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The incense burning in the Jingshi was heavy, mixing with a strange, underlying sweetness in the air. Lan Wangji sat at the guqin, his fingers long since bruised and bleeding, though he did not stop playing. He never did. The ancient healing chords hummed beneath his hands, pale blue wisps of spiritual energy weaving through the dim room towards the bed.
“Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan,” a voice sighed from the pillows. “You’re going to slice your fingers off. I know you’re pretty, but rabbit meat still tastes better. Stop playing. Come here.”
Lan Wangji finished the sequence with a calm flourish, laying his palms flat to still the trembling strings. He rose, his movements stiff and slow from sitting so long, and crossed the room to the bed.
Wei Wuxian lay there, pale face peeking out from a pile of heavy blankets. The illness had come upon him so suddenly, a mild chronic affliction that became debilitating due to his lack of a golden core to combat the draining of his spiritual and physical energy. Lan Wangji had known immediately that the only safe place for him was the Cloud Recesses. After all, how many hundreds of cultivators and even entire sects would bare their fangs at the chance to capture the Yiling Patriarch in his weakened state? Lan Wangji had brought him here, tucked him away safely in the Jingshi, and refused to let him go.
“I must play, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said softly, perching on the edge of the mattress. “The energy sustains you.”
“You sustain me,” Wei Wuxian countered. He shifted weakly to rest his head against Lan Wangji’s thigh. “And I’m so cold. Your guqin is nice and lovely, but it doesn’t make me warmer.”
Lan Wangji’s heart thumped a little faster, though his expression remained carved of cool Jade. He slid beneath the blankets, wincing slightly at the deep, phantom throbbing in his own back; sympathy pains from watching Wei Wuxian suffer, probably. He pulled Wei Wuxian into his chest, wrapping his arms around his fragile frame, so slight he was practically nothing.
“Better,” Wei Wuxian murmured into his neck. “You always take such good care of me, Lan-er-gege.”
“Mn. Always,” Lan Wangji promised.
He rested his chin lightly on the crown of Wei Wuxian’s head, breathing in his scent. He tangled his fingers through the dark strands, scratching lightly in the same way Wei Wuxian showed him to do for the rabbits. Wei Wuxian let out a sigh, arching his back to push harder into Lan Wangji’s hand, his body relaxing completely into the embrace like a shadow. For a long moment, Lan Wangji simply held him, listening to the strained edge of his breathing, wishing he could transfer his own life force through the mere contact of their skin.
The days blurred into a quiet, domestic routine, and then melted into weeks. Lan Wangji only left the Jingshi to retrieve meals from the kitchens, sneaking jars of chili oil to mix into the bland Gusu vegetables. Twice a day he would return, place the tray on the low table, and coax Wei Wuxian to eat.
“You need your strength, Wei Ying.”
“‘m not hungry right now,” Wei Wuxian would say, scrunching his nose. “Just leave it here. I'll eat in a bit.”
Lan Wangji always obeyed. He would set the tray down on the floor, or the table, finding a space somewhere amongst the clutter that he hardly noticed, focusing only on hurrying to the guqin to play another round of healing spells.
Once, in order to convince Wei Wuxian to eat more, he even went down to Gusu’s pier and snuck back a jar of Emperor’s Smile. The grin on Wei Wuxian’s face when he saw Lan Wangji bringing it in was enough to silence any of his lingering qualms ten times over. Wei Wuxian had ignored the liquor in favour of pulling Lan Wangji down to the bed to tease him, and fell asleep on his chest soon after. He must've woken up at some point in the night, because when Lan Wangji untangled himself in the morning, the jar was empty.
On the days Wei Wuxian seemed too weak to sit up, Lan Wangji would lift him gently, resting his back against a pile of pillows or leaning back against his own chest. Lan Wangji would speak to him in low tones and recount trivial things: the mischief the rabbits got up to, the boundless creativity of the younger disciples that resulted in new rules being carved into the cliff, and anything else he could think of, just to hear the raspy, amused chuckle that followed. Each small sound was like a mini firework, lighting up the darkest days and warming the coldest nights.
And then there were the small things Lan Wangji catalogued without meaning to. The way Wei Wuxian’s hair spread across the pillow in the mornings, the long strands fanning around his head in a ridiculous manner. The particular quality of his silence when he was truly asleep versus when he was feigning it to set up for a jumpscare. Lan Wangji knew the difference. He did not permit himself to think about why he still pretended to flinch every time Wei Wuxian would spring up and shout boo.
The peace of their Jingshi was rarely interrupted. When a soft, hesitant knock came at the door a few weeks in, Lan Wangji fumbled the guqin so hard it nearly toppled over.
“Wangji?”
It was Lan Xichen’s voice, calling softly from outside. Lan Wangji stood, drawing the privacy curtains around the bed to shield Wei Wuxian. He stepped out onto the porch, pulling the doors tightly shut behind him so the winter air would not enter.
Lan Xichen stood there in the snow, no parasol, snowflakes melting in his long hair. He looked older than Lan Wangji remembered, shoulders bowed and eyes faintly red-rimmed. His eyes… they were looking at him with a grief so profound that it made Lan Wangji frown.
“Brother,” Lan Wangji said evenly.
“Wangji,” Lan Xichen whispered, his voice cracking. “You can’t lock yourself in the Jingshi forever. Uncle is furious, and I am… I am worried for you, Wangji. You have to stop this.”
“I cannot stop,” Lan Wangji replied. “The chords of Restoration are sensitive. I will not risk the spell weakening. Gusu is fine with you and Uncle. Wei Ying needs me here.”
Lan Xichen closed his eyes, a shuddering breath escaping his lips and turning into a pale cloud in the freezing air. “Wangji… please, stop doing this to yourself. He’s gone. You saw it happen. You know he is gone.”
Indignation sparked in Lan Wangji’s chest. Why was everyone so quick to give up on him? “A chronic illness does not mean he is already dead,” Lan Wangji said resolutely. “He will not die as long as I am here to look after him.”
Lan Xichen let out a choked noise, covering his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes watered, though whether from the biting cold or the scent of incense escaping the seams of the closed door, Lan Wangji could not tell. Lan Xichen looked at him with horrified eyes, as if looking at a ghost, as if looking for something else behind the unblinking stare. Apparently not finding it, Lan Xichen stepped back and turned on his heel, walking swiftly into the falling snow.
Lan Wangji watched him go, feeling a twinge of pity. His brother simply lacked faith. He did not understand that watching Wei Wuxian waste away from a terminal illness or not, Lan Wangji didn’t care. He didn’t care how, or in what form, as long as Wei Ying was here. Lan Wangji went back inside, sealing the door tightly once more.
The air inside the Jingshi had grown incredibly thick. It made Lan Wangji’s head swim, a heavy, cloying miasma that burned his lungs. It must be the dark sickness leaving Wei Wuxian’s body as it was purged by the guqin. Lan Wangji sat back down, ready to play once more.
“Lan Zhan, you look awful,” Wei Wuxian called cheerfully from the bed, sounding further away than usual. “You should rest. Even the best of us need it sometimes.” He gestured at himself with a grin.
“Not yet. Must play,” Lan Wangji forced out.
His vision swam badly. His back screamed in sudden, agonizing pain, as if his flesh had been flayed open. The odour in the room was suffocating. Lan Wangji tried to ignore it, raising his hands to the strings, but his fingers were shaking so badly it was impossible to play. He attempted to take a deep breath and calm himself, but whatever he breathed in only made him dizzier. The world tilted, the guqin sliding out of his vision, and he collapsed hard against the wooden floor.
-
When awareness returned, there was no pain. There was no foul smell, nor a dizzying headache.
Lan Wangji looked around. His shoes were damp, and he was standing in a void of endless, shallow water beneath a starry sky. The moon and surrounding sky were tinged deep red, though it appeared warm rather than sinister.
A few feet away stood Wei Wuxian.
But he did not look like the sickly, bedridden man Lan Wangji had been nursing. This Wei Wuxian was standing tall, fully dressed in his dark robes, a red ribbon fluttering around his shoulders. He seemed to glow with a faint silver light. A dream? Is this a dream? Lan Wangji thought desperately. He took a step forwards, his breath catching in his throat.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said.
Lan Wangji froze. Instead of echoing like a soft breeze, the words rang out clear, distinct, and devastatingly real. Lan Wangji’s hand twitched at his side, wanting nothing more than to smooth down the stray hairs catching the silver light, to pull Wei Wuxian back into the safety of his arms. His skin carried the warm, radiant flush of life that Lan Wangji had not seen in such clarity since the days of their youth in the Cloud Recesses. It certainly felt too real to be a dream, yet… what else could it possibly be?
“Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji whispered back.
”You’re killing yourself, Lan-er-gege,” Wei Wuxian said, looking at him with his signature teasing smile, though it was tinged with sadness. “I appreciate you trying to take care of me. I mean, you barely even looked at me before. But… you know I’m not really in that bed, don’t you?”
“You are still you, illness or not,” Lan Wangji insisted. His heart hammered violently against his ribs, threatening to crack them with the weight of the truth hovering on the edge of his mind. “Cultivation never defined you. I do not care. I am healing you.”
“You’re bleeding out on your floor,” Wei Wuxian corrected gently. He stepped forwards, holding out his hand. He stopped right before touching Lan Wangji, but the warmth of his proximity alone was intoxicating. “You have to wake up, Lan Zhan. You can’t follow me here. Not yet.”
Lan Wangji reached out for him: his sleeve, his wrist, anything. But his hands passed through nothing. He tried again. Again. The water around his feet splashed with the frantic movements, and he was embarrassed to hear his own breathing turn ragged, undignified, and desperate, in a way he had not permitted himself in years.
“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan repeated, the name cracking in half. The sound gave him an odd sense of Déjà vu, a black cliff face flashing across his memory, but he shoved it aside. “I cannot leave you. Do not ask me to leave you,”
“You aren’t leaving me.” Wei Wuxian smiled again, the teasing falling away entirely, replaced by something wistful and tender. “We’ll meet again. A few more years, alright? I promise. But you need to promise to take care of yourself and live your life. Let your brother help you. Be healthy, Lan Zhan, so you’re ready to stand my antics when I come back to you. I’m warning you now, I’ll be making up for all the missed time.”
The silver glow around Wei Wuxian ripples, his figure flickering translucent at the edges.
“Wei Ying—” Lan Zhan swiped at his shoulder one more time, and this time, his palm connected with something solid.
“Wake up, Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian’s hand came up to gently lift Lan Wangji’s off, threading their fingers together, and Lan Wangji desperately committed that feeling of warm flesh to memory. “Remember what I said. I’ll see you later. Take care of yourself, for me?”
The silver light flared, blinding him, and Lan Wangji gasped, his eyes flying open.
The unforgivingly cold wood of the floor of the Jingshi pressed against his cheek. He pushed himself up on trembling arms, coughing violently as the noxious air hit the back of his throat. His back protested, a landscape of agony left untended and festering. The thirty-three whip marks from… from defending Wei Wuxian. Because he was… because they were…
The phantom warmth he had felt in his chest evaporated, replaced by the cold reality of his own body. His robes, once pure white, were stiff and red with dried blood and sweat, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He reached back to tentatively touch his shoulder, his bandaged fingers coming away damp with the clear fluid of raw, weeping wounds that had never been allowed to close. He had spent weeks pouring out his spiritual energy, leaving it depleted and his body unable to heal.
He looked around the room, his mind finally, violently, snapped from its delusion.
The bed was empty. The blankets were messy and piled up, but the bed was definitely empty.
And then his eyes landed on the table. It was piled high with wooden trays. Dozens of them, stacked haphazardly upon one another. Bowls of rice covered in thick layers of white and green mold, plates of meat swarming with bugs, jars of soup liquefying into a black rot. The fumes emitted by the decaying mountain of food were toxic, choking the air from the room.
He had brought them, hadn’t he? Day after day. Hallucinating that the table was clear, hallucinating the gentle teasing, hallucinating the phantom warmth of a body. There had been no gentle fingers pulling him down to the bed. There had been no soft laughter whispering against his neck.
Lan Wangji stared back at the empty bed, the reality of Nightless City crashing down upon his shoulders harder than the discipline whip. The blood. The cliff. The void.
Wei Wuxian was dead.
Lan Wangji closed his eyes, a single tear cutting a track through the dust and sweat on his face. Without the illusion around his heart, the truth was too agonising to bear, and he dropped back down to his knees. But even as he knelt in the toxic ruin of his own making, the lingering echo of a dream he couldn’t quite remember sounded in his head.
We’ll meet again. I promise.
Slowly, painfully, Lan Wangji stood again and limped towards the doors of the Jingshi. He threw them open, letting the biting winter wind sweep away the poison, and stepped out into the snow. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Wangji!”