Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of the violin anchors me here—by the lake, not far from town, where the wind always smells of wet earth and pine. The water is calm tonight, its surface smooth enough to catch the trembling reflection of the streetlamps from the shore road.
When I play, the sound drifts over the water, strikes the trees on the opposite bank, and disappears into the distance as if it never existed. Yet its absence lingers, clinging to the air like fog. The melancholy it leaves behind seeps through my skin until it weighs upon me like a second heartbeat.

With every note, my breathing grows harder.

Behind my closed eyelids, the burn begins—familiar, relentless. Every time the lake hears my violin, something inside me claws toward the surface, desperate to escape, and with everything I am, I hold it back.
Because if I let it rise—if I let that ache breathe freely—I will unravel completely.

The people of Lotus Creek think I am whole again. They know me, they understand me and they don’t poke their noses into my ache. But they see me in the mornings, walking through the square on my way to the music school, coffee in hand, And they smile as if my steadiness reassures them that time heals all things. Because they all saw me fall apart, completely torn by the love that left me bare. They saw me pick up the pieces and build myself together again to something that resempbles the person I once was. They all wanted to help and somehow just by being here, creating this beautiful town, they all gave me a sence of belonging. And that is why I never left. That, and that naive part of me that still waits for him.

When I play at the library or the restaurant by the lake; they smile a sad smile. They say my music carries peace, that it makes the water shimmer differently, softer somehow. But no-one understands that peace is the only shape grief can take once it has settled deep enough. They do not see how each note cuts through me, how every melody pulls at the thread of a memory that refuses to fade.

Eight years of buried ache.

Eight years since that night in my room, when everything was new and clumsy and sacred all at once— when laughter caught in our throats and our hands learned the shape of each other’s skin.
We were eighteen then, in love, and nothing else in the world mattered.

Afterward we walked here, to the lake—our place in the world—where the moonlight shattered across the water like glass. It was the same place where he once told me he didn’t like his foster mother, the same place where he buried his face against my shoulder and wept for the parents he missed. The same place where, at sixteen, he confessed he was in love with someone beautiful, and I, foolish and jealous, didn’t understand he meant me. The same place where he laughed at my jealousy and called me stupid for not knowing. And two days later, it was here I found the courage to tell him that I loved him too.

Here he kissed me for the first time.

That last night he promised forever, whispering it against my lips beneath the stars. He touched my face and told me he would see me in the morning, and I kissed him back, telling him that morning felt too far away.
We were two fools in love. Or so I thought.

Because when the morning came, Wei Ying was gone, and only the quiet remained. And now, eight years later, I still stand here—in the same place he left me—as if some part of me refuses to move on until I understand.

How could something so certain break so quietly?
Did I mean so little to him, or did forever mean something different to him than it did to me?

The lake offers no answer tonight either. It only mirrors the low October clouds—grey, endless, patient.

A few swallows skim across the surface before vanishing into the dusk. People around here say that when the swallows return,
they bring with them the things we’ve tried hardest to forget.

And in the trembling reflection on the water, I see what they must see when they look at me:
a man shaped by violin and memory,
a man stitched together by silence, still waiting for the ghost of someone who once promised forever.

The bow hangs loosely in my hand, the last note fading into the hush of night.
Somewhere across the water, the world keeps breathing — soft ripples, the murmur of wind, the hum of distant lights.
But here, in this small corner of silence, time refuses to move.

It always begins like this. The ache presses in, and before I can stop it, memory stirs — slow, deliberate, like a tide returning to the shore.
Every time I play, he comes back. Not in form, not in voice, but in the pull of old notes that still remember his name.

My fingers tighten around the violin, as if holding it can keep the past from slipping away.
But the mind betrays what the heart denies.
And before I know it, I am back there— to the first time I ever heard his voice.

I met Wei Ying when we were both eleven years old. He had just come to live with the Jiang family — as their foster son. Mr. Jiang, the patriarch of the family, had taken him in despite his wife’s fierce protests.
He had once been close to Wei Ying’s mother and wanted to honour that friendship by helping her son after the accident that took both his parents.

Wei Ying and I could not have been more different. Where I was quiet and withdrawn, he was light and sound.
I had never known what to say to people; words always seemed too heavy in my mouth.
Most found me uncomfortable to talk to — a polite wall they quickly learned to avoid. And that suited me. Silence had always been the one place where I understood myself best.

The day he arrived at our school, I heard his voice before I saw him. He was speaking to his foster brother, Jiang Cheng, and even then his tone carried laughter, curiosity, a warmth that filled the hallway.

“Who’s that?”

I looked up just enough to see his finger pointing toward my desk.

“That’s Lan Wangji,” Jiang Cheng said. “He’s… weird.”

“Weird?” Wei Ying repeated, puzzled, as if he couldn’t imagine such a thing.

I remember thinking, he’ll learn soon enough. That he, too, would stop looking my way, as everyone eventually did. I had long accepted my role as the shadow at the edge of other people’s stories.
But that wasn’t what happened.

The next lesson, I felt someone sit beside me — in the seat that had always remained empty.
The teachers had learned not to assign it; I had learned not to expect anyone there.
The warmth from my left side startled me.

When I finally turned my head, he was sitting there with a smile so bright it felt out of place in that gray classroom.

“Hi,” he said easily. “I’m Wei Ying. You’re Lan Wangji.”

I stared at him, unsure what he wanted, what I was supposed to say. So I said nothing.
He only shrugged, unconcerned, and kept talking.

“I asked about you,” he continued, ticking off each point on his fingers.

“Everyone says you’re strange, that you don’t talk to people, that I shouldn’t bother you.
Oh, and that you play the violin. Really well, even though you’re only eleven—like me.”

I turned toward the blackboard. My stomach felt tight, strange. Before I could think of a reply, he laughed — light, unguarded, and impossible to ignore.

“Lan Wangji… is that really your name?”

Without realizing it, I shook my head.

“So everyone lies here? What’s your real name then?”

My voice came out small, uncertain, the way it always did when I wasn’t sure I should speak.

“Everyone calls me Lan Wangji, but my real name is Lan Zhan.”

And when those words slipped past my lips, some kind of strange feeling woke up inside me. I didn't understand why I told him my real name. No one knows me by that name. My mother called me Lan Zhan, but her voice has long been quite. Not even my brother or my uncle use my real name, even they call me Wangji.

That bright boy beside me was quite and I dared a look at him. And he was looking at me, with a smile on his face. And with a quiet intake of air, and that same soft voice, now gentle, almost reverent he whispered “Lan Zhan.”

The way he said it… as if he had discovered something precious.

Chapter Text

The lights of the small town I left behind eight years ago draw closer, trembling in the dark like a memory I never learned to let go of.

For the first five of those years, I had to physically stop myself from boarding the next train back - from finding my way to the one place where my heart still lives.
The last three, it wasn’t distance that kept me away. It was fear. And the kind of cowardice that grows when you convince yourself it’s mercy.

My life has boiled down to regret, longing for lost love and existing through my next step.

The train whistles once, long and sharp, before it begins to slow. Every sound seems to echo inside me, reopening the wounds I spent years trying to bury. With each passing second, the weight of regret presses heavier against my chest, but I rise anyway, collecting the worn bag at my feet.
Lotus Creek waits ahead, unchanged.

When the doors slide open, the air hits me—cool, wet, and sharp with pine, rain, and regret.
It smells exactly as I remember, and the ache it brings is immediate, merciless.

The town looks smaller now, yet still impossibly gentle. The old station house stands proud, its brick walls dulled but steady—the same building that has watched over this platform for nearly two centuries. It greets every traveler with the same quiet patience, as if time itself has chosen to wait here, unbothered and untouched.

Somehow, the thought makes me smile without warmth. The world had the nerve to stay the same while I learned how to fall apart.

I step down onto the empty platform. Standing there, I just take a second or two to collect myself and ground myself in my reality. I am here now, where my heart still beats.
The behind me train pulls away slowly, its sound fading into the distance until only the hush of evening remains as I take a step forward.
Everything looks the same.

The small, picturesque streets twist through the autumn dark just as I remember them — warm light spilling from the windows, shadows stretching long across the cobblestones.
Lanterns sway gently in the wind, their glow brushing against old brick and peeling paint.

And somewhere beneath it all, faint but steady, I can hear the water — the lake this whole town’s soul rests upon.
Its quiet hum has always been the sound of home.

But the silence tonight is loud. I can feel it pressing in, heavy and watchful, the weight of a hundred unspoken questions.
Their eyes are on me. Not openly, but through curtains, through glass, through the stillness that trembles just slightly when I pass.
They’re asking without words what I already know they’re thinking: Why are you here again?

The little bakery still glows on the corner, its sign tilting just the way it always did. Through the window, a young woman stands behind the counter.
When she notices me, her hand freezes mid-air — a motion caught between routine and alarm. For a moment, she just looks.
Not with cruelty, not even with curiosity, but with the quiet caution of someone who’s heard too many versions of a story and doesn’t know which one is true.
Her eyes hold the kind of careful pity reserved for ghosts who shouldn’t exist.

Across from the bakery, the library sits small and stubborn, its windows fogged with age.
It hasn’t changed either. I remember coming here as a boy, hiding between the shelves while Mrs. Hua — the librarian, her name still soft in my memory — pretended not to see me sneak an extra book into my bag.
Now, through the glass, I see her lift her head. The moment our eyes meet, she turns away sharply, as if she’s afraid that recognition itself might be contagious.

Behind me, a whisper cuts through the quiet.

“It’s him, I swear. It’s Wei Ying…”

Then a soft, disbelieving gasp.

“Are you sure? You mean that Wei Ying, the one who—”

“Yes!” the first voice hisses.

“What’s he doing here? Has he come back to hurt him again?”

The words strike harder than I expect. Eight years, and still — the same story, told in careful tones and lowered voices.
Not hatred. Not really.

Lotus Creek never learned to hate me. They just learned to be careful with my name.
Their doubt, their distance — it isn’t cruelty. It’s protection.
They’re guarding him.
And I can’t even blame them for it.

They all remember me as the boy who made Lan Zhan smile — and then the one who made him stop.
Behind every window, behind every whisper, lives a reflection of who I used to be — the reckless boy who left, and the man no one asked to come back.

But despite everything, a warmth stirs within me. Because here — right here — every memory still breathes.
The boy I was back then,
the boy I came to know,
the boy I fell in love with,
the boy I gave myself to,
and the man he has become.

My heart never left this place. Even when I was forced to go, that part of me stayed —anchored here, in the soil and the sound of the lake, right where I last saw Lan Zhan, eight years ago.
I see our old high school rising in the distance, and the memories come flooding back — scene after scene, like an old film reel that never truly stopped playing.
And with a quiet smile, I remember him.

The first time I saw him sitting at his desk — alone, unbothered by his solitude — something inside me shifted.
Everyone said I should stay away, that he liked being alone, that he didn’t talk to anyone, but I couldn’t help it.
There was something in him that pulled at me — a stillness that made the whole world fall quiet.
And somewhere deep down, I think I already knew:

I wanted him to see me the way he never saw anyone else.

“Lan Zhan…” I whisper his name, barely a breath.

Our friendship began that very day. Or perhaps I simply decided it would.
He was cautious, wary, sceptical of everything that was me, while I was loud, restless, full of words that tumbled over each other.
I lived for noise; he found peace only in silence. The more I tried to draw near, the more he withdrew — but something about that distance fascinated me.
And slowly, almost without noticing, the walls he built began to bend.

Behind them, I found someone far more than quiet. A boy whose words, when they came, carried the kind of weight that made you listen.
His gaze saw more than it ever said. He could fill a room just by being in it. I used to tease him that I talked enough for both of us.
He never replied, but sometimes, when he thought I wasn’t looking, he smiled.

And that smile — that small, rare thing — was worth everything.

My feelings for Lan Zhan began to change early. Probably the moment childhood loosened its hold and I began to see the world differently — to see him differently.
While Jiang Cheng, my foster brother, talked about girls he found pretty, I caught myself comparing them to Lan Zhan — his hands, his red lips, the faint blush that crept up his neck when someone spoke too loudly.
And it didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t the only one who noticed him. Adolescence suited him too well.
He grew into a kind of beauty that was quiet, unintentional — the kind that made people stare even when he didn’t look back.
The more he avoided attention, the more people wanted to touch the mystery he carried.

And I hated it.

Every time someone tried to catch his attention, it felt like losing something that had never even been mine.
That was when I understood. It wasn’t friendship anymore. It was jealousy.
And it burned. Because his gaze, his stillness, his rare, quiet smile — I wanted all of it to belong to me.

It was a spring evening in May when everything finally changed. We were sixteen.
The air smelled like rain and earth, and the lake shimmered faintly beneath the last light of day.
I sat in the grass, leaning against the old oak, waiting for him.

He came later than usual. When he sat down beside me, his sleeve brushed mine, and I felt it — that familiar spark,
the one I pretended not to feel anymore.

“How did it go?” I asked, trying to sound careless.

“Good,” he said softly. “We finished early. Then we went for coffee at the café. It was… nice. I like spending time with Lian. She’s very kind.”

I nodded, smiled — or tried to. But something inside me splintered. Lian.
Her name felt like a crack through glass. Lan Zhan was supposed to look at me, talk to me, smile at me.
Jealousy rose like heat beneath my skin, and I said nothing.

Of course, he noticed. He always did.

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently. “You went quiet.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out wrong.

“It’s nothing, I just—”

“Wei Ying.”

He said my name so softly it almost hurt.

“What is it?”

I stared out over the lake, watched how the light danced on the surface, and before I could stop myself, the truth slipped out — bare, trembling, and real.

“You’re supposed to look at me,” I said quietly.

He blinked, startled. “What do you mean?”

I turned toward him, met his eyes.

“What do you think I mean?” I said, the words sharper now.

“I don’t know…” he murmured, uncertain.

“How can you not know?” My chest ached. “I like you, Lan Zhan. Not as a friend. And I don’t like it when you look at anyone else.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. I could hear my own pulse, quick and raw. He blinked once, slowly — and in his eyes there was something I’d never seen before.
Something warm, frightened, endless.

“Lan Zhan?” I whispered.

His voice was low, breaking. “Is this… a joke?”

“A joke?” I laughed once, sharp, shaking my head. “Do you really think I’d joke about this?”

He searched my face — as if trying to find a lie that wasn’t there. And then I saw it — the fear, the hesitation.
He stood abruptly, the grass folding under his feet.

“Lan Zhan, wait—”

He froze for a heartbeat, eyes cast down, then stepped back. Once. Twice.

“I have to go,” he said softly, and walked away.

Two days of silence followed — long, heavy, endless. He switched seats in class. Turned corners to avoid me. And I laughed louder than ever, talked more, smiled wider but every time I looked up and didn’t see him there,
it hollowed me out a little more.

That night, I went to the lake again. It was late, almost dark, the air damp and heavy with the promise of rain.
I threw stones into the water, listening to the ripples fade into the quiet.
Then I heard those footsteps. Steady, familiar. I didn’t need to turn around.

“Wei Ying,” he said softly. “We need to talk.”

I turned to him. He stood a few paces away, fists clenched at his sides, as if he was holding himself together by will alone.

“You’ve avoided me for two days,” I said. “That’s a lot of talking for someone who hasn’t said a word.”

He hesitated, took a breath.

“I didn’t know how to…” He stopped, searching for words. “When you said that — I didn’t know what to do.”

I laughed bitterly. “I think I was pretty clear.”

“I didn’t think you meant it,” he said, voice low. “I thought you were just… saying it. Like you say everything — fast, without thinking.”

“I never joke about you.”

He shook his head slowly.

“I just didn’t think I was allowed to hope you meant it.”

The silence that followed felt different now — gentler, trembling with something unspoken.
He took a step closer. Then another.
And when he was close enough that I could feel his breath, he whispered, “I don’t see anyone else."

I barely had time to breathe before he continued.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, his voice low and trembling. “But I like you too. And I don’t want you to look at anyone else, either.”

The air between us felt fragile — like a single note balancing on the edge of silence.

Lan Zhan’s eyes searched mine, uncertain, his usual calm replaced by something raw and unfamiliar. Then he took a shallow breath, and his voice wavered, softer now:

“I just… I don’t want to ruin our friendship. If I say or do the wrong thing, if I mess this up—”

“You won’t,” I cut him off gently, shaking my head. “You never do anything wrong.”

He hesitated, still caught between wanting and fear. And in that hesitation, I saw the truth — he was just as scared as I was.
Scared of wanting too much. Scared of losing what we already had.
So I smiled, small and unsure, and said quietly,

“You don’t have to know how to do this. Just… stay here. With me.”

His breath hitched. His hands clenched at his sides, as if holding himself together. And before he could think his way out of it, I reached up — one hand brushing the line of his jaw,
the other trembling against the warmth of his cheek.
He froze, eyes wide. I felt the world go still around us — the lake, the trees, even the air seemed to wait.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” I whispered, half-smiling, half-terrified. And then, before either of us could lose our courage,I leaned in.
I gave him my first kiss.
I stole his first kiss.

The kiss was clumsy, unpracticed, and real. And it was ours — only ours.
When we finally pulled apart, the world felt different — softer, fragile in a way that made every second matter.
For the past eight years, those memories have kept me alive. Here.
Rooted to a past that still hums beneath my skin.
Through them, I’ve learned to breathe again — just enough.

Because even if I lost everything else, at least once in this lifetime I was part of something real.
That truth alone is more than many ever find in a lifetime.

But now, here I stand again. Lotus Creek.
Where he still lingers — in the air, in the water, in the spaces that never forgot us.

I have no illusions left. Hope dissolved years ago, leaving behind a hollow quiet that I’ve grown used to carrying.
The dream of him returning, of him falling back into my arms — it’s long faded into the same silence that took him from me.
But still… I need to see him.

To remind myself it was real. To watch the way he stands — straight, proud, the way only he ever could.
I need to see him breathe, to convince myself that time hasn’t erased the shape of him.

But most of all, I need to say I’m sorry.

The wind stirs around me — pine and rain in the air. Somewhere beyond the quiet streets, the lake shimmers under the moonlight.
And it feels as if it’s calling my name, pulling me toward the place where everything began and ended.

I take a breath.
And then a step forward.
The lake is calling — and I need to go.

Chapter Text

(Wei Ying’s POV)

When I stand by the lake, I see the magic in everything.
The air carries the scent of cold water and fading autumn. The October night bites at my skin, whispering that winter is close—that soon, everything here will be wrapped in snow and silence.

It’s been eight years since I last stood here. Eight years since that night—the night that changed everything. I was younger then, reckless, and in love with the only person who ever truly mattered.

Lan Zhan.
The boy I met when I was eleven.
The one I kissed, the one I gave everything to.

The one whose heart I shattered.

I never wanted to leave. It was the last thing I ever wanted.

Even now, a faint smile touches my lips when I remember that night—his warmth, his touch, his quiet laughter between soft breaths. I gave myself to him that evening, and I would do it again a thousand times over. I was ready to give him my whole life.
But I wasn’t given a choice. They forced me to go. They forced me to turn away from him.

And now, eight years later, I’m terrified that I’ve lost him forever.

Somewhere behind me, a violin begins to play.
At first I think it’s only my imagination—a cruel echo from memory—but the sound is too vivid, too alive. The notes drift across the water, trembling with sorrow and longing. I close my eyes and let the music hold me.
Maybe it’s foolish, but I let myself believe it’s him. That he’s near. That the sound means he’s here—close enough to feel.

I don’t know where the music comes from, but I feel it.
No one else could play like that.
No one else could make a violin weep and breathe at the same time.

My heart races. My hands tremble.
The invisible pull is too strong to resist. I start walking—thinking of nothing, only following.

The melody leads me along the dark path, around the curve of the lake. On the opposite shore stands a small restaurant with a terrace stretching over the water. I imagine summer evenings there—laughter, candlelight, soft conversation.
But tonight, only the violin fills the air.

His violin.

When I reach the entrance, the music swells. My breath catches. I stop before the door, frozen. Because once I open it—once I see him—I won’t be able to pretend anymore.

But I open it anyway.

Inside, the light is dim and golden. Curtains sway gently, shadows dancing across the walls. Conversations hush as I step in. The music doesn’t stop. He’s still playing.
I follow the sound through the murmuring crowd until I reach the main room.

And then I see him.

Lan Zhan.

He sits on a small stage near the window, a violin in his hands, his long fingers moving with quiet grace. His expression is calm, distant, lost inside the melody.

For a moment, the world falls silent.
I see only him.
He doesn’t see me—not yet.

Whispers rise among the guests.

> “Is that him?”
“Wei Ying?”
“What is he doing here?”
“He left him… broke him.”

Each word slices through me like glass. I deserve them—all of them.
But I can’t stop. I take another step forward, drawn to him like a moth to flame.

And then his eyes open.

It’s as if some part of him knows. His gaze lifts slowly—and finds mine.
For a heartbeat, everything stops. The bow in his hand trembles. His eyes widen: shock, pain, disbelief.

I can’t move. Neither can he.

Then fear flashes across his face. He stands abruptly, sets the violin down, and turns away.
Before I can call his name, he’s gone—slipping out through the back door, leaving the room in stunned silence.

I rush after him.

Out into the night, around the building. My lungs burn, my heart pounds in my throat.
I can see him—his pale figure moving quickly along the lakeside path.

> “Wait!” I call. “Please—just wait!”

He doesn’t. He walks faster. Then faster still, until I’m running.

> “Please,” I beg. “Just stop for a moment!”

Something in my voice—desperation, maybe regret—makes him stop.
He doesn’t turn around.

> “Please,” I whisper, stepping closer. “Just look at me.”

He shakes his head.

> “Lan Zhan… please.”

Slowly, he turns. His eyes meet mine. Those once-warm eyes—the eyes that used to look at me like I was his entire world—are cold now. Distant.

> “Why,” he says quietly, his voice steady but hollow, “should I look at you now?”

I take a trembling breath.

> “Because I need to explain,” I say. “Because there are things I never got to—”

He cuts me off.

> “It’s been eight years, Wei Ying.”
His tone doesn’t waver.
“There’s nothing left to say.”

My chest tightens.

> “I know,” I whisper. “But I have so much I want to say to you. So please… just coffee. Nothing else. Just coffee.”

He hesitates, the rain catching in his lashes. The faintest flicker of something—hurt, disbelief—crosses his face.

> “Just half an hour,” I murmur. “Tomorrow. At the café by the lake. The one that still smells like cinnamon.”

For a long time he says nothing. The wind moves gently between us, carrying the faint scent of rain and pine.
He looks at me, eyes searching—torn between anger and memory.

Then, slowly, he nods once.

And without another word, he turns and walks away—his figure fading into the dim light of the street, the night swallowing him whole.

I stand there, heart heavy but burning with a fragile spark of hope.

Tomorrow.
Just one more chance.