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Sizhui has grown up with strange memories lingering in the back of his head like half-cloaked ghosts.
When he was younger, they were probably stronger—laughter everywhere, strange, loaded silences; dark robes and dark hair and a flash of red within, lifting him up and laughing with a strange hollowness to it, voices that feel endlessly familiar but he can’t place—and as he grows older, approaches adulthood, they’ve grown more distinct, but jumble around the back of his head anyway.
He remembers the day he’d been given his courtesy name; Hanguang-jun had been there, had chosen the characters for his name. Hanguang-jun has, for better or worse, always been a permanent fixture of Sizhui’s life, and he can’t quite remember the first time he met him; hadn’t it been outside, not within the Cloud Recesses?
More of his earliest memories: on the hip of an older Lan disciple, entering Hanguang-jun’s room; Hanguang-jun had not been able to get up, had stared vaguely blankly at Sizhui seated at his bedside, lifted a hand to pet his head tenderly, and Sizhui can’t quite remember what his expression had really been like. He distantly remembers that Zewu-jun had been present at the time.
He also remembers that he’d visited the Lan clan’s second young master a few times after that, though he couldn’t give you the details if you tried to get it out of him.
Another thing he remembers: Hanguang-jun had called him A-Yuan for a long time, at the very least until he left seclusion, and though he’d always addressed Sizhui with a formal Lan Yuan since then, it had been with a hint of…something. Sizhui never asked and Hanguang-jun never offered.
It’s no secret within the Cloud Recesses that he shows favoritism to Sizhui. Lan Jingyi often teases him for it, even now; Sizhui had been uncomfortable at the reminder for years, but has since grown into it. If not for Hanguang-jun’s instruction, he knows he wouldn’t be even half the cultivator he is today.
Although—he can’t quite remember how he had ended up being Hanguang-jun’s favorite.
He’s not sure Hanguang-jun himself quite realizes this, because when Hanguang-jun looks at Sizhui, it’s always with a hint of an unfathomable sorrow, the one emotion that occasionally breaks through his icy facade if not for pride—a sorrow that Sizhui does not understand, a grief that clings to his entire form when a certain time of year approaches and Sizhui is summoned to see him for personal lessons, and he finds Hanguang-jun gazing at the sky with an expression he half-wishes he did not witness.
It’s been a while since that grief has appeared so starkly, but it remains. Eclipsed by a resolve and acceptance rather than something raw and painful.
“Come,” he always says, shrugging it off with an ease, “let us begin,” but it lingers on in his eyes, and Sizhui has a feeling: it has to do with himself. He never asks. Hanguang-jun never offers. He’s like immovable ice, frigid and unwilling to crack for anyone.
It’s not that Hanguang-jun isn’t kind—he is. He offers out praise for everyone in equal measure, keeps an eye on Sizhui’s group, always offers advice that Lan Qiren probably would not give out so easily. Besides, if Hanguang-jun weren’t at least a little bit affectionate, he’s not quite sure he would’ve ended up buried under a pile of rabbits (which—learning the rabbits belong to Hanguang-jun?)
Under Hanguang-jun’s instruction, Sizhui blooms. And he’s fine with that, even if Hanguang-jun never voices it, even if they remain master and disciple.
Another thing, though: it has always been Zewu-jun who has been functionally in charge of Sizhui.
He remembers that for a few years, Hanguang-jun had been in seclusion. There had been no set person to take care of Sizhui, he thinks; though he mostly remembers Zewu-jun summoning him often as well, teaching him the very basics, teaching him his manners and conduct.
(It did occur to him, later: was what he saw as a young child really seclusion, or—)
Hanguang-jun didn’t often stay within the Cloud Recesses for long periods of time, only stuck around to instruct Sizhui and his group of juniors, and often took them along with him when they were old enough, much to their delight; Hanguang-jun took on all kinds of cases, which meant they had a lot of experience to gain across the board.
The first time they had gone, Lan Jingyi had been some odd combination of overconfident and buzzing with nerves. Sizhui had said, it’ll be fine, Hanguang-jun wouldn’t take you if he didn’t think you capable, biting back a surprisingly only because said man was within earshot (and it hadn’t calmed Lan Jingyi down, but it had set his head on straight).
Further down the line, Hanguang-jun had begun to take individual disciples in groups of two or three—this usually meant Sizhui was included.
But aside from that—one memory that continues to float up from time to time is sitting in front of the wall of rules beside Zewu-jun. He remembers nothing said or what had occurred after, except that for a long time after, he’d done this with Zewu-jun, even after Hanguang-jun took after his training.
He used to spend a lot of time with Zewu-jun. Though various teachers had given him lessons, Zewu-jun persisted. He taught Sizhui manners and proper conduct, intervened when he had gotten into fights with other disciples his age (“No, A-Yuan. Go on, apologize and think about what you’ve done,” with firmness), though he always remained kind.
That was the thing about Zewu-jun—he smiled, and he was always kind, but he was strict and possessed a watchful eye that meant Sizhui was not able to get away with half as many things as others did. That, combined with Hanguang-jun’s insistence on proper conduct—well, it’s no wonder that Sizhui has gotten comments such as, “he’s just like a mini-Zewu-jun,” “he reflects Hanguang-jun’s teachings well,” and the like.
Here is another memory: before he had left seclusion formally, Zewu-jun had taken Sizhui to see Hanguang-jun. He’d been a little bit older, and he remembers this:
Hanguang-jun had been able to sit up and move around, and for whichever reason, Sizhui had been seated in his lap, and between the two of them and Zewu-jun, who sat across from them, lay a guqin.
It had been made with silk strings, of course. Hanguang-jun had let him touch and Zewu-jun had not scolded him for his curiosity. Years down the line, he remembers this very faintly, when he picks up his own guqin and attempts to emulate the talent that had taught him.
If nothing else, Sizhui remembers this: the melancholic song that Hanguang-jun had played, his trembling voice as he hummed the notes; Zewu-jun’s gaze stuck so very intently on his brother. It had been sometime around sunset, the room suffused in gold. He distantly remembers that Hanguang-jun had petted his head, and that Zewu-jun had actually carried Sizhui away himself after that.
He wonders, sometimes, what Zewu-jun had said to him in the aftermath of that moment. Probably something about self-control and minding your image—things Sizhui is admittedly not as good at as Zewu-jun would like, but it’s been working out fine for him so far, hasn’t it?
Once, Hanguang-jun had said this: “you’re more like xiongzhang than me,” and Sizhui had paused, thrown off by it.
“You mean—Zewu-jun?” he’d asked, as if it could mean anyone else. Because it is true that as much as he admires Hanguang-jun and tries to emulate him, in practice, it’s the older of the Twin Jades that Sizhui’s more familiar with. Perhaps it’s the core memories that matter, the memories that say Lan Xichen had taken a personal interest in him, if a little detached, when he’d been so young that he hardly remembers losing whichever parents he did have.
He wishes he remembers more clearly the first time any of those things that happened.
Hanguang-jun had simply nodded, and provided no clarification on the matter. Sizhui doesn’t ask, and Hanguang-jun doesn’t offer. It’s like this that they head out beyond the Cloud Recesses to the world constantly begging for help, help that this teacher of his never denies.
It’s like this that Sizhui carries on, shadows curling around the corners of his mind, half-forgotten songs and laughs pressed to his skin.