and yes…she…she told me I should smile and laugh more, so I did,” tears continued to stream down his face, “and that’s one thing I never forgot.”
“She must’ve had a beautiful smile,” said Jin Guangyao, softly.
“Yes…I wish I could see it again,” Lan Xichen cried.
The pair laid together for several minutes, Lan Xichen letting out a few sobs here and there, as Jin Guangyao stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, nose and cheek.
“When she died… Wangji and I didn’t understand,” Lan Xichen resumed, voice still shaky, “Though, I came to eventually understand sooner than he did… but I wish I could’ve kept that innocence forever.” He took a couple of deep breaths, trying not to sob again, “ever since her death, every month, Wangji sits outside her… prison… and I…” he gulped, “I visit sometimes too, it’s where I often do my paintings. I like to paint the beautiful nature and landscapes that she wasn’t able to see when imprisoned.”
He sobbed again.
“Lan Huan,” Jin Guangyao soothed, but his own voice was now breaking too, “it’s okay, I know how it feels.”