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To others, it seemed worthless. To him, it was his most prized possession.
Fragile petals, tucked between the inked pages of an old book. A secret buried deep in his heart. Lan Wangji treasured an old gentian flower he should have parted with.
The flowers still existed. Vivid blues and azure decorating the lonely courtyard. Each year, they bloomed, greedily drinking what the earth freely gave, then dancing in the summer wind. Unperturbed by the affairs of other living things.
Even if those things ceased to be, the gentians still bloomed.
Even if the sun that shone upon them were to change, they still bloomed.
From seed to bud to flower, they grew and grew. Then, when winter inevitably stole all things dear to Lan Wangji’s heart, they disappeared. Quietly. Unaware of the pieces of his heart laid bare on the wooden steps of a house that would never again see the smile of the gentlest gentian. They would be covered in snow either way.
Winter stole his chance to bloom beneath the gentle sun he loved. It also took the flowers so lovingly tucked into his hair. All but one singular bud, which he hid in his robes, then stashed beneath a floorboard.
It was his. Every dry petal. Every brittle leaf.
For even if the other gentians bloomed unfailingly each year, Lan Wangji did not care for them. He would not amuse himself by plucking them and placing them in his hair.
The person who did that was gone, and it took him a long time to understand she would never return.
Longer than it took the petals to dry.
Longer than it took for the Gentian Courtyard to be once again drenched in azure.
When he finally understood that there would always be flowers, but never warmth, all he had to stitch his heart back together was a blue that was no longer vivid.
A dead flower.
Insignificant to others. Precious to him.
And just like that, it set the tone for the rest of his life.
Lan Wangji never coveted what others had. He was the proud Second Young Master of a wealthy sect. His clothes were woven from the finest silks, stitched with the strongest threads. His meals were prepared with the freshest ingredients, in the heaviest pots. His books were written in the darkest ink, on the sturdiest paper.
He never needed anything. Not after the one thing he needed most was taken from him without a word.
Weapons, furniture, cultivation manuals—he did not need to need things anymore. His uncle provided him with everything, and his brother gave him what his uncle would not.
Understanding smiles. A gentle hand on his shoulder. The quiet assurance that someone would always remain.
Unlike other young masters of his age, he did not dare want anything else. He had one treasure, and it would be enough.
He feared that wanting another would invite punishment, and everyone knew the peerless Second Jade of Lan was the one who enforced discipline, not the one subjected to it.
He parted ways with greed before his heart could fully grow into his chest. He would not want anything beyond what he had already been given—no matter how worthless it might appear to others.
Lan Wangji did not want.
Not until he met the only other person who tucked flowers into his hair.
With growing hope and equal dread, he knew that before long, there would be more flowers pressed between another passage of that same old book.
—
Wei Ying arrived with the first rays of summer—loud, brazen, infinitely warm. He could have been just another face among the many guest disciples staying at Cloud Recesses, but he wasn’t. He could have been another unassuming flower in a courtyard, but he wasn’t.
The head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang, with a handsome face, a clever mouth, and absolutely no sense of shame, barged into Lan Wangji’s life. Ponytail swaying with every mischievous step.
He broke rules both deliberately and accidentally. He spoke of unconventional ideas openly. He wielded his sword against Lan Wangji easily.
He was bright. Oh, so bright—like a flower that should not exist in colder months. And yet, this bright boy orbited Lan Wangji, uncaring of the bite of frost, as if his warmth alone could drive it away.
Lan Wangji did not want him.
Lan Wangji did not need him.
He did not want their swords to dance under the moonlight as the other boy matched his skill with careless grace. He did not want his whiny voice complaining to him about unfair punishments and rigid rules. He did not want the crude jokes about Yunmeng beauties. He did not want the sharp retorts that followed every discussion of the Gusu Lan rules.
He did not want the easy smiles. Did not want the loquats tossed at his head. Did not want the teasing remarks, nor the cut-sleeve illustrations. He did not want the painting Wei Ying gifted him. Did not want his friendship.
He did not want any of it.
But—
He enjoyed the sword fights, the way Wei Ying slipped around his blade with laughter on his tongue.
He enjoyed the crease between his brows as he copied rules.
He enjoyed hearing of Yunmeng—its bustling streets, its warmer air.
He enjoyed watching Wei Ying’s intelligent mind bend rules Lan Wangji had never dared to question.
He liked his boyish smiles and wished they were given only to those who deserved them. He liked the taste of the sweet loquats flung at him. He liked the attention hidden beneath every tease. He might have even liked a few of the cut-sleeve illustrations. And he definitely liked the skillful painting made just for him.
He might tolerate Wei Ying’s friendship, if it were truly offered. Because if it were not freely given, then Lan Wangji would want it.
And Lan Wangji did not want things. Could not want things.
Especially not things from the head disciple of Yunmang Jiang.
So he ignored him, as best he could. He did not rise to his quips. Did not answer his ridiculous questions. Did not linger on his silver eyes. Did nothing that might teach his heart how to want.
But Lan Wangji’s heart had always been his greatest traitor.
When Wei Ying brought him two bunnies from gods-knew-where, he wanted deep down to touch their soft fur.
When Wei Ying lit a lantern and wished to stand with the weak and seek justice, Lan Wangji wanted the same.
When Wei Ying punched Young Master Jin for disrespecting his Shijie and was expelled for it, Lan Wangji wanted nothing more than to stop him from leaving.
He told himself the bunnies were a responsibility, not a desire. They were not pets. He did not want them. He merely had to care for them, or Wei Ying would make good on his threat to eat them.
He told himself that sharing Wei Ying’s wishes was what any noble cultivator would do. Lan Wangji did not want to have aspirations; it was simply his duty as Second Master Lan to stand for justice.
But he could not rationalize wanting Wei Ying to stay.
His uncle said it was good that the troublemaker was gone—relieved that the other disciples would no longer be disturbed, relieved that his nephew's time would no longer be stolen by his repeated offenses.
Lan Wangji could not agree.
With Wei Ying gone, peace returned. Mundane. Quiet. Banal. There was no loud laughter echoing through Cloud Recesses, no jars of Emperor’s Smile to confiscate, no scent of smuggled chili oil drifting through the student dormitories.
With Wei Ying gone, there were no loquats, no bright smiles, no sharp debates, no half-dried paintings hidden in his sleeves.
Lan Wangji did not want those things.
He simply missed them.
Lan Wangji did not want Wei Ying.
He had only grown accustomed to him.
To others, it seemed inconsequential. To him, it was a bit of an inconvenience.
—
A year later, they were finally reunited at the Qishan Wen Clan’s great discussion conference.
Wei Ying was just as bright, easily conversing with fellow disciples, offering pointers to a shy youth dressed in Wen Clan robes.
He was just as bright. Just as infuriating, too.
He had ground countless ink stones to dust copying the Lan Clan rules, and yet he still tugged mindlessly at Lan Wangji’s forehead ribbon, soft fabric slipping loose beneath careless fingers.
Lan Wanji wanted to—he needed to throw him to the ground, and—and do something.
Before his body could act on those dark, unnameable urges, he stalked away. Behind him, for once, Wei Ying looked mildly embarrassed.
The Second Jade of Lan found he could not care about the rest of the conference.
He wanted to go home. He also wanted to seize Wei Wuxian by the shoulders and demand he take responsibility for touching his forehead ribbon.
But those were not real wants. Only momentary lapses of judgment.
Once he returned to the Cloud Recesses, he stopped thinking about it.
He did not want anything after all.
Not until the sun came burning down upon his home, and he watched the flames consume it.
Winter had taken from him once; now fire took from him again.
It took his father, a shadow of a man he had barely spoken to. It took grass, wood, and paper. It took safety and stability. It took innocent lives. It nearly took his leg. It did not, thankfully, take his treasures.
But it would take again.
Soon, they were indoctrinated by the Qishan Wen Clan. Lan Wangji limped forward, his expression betraying neither pain nor grief. Wen Chao seized their swords and hurled them into a dark cave, demanding they capture a monstrous beast with bare hands.
He insulted and threatened everyone present, escalating matters each time the vulgar woman at his side felt slighted.
And who better to antagonize them than Wei Ying?
Bright Wei Ying. Chivalrous Wei Ying. Foolish Wei Ying.
In protecting the weak, he sacrificed part of himself. Now the sun burned angrily over his left chest, close to his heart.
Lan Wangji wanted to rip apart the hand that branded him.
There was no time to linger on that thought, not when they had to face the Xuanwu Tortoise and find a way out.
But somewhere between being left alone with Wei Ying and actually slaying the creature, Lan Wangji bit him. He did not want to do it; his body acted before it could formulate it as a want in his head. Besides, he needed to make him stop talking about how proud he was that Mianmian would remember him forever, and other frivolous things that annoyed Lan Wangji to no end.
Thankfully, it worked.
With Wei Ying’s sharp mind focused once more, they slayed the thousand-year-old beast. This great feat came at a cost, however, especially for Wei Ying, whose fresh burn wound soaked in foul water and resentful energy.
The fever left him pathetic and whiny.
Lan Wangji wanted to make him feel better.
It was not a selfish want. Wei Ying had saved their lives; it was natural to want to soothe and comfort a hero.
If that comfort was in the form of a song he had secretly written for him and named after themselves, he could avoid wanting to show it to him another day.
To others, it was just a melody. To him, it was proof that a small, fragile piece of his heart was occupied by the bravest boy he knew.
—
“Another day” became a hopeless dream.
Lotus Pier fell. The Jiang Sect was massacred.
Fire took from Lan Wangji again. It burned Wei Ying’s home, his sect, the halls and corridors he had grown up in, the Shidis and Shimeis he had lovingly taught.
It took Wei Ying himself.
For weeks, there was no news about the Jiang sect heir or their head disciple. Other sects fought their own battles; no one could spare men to search for two people presumed dead.
But Lan Wangji looked.
He searched every village ransacked by the Wens. Every ashen battlefield. Every abandoned hut along his path. He searched for a bright smile, a red ribbon, a teasing call—
‘Lan Zhan!’
He wanted to hear it.
He wanted it with all his being.
He had been wanting things for some time now, lying to himself that he didn’t, molding his thoughts to fit the rules he had imposed years ago.
But nothing compared to wanting Wei Ying safe. Alive. Breathing.
It would be enough.
It had to be enough.
Just this once, he would allow himself to want—even if he would one day pay for that greed.
And pay he did.
Wen Chao bragged about how he had thrown Wei Ying into the Burial Mounds, how the young Jiang disciple wouldn’t even come back as a ghost.
Wangji wanted to sink Bichen into the Wen heir’s face. He refused to believe that the boy he held in high regard was probably rotting away, alone, in a place no person dared enter.
But Wei Wuxian always did the impossible.
He came back, but he was no longer the bright, happy boy who had teased Lan Wangji in the Cloud Recesses library.
The once carefree youth was now using unorthodox methods, ordering corpses to torture and kill the people who wronged his family.
At times, Lan Wangji wondered if Wei Ying himself had become a corpse—sunken eyes gleaming with killing intent, ashen skin stretched tight over creaking bone, an unfamiliar smirk replacing the warm, friendly smile he remembered.
But it would be all right. Lan Wangji had gotten what he wanted. Wei Ying was alive, despite everything that suggested otherwise. Alive—and therefore salvageable. He could be guided back to the righteous path. Lan Wangji would help him. He would play calming melodies, serve him extra portions, listen without dismissal. He would be better this time. He would—
“Who do you think you are? Who do your Gusu Lan Sect think they are?!”
Lan Wangji wanted to cry.
This was Wei Ying, and yet it was not.
It was what he wanted, and yet it was not.
This was the price of his greed. The reason he should never have wanted anything in the first place.
But once the dam of wanting broke, there was no sealing it back.
Lan Wangji wanted again.
He wanted Wei Ying to abandon demonic cultivation, even as others—especially the new Jiang sect leader—believed it the key to victory.
He wanted him to stop destroying his body and mind.
He wanted him to trust him.
He wanted him to return to Gusu.
He wanted to help him.
He wanted Wei Ying back.
But each time he reached out, he discovered Wei Ying had already taken ten steps farther away.
To others, Wei Ying was just a weapon. But to Lan Wangji, he was someone worth saving.
—
The war ended at last. The Qishan Wen Clan fell, utterly destroyed. Spoils were divided, future conferences scheduled, and cultivators returned to whatever remained of their homes.
They rebuilt what had been burned and broken, be it structures or people. They mourned the dead and learned to live within the shape of their losses.
Everyone mourned someone.
Lan Wangji mourned Wei Ying.
Not the man who stood before him now, but the boy untouched by war.
He still wanted to help him, even when there was no longer a path between them. He wanted to understand why Wei Ying chose such a method, why he rejected help, why he no longer touched a sword.
And he really, really wanted to go back to that warm summer they first met.
With every new want, the Second Jade of Lan—now Hanguang-jun—realized the greed he had restrained for years was an ugly, ferocious thing. It pushed him toward desires that would require reality itself to be torn apart and sewn anew. It made him want to stop asking and to simply take, take, take.
Greed, he learned, was the gravest sin.
And he was becoming its most devoted sinner.
When he found Wei Ying on Phoenix Mountain, blindfolded, lounging unguarded in a tree, Lan Wangji wanted.
He wanted to claim him. To overpower him and take him home. To touch him. To fuck him—just like in those cut-sleeve illustrations Wei Ying had once shown him years ago.
He wanted so hard he was dizzy with it.
For the first time, he simply took what he desired.
He pinned Wei Ying’s hands over his head and kissed him feverishly, drinking in his quiet moans and storing away every little twitch in the shorter man’s lithe body.
He took what he wanted and fled in shame right after, a peony the other man threw at him earlier tucked into the folds of his robes, ready to join the brittle gentian from years ago.
To Wei Ying, it might have been just one of his numerous kisses. To Lan Wangji, it was his first.
To Wei Ying, it might have been just a random peony. To Lan Wangji, it was the second flower he treasured in between pages of a scripture.
A first kiss. A second flower. Another display of the power of his incessant greed.
Lan Wangji took punishment into his own hands, copying rules until his fingers cramped.
Do not take advantage of others.
Do not lust after anyone other than your spouse.
Do not force affection upon others.
Do not touch without permission.
Do not be greedy.
He knew these rules by heart and still broke them knowingly.
Shamed burned through his meridians. Shame at what he had done. Shame at wanting to do it again.
Shame and guilt. His new companions. They left him confused and restless, angry with himself, with Wei Ying, with the world. They mocked him, prodding at his fragile heart for coveting what he did not deserve.
They clung to him like foul odors, wrapped him in their filth, made his eyes sting with embarrassed tears.
For over fifteen years, he had lived peacefully, untouched by guilt or greed. All it took was one boy with a disarming smile for him to abandon everything he believed in.
The worst part was that he could no longer blame Wei Ying.
It was all Lan Wangji.
Each day, he wrestled with this growing sense of inadequacy. No one noticed. No one saw the shame twisting inside him, the quiet horror at the man he was becoming. Not his uncle. Not even his brother.
He should not seek out Wei Ying again—lest he disappoint them, and himself, once more.
He should not.
He should not.
“Wei Wuxian has freed the Qishan Wen prisoners in Qiongqi path!”
“He is using demonic cultivation to raise the dead and harm innocent cultivators!”
“Mad! He has gone mad!”
Lan Wangji wanted to see him.
Needed to see him.
Because, somehow, it felt like another ‘last time’.
The last time he had seen Wei Ying unbranded.
The last time before the Burial Mounds stripped the brightness from his smile.
And now—the last time before he became the enemy of the cultivation world.
“I have to save him. I have already missed an opportunity to save him. This time, I will not back off.” Wei Ying said.
Lan Wangji stepped aside.
He wanted to stop him.
But it was not his place to do so.
Rain mingled with his tears, washing away yet another greedy desire tied to Wei Ying.
It stripped him bare, leaving only fear, dread, and quiet resignation.
‘Wei Ying’, he thought, ‘I want you to be safe’.
—
Lan Wangji learned of his defection a few days later.
A clash between sworn brothers led to both Wei Ying and Sect Leader Jiang being left injured and bitter. They cut ties immediately. This way, Wei Wuxian no longer had anything to do with the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, and his actions would not reflect on them anymore. It was clear what his intentions were.
He would carry the weight of whatever the cultivation world placed on him alone.
Wei Ying slipped farther away. Again.
Grief settled in Lan Wangji’s chest like a slow, suffocating tide. It was not only grief for Wei Ying, but for himself—for every moment he had hesitated, every time he had chosen restraint over action. Guilt gnawed at him from all sides. Guilt for not reaching out sooner. Guilt for wanting to pull Wei Ying away from the path he had chosen. Guilt for standing where he did, robed in Lan white, upheld by rules and duties that bound his hands even as his heart strained forward.
He was the Second Master of Lan. Hanguang-jun. A pillar of discipline. A son. A nephew. A brother.
He could not chase after a man the world now called traitor. He could not abandon his sect to follow someone walking steadily toward ruin. Every step he longed to take was measured against responsibility, and responsibility always won.
So he stayed, brushing his fingers over the drying petals of the peony Wei Ying had given him weeks ago.
It had once been vivid, alive with color, but all things faded and died eventually.
Was Wei Ying fading too? Were his already muted hues dulling further, slipping quietly toward gray?
Please. Let me see you once more. I long to see your face.
—
“Wangji, you wish to go on a nighthunt in Yiling? That is rather far.”
“Mn. Many cultivators avoid that area. Resentful energy leaks from the Burial Mounds. If left unattended, it may result in loss of life.”
Lan Xichen regarded his brother with a faintly raised brow. He did not doubt Wangji’s sincerity—his brother was upright to the core, genuinely concerned for the people of Yiling. Still, Xichen would be naïve to believe this sudden interest had nothing to do with the demonic cultivator rumored to be hiding in those mountains.
Not long ago, Wangji had admitted quietly, stiffly, that he wished to take someone back to Gusu and hide them away, though that person was unwilling. The confession had startled Lan Xichen. His younger brother so rarely expressed desire, let alone named it aloud.
Wangji never asked for things. Not toys, not sweets, not sword tassels. He accepted whatever was given to him with such calm contentment that Lan Xichen had long learned to imagine wants on his brother’s behalf.
It was only after meeting the Jiang Sect’s head disciple that some of those wants slipped through the cracks of Wangji’s icy restraint.
He still grumbled about Wei Wuxian’s lack of respect for the rules, his shamelessness, his boisterous manners. And yet, when Lan Xichen suggested that Young Master Wei accompany them to Caiyi Town to eliminate water ghouls, or deliberately sent him to the Cold Springs knowing Wangji was meditating there, he could tell his brother hoped for it. Quietly. Earnestly. And so Xichen ensured it happened.
In time, Wangji no longer needed his help.
The first time Wei Wuxian found himself in trouble serious enough that their uncle threatened to send him home, Wangji defended him by himself, arguing that such punishment was unjust given the nature of his mistakes. Lan Xichen doubted his brother even realized he was acting on desire, on wanting Wei Wuxian to stay.
Xichen had been proud of him then. Proud that Wangji had finally allowed himself to want something—or in this case, someone—even if that someone violated nearly every Lan principle.
Now, however, he wished he hadn’t amused this particular desire, even if it was the first one. That simple wish to keep a friend by his side had snowballed into Wangji excusing a demonic cultivator’s behavior and even wanting to visit him under the thinly veiled excuse of nighthunting.
And yet, Lan Xichen always indulged his didi. It was his duty, ever since their mother died and their father withdrew from the world. He was the elder brother. It was his role to understand what Wangji himself could not yet see.
Someday, he would seek out Wei Wuxian and warn him gently not to entangle himself too deeply with Wangji.
But for now, he would allow this.
Allow his brother to scratch the ache that came from wanting the man he could not have.
Lan Xichen knew Wangji well enough to trust this much.
That it would be nothing more than that.
Just an itch.
—
The visit to Yiling indulged Lan Wangji’s greed far too much.
From the moment Wei Ying shamelessly declared he had given birth to the toddler clinging to Wangji’s leg and crying for his father, Lan Wangji knew the weight of his sins that day would be enough to suffocate him.
He knew it was impossible. Wei Ying was a man. He lacked the anatomy required to bear a child, let alone one already two years old.
Still, a ridiculous part of him wished Wangji could have actually fathered this kid with Wei Ying. A self-indulgent fantasy of taking Wei Ying back to Gusu, bowing before heaven and the earth, and making love many times until the shorter man's belly would swell with life.
Ridiculous indeed.
Still, he could not refuse when Wei Ying invited him to share a meal.
He wanted to sit with him. Speak with him. Look at him. It was freely offered, but he also desired it.
He was not accepting merely because it was given.
Wei Ying joked, as he always did—or as close as a Wei Ying broken by war could manage. He asked, carefully, about his Shijie, and Lan Wangji told him of her upcoming nuptials.
He watched the strained smile on Wei Ying’s face tighten further, fraying at the edges. But he did not ask.
‘Why did you leave if it was so hard for you?’
Instead, he ordered more spicy dishes—food the much thinner man clearly needed. He bought toys for A-Yuan and watched with quiet satisfaction as the child laughed and played.
It was obvious they could not afford such things, so Lan Wangji spoiled them.
He knew too well what it meant to desire something you could not ask for.
Come back to Gusu with me.
He committed every moment to memory, pressing them flat like petals between the pages of his heart so he could revisit them on nights when wanting Wei Ying became unbearable, when the urge to pluck peonies and plant them among gentians threatened to undo him.
Even the moment Wei Ying sensed a disturbance in the Burial Mounds, the crease of worry forming between his bushy brows, Lan Wangji tucked it away and followed him out of the inn, up the ashen mountain paths.
He helped subdue Wen Ning, held Wei Ying against his chest when the surge of resentful energy blew him off, and gladly let him hide behind his back when Wen-guniang threatened him with her needles.
He met everyone on that mountain. The sick elderly, the disabled young men, the non-cultivators—people who posed no threat to the cultivation world
The innocents he vowed to protect.
With Wei Ying.
He wanted to protect them.
To protect him.
To walk with him on that single wooden plank bridge instead of his bright and broad path.
To stand with justice.
He wanted to shed the heavy robes of Hanguang-jun and don the dull greys of the Wen remnants. He wanted to hold Wei Ying without the pretense of shielding him from resentful energy. He wanted to feed him daily, plant radishes beside him, play calming melodies on his guqin just for him—
“No, A-Yuan,” Wei Ying said lightly. “Hanguang-jun has to go. He can’t be your die-die. Aren’t you content with your Xian-gege?”
But Lan Wangji wanted to be that.
A father, with Wei Ying.
Or only his friend.
Just someone allowed to stand in his life, not always at its edge.
He wanted.
He wanted.
He could not have.
So Lan Wangji reined in the beast of his desire, tightened the ribbon across his brow, and left his peony behind to dull and rot in infertile soil.
To Wei Ying, it was merely another day on the single wooden plank bridge. To Lan Wangji, it was the quiet renewal of a truth he could not escape—the bridge could not bear his weight.
—
Jiang Yanli was married.
Wei Ying was not there.
Lan Wangji wished he had been.
A year later, she gave birth to Jin Ling.
Wei Ying was not there either.
Lan Wangji still wished he had been.
Weeks passed, and they gathered for Jin Ling’s one-month celebration.
Wei Ying was meant to be there.
He would not be.
“Wei Wuxian and his Ghost General slaughtered Jin Sect cultivators, including Jin Zixun and Sect Heir Jin Zixuan.”
Lan Wangji understood then that his greed to see Wei Ying again was once more being paid for in blood.
What he could not predict was that, soon enough, it would be Wei Ying’s own blood.
—
Lan Wangji ignored everyone’s warnings, ignored his uncle, and ignored his brother.
He followed only one thing—the desire to be by Wei Ying’s side. To protect him.
He hid him in a cave. Held his bloodied hand. Confessed his love. Tried to bring him back from the broken state he had been cast into.
His peony sat there, red gurgling into dulled pink, petals falling with every touch, withering with every breath.
Lan Wangji wanted with the full force of his heart to breathe life back into the peony. Into Wei Ying.
The elders of his sect ordered him to step aside, to leave the devil to them.
Lan Wangji wanted to slaughter them
He almost did.
The desire to love, the desire to protect, the desire to destroy. They swirled together inside the shards of his broken heart, driving him to acts he had never imagined himself capable of commiting.
He had spent so long not wanting anything. Why could he not have this one thing?
All his life since the first glimmer of desire, he had suppressed it, fought it, felt guilty for it. And yet, the moment he drew his sword, he knew it would be worth it.
He loved Wei Ying. Would always love him. Would cherish him, even if he had to ruin Bichen with the blood of his own clan elders for him.
Even if his brother had to restrain him.
Even if he suffered thirty-three strikes from the disciplinary whip.
He loved him guiltlessly, even as his meridians screamed.
He would continue to love him shamelessly, even as crippling pain settled into his back.
He wanted, desperately, to see Wei Ying again. To tell him how he had shed the guilt he once tied to loving him. That he was born anew from the scars along his spine. That he could now walk the single wooden plank bridge freely, unburdened by shame.
He wanted to want him freely.
But winter came again.
It once took his gentians.
Now it took his peonies.
“Rejoice! Wei Wuxian is dead!”
Winter took Wei Ying.
“I’m sorry, Wangji. Young Master Wei was killed by his own corpse army.”
His peony no longer existed in this world.
Lan Wangji wanted to follow him.
He dragged his broken body to the infertile soil where the peony had withered.
He searched desperately for anything left of Wei Ying, any sign that his beloved had not met such an end. He found nothing.
Once, he had returned as a ghost. This time, not even a trace remained.
No petals. Not a single brittle leaf.
Yet in the trunk of a dying tree, he found one last stem of his love. Not enough to grow a flower, but enough to remember. Enough to anchor him to the cruel world that had taken Wei Ying.
He wanted to protect it. He needed to protect it.
Shufu refused at first. A Wen child could not stay.
Lan Wangji remained steadfast in his desire to raise him.
He named him Lan Sizhui—Longing to remember. Thinking of the one who cannot be pursued, yearning for the one who does not know when he will return.
A younger Lan Wangji would have called this name a symbol of greed.
But a Lan Wangji who had loved and lost knew; not all greed is sinful. Loving someone is not greed. It is a limb attached to his heart, ignored for years until it festered into an ugly mess.
He would no longer ignore it.
He would love Wei Ying. Honor Wei Ying. No longer view desire as dirty or ominous.
It was the world that had wronged them, and they were the blameless fools who paid for it with their lives (for Lan Wangji’s life had all but ended when Wei Ying left this world).
The only guilt he carried was that he had not stood by Wei Ying sooner.
He wanted to see him again—even if only in dreams.
He wanted to hold him again—even if only for a moment.
He wanted to hear his voice again—even if it told him to get lost.
He wanted to look into his eyes again—even if they never learned to hold his love.
Every day of his life, he lived with desire. Wanting, longing, honoring the man he could no longer touch.
Thirteen long years. Wanting what could never be returned.
Until the day a man appeared—a different face, different body, different voice, different eyes—holding the very soul Lan Wangji had wanted since he was fifteen.
And now, he would never let it go.
To others, Wei Wuxian was always a troublemaker. To Lan Wangji, he was a storm that shook the foundations of his heart.
To others, Wei Wuxian was dangerous, a demon to be feared. To Lan Wangji, he was the only warmth that could melt the frost in his chest.
To others, Wei Wuxian was vanquished. To Lan Wangji, he was remembered in every petal of a peony, every breath, every heartbeat.
To others, Wei Wuxian was worthless. To Lan Wangji, he was the love of his life.
And in that truth, in that unyielding, shameless desire, Lan Wangji found the only part of the world he could ever call his own.