#*goswrites

Winter had sunk its claws into the land, settling in like a lioness curling around her cubs. A thick blanket of snow decorated the sprawling courtyards and pointed rafters of Sisheng peak, giving Wushan Palace a particularly bleak and dismal appearance.

As the night approached, flurries of snow swept about to the howling of the wind. Some flakes caught onto the windows and melted, dampening the thin sheet of protective paper stretched over the wooden frames. Outside, the sky deepened from a vague sort of darkness to an impenetrable black.

Taxian-jun hesitated, but only for a moment. He didn’t know what coming to seek his Shizun at such a devilish hour meant, but he didn’t put much thought into his own motivations or to Chu Wanning’s possible interpretation of them. After all, Chu Wanning couldn’t very well refuse a visit from his captor, and Taxian-jun couldn’t care less about Chu Wanning’s regard. At least, that was what he consoled himself with.

Taxian-jun raised his hand to knock, but quickly retracted the gesture. The door flew open with a rough bang as he swept into the room unannounced.

Chu Wanning sat on a plain mattress, a threadbare sheet thrown causally around his shoulders for warmth. He seemed to be preparing for bed, currently brushing out the tangles in his curtain of damp hair. If he startled at Mo Ran’s sudden entrance, his countenance gave little clue— the hand methodically running a comb through his dark strands did not break pace.

Until a large hand caught his wrist, halting the careful movement.

Mo Ran’s grip was firm but not punishing. Chu Wanning subtly flexed the tendons of his wrist, blue and purple veins shifting minutely beneath the translucent paleness of his skin.  Still, he knew that any sort of struggle would ultimately be fruitless. Instead, with the remainder of his defiance, Chu Wanning sat straight, silent, and unyielding, gaze directed somewhere past Mo Ran’s shoulder.

Taxian-jun had long accustomed to the implacable disobedience of his Shizun. And he, too, had begun to develop a fairly effective program for gradually bending Chu Wanning’s will, like heating an iron rod until it drooped over the fire.

“Shizunnn~” Taxian-jun called, his voice dripping in honey, pungent and cloying. His thumb brushed against the delicate skin of Chu Wanning’s inner wrist, feather-light, and Taxian-jun hid a smirk at how Chu Wanning’s heartbeat ratcheted upwards at the touch.

“Get out.” Chu Wanning responded promptly, still refusing to meet Mo Ran’s eyes.

“What a cold reception,” Taxian-jun tsk’d, “This disciple is heartbroken.”

“What do you want?” Chu Wanning refused to acknowledge Mo Ran’s barbed wheedling, instead cutting to straight the point, his voice the glinting edge of a drawn sword.

At this, Taxian-jun actually paused. What did he want? To be honest, he wasn’t quite so sure himself. On nights like this, when his mind felt dim and his thoughts garbled, his sense of self nebulous and shrouded, it seemed that only Chu Wanning had the power to pull him out of the miasma, bring him back to reality. Not that he would admit it in such detail, though, even to himself.

So, Taxian-jun settled on a simple and guileless response.

“Chu Wanning, let This Venerable One hold you for a bit.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “This Venerable One is cold.”

“Don’t you have an empress?”

“She doesn’t smell nearly as good as you.”

Mo Ran sidled even closer to Chu Wanning, dropping Chu Wanning’s hand to run his fingers through Chu Wanning’s hair, still damp and a bit textured.

Chu Wanning winced as Mo Ran’s fingers picked through the tangles he had yet to brush out. It had been a while since he left the tepid waters of his bath, and his wet hair had cooled, freezing his scalp and the tips of his ears. Mo Ran’s broad palms brought some heat back to his head; he couldn’t help but tremble into the warmth.

Mo Ran smiled to himself. His Shizun had always been especially susceptible to the cold. They both knew Mo Ran was actually giving Chu Wanning some face— the one who really needed relief from the chill, after all, was his Shizun.

Of course, Mo Ran could’ve also just swept Chu Wanning into his embrace, unheeding of protest, then swallowed Chu Wanning’s curses roughly against his mouth, his tongue diving in to break up those gnashing teeth...

Mo Ran was half-hard at the thought, but he kept a tight grip on the reins of his self-control. Sometimes, it felt more satisfying to coax than to take by force, a gratification that could only come from soothing someone so wild and untamed.

Taking Chu Wanning’s continued silence as assent, Taxian-jun closed the last bit of distance between them. He sat down at the empty space beside Chu Wanning and pulled Chu Wanning onto his lap, winding his arms around Chu Wanning’s narrow waist and resting his chin in the dip between his neck and shoulder.

Chu Wanning felt as if he had been enveloped by a furnace. Heat instantly rushed from his neck to the tips of his fingers, leaving numb trails tingling in its wake. He shook silently with the sudden warmth, relaxing into Mo Ran’s hold almost unconsciously.

They stayed like that for an indefinite moment, stretched out and suspended in time. Mo Ran absentmindedly rubbed circles against Chu Wanning’s stomach. With a spectacular amount of restraint, he refrained from sinking his teeth into the firm muscle of Chu Wanning’s shoulder, from marking up the tender skin at the hollow of Chu Wanning’s throat, instead contenting himself with blowing out puffs of warm breath and watching the answering flush of pink spread along his Shizun’s neck.

Mo Ran couldn’t deny that Chu Wanning, detestable as he was, still seemed the perfect size to fit against his body. They slotted together like complementary parts of a machine, snug and intimate. He peppered languid kisses on the stretch of back exposed by Chu Wanning’s collar, thinking to himself, Chu Wanning, I really hate you so much.

But Taxian-jun still grew a bit bored after a while, and a glint of mischief flashed within his eyes.

“Shizun,” he implored piteously, “pay attention to me...”

Chu Wanning angled his head slightly to peer at Mo Ran.

“What is it now?”

“This Venerable One wants Shizun to undo his hair,” Taxian-jun announced.

Taxian-jun's hair was still piled up in whatever intricate mess his servants had done for him today, the metal hairpiece secured tightly against his scalp. His request, routine and nightly as it was, came off unabashedly as a pretext for spending the rest of the right in Chu Wanning’s room, in his bed.

Normally, Chu Wanning’s reply would’ve come swiftly and without fail— a single “get out.” Yet perhaps due to the hazy warmth of Mo Ran’s hold, or perhaps due to the smudged dimness of the hour, suddenly Chu Wanning’s sight blurred: the man behind him no looked longer like Taxian-jun, the First Emperor of the Cultivation world, the fiend who had committed countless unforgivable atrocities, but instead appeared as Mo Ran, his artless, stumbling, innocent, charming disciple.

So Chu Wanning, uncharacteristically compliant, shifted off Mo Ran’s lap to sit with him face-to-face. He gently guided Mo Ran’s head down and began tugging at the pins in his hair with slender, practiced fingers.

If Taxian-jun felt any surprise at Chu Wanning’s willingness, he tamped it down, happy to simply enjoy this unfounded luck. Warm fingers stroked against his scalp, easing his hair from the tight braids, lifting away the metal hairpiece. The hands then combed through the length of his freed locks, knuckles brushing softly against his temples.

Taxian-jun leaned into Chu Wanning’s touch. He rested his forehead against Chu Wanning’s waist and let the faint fragrance of haitang crowd his senses. Chu Wanning stroked his head steadily, the pads of his fingers massaging lightly against his skull.

Sophie’s heart gave a little stutter, for which she promptly chastised herself with some exasperation.

“I swear, Howl, I must inhale half a head of your hair every night. You could cut me open and find yourself a wig.” Her brows drew low, but the smile playing at her lips belied her irritation.

Howl took this as an opportunity to sweeten Sophie up; her mood would inevitably worsen as the day cleared from pinky yellows to blue. He ran a hand through his unruly, though marvelously colored, tresses, then paused, hoping to strike a brilliant pose against the backlight of the window. The corners of Sophie’s mouth turned down frightfully, and Howl quickly tipped his head down, burying a grin along the edges of her collarbone.

“C’mon, Sophie,” his voice came muffled from Sophie’s chest, arms reaching up, octopus-like, to cradle her head. “You know I can’t tie my hair up when I sleep. It’ll dent.” He punctuated his point by placing several light kisses up the ridges of Sophie’s neck, finishing with a grand peck against her pursed lips. Sophie melted against him, giving a sigh that usually foreshadowed hastily locked doors and mushy declarations of devotion.

“I suppose I could always lop it off, then,” she said, shifting to make room for Howl as he settled his weight on top of her. He made a face that contorted his features into something not so carefully handsome, licking a stripe up her nose. To Sophie’s horror, she scrunched her eyes shut and giggled, Howl’s answering chuckles vibrating against her sternum. Oh, bother. She was truly in for him, wasn’t she?

“But don’t you think I’m pretty?” Howl added piteously, putting on a pout that rivaled Martha’s during the worst of her elementary-age tantrums. Howl was terribly dramatic and thrived off attention, so Sophie really shouldn’t indulge him the way she does. But still, the pastel hues of dawn had softened everything in their room, including Sophie, and she tilted up her head to catch him in another kiss. “The prettiest I’ve ever seen,” she said softly, and Howl's face broke open into a disbelieving beam. He let out a whoop, and Sophie's ribs gave a faint creak of protest as he swept her into a bone-crushing squeeze. Sophie personally thought that Howl had no business looking quite so elated.

His eyes raked across the smooth canvas of skin offered by Chu Wanning, pausing at each bruise, each crimson mark interrupting the pale expanse of flesh. Chu Wanning had slipped into exhaustive slumber on his back, with his arms and legs splayed as if to present the evidence of his degradation. Dried bits of fluid, tinged pink with blood, had tracked streaks down Chu Wanning’s inner thighs, a watercolor of debauchment painted between his legs. Taxian-jun’s irises darkened, a vicious expression frightfully twisting his handsome features. Hunger, malice, and perverse satisfaction flickered across Taxian-jun’s face in turns.

Suddenly, as if struck by a memory or the onset of a nightmare, Chu Wanning’s long lashes trembled against his cheek, and a soft murmur escaped from his lips. His sharp brows scrunched, forming a wrinkle that creased his forehead. His face stayed like that momentarily, troubled even in sleep, before gradually smoothing out once more.

Unbidden, a sharp wave of pity rose within Taxian-jun. To see his Shizun, Yuheng of the Night Sky, the Beidou Immortal, reduced to this, nothing more than a whore writhing beneath the prowess of the First Emperor of the Cultivation World— Taxian-jun almost felt sympathetic. Of course, so thoroughly humiliating Chu Wanning had brought him a grim sense of sadistic pleasure, but his gratification still seemed to fall short somewhere, like an arrow that had missed bullseye by a few marks. This faint unease churned within him along with the pity, leaving Taxian-jun feeling strangely out of sorts, as if he were a lost traveler who had somehow stumbled his way into Wushan Palance, stumbled into standing over the naked body of his ruined Shizun.

Taxian-jun shook his head to dispel the filmy wisps of his thoughts. He had originally planned to call an attendant to drag Chu Wanning, naked and debased, away to some corner of the Palace. Physical conquest wasn’t enough to slake his animalistic thirst for vengeance; he wanted to irrevocably tarnish Chu Wanning, to incinerate his pristine, austere image into wisps of ash. Taxian-jun had even imagined Chu Wanning’s reaction upon awakening to four unfamiliar walls, picturing with a sort of vicious glee how his Shizun’s face would blanch white upon finding himself so unceremoniously carried away and dumped aside.

But now, just considering the idea of someone else having the privilege to lay eyes on Chu Wanning like this, so completely fucked out, ignited a possessive rage that burned like forest brush up his esophagus. Mine, he thought. Chu Wanning belongs to me.

Letting out a puff of a sigh, he stooped down to pick up Chu Wanning, maneuvering Chu Wanning’s head to rest on his shoulder. Chu Wanning’s lashes flickered; he seemed to make a grumble of protest, but he eventually burrowed closer into Taxian-jun’s chest, an unconscious effort to seek warmth, like a sunflower tilting to catch rays of light on its petals. His hair splayed down in rivulets and framed the elegant lines of his face. The strands reflected the dim candlelight in a dull luster, like shimmering black pearls.

Before he was even aware of the impulse, Taxian-jun dipped down to catch Chu Wanning’s petal-soft lips in a chaste kiss. The faint taste of dew permeated his mouth and melted like candy on his tongue.

A servant, shakily bowing, brought a tub of warm water and some linen towels to the room. Taxian-jun shot him a glare in dismissal and turned back to face the bed, scarlet-gold curtains drawn closed around the mattress. Steam licked upwards from the water and filled the room with a smoky, intangible haze.

The curtains swished open under Taxian-jun’s hand, revealing the figure of a man still sleeping, wrapped up in an animal pelt.

Taxian-jun extricated Chu Wanning from the covers, hoisting his pliant body into his embrace and bringing him to the tub. When the warm water submerged Chu Wanning’s listless limbs, his eyes blearily cracked open. He affixed a distant, cloudy gaze towards Taxian-jun, dazed and unaware.

“Mo Ran?” He asked, leaning against the wood of the tub.

“Go back to sleep.” Taxian-jun responded roughly. His voice rang hoarse and gravelly in the still air.

Perhaps Chu Wanning had truly suffered beyond his limit, or perhaps, in the realm between sleep and clarity, he had forgotten his current situation. For rather than his usual intransigence, Chu Wanning instead obediently closed his eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness.

Taxian-jun felt as if something blunt had cleaved a groove into his chest, heart raw with wound and spurting fresh blood. He reached out as if to touch Chu Wanning, to stroke his hair, but then abruptly retracted his arm and fisted his hand at his side.

Taxian-jun genuinely never knew how to regard this Shizun of his. The gulf that bridged them spanned vast and had only grown throughout the years. Its gaping maw stretched wide, a welter of contempt, loathing, and pain brought to boil in its abysmal depths. His entire being ached to see Chu Wanning completely and utterly subjugated, yet a small part of him still felt fourteen, like he would pick down the stars in the sky just so Chu Wanning would direct him with a hint of a smile.

The wood beneath Taxian-jun’s grip creaked. What a pitiable disciple, what a despicable teacher. Chu Wanning had whipped him bloody, and a piece of Mo Ran still wanted to turn like a docile lamb and present his other cheek.

“You’re a bastard, Chu Wanning.” Taxian-jun spat at Chu Wanning’s unperceptive figure. As expected, Chu Wanning remained silent in the onslaught. He had soaked for so long that the tips of his fingers had pruned. Yet unmoving and unaware, with lurid marks littered across his body, he still managed to radiate an ethereal sort of beauty.

Taxian-jun’s anger receded as fast as it had surged, leaving him oddly deflated. He bit his lip and finally picked up a linen, wiping away at Chu Wanning with all the care of a collector cleaning his most prized figurine.

Somehow, Taxian-jun ended up spending the night with Chu Wanning. They were in his personal bedroom, after all, and though Taxian-jun didn’t want someone to take Chu Wanning away, he also couldn’t very well let Chu Wanning oust him from his own room. So, after drying Chu Wanning from the bath, Taxian-jun, a bit begrudgingly, laid him down again on the bed.

The night had deepened to an inky obsidian, and fatigue blearily lapped at Taxian-jun’s consciousness. Chu Wanning, that selfish ingrate, had blissfully slept for the better part of a shichen while This Venerable One assiduously waited on him on hand and foot!

Even so, when Taxian-jun slipped beneath the covers, he curled himself around Chu Wanning possessively, holding him tight against his chest. Like this, the crisp haitang scent that lingered on Chu Wanning overwhelmed his senses, heady and soporific. He nuzzled into Chu Wanning’s neck, pressing kisses atop the bite marks he had left earlier, sighing with something close to contentment.

Eyelids growing heavy, Taxian-jun allowed himself a final kiss on Chu Wanning’s parted lips, tongue gently grazing across the pink mouth, tasting his delicate flavor. He pulled Chu Wanning’s soft body even closer into his embrace, and the First Emperor gradually stilled to the steady rhythm of Chu Wanning’s heartbeat.

Chu Wanning woke up subsumed in an oppressive heat. He scrunched his nose and opened his eyes, registering the hard muscle pressed against his back, the arms wound around his waist. Like a bucket of cold water, sharp clarity drenched him in an instant, and he shot up in a rage, pushing Mo Ran off his body.

With his cultivation gone, though, Chu Wanning’s violent shove barely registered in Taxian-jun’s sleep, and he only mumbled a bit, turning around and kicking the sheets off the bed.

Chu Wanning stared down at himself in a daze, the cruel events from the night before slicing him open like thousands of blades. He wasn’t familiar with how Taxian-jun had rearranged Wushan Palace, so slipping away now would chance his intrusion into unwelcome spaces. Still, Chu Wanning thought he would rather die than meet Taxian-jun’s gaze when he woke up, so he salvaged whatever pieces of his clothing he could, hurriedly arranging himself to appear somewhat presentable and striding to the door.

Yet before he left, with a hand still hovering over the doorknob, Chu Wanning turned back to look at Mo Ran’s form on the bed for a long, long time.

Taxian-jun awoke to an empty bed, the sheets wrapped firmly around him.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan, I told you not to wait up!” Wei Wuxian admonishes even as he plops down at Lan Wangji’s side, slipping his cold fingers underneath the opening of Lan Wangji’s nightrobe.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji hums in response, setting aside the scabbard to wrap his arms around Wei Wuxian’s waist, drawing him closer against his body. “The night-hunt went well?”

“It was alright. The juniors managed to track and lure the monster without my help, but I had to— ah— lend a hand when it came to the final blow. Oh, and Sizhui performed admirably, as always.” Wei Wuxian lets a hint of pride tint his last words. He shifts comfortably into the warmth of Lan Wangji’s hold.

“I expect nothing less,” Lan Wangji intones.

A breeze carries the crisp scent of dewy grass into the Jingshi, and the two men, caught in each other’s embrace, sit in for a moment in comfortable silence. After a while of nuzzling against Lan Wangji’s chest, Wei Wuxian finally lifts his head.

“Jiang Cheng?” With a nod, Wei Wuxian acknowledges Suibian, which Lan Wangji had abandoned on the tabletop.

“Brought with one of the YunmengJiang guest disciples,” Lan Wangji confirms.

“I guess we couldn’t have expected a personal visit.” Wei Wuxian disentangles his arms from Lan Wangji’s clothes to pick up the sword, swiping a gentle thumb against the “随便” etched into the exterior of the sheath. He catches the gravity of Lan Wangji’s gaze and ducks his head.  

“Okay, okay.” With a fluid motion, Wei Wuxian draws the sword out and sends spiritual energy singing into the blade. Red light thrums and dances along its narrow, glinting edges, teasing at the power that simmers beneath. Lan Wangji watches the performance quietly, his posture still. He has not seen Wei Wuxian wield Suibian since his time as a student at the Cloud Recesses.

“Hm. Not bad, my old friend. Missed me, huh?” Wei Wuxian examines the sword contemplatively. The blade flips with a soft gust of air as he turns the hilt. “I can’t believe you can’t tell apart me and Jiang Cheng, really. Preposterous! I’m expecting you to fix your eyesight, you know. Now that I’ll have to start lugging your weight around again.” At Lan Wangji’s slight squeeze, Wei Wuxian sheaths Suibian and turns to face Lan Zhan with a grin.

“I suppose we’ll have to thank Jiang Cheng. If I break another GusuLan practice sword, your uncle might really kick me off the mountain!” Winking an eye, his expression turns mischievous. “Say, Hanguang-Jun, would you honor this one with a duel sometime? I’m much better now than when I was fifteen.”

Wei Wuxian spots a hint of red crawling up edges of Lan Wangji’s earlobes, and he continues with renewed delight. “Just give me, ah, five years, and see if we can draw again!”

Even now, his cultivation level is already much higher than it had been when he was eighteen, around the time when he had given up his core in his previous body. Though Mo Xuanyu’s originally frail physique hinted of long years of abuse and malnourishment, Wei Wuxian had found that dedicated medication, GusuLan training, dual cultivation, hearty meals, and an absolute wealth of past experience contributed to condense his newfound core rather quickly. He’s still taken aback sometimes, at the orb spinning behind his ribs, the light that surges at his fingertips. At the ease with which he can now tamp down the lingering effects of resentful energy, something which had consumed his old self like arsenic.

“No need,” Lan Wangji says, looking down at Wei Wuxian with a soft glow. “Your talent for acquiring new skills has always been remarkable. We will draw within two summers.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian moans, burrowing his face in the crook of Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “Don’t say things like that, I’m only joking. I’ve only got one foot on the sword path, you know. And I’m only good at learning things I’ve made up myself.”

Lan Wangji opens his mouth, perhaps to point out that the very ability to invent things speaks to Wei Ying’s acumen, but he’s distracted again by the sheer, painful familiarity of Suibian lying haphazardly next to Wei Wuxian. Instead, what comes out is: “Do you think things could have changed?”

“Hmm?” Wei Wuxian pulls back to look at Lan Wangji, reaching up to tug gently at a lock of his hair. Lan Wangji catches Wei Wuxian’s errant hand in his own.

“The past. Do you think… the story could have played to a different conclusion?”

A careful stoicism decorates Lan Wangji’s smooth features, but Wei Wuxian can spot the anguish lurking in the press of his lips, the pools of his eyes. He scoots further into Lan Wangji’s lap, cradling his face and placing soft kisses on his cheeks, his nose, his cupid's bow.

“Ah, my good Lan Zhan. I know what you’re really thinking. You’re asking if you could have done anything to change things.” Wei Wuxian angles Lan Wangji’s chin so that they stare eye-to-eye, noses centimeters apart and breaths intermingling in the cool night.

As a principle, Wei Wuxian tries to avoid analyzing his previous life too closely. To think is to dwell, and to dwell means to revisit a knife slice under his ribs; three months spent scavenging among corpses; the dust of the Stygian Tiger Seal scattered with his last breath of life. But Lan Zhan has to understand, so Wei Wuxian would tell him, just this once.

“There is nothing you could have done.” The words simmer in the space between them, low and clear. “A single-plank bridge only goes one way. I never expected to reach twenty-five.” Lan Wangji inhales like he’s been stabbed.

“Wei Ying.”

“Shh,” Wei Wuxian soothes, smoothing the twist in Lan Wangji’s brows with a brush of his thumb. “Listen. Even if Wen Chao didn’t find me that day, didn’t throw me into the Burial Mounds. Would I have survived the battlefield?”

Lan Wangji does not reply, but the answer shines in his gaze like an open wound. At the time, all the four main sects— LanlingJin, GusuLan, QingheNie, YunmengJiang— had known that a war against the QishanWen sect was inevitable. The massacre of Lotus Pier had catalyzed the Sunshot Campaign, but even if Wei Ying had not been rushed to battle, he and Jiang Cheng would have independently sought revenge against the Wens.

How could Wei Ying, without a core, hope to fight with a sword and live in a cultivation war? How could Wei Ying have refused? His missing core was a secret kept for the grave. And even devoid of spiritual powers, how could he want to refuse? Perhaps Cloud Recesses had burned, but Lan Wangji’s brother had survived. His uncle had survived. He survived, and Wei Ying had even nursed his broken leg back to health. Apart from Wei Ying, Jiang Cheng, and Jiang Yanli, every single member of the YunmengJiang sect had been slaughtered.

Wei Wuxian gives a harsh chuckle. “I suppose I should thank Wen Chao for dumping me in that godforsaken place. For leaving me no other options. He extended my life expectancy.”

“I would have protected you,” Lan Wangji says at last. “If you did not have a method of protecting yourself.”

“Lan Er-gege, you’re so good. Do you know that?” Wei Wuxian smiles softly at the man before him. He rewards Lan Wangji with another feather of a kiss, a press at the corner of his lips. “But I wouldn’t have let you get close. You would have found me out in a heartbeat.”

“I—”

Wei Wuxian stops Lan Wangji with a finger against his mouth.

“At the time, Jiang Cheng was just beginning to rebuild the YunmengJiang sect. And he was so young. We all were. I couldn’t take any risks.” He holds one of Lan Wangji’s hands to his face, caresses the soft palm and presses kisses against the slender fingertips. After a beat, he exhales.

“You understand, don’t you? Why I couldn’t come with you to Gusu.”

Lan Wangji seems to have lost the ability to speak. Though his expression has hardly changed during their conversation, a pot of emotions bubble and lurch in his chest, thick and messy.

Wei Wuxian thinks that they're almost at a limit for such a fraught discussion. Still, if he gets all the words out now, clears out all the cobwebs of misunderstanding, then maybe Lan Zhan will let go of the notion that he could've possibly saved Wei Wuxian from an unavoidable downfall.

“I am glad, Lan Zhan, that you did not take a more determined approach. Even then, I liked you a lot. But I would have pushed you away. I would have hurt you even more than I already did.” At this Wei Wuxian pauses, squeezing Lan Wangji’s hand. “I liked you too much to let you seek your death on my single-plank bridge.”

Lan Wangji remembers. Get out, Wei Wuxian had uttered, repeatedly and incessantly, a low growl at his throat. His skin ran hot with fever, and Lan Wangji had bit back tears, desperately transferring spiritual energy into Wei Wuxian. It barely seemed to help. Wei Wuxian was weak, skin and bones, dark circles smeared like ink beneath his eyes. But he had enough strength to demand one thing. Get out!

“The truth is, I didn’t get dealt the cards for a long, happy life. And I made my peace with it, I really did.”

What he does not say, but Lan Wangji hears, is that he had accepted the ticking clock of the end of his life the moment he— a boy not yet twenty— watched the last tendrils of spiritual energy leave his body. When the surging tides of his power stilled into dead water, and a piece of himself, carved out of flesh and blood, took root and blossomed inside Jiang Wanyin.

“Tch, Lan Zhan, I can hear what you’re thinking. Disrespecting sect leaders is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses.”

“Mn. Not forbidden,” Lan Wangji grits out, face stony. For once, he resents his characteristic reticence. He holds a jar of jumbled thoughts and not a single word to express them.

Wei Wuxian knows what Lan Wangji must have looked like, when he first heard the truth about his core spill like blood from Wen Ning’s lips. He must have gazed at him the way he does now, with that mixture of shock, grief, and turmoil swimming in the amber of his irises.

He doubts that anyone, even Lan Zhan, will ever truly understand why he had made that initial decision, the one that kickstarted the tragic trajectory of the rest of his life. Because they didn’t hear the dying words of Madam Yu, slammed bone-deep into his chest: protect Jiang Cheng with your life. They didn’t watch Uncle Jiang openly chase his own demise, trusting Wei Wuxian with his only son.

They weren’t there to see the days of Jiang Cheng lying prone on Wen Qing’s bed, tatters of blood-stained purple hanging off his limp form, eyes blank and unseeing. Jiang Cheng, clad in the remnants of a sect with only three living members, a reminder of the revenge he couldn’t fulfill and the world he could no longer lead. Wei Wuxian would’ve given him anything then, to put the pride back in his stare and restore the anger that colored the lilt of his voice. He would’ve gladly given his life. What was a golden core? It was never even a question.

“I’ve made many mistakes in my past life, especially towards the end. But my core— that’s one decision I will never regret.” Wei Wuxian states firmly, nodding at Lan Wangji with intention. Lan Wangji replies with a barely perceptible sound.

“Wei Ying…” He trails off helplessly. What is left to say? Everything had happened more than ten years in the past. He cannot hope to alter the choices he had made, and neither can Wei Ying. Perhaps they would have always ended up here, Wei Ying in a foreign body and him in one marked by the scars born of his love. But if it ends with them together, no matter their shape or form, then Lan Wangji cannot bring himself to begrudge the path.

“Wei Ying, I love you.”