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Many things could– and had– been said about Wei Wuxian, but no one had ever disputed his ability to make a lasting impression.
That was perhaps one of the few things about him that nearly everyone agreed upon. Now that some of the scars from his legacy as the Yiling Patriarch had healed over, and a bit more of the truth of his reputation had come to light, there were more people, namely of the younger generations, willing to speak of him neutrally, if not outright positively. There were still a great deal more who had nothing good to say about him, and who never would (at least one of his in-laws among them), but there were fewer angry mobs chasing him down and beating at his door, and that’s what mattered. All that to say, regardless of who said it– one of his detractors or one of his defenders– everyone universally agreed that Wei Wuxian was not someone easily forgotten.
Unless you were a toddler who had suffered from horrific trauma and had your mind addled by a fever, it seemed.
Not that he blamed a-Yuan, Lan Sizhui, for the fact that he didn’t have any strong memories of him. He was so young at the time, younger than Wei Wuxian had been when he lost his parents, and he barely remembered them, so it was totally reasonable that those memories hadn’t quite stuck. And again, he’d experienced terrible things in those early years, things no child should have been subjected to, so it was likely better that he remembered so little of it! According to Lan Wangji, the fever as well had been quite severe, to the point there had been some concern that he might not survive it, and so if a few memories were the price paid to allow the boy to live, then it was worth it. Better that he was able to continue on, not knowing Wei Wuxian at all, then to have held onto those memories until the end of a too-short life.
“He didn’t entirely forget you,” Lan Wangji had said to him once, late at night while they ate dinner in the jingshi. Wei Wuxian had been reminiscing, recounting a story from when he’d been living with the Wens in the Burial Mounds. He couldn’t remember what brought about the memory, but it had involved a-Yuan hiding behind Wei Wuxian’s skirts to avoid the unspeakable horrors of one of Wen Qing’s medicinal remedies. She’d seen his runny nose and flushed cheeks and had not wasted any time in prescribing a noxious concoction, and had gone hunting for the boy to administer it. a-Yuan, who had the same feelings about Wen Qing’s medicine as Wei Wuxian, had sought sanctuary from him, tucking himself into Wei Wuxian’s robes so he wasn’t seen.
“He got me into trouble, Lan Zhan!” he huffed dramatically, waving his bowl and spoon around as he recounted the story, “I hadn’t even done anything! But Wen Qing, she insisted I was a terrible influence on him! She nagged me about it constantly!” Early on, following his resurrection, talking about Wen Qing, about any of the other Remnants, had been too difficult. Though it had been thirteen years for the rest of the world, for Wei Wuxian, their loss had felt like only a matter of days, weeks at most. With time, it became easier, especially with Lan Wangji, who always let him start and stop his stories as he saw fit. He didn’t mind if there were times he couldn’t stand to finish them, if he cut himself off halfway through because the sting of sorrow cut especially deep that day. That night was a good night for memories; they came easily, and hadn’t yet started smarting. “If she could see him now, she’d be so relieved! A proper Lan, who’s forgotten all the bad habits that his Xian-gege taught him!”
That was when Lan Wangji gave a single shake of his head and corrected his husband. “When he first arrived here, once he began to recover from the fever, he spoke of things that…I’m certain were about you.” Wei Wuxian had blinked in surprise at that and leaned in closer, curious to hear more. “He asked for his a-niang, the one who sang to him.”
“Ah,” Wei Wuxian sat back a bit, unable to help the way his shoulders slumped slightly, “Lan Zhan, he might have been talking about his actual mother, I’m sure she–”
“He wanted a-niang who sang to him, and always bit his cheek,” Lan Zhan said firmly, his gaze firmly holding Wei Wuxian’s own, “When he was sick, when he was scared, that was who he asked for.”
That statement left Wei Wuxian speechless (truly, genuinely speechless!) for over a minute, until finally he found the strength to choke out in a tiny voice, “Was he sick or scared often?”
Lan Wangji’s eyes softened, sweet as warm honey. “Sometimes,” he admitted, which made Wei Wuxian’s heart twist, “Early on, especially. But with time and care, he began to adjust.”
“What did you do when he asked for those things?” Wei Wuxian decided to lighten the mood that had fallen a bit by making a joke and asked, “Did you sing to him and bite his cheeks?”
Lan Wangji had far too much dignity to scoff or roll his eyes, but he did exhale through his nose and give his husband a flat look, which was nearly the same thing. “I would sing to him,” he nodded, and Wei Wuxian assumed that was it, until, after a moment of hesitation, Lan Wangji added, “...pinch, sometimes.”
“What?” Wei Wuxian immediately perked up again, leaning towards the other man, aghast. “What?! You would pinch him?!”
“Cheeks,” Lan Wangji corrected, with a slight furrow to his brow, clearly offended that his husband assumed he would thoughtlessly pinch a child, “I would pinch his nose and his cheeks when he was upset. It would make him laugh.”
“Oh Lan Wangji, Lan Zhan, er-gege,” Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but croon, amused and touched and exasperated all at once, “I bet it would. How ridiculous, how silly, the peerless Second Jade trying to stop a baby’s tears by pinching his nose!” After saying that, Wei Wuxian momentarily paused, considering something before he said, “Strange that when it comes to me, you aren’t nearly as merciful! You don’t mind biting me when I start to cry!”
The look he received then was a well-deserved glare, and his husband saying, “Wei Ying,” in a scolding tone.
It was kind of Lan Wangji to do that, to share little bits of what life was like for himself and Sizhui during those years when Wei Wuxian was gone. It was nice to hear about things that a young Sizhui did that made Lan Wangji proud, things that he insisted were a lingering influence from Wei Wuxian’s presence in his life.
“When he’s trying not to laugh, he rubs his nose just like you do,” Lan Wangji told him, “He’s always been curious. He’s not afraid to ask questions, the same as you.”
“I certainly doubt he is as obnoxious with his questions as I was during my schooling here,” he couldn’t help but dispute, “Otherwise I would be hearing your uncle shouting down the Cloud Recesses on a daily basis.”
Lan Wangji didn’t argue with that, and so Wei Wuxian is fairly confident that while Sizhui is an inquisitive student, he’s not the sort to ask about unorthodox methods or challenge Lan Qiren during every lesson.
“He saves his questions about dirty tricks and unholy cultivation practices for me,” he joked with Lan Wangji, who hummed in reply.
“The principles encourage seeking out knowledge from the source,” he stated magnanimously, which left Wei Wuxian cackling with laughter.
For as much as Lan Wangji insists that he sees much of Wei Wuxian in their not-so-little-anymore a-Yuan, Wei Wuxian can equally see much of his husband reflected in his son.
When Sizhui became flustered by his seniors’ praise, Wei Wuxian could see the awkward teenager Lan Wangji had once been. Though he had been quick to use coldness or irritation to mask his shyness, Wei Wuxian remembers how he would turn his head aside when others would lavish him with attention, always uncomfortable being the central focus. Lan Sizhui is much the same, deflecting with humbleness and modesty, in hopes of avoiding being in the spotlight too long. He smiles like his father, mostly with his eyes, though he is a bit more expressive in the mouth, granting an occasional proper smile, sometimes even with a flash of teeth, if Wei Wuxian manages to make a joke that catches him off guard.
Both favor action over words, both being the sort to show their feelings for someone by caring for them, or looking after them. To that end, they both love deeply, with a sort of intensity that is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing to those on the receiving end of it, and a constant struggle for those pulled in all different directions by that overwhelming, all-encompassing love.
It is awkward between the two of them, at times. We Wuxian has witnessed it firsthand, has heard some of the discussions between them about how Sizhui’s history was handled.
“You hid it from me,” Sizhui said, after returning from some travels with Wen Ning. There had been some discussion between them, apparently, some revelations about the Wens, the Burial Mounds, and maybe even about the camps before then. As soon as he had gotten back to the Cloud Recesses, Sizhui had sought them out, demanding to speak with them both about what he learned. It pained him, this new understanding about himself and where he came from; there was a tightness to his voice, like the words were being squeezed out of his throat. “You didn’t tell me…about any of it. About who I am. Who I was.”
“I was protecting you,” Lan Wangji responded. Then, a moment later, quietly corrected himself with, “I believed I was protecting you.”
There is no doubt in Wei Wuxian’s mind that was true. a-Yuan, knowing that he was born a Wen, knowing about the tragedy that overshadowed his first few years, would not have done him any good. It would have only hurt him, as it was hurting him now. Aside from that, it was also dangerous; a child could not be expected to keep such an important secret, and if a-Yuan had known, he might have revealed it to someone else without meaning to, and then his safety might have been in jeopardy. Lan Wangji would never have allowed it, would have stood between the boy and anyone who might have tried to harm him, just as he had once stood between thirty-three of his own sect members in defense of Wei Wuxian. But for years, he had still been in recovery from that very encounter, and it was best that no one, not even a-Yuan, know who he was.
But there was more than just his own identity that Sizhui was upset about being hidden from him.
“You never told me about him. He saved my life, and you kept him from me.”
He looked at Wei Wuxian as he said that. He looked at him with new eyes, with a sort of urgency and need that Wei Wuxian had never seen in him before. It was as if he were drinking in the sight of Wei Wuxian, absorbing every detail he could. He wanted to reach out and hold the boy, squeeze him tight against him the way he had the day at the temple, when they had first come to realize who each other was. He even wanted to scoop him up, cradle him in his arms, and rock him like he had done when he was a baby, all big dark eyes and ruddy cheeks. But Sizhui isn’t a baby anymore; he’s on the cusp of being a man now, nearly taller than Mo Xuanyu’s body, and too big to be hiding in Wei Wuxian’s skirts. But he wished he could anyway, wished that those sorts of things were still possible for them. In that moment, he was certain that Sizhui felt the same way.
“Sizhui,” he tried to interject, wanting to placate the hurt he could see on the boy’s face. He never handled seeing others in distress, especially those who meant even half as much to him as this boy did. “Your Hanguang-jun saved your life, too.” He didn’t want him to forget that; he didn’t want to be the cause of any sort of distance between the two. He thought of his shijie, of Jiang Cheng, their parents. He couldn’t bear to be someone whose existence sowed more discord within a family filled with people whom he loves dearly.
“I missed you. Even when I didn’t remember you, I missed you.” Sizhui’s voice finally cracked, and then his expression split too, eyes welling up with tears, “I didn’t know what, or who, I was missing, but I felt it. I felt it when you weren’t there.”
“a-Yuan…”
“You should have told me,” he forced himself to turn towards Lan Wangji again, frowning even as his nose turned red and tears clung to his eyelashes.
Lan Wangji nodded. He would not argue with Sizhui, because his frustrations are ones that Lan Wangji already agreed with, conclusions that he had come to just the same as his son. He had said similar things to Wei Wuxian when it was just the two of them, when he would touch on the thirteen years of loneliness from a grief he could not express with anyone else.
“It was not fair to you. It was not the kindness that I had intended it to be.”
With his acknowledgement, Lan Sizhui hiccuped before finally allowing his tears to fall. He let out a sound, a soft, wounded cry that some might insist was unseemly for a boy his age. But Wei Wuxian didn’t think of that at all; instead, he scrambled to get in close to him, throwing his arms around him and pulling him close.
“Shh, shh,” he soothed him with a hand against his hair, gently stroking it the way his shijie used to do for him, the way he imagined his mother might have once done as well, the way that Lan Wangji did late at night when he couldn’t sleep, “C’mon now, you don’t need to be upset. All this blubbering just proves that you remember me! No one else who looked after you was capable of producing that many tears!”
Sizhui didn’t reply. He buried his face into the crook of Wei Wuxian’s neck, tears dampening the collar of his robes as his arms came around him, and he clung to him tightly.
“Ah, a-Yuan,” he murmured into the crown of his head, returning his embrace with a crushing squeeze of his own, “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”