Chapter Text
The last thing Wei Wuxian remembers is his death.
It’s not a surprise. Humans die; that’s what makes them human. But, Wei Wuxian has died hundreds of times by now. Each time he dies, blood drenches his robes, pours against his skin, almost moulds itself into his skin until it turns and slowly becomes his blood seeping from torn, broken flesh. He remembers faces; Shijie, Jiang Cheng, Wen Qing, Wen Ning. He remembers reaching out, hoping to save them before turmoil swallows them whole.
He never succeeds.
In every life, Wei Wuxian dies. After every death, he regresses.
Over and over again.
In every life, he tries to change fate and every time fate devours him whole. It first takes Shijie; then, Wen Qing; then, Wen Ning; and lastly, Jiang Cheng.
And then death overtakes him, repeating the cycle forevermore.
But, this time it’s different. This time, Wei Wuxian finds himself in an unfamiliar scene. A circular room closes itself around him, a sea of books lining the dark wooden bookshelves. His silvery eyes dart as he takes in the first taste of unfamiliarity—the first taste in a while. Then, his eyes graze past a large, floating hourglass. Pale gold sand dribbles slowly from the top bulb, falling gently into the bottom. His eyes gently pass over the intricate detailing of the metal as it curls against the glass almost possessively. Around it is a tall, silver railing and when Wei Wuxian looks beneath the hourglass, he sees a sea of nothingness. His eyebrows furrow, but it’s nothing too surprising; it’s all just new.
He winces as a sharp pain burns into his abdomen and a thick rush of lightheadedness washes over him. His hands shakily reach for the silvery rails, cool metal against warm skin. As he slumps to the ground with his back against the rails, his eyes catch sight of the faint stain of blood seeping into his clothes.
“Ah…” he mumbles, pressing his palm to his abdomen.
And Wei Wuxian feels himself slipping away.
Once again, dead.
He barely registers the soft glow of gentle, golden eyes and the tender touch of cool fingertips as they press against his burning skin.
When Wei Wuxian comes to, he finds himself laying in a bed made purely of white fabric. He sits up, groaning as he shifts uncomfortably and finds that he only wears a pair of thin, white pants. The rest of his body is unclothed, except for the blankets that drape over his lazy way of sitting. He shifts again and a sharp pain burns through his abdomen. He reaches for it unconsciously and his hands meet the surface of cloth bandages—freshly changed. In fact, every single one of his injuries has been bound and he reeks of the smell of medicinal herbs and… something else.
He wrinkles his nose as he registers the strange mixture of smells, but before he can even begin to deduce what kind of herbs have been used on him, he hears careful, graceful footsteps.
The soft footsteps grow just a little bit louder as the owner of the footsteps makes their way to the door frame that Wei Wuxian realizes leads to the rest of this mysterious place. Gauzy white fabric drapes against the arch, almost like a makeshift door and behind it there’s the vague silhouette of what seems to be a man—one with broad shoulders and perfect posture.
The figure lingers behind the fabric, in the shadows.
Wei Wuxian stares pointedly at the figure. “Who are you?”
“...”
The figure doesn’t say a word and only takes a few steps, light from an unknown source illuminating the silvery threads in his clothes.
“Hey!” Wei Wuxian exclaims, his tone light but with a slight trace of warning.
“Do not yell,” the figure states. Three simple words, as if he is repeating a rule.
“What?”
“Do not yell,” the figure says once more. “Yelling is forbidden.”
Wei Wuxian scoffs at the figure’s words. “And on whose orders?
The figure has yet to step into the light and remains shrouded by the gauzy white fabric that just covers his features.
“Yelling is forbidden,” the figure repeats, ignoring Wei Wuxian’s question. And then, he takes a few steps forward, stepping out into the light.
Wei Wuxian’s jaw slackens.
The light glows against the figure’s skin, his face gleaming with the tranquility of powdery white snow as it falls from the mist-laden skies. The man that stands before Wei Wuxian is taller than him, far more regal in appearance and his stoic, unchanging expression furthers the spiritual distance between them, like the moon as it sits in the night sky, far and untouchable. White robes drape perfectly against the man’s figure, covering him conservatively, in a way that only elevates his appearance—like the pristine state of unblemished snow.
The man stares at Wei Wuxian, his piercing golden eyes unchanging as he scrutinizes him.
He is the complete opposite of Wei Wuxian from what he can tell. Wei Wuxian sees the perfectly adjusted robes, the pale-white forehead ribbon that sits perfectly straight, his perfectly upright posture, and his long, dark hair with not a single strand out of place. Even as he shifts his gaze to the bookshelves on the walls, the books that line his shelves sit perfectly, all in alphabetical order, all of the same size and shape, all perfectly aligned.
“Hanguang-jun,” the man says carefully.
Wei Wuxian turns to him, his face reflecting his words.
What the fuck does that mean?
“Huh?” Wei Wuxian’s words escape his lips quickly and he feels another wave of lightheadedness rush over him, but this time it’s a little weaker and easier to ignore.
“My name,” the man says, his lips almost unmoving as he speaks.
“Ah… Ah! I see…” Wei Wuxian rubs his chin carefully. “Then, thanks Hanguang-jun.”
Hanguang-jun looks at him, his brows tight as he stares in confusion.
“For taking care of me! Unless there’s someone else here.”
“No,” Hanguang-jun says, and Wei Wuxian begins to understand; he’s a man of few words. “Just me.”
“And me!” Wei Wuxian smiles and his silvery eyes crinkle at the corners, sincerity sparkling from within him. “Wei Wuxian!”
“Wei Wuxian,” Hanguang-jun echoes—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
A week passes slowly.
In a week, Wei Wuxian learns that this place only has one locked door. The place is made up of four rooms—the room with the hourglass, two bedrooms, and a locked room. Every other space is only separated with a door frame and two long pieces of white gauzy fabric.
He also finds out that in this place, time is fickle. There are no clocks, no ways of keeping track of time—only the singular hourglass.
Despite the frequencies of time, he found himself able to tell how many days had passed by Hanguang-jun’s strict schedule.
The lights would dim when Hanguang-jun ducks behind the white fabric that separated his bedroom from the rest of the place and he would sleep until the lights brightened once more. When he awoke, he would come to Wei Wuxian’s room with clean bandages and more medicinal herbs; he would carefully unwrap old bandages, while cleaning and treating Wei Wuxian’s wounds carefully. When he had finished, he left just as silently as he had arrived. Hanguang-jun only says one phrase to him as he comes and one as he goes.
“Good morning.”
And—
“Feel better.”
When he leaves, Wei Wuxian would carefully rise, stepping out from the small room and into the room with the books and the hourglass. Then, he would hear the quiet strums of a guqin from behind the locked door—the same tune every time.
Calming, soothing, and almost familiar.
Wei Wuxian spends his days idling about.
He finds himself reaching for the unfamiliar things in this unfamiliar place. He finds himself reaching towards the curled silver rails, touching his fingertips to the cold metal. Gold sand seems to flow ceaselessly from the top bulb of the hourglass to the bottom. It never turns, never falters. Golden sand continues falling, falling, falling.
He almost sees his life slipping away within those small, almost inconspicuous grains.
He swallows shakily, goosebumps prickling his skin as a chill settles within his body. He sees his family, his friends in those grains, their faces paling as blood pools at his feet.
Each time, he’s powerless to stop it.
His hands curl into fists around the silver rails as his chest tightens. Then, he takes a deep breath, sighing quietly.
He still has Again.
Wei Wuxian constantly finds Hanguang-jun’s eyes following him. It’s hard to ignore. Bright, golden eyes seem to change as he stares, a sharp contrast to his constantly unmoved expression. To Wei Wuxian, it makes him seem more human and, somehow, more safe.
Hanguang-jun rarely exchanges words with Wei Wuxian but, somehow, he understands him. He moves in a careful rhythm, one that Wei Wuxian barely understands and yet, he moves with him—like the moon as it sits amongst the stars.
“Hanguang-jun,” Wei Wuxian finds himself saying—almost a murmur, unlike his usual tones.
Hanguang-jun turns his head to look at Wei Wuxian, his face unchanging, but his eyes…
They seem to long for something that Wei Wuxian holds.
“What are you?” Wei Wuxian asks.
“...”
Hanguang-jun doesn’t answer for a while. But, just as Wei Wuxian seems to give up on finding an answer, one word escapes his lips.
“Human.”
Wei Wuxian lets out a breathy laugh, the corners of his lips turning upwards.
“Human,” he echoes. “Like me.”
“Mn.”
Silence falls upon them until Wei Wuxian walks towards Hanguang-jun, silvery eyes meeting gold.
“I know you,” Wei Wuxian whispers.
He rarely whispers. His words are always loud, heard by all, but these words—they’re fragile, like glass.
“...”
Hanguang-jun neither confirms nor denies his words. He simply stares unblinkingly.
Wei Wuxian blinks, his vulnerability leaving him, then lets out a mirthful laugh. “I’m joking, Hanguang-jun!”
But he isn’t.
He’s seen those eyes somewhere.
(And they connect to a feeling too strong to ignore.)
As days pass, Wei Wuxian finds curiosity a hard thing to ignore. Every day, he stares at that locked door—the only door in this space.
“Hanguang-jun?” His eyes press against Hanguang-jun’s stoic figure almost imploringly.
Hanguang-jun turns around and gold meets silver.
“Mn.”
“What’s behind the door?”
“Nothing.”
“Then…” Wei Wuxian dons a large smile as he inches closer to Hanguang-jun. “Can I see?”
Hanguang-jun visibly tenses before answering.
“No.”
“C’mon…” Wei Wuxian pouts, “There’s nothing else to see! It wouldn’t hurt… right?”
“...”
And just when Wei Wuxian thinks he’s got him, he repeats the same answer.
“No.”
Wei Wuxian lets out a soft huff. “Aiyah! Fine, fine, fine! You can keep your secrets, Hanguang-jun.”
He walks away quickly, turning to the books that line the shelves of the room.
But, if he hadn’t turned away so quickly, he might have caught a glimpse of a smile ghosting Hanguang-jun’s lips.
Wei Wuxian rarely yells.
But, in this moment, a raspy yell escapes his throat.
“Hanguang-jun!” His chest rises and falls to the vibrations of his panting.
He’s tired. So, so tired.
He’s tired of living, tired of being a pawn in this sick, twisted game that is Time, tired of being unable to stop the inevitable, tired of feeling grief over and over again.
“Hanguang-jun!” he yells again, his voice cracking—breaking.
Hot tears prick in his eyes and he hurriedly blinks them away.
He calls for him like a lifeline—as if he would wither if Hanguang-jun doesn’t answer. Wei Wuxian doesn’t understand his attachment, doesn’t understand why he seems to reach for Hanguang-jun.
But, he can’t bring himself to care.
“I’m here.” The low, stoic voice sends an almost calming vibration into the air—one that summons a feeling of safety within Wei Wuxian.
He staggers and Hanguang-jun catches him.
Wei Wuxian lets out a half-hearted, almost dejected chuckle as fatigue spreads throughout his body.
“I know you,” Wei Wuxian whispers.
His eyes flutter momentarily, flicking flecks of silver longing at Hanguang-jun’s golden eyes, and he slackens in Hanguang-jun’s arms.
“I know,” Hanguang-jun whispers against the falling and rising of Wei Wuxian’s chest.
“I know,” he repeats quietly.
But Wei Wuxian doesn’t hear him.
When Wei Wuxian comes to, he finds himself in bed again. A cool, damp cloth presses against his face, pressing gently at his skin.
“Mm,” he groans, “Hanguang-jun?”
“Mn.”
“I’m sorry,” Wei Wuxian says.
Hanguang-jun continues pressing the damp cloth against his face.
“I know,” he says.
“I didn’t mean to lash out,” and then he pauses, gnawing faintly at the inner part of his cheek, before repeating his words, “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Hanguang-jun pulls the cloth from his face and drops it into a bucket full of water. Then, he seems to get up to leave, but is stopped when Wei Wuxian pulls at his white sleeve.
Wei Wuxian doesn’t look at him, but his actions say enough.
So, Hanguang-jun stays.
He stays until Wei Wuxian drifts back to sleep.
After he leaves, a familiar tune plays from behind the locked door and it seems to soothe Wei Wuxian’s tensed body until he finally breathes.
Wei Wuxian grows accustomed to Hanguang-jun. He finds his eyes following flowy white fabrics as they linger around him. He finds himself turning at the sight of those golden eyes. He finds himself lingering on the scent of sandalwood at Hanguang-jun’s presence. He finds himself reaching towards the faint sound of music that seeps from beneath the singular door.
He finds himself hanging onto every word that escapes Hanguang-jun’s lips.
Wei Wuxian has always loathed anything that seems familiar; it’s always failed him. Once he drowned in seas of familiarity; now, he embraces it warmly as it seems to call to him gently and with great care.
Wei Wuxian knows that he conceals his true feelings behind a curtain of mirth and laughter, but when he finds himself alone and with only Hanguang-jun’s vague, almost gentle presence, he finds himself able to breathe.
Words escape his lips without warning—without the concealment of them through laughter.
“Am I dead, Hanguang-jun?” Wei Wuxian finds himself asking.
His voice lacks lightheartedness and he finds his silver eyes gazing emptily at the infinite amount of sand dribbling from the hourglass.
Hanguang-jun stands beside him, towering over his languidly seated figure.
“...”
A complicated expression barely surfaces on Hanguang-jun’s rarely changing face.
And after a few seconds—
“No,” but he sounds unsure.
Wei Wuxian ponders it, multiple possibilities surfacing within his overactive mind.
Maybe this was the bridge between life and death.
But, he felt as if it would have been more obvious.
(There shouldn’t be any lingering attachments on that bridge.)
After two weeks, it hits Wei Wuxian.
It’s like he’s been stuck in a trance—one he fails to escape until he drifts alone in his head, thinking and pondering.
This place has no doors.
Only the one that bars Wei Wuxian from the room filled with familiar music.
When Hanguang-jun ducks behind the white fabric separating his room from everywhere else, Wei Wuxian finds himself outside that door, pressing his fingertips to the wood. Every night, a familiar scent fills his nostrils—the lingering of a specific type of incense.
Sandalwood.
He finds it strange. In a place that seems devoid of gods and divinity, why would Hanguang-jun have incense?
But, without the key to the door, he can only stay curious.
(So, he plans to steal it.)
Wei Wuxian finds the silver key tucked into a drawer in Hanguang-jun’s room. He knows that Hanguang-jun likely knows his motives. But, he also knows that Hanguang-jun is weak to him—susceptible to his every word.
When Hanguang-jun falls asleep, Wei Wuxian swiftly exits his room and reaches for the singular door. The cool metal presses against his warm skin as his hand reaches for the doorknob while the other hand—his left hand—brings the tip of the key up and pushes it into the keyhole. He wiggles the key around, twisting until he hears a soft click.
He twists his right hand and the doorknob gives, opening the door gently.
The scent of sandalwood floods his nostrils and he blinks a few times, almost overwhelmed by the aroma.
A dim light hangs above him, emitting a soft golden glow from within paper-thin cloth. A small shelf sits in the corner of the room with a circular cushion beside it. Wei Wuxian almost approaches the shelf as he sees multiple handbound books sitting within the shelves, but his attention wanes as it’s caught by the wooden guqin in the center of the room.
The guqin is made of dark wood—a wood so dark that it’s almost black. The white strings pluck on their own, repeating the soothing tune over and over again. It seems to be holding onto the tune like a lifeline—like without it, eternity would cease to exist.
Wei Wuxian takes a few steps into the room, his shoes making contact with the wood floors. When he reaches the center of the room, he can’t help but reach towards the guqin. His knees bend and his fingertips reach for the glossy wood, caressing it in an almost intimate way. He does this like a ritual; his fingertips stroke the smooth frame of the guqin and he takes a deep breath, breathing in the scent of sandalwood.
A page flutters, catching his attention.
It looks familiar, like a calling to something that seems to be buried in the depths on his mind.
He gets up, taken out of his trance by the slight noise that devolves from the music. He reaches for the books, but before he can touch it, a shadow stops him in his tracks.
Golden eyes fill with anger and—but Wei Wuxian could be mistaken—fear.
“What are you doing?” comes Hanguang-jun’s curt voice.
Shit.
“I…” Wei Wuxian begins—but he has no idea how to explain himself.
Hanguang-jun stares at him before breaking the silence.
“Go back to your room.”
He doesn’t question him. He doesn’t yell. He just…
…
Wei Wuxian doesn’t know how to describe it.
So, he retreats, tucking himself into bed.
For once, the music stops.
No words are exchanged between them for the entire day.
It’s not like usual—Wei Wuxian filling the empty silence with nonsensical questions and words and Hanguang-jun answering with his simple, short phrases. Instead, an uncomfortable silence settles over them and Wei Wuxian can’t help but feel a tinge of regret as he recalls the stolen key.
He rarely regrets breaking the rules—rebelling—but for once, he does.
It goes on like that for too long—really, it has only been four days, but to Wei Wuxian it has been too long. He sits on the floor, his back pressed against the spines of perfectly ordered books while Hanguang-jun stands beside him, making sure all of the books are in place.
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth several times, his lips tracing the silence until he figures out the best way to break it.
“Hanguang-jun,” he says.
“Mn,” Hanguang-jun replies like always. He’s like the ever-present skies—always there when Wei Wuxian looks.
“I don’t just have this name, y’know.” He stares wistfully at the hourglass, his eyelids drooping vaguely.
Hanguang-jun doesn’t reply, but Wei Wuxian sees the way he pauses out of the corner of his eye.
“My… family,” he decides, “used to call me ‘A-Ying’.” His voice grows almost faint as he remembers the way they used to say his name, calling him in the distance.
He misses them so much.
“Then what should I call you?” Hanguang-jun asks, finally.
A moment passes before Wei Wuxian answers.
“Wei Ying,” and then, “Call me Wei Ying.”
He doesn’t hear a word from Hanguang-jun—only the sounds of his footsteps as he looks over the books that remain in the bookshelves, untouched.
“Then,” Hanguang-jun finally replies, “I am Lan Wangji… But you can call me Lan Zhan.”
His words are halted, as if excitement has seeped into his lungs and permeated his words.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian repeats, letting the words float against his tongue.
Then, he laughs and Lan Wangji’s eyes widen slightly in shock.
The jubilant, joyful sound of Wei Wuxian’s laugh echoes throughout the room, bountiful in mirth and amusement and the room seems to light up as his excitement seeps into every part of the room—even the inanimate objects.
“Great name!” he shouts with his eyes crinkling in delight.
Lan Wangji’s lips curve slightly, almost ghosting into the shape of a smile.
“Lan Zhan.”
“Mn.”
Wei Wuxian sits on the floor with his back pressed against the bookshelves, eyeing Lan Wangji almost wistfully. Lan Wangji stands beside him, hands tracing the books as if they need to be organized again.
“Are you ever scared of anything?” Wei Wuxian asks, and Lan Wangji turns his head towards him, gold meeting silver.
“Sometimes,” he replies.
“Of what?”
But Lan Wangji doesn’t say a word.
“Haha, you don’t have to answer, “ Wei Wuxian says, “But…”
Lan Wangji sits beside him, still maintaining his perfect posture, straightening his white robes as he sits himself beside Wei Wuxian.
“Hm? Interested in my answer, Lan Zhan?” he teases, a wide smile stretching across his face.
And then, he continues as Lan Wangji doesn’t answer again—though, the look in his eyes says that he’s listening regardless of his reply.
“I’m afraid of dogs—deathly scared.” He tilts his head towards Lan Wangji, gazing at the hourglass before them. “But, Shijie and Jiang Cheng promised to protect me from them.”
“Shijie?” Lan Wangji echoes—a question.
“Ah, Jiang Yanli, my Shijie, the prettiest, kindest in the whole world,” and he closes his eyes, reminiscing the gentle tones of her voice.
“Your family?” Lan Wangji inquires, his head turning a few inches towards Wei Wuxian.
“Mhm,” Wei Wuxian nods, opening his eyes, “My family: Shijie, Jiang Cheng, Wen Qing, and Wen Ning.”
“Jiang Cheng?” Lan Wangji questions, “Is he your shixiong or shidi?”
“Ah, no, no,” Wei Wuxian smiles, laughing lightly, “No, he was a close friend, almost a brother, but in every life…” Wei Wuxian’s voice grows wistful, almost distant. “He hates me.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t say a word, but Wei Wuxian feels him inch closer, a concealed attempt to comfort him. Wei Wuxian smiles at this, but makes no move to accept or reject this attempt.
“And you?” Wei Wuxian asks suddenly, changing the subject.
“Me?”
“Do you have a shixiong, shidi, shijie, shimei?” Wei Wuxian asks. But what he really means to ask is: Are you really alone? Is it really just you?
“Mn.”
“Ah? Who? Where are they?”
“...”
“Lan Zhan, tell me!”
“My Xiongzhang,” he replies simply.
“Your Xiongzhang?” Wei Wuxian echoes. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” And for the first time, Wei Wuxian hears hesitation in his voice—a gentle quiver barely noticeable, but Wei Wuxian recognizes it, he knows it.
“Aren’t we too similar?”
“...”
Lan Wangji doesn’t say a word until he turns to Wei Wuxian, his eyebrows creased ever-so-slightly.
“No.”
Wei Wuxian's wounds heal slowly.
Deep, bloody wounds have been reduced to a pink scar. It still stings, but it's more bearable than before. Though, he stinks heavily of medicinal herbs. Lan Wangji insists on layering thick globs of it all over his stomach, nearly drowning him in the scent. Wei Wuxian pokes at his wound, wincing slightly at the feeling of his finger against his tender skin.
Lan Wangji enters the room, frowning when he sees Wei Wuxian's finger on his stomach.
"Your wounds won't heal." Lan Wangji speaks clearly, his tone full of disproval.
"Ah, Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian smiles, his eyes twinkling at him, "You've caught me!"
Lan Wangji nods at him before speaking oncemore. "It is time to change your bandages."
"Hah!" Wei Wuxian sighs before falling limp on the bed, closing his eyes dramatically. "You've already changed them!"
"The medicine must be reapplied."
Wei Wuxian wrinkles his nose, sitting up quickly as Lan Wangji gets the medicine and bandages ready. His eyes flick from the small pot of medicine to the pile of neatly folded bandages before he collapses again, sighing loudly.
He knows there's nothing he can do to dissuade Lan Wangji's stubbornness; he's tried for as long as he's been there.
At the very least, Lan Wangji's hands are careful, gentle, never unkind. He is skilled, precise, and his fingertips are nearly weightless against Wei Wuxian's skin.
"What'll happen when I finish healing?" Wei Wuxian asks, his silvery eyes peaking from beneath dark lashes.
"…" Lan Wangji doesn't answer him. His hands refuse to falter as he continues dressing Wei Wuxian's wounds.
"Lan Zhan!"
"Mn."
"Answer me." He nearly pleads and, when Lan Wangji meets his eyes, he can't help but give in.
"Go back," he answers, his tone even and unaltered.
"Go back?" Wei Wuxian echoes, "To my world?"
"Mn."
Back to his world?
Wei Wuxian's eyes furrow as he ponders.
With Shijie, Wen Qing, Wen Ning, Jiang Cheng?
Again?
He barely registers when Lan Wangji finishes dressing his wounds.
"Done."
"Ah!" Wei Wuxian shakes himself out of his daze. "Thanks, Lan Zhan."
"Mn." Lan Wangji nods his head shallowly. "It is no trouble."
His shoes tap against the hardwood softly as he walks towards the door. He takes his supplies with him, leaving Wei Wuxian dazed and silent. Silence doesn't suit him, and nor does that solemn expression. But, before Lan Wangji pushes at the pale fabric, Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, his voice devoid of any mirth.
"Lan Zhan, have you always been here?"
"…"
Lan Wangji doesn't say a word, but he stops anyway.
"Lan Zhan…" Wei Wuxian pleads, his voice cracking against his pleas.
"No."
And he doesn't look back.
If he did, he'd find Wei Wuxian bearing an expression he's never worn before—one that would render Lan Wangji unable to let Wei Wuxian leave.
He lets unspoken words trace the divots of his mind, carressing his soul in hope and longing.
We will meet again.
When Lan Wangji awakens, he knows that Wei Wuxian is gone.
He can sense it—the loss of his laughter, his presence, his soul. He exits his bedroom, unlocking the only room with a door, but before he fits the key into the lock, his eyes catch the hourglass.
It turns ever-so-slightly before flipping, gold sand falling against glass with a soft whisper.
It has never done that.