[ lan wangji holds him without protest or complaint; he gives of himself so easily to wei wuxian, in the way that he would withhold himself from another. it is a feeling he cannnot describe, to be wound up in the arms of someone who has made a home for him in the spaces his own body cannot inhabit. to be fitted into lan wangji's life like a missing piece, the kite to its string, the stem to a beautiful and short-lived flower. he settles into his embrace, pressing his shoulder against the broadness of lan wangji's chest and his head to the sturdiness of his collarbone and he feels
so very much.
and so very much more, when lan wangji rips the air from his lungs, leaving him spasming in shock momentarily. choking on his own throat ( lan sizhui, birth name yuan, he hears and it rattles around in the space between his ears where his brain ought to be but is now only a name: yuan, yuan, a'yuan ), his body slowly tightening up on itself, toes curling, fingers grasping sharply at the firm angle of lan wangji's waist. he wants to say that it's not a funny thing to say, but lan wangji would not jest about a painful memory. he wants to say that it's a lie, but lan wangji is honest to the core. so it must be true, not just a coincidence of name, but the rational thing: his little a'yuan, who has lived, who has grown into a handsome and splendid young man. ]
-- my A'Yuan?
[ his voice is small, it is fragile.
there are many, many more things he thinks to say but he can only repeat the most important one: ]
[ he is a comforting weight, a single and solid point of anchoring. for all of lan wangji's life, wei wuxian had been as though a summer bird. he had flown where it was he pleased as lan wangji watched him from the library window, wei wuxian's wide, dark wings the things of poetry. and yet, no matter how it was he read, wei wuxian had always been elusive as he had been free. and all lan wangji's heart could do was to compose soundlessly. all he could do was write his love into wordless song and hope that one day, perhaps, wei wuxian would know what it was he spoke to him. and, if given the chance—
i love you, lan wangji tells him. he tells wei wuxian in the hold of his arms, the way his fingers skim soft and aimless. have always loved you.
and yet, as the impact of his admittance strikes wei wuxian, all that leaves his lips is: ]
Yes, [ to one, to both. and: ] I am sorry, that I did not tell you earlier.
[ and despite the grip, lan wangji's arms pull closer. close enough to let wei wuxian know that he is still free, he is still free to move and to fly. and yet, lan wangji has always been an honest thing, an earnest thing. and he is here, as he noses quiet against the dark of wei wuxian's hair. and he is here, as all within tells wei wuxian that it is no jest. that it was himself, lan wangji, who had found the boy and raised them as their own.
their own, he tells himself. their own.
by now, he thinks, how he must have found lan sizhui must be apparent. by now, it must be apparent what it is lan sizhui lacks. it must be. ]
[ his swinging legs still, the longer he's able to turn over the things that lan wangji says and the conclusions that come from them. his a'yuan, his little boy, is alive. he did not perish following his death ( of all things he regretted, abandoning his child to a difficult life - orphaned twice over, in fact - was the one he regretted the most in the end ), he was taken in by a kind, good man. and a'yuan became a kind, admirable young man as the result. he had always adored lan sizhui, from the day they had met, he had been as spectacular a gentleman as he was a bold heart. that he was alive, that he was not in new amsterdam -- it cuts as deeply as jin ling's absence.
the child of his beloved shijie, beautiful as his father and passionate as his mother and raised as brash and family-loyal as his uncle... that their children had fallen into one another's company ( his and jiang cheng's -- no, his and lan wangji's along with jiang cheng's )? wei wuxian's mind spins, around and around until he must press the bridge of his nose to lan wangji's shoulder and breath sharply, covering the sides of his face with cupped hands to block out the light and stop the wild throbbing of his mind as it aches and yearns and goes mad with the desire to defend his baby, to protect his own. ]
You needn't be sorry, Lan Zhan.
[ not him. not this man. ]
You saved his life. You raised a fine young man in my absence. He's so very easy to love.
[ he's still mine, he thinks, savage and possessive.
lan wangji is his, too. that means lan sizhui is theirs, right? ]
-- I want to see him. I want to see Jin Ling, too. I want to talk to them, I want to hold them. I'm so worried about them all. Are they eating well, without us? Are they safe? In Jiang Cheng's future, is Jin Ling the leader of the Yanling sect? Is he alone? Does A'Yuan... does he remember me? Lan Zhan, does he know who I am? He only seemed to ever recognize me as the young master Mo.
[ it hurts, so deeply, to think that his child does not remember him. it would mean he did not observe rites. he was well and truly forgotten, after he had died. ]
I'm sorry. This is so melancholy, I should be happier to know he's alive. I just... my heart hurts. I want to hold him again.
[ melancholy, wei wuxian tells him. sorry, he says.
all of this time, he too had missed a'yuan and lan wangji had known it. and lan wangji, he too had missed him. he too had worried for him. he too had within the heart the anxieties one might for any that they loved, but what more could lan wangji have done to spare wei wuxian this? what more might he have done, to assure him that lan sizhui was cared for when now, now— ]
Between us, there is no need for sorry, [ and for all that he is quiet as he says this, it is fierce. it is fierce, in ways both certain and both sure. for what does wei wuxian have to apologize for? for what sorrows were too much for lan wangji to too bear? he would think that such a feeling too would be reflected in him. were he in wei wuxian's position, would he not too wish to find his way back again? to hold him, a'yuan? ( he had been so easy, so easy to love. it had been so simple for him, for lan wangji, to gather him in his arms. and like that, he thinks, like that he had taken the boy back with him. sick as he was, sick too with grief that lan wangji was— he had done all that he could, to let a'yuan know that he was loved. that he was loved, as much by him as he was by wei wuxian. )
and yet, he hears the vicious thrum in him, in wei wuxian. he hears it, as lan wangji hears his. he is still wei wuxian's. he is still lan wangji's. he is theirs. he is theirs, as the disciples that followed in their footsteps. theirs, as the children that folded all about them as the rabbits at the back of their green mountains. and he is—
once, lan wangji had been certain. once, he had been assured lan sizhui was safe within the cloud recesses. once, he knew that lan xichen would care for him ( as he did, as he so often did back then ). lan xichen, who knew of how much lan wangji had loved him, wei wuxian, before any other did. lan xichen, who too knew of the last remnant of the wen. ( mine, he had told him. mine, he had snarled. mine. ) and though he knew his uncle had come to accept lan sizhui regardless, it was not with him that he would thrive. lan sizhui, clever and brilliant and good as he could be understood that he was free.
he was free, to follow what he knew to be as justice.
and still, it is that question. it is that question that still sits. and for lan wangji, he sees wei wuxian in the little actions lan sizhui commits. he sees wei wuxian in his passions, in his curiosities. he sees wei wuxian in everything, but his memories are as wei wuxian's. scattered, piecemeal— ashed. but, how is it that he could tell him, wei wuxian, that he is not in whole remembered, as much as his love was?
how could lan wangji admit, that it was he who had kept rites for him year after year? rites, in ways wei wuxian had not yet come to understand? and still, it is a quiet that settles in him. it is his approval for that child, for how he was raised that sits separate from this.
( wanted to raise him with you ). ]
Sizhui, [ he starts again, one arm unwinding. he does not ease away his grip, as much as it is he shadows the path that wei wuxian has taken with his. he curves the span of his fingers about the shell and shield that wei wuxian builds about himself and steadies it. for what more might he do, than to take burden where he might from wei wuxian? ] He too learned from you.
[ he had, as lan wangji had. and he continues to, as he keeps wei wuxian steady against all that might be and could be and is. ]
He too would be gladdened to hold you.
[ as would he, lan wangji. and it is a muted thing, that swarms beneath the skin. it is an itch, to smooth the dark of his hair as he once and always did.
a'yuan, as gentle as he had always been. a little shadow, who held close to lan wangji's leg. a vibrant and beautiful thing, who warmed all that had encountered him. yes, for all that lan wangji taught him what he knew— lan sizhui was wei wuxian's first. and that, that had made him reach for others he had cherished without shame of it. ]
[ his toes curl, feet crossing one another as he fidgets in lan wangji's lap and runs his fingers over the hem of his shirt. he traces the seam, over and over, with hands that are so rarely still, toying with counting the thread while his mind and heart flip end-over-end, swallowed by thoughts of lan sizhui who is also wen yuan. all in a moment, he wants to rip the world apart to return to his child's side. the urge to break reality in two to return himself, lan wangji and jiang cheng to their young ones surges within him like the madness that lingers in his soul. it calms, like waves that have rushed and rushed their way to the furthest shores and found their momentum exhausted, because of the solid hand upon him; lan wangji's touch is a firm thing, it is a soothing thing. it stills his body, even if it does not temper the energy of his mind. ]
You say that, [ he pouts, ] but I'm showing grace in my apologies, don't you think? Shouldn't you be patting my head and praising me for my sincerity, instead?
[ lan wangji's kindness is a powerful thing; it speaks to his dignity, the elevation of his self beyond needing reparation. yet, wei wuxian feels the need to apologize to him for things. it is fair, when wrong has been done, or when emotions have been strained, to apologize. that lan wangji cannot simply accept it both perturbs and concerns him, though he has always, always been forcing things upon lan wangji that the other has long since transcended beyond. out of the three of them, he has always envisioned lan wangji ascending to immortality before him. he is pristine, in mind and body --
well. nearly pristine; there are bruises on wei wuxian's thighs and throat, fading day-by-day, that suggest otherwise. they are soft, sore places that remind him of lan wangji's humanity, his warmth. his beautiful, wonderful heart. ( he's so stupid for this man, for the things he has done and the path he, too, has chosen to walk. ) ]
May I thank you, then? For saving him, for loving him in my absence. You're a good man, Lan Zhan - you're the best man I've ever known. In all the lives I've been fortunate enough to live, I'm so happy I was able to meet you over and over again.
for the briefest of moments, as wei wuxian makes himself small against his body, lan wangji finds within himself the vicious lurch to keep him steady, to keep him as lan wangji has always wished he might have. but, there is nothing beautiful in of the crow caught within a cold snap. there is nothing lovely about the dark of wings bent back, ceased for all its energy. to lan wangji, such an image is not a happiness and so he smothers it as sticks of incense. ground gentle against the face of his stability, he instead keeps wei wuxian close as he traces seams and hems, the warmth of his fingers seeping down into the skin.
and lan wangji almost smiles as wei wuxian pouts without heart of it. almost, in part for assurance and in fondness. for, despite his words, it is lan wangji who has had thirteen years to process all that had happened before and between. he has time to think, time to think he would do such things again and again and again. he has had time to determine that the past cannot be spun again, that some mars upon its weave are permanent. what matters, in the end, is how one decides it best to continue with some purpose. and for him—
for him, what could be more purposeful than protecting those who need protection?
but, when wei wuxian says thank you, he cannot quite stop how all within him goes quiet and cold. he cannot quite help that sting that licks the boundary of all that lan wangji is, the subtle anxieties that take root with the flesh. if wei wuxian were unable to feel the stir of these emotions through where it is they touch, it would be no shock if he could feel lan wangji's heart. his heart, that stutters as though a nervous beating of nervous wings. for, each time wei wuxian had ever told him thank you, less and less of him left. less and less of what they forged, what they could have forged— and so, it is without thought of it, that lan wangji's fingers reflexively tighten and twitch. they hold wei wuxian closer for a moment, his breath more an ache caught behind the ribs.
he shakes his head. it is a slow movement, but the words are slower than this. slower, one would think, especially in the wake of: the best man i've ever known, i'm so happy i was able to meet you over and over again. slower, one would think, for the way his heart beats stranger too for all of the paradoxical warmth that floods him. that breaks banks to meet all of his uncertainty as though the clear of spring waters to the mouth of greater oceans. they exist, in parallel, but never merge neat.
but, very little, lan wangji has learned, has ever been neat. ]
For us too, there is no need for "thank you." [ and it is pressed against the dark of wei wuxian's hair, lan wangji's voice as even as it might be for all the way of his heart's loud murmurings. i'm so happy i was able to meet you over and over again. and lan wangji inhales, as if to center himself. but, there is only more words that come to his lips. words, with conviction as they always are. but, these—
he had always thought that wei wuxian was a miraculous thing, a thing without tether despite all of his misfortunes. he had always thought, out of all others in this world, wei wuxian shone brightest. and like that, he had crashed into lan wangji's stillness. and like that, he'd taken lan wangji off balance.
but, without wei wuxian, who would lan wangji be? without his influence, without all that he taught him, who would he be? he does not wish to know, he thinks. he does not wish to ever know. and so, it with his hands cradling wei wuxian that he tells him. ]
Happy, that I was able to meet Wei Ying. [ and somehow, the words are clearest through the way he keeps wei wuxian close. clearest, through the way they rumble in his chest. no matter how they are spoken, breathed out and in— ] Each time, in each life.
[ as many lives as they would live. ]
Edited (i couldn't let certain stay for center i'm sorry paxu lmfao) 2019-10-24 00:22 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
so very much.
and so very much more, when lan wangji rips the air from his lungs, leaving him spasming in shock momentarily. choking on his own throat ( lan sizhui, birth name yuan, he hears and it rattles around in the space between his ears where his brain ought to be but is now only a name: yuan, yuan, a'yuan ), his body slowly tightening up on itself, toes curling, fingers grasping sharply at the firm angle of lan wangji's waist. he wants to say that it's not a funny thing to say, but lan wangji would not jest about a painful memory. he wants to say that it's a lie, but lan wangji is honest to the core. so it must be true, not just a coincidence of name, but the rational thing: his little a'yuan, who has lived, who has grown into a handsome and splendid young man. ]
-- my A'Yuan?
[ his voice is small, it is fragile.
there are many, many more things he thinks to say but he can only repeat the most important one: ]
I want to go home.
no subject
i love you, lan wangji tells him. he tells wei wuxian in the hold of his arms, the way his fingers skim soft and aimless. have always loved you.
and yet, as the impact of his admittance strikes wei wuxian, all that leaves his lips is: ]
Yes, [ to one, to both. and: ] I am sorry, that I did not tell you earlier.
[ and despite the grip, lan wangji's arms pull closer. close enough to let wei wuxian know that he is still free, he is still free to move and to fly. and yet, lan wangji has always been an honest thing, an earnest thing. and he is here, as he noses quiet against the dark of wei wuxian's hair. and he is here, as all within tells wei wuxian that it is no jest. that it was himself, lan wangji, who had found the boy and raised them as their own.
their own, he tells himself. their own.
by now, he thinks, how he must have found lan sizhui must be apparent. by now, it must be apparent what it is lan sizhui lacks. it must be. ]
no subject
the child of his beloved shijie, beautiful as his father and passionate as his mother and raised as brash and family-loyal as his uncle... that their children had fallen into one another's company ( his and jiang cheng's -- no, his and lan wangji's along with jiang cheng's )? wei wuxian's mind spins, around and around until he must press the bridge of his nose to lan wangji's shoulder and breath sharply, covering the sides of his face with cupped hands to block out the light and stop the wild throbbing of his mind as it aches and yearns and goes mad with the desire to defend his baby, to protect his own. ]
You needn't be sorry, Lan Zhan.
[ not him. not this man. ]
You saved his life. You raised a fine young man in my absence. He's so very easy to love.
[ he's still mine, he thinks, savage and possessive.
lan wangji is his, too. that means lan sizhui is theirs, right? ]
-- I want to see him. I want to see Jin Ling, too. I want to talk to them, I want to hold them. I'm so worried about them all. Are they eating well, without us? Are they safe? In Jiang Cheng's future, is Jin Ling the leader of the Yanling sect? Is he alone? Does A'Yuan... does he remember me? Lan Zhan, does he know who I am? He only seemed to ever recognize me as the young master Mo.
[ it hurts, so deeply, to think that his child does not remember him. it would mean he did not observe rites. he was well and truly forgotten, after he had died. ]
I'm sorry. This is so melancholy, I should be happier to know he's alive. I just... my heart hurts. I want to hold him again.
[ i want my son ]
no subject
all of this time, he too had missed a'yuan and lan wangji had known it. and lan wangji, he too had missed him. he too had worried for him. he too had within the heart the anxieties one might for any that they loved, but what more could lan wangji have done to spare wei wuxian this? what more might he have done, to assure him that lan sizhui was cared for when now, now— ]
Between us, there is no need for sorry, [ and for all that he is quiet as he says this, it is fierce. it is fierce, in ways both certain and both sure. for what does wei wuxian have to apologize for? for what sorrows were too much for lan wangji to too bear? he would think that such a feeling too would be reflected in him. were he in wei wuxian's position, would he not too wish to find his way back again? to hold him, a'yuan? ( he had been so easy, so easy to love. it had been so simple for him, for lan wangji, to gather him in his arms. and like that, he thinks, like that he had taken the boy back with him. sick as he was, sick too with grief that lan wangji was— he had done all that he could, to let a'yuan know that he was loved. that he was loved, as much by him as he was by wei wuxian. )
and yet, he hears the vicious thrum in him, in wei wuxian. he hears it, as lan wangji hears his. he is still wei wuxian's. he is still lan wangji's. he is theirs. he is theirs, as the disciples that followed in their footsteps. theirs, as the children that folded all about them as the rabbits at the back of their green mountains. and he is—
once, lan wangji had been certain. once, he had been assured lan sizhui was safe within the cloud recesses. once, he knew that lan xichen would care for him ( as he did, as he so often did back then ). lan xichen, who knew of how much lan wangji had loved him, wei wuxian, before any other did. lan xichen, who too knew of the last remnant of the wen. ( mine, he had told him. mine, he had snarled. mine. ) and though he knew his uncle had come to accept lan sizhui regardless, it was not with him that he would thrive. lan sizhui, clever and brilliant and good as he could be understood that he was free.
he was free, to follow what he knew to be as justice.
and still, it is that question. it is that question that still sits. and for lan wangji, he sees wei wuxian in the little actions lan sizhui commits. he sees wei wuxian in his passions, in his curiosities. he sees wei wuxian in everything, but his memories are as wei wuxian's. scattered, piecemeal— ashed. but, how is it that he could tell him, wei wuxian, that he is not in whole remembered, as much as his love was?
how could lan wangji admit, that it was he who had kept rites for him year after year? rites, in ways wei wuxian had not yet come to understand? and still, it is a quiet that settles in him. it is his approval for that child, for how he was raised that sits separate from this.
( wanted to raise him with you ). ]
Sizhui, [ he starts again, one arm unwinding. he does not ease away his grip, as much as it is he shadows the path that wei wuxian has taken with his. he curves the span of his fingers about the shell and shield that wei wuxian builds about himself and steadies it. for what more might he do, than to take burden where he might from wei wuxian? ] He too learned from you.
[ he had, as lan wangji had. and he continues to, as he keeps wei wuxian steady against all that might be and could be and is. ]
He too would be gladdened to hold you.
[ as would he, lan wangji. and it is a muted thing, that swarms beneath the skin. it is an itch, to smooth the dark of his hair as he once and always did.
a'yuan, as gentle as he had always been. a little shadow, who held close to lan wangji's leg. a vibrant and beautiful thing, who warmed all that had encountered him. yes, for all that lan wangji taught him what he knew— lan sizhui was wei wuxian's first. and that, that had made him reach for others he had cherished without shame of it. ]
no subject
You say that, [ he pouts, ] but I'm showing grace in my apologies, don't you think? Shouldn't you be patting my head and praising me for my sincerity, instead?
[ lan wangji's kindness is a powerful thing; it speaks to his dignity, the elevation of his self beyond needing reparation. yet, wei wuxian feels the need to apologize to him for things. it is fair, when wrong has been done, or when emotions have been strained, to apologize. that lan wangji cannot simply accept it both perturbs and concerns him, though he has always, always been forcing things upon lan wangji that the other has long since transcended beyond. out of the three of them, he has always envisioned lan wangji ascending to immortality before him. he is pristine, in mind and body --
well. nearly pristine; there are bruises on wei wuxian's thighs and throat, fading day-by-day, that suggest otherwise. they are soft, sore places that remind him of lan wangji's humanity, his warmth. his beautiful, wonderful heart. ( he's so stupid for this man, for the things he has done and the path he, too, has chosen to walk. ) ]
May I thank you, then? For saving him, for loving him in my absence. You're a good man, Lan Zhan - you're the best man I've ever known. In all the lives I've been fortunate enough to live, I'm so happy I was able to meet you over and over again.
no subject
for the briefest of moments, as wei wuxian makes himself small against his body, lan wangji finds within himself the vicious lurch to keep him steady, to keep him as lan wangji has always wished he might have. but, there is nothing beautiful in of the crow caught within a cold snap. there is nothing lovely about the dark of wings bent back, ceased for all its energy. to lan wangji, such an image is not a happiness and so he smothers it as sticks of incense. ground gentle against the face of his stability, he instead keeps wei wuxian close as he traces seams and hems, the warmth of his fingers seeping down into the skin.
and lan wangji almost smiles as wei wuxian pouts without heart of it. almost, in part for assurance and in fondness. for, despite his words, it is lan wangji who has had thirteen years to process all that had happened before and between. he has time to think, time to think he would do such things again and again and again. he has had time to determine that the past cannot be spun again, that some mars upon its weave are permanent. what matters, in the end, is how one decides it best to continue with some purpose. and for him—
for him, what could be more purposeful than protecting those who need protection?
but, when wei wuxian says thank you, he cannot quite stop how all within him goes quiet and cold. he cannot quite help that sting that licks the boundary of all that lan wangji is, the subtle anxieties that take root with the flesh. if wei wuxian were unable to feel the stir of these emotions through where it is they touch, it would be no shock if he could feel lan wangji's heart. his heart, that stutters as though a nervous beating of nervous wings. for, each time wei wuxian had ever told him thank you, less and less of him left. less and less of what they forged, what they could have forged— and so, it is without thought of it, that lan wangji's fingers reflexively tighten and twitch. they hold wei wuxian closer for a moment, his breath more an ache caught behind the ribs.
he shakes his head. it is a slow movement, but the words are slower than this. slower, one would think, especially in the wake of: the best man i've ever known, i'm so happy i was able to meet you over and over again. slower, one would think, for the way his heart beats stranger too for all of the paradoxical warmth that floods him. that breaks banks to meet all of his uncertainty as though the clear of spring waters to the mouth of greater oceans. they exist, in parallel, but never merge neat.
but, very little, lan wangji has learned, has ever been neat. ]
For us too, there is no need for "thank you." [ and it is pressed against the dark of wei wuxian's hair, lan wangji's voice as even as it might be for all the way of his heart's loud murmurings. i'm so happy i was able to meet you over and over again. and lan wangji inhales, as if to center himself. but, there is only more words that come to his lips. words, with conviction as they always are. but, these—
he had always thought that wei wuxian was a miraculous thing, a thing without tether despite all of his misfortunes. he had always thought, out of all others in this world, wei wuxian shone brightest. and like that, he had crashed into lan wangji's stillness. and like that, he'd taken lan wangji off balance.
but, without wei wuxian, who would lan wangji be? without his influence, without all that he taught him, who would he be? he does not wish to know, he thinks. he does not wish to ever know. and so, it with his hands cradling wei wuxian that he tells him. ]
Happy, that I was able to meet Wei Ying. [ and somehow, the words are clearest through the way he keeps wei wuxian close. clearest, through the way they rumble in his chest. no matter how they are spoken, breathed out and in— ] Each time, in each life.
[ as many lives as they would live. ]