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[ interlude: 三十八 ]
Jan. 23rd, 2024 05:53 pmLan Wangji ascends the stairs to the second floor of the mansion with a small box in his hands, one that contains a pair of white jade and gold hairpins. They will look beautiful in Wei Ying's hair, and Lan Wangji will coil its silken strands around his fingers and tug just this side of too hard as he arranges that hair into something presentable for the sole pleasure of ruining it shortly after. When Wei Ying sees how much Lan Wangji likes that, he will relent and accept the absurdity of being presented with a gift for his husband's birthday rather than his own.
It would be impossible, Lan Wangji suspects, not to feel some compulsion to sink into his own thoughts on this day, the occasion of his first birthday in a place where the only reminders of home are one man and his own memories. It has never been a day of outsized significance. At most, his uncle would gift him with fresh sheet music for his qin or his brother would accompany him on a pleasant but quiet trip to walk along the waterways of Caiyi. There was the birthday where he received his courtesy name. 忘机: he understood it for what it was, a mark of approval but also a warning. Do not be like your father. Release worldly attachments. Do not want anything too keenly.
Naturally, he did not succeed. As a result of that failure, he spent thirteen birthdays hollowed out and cold. The first of those, he nearly did not notice, and would not have if Lan Xichen hadn't come to visit him that day, to help dress his wounds and encourage him to sit up so that one day he would regain the ability to sit at his qin and play.
He passed those thirteen years grimly, determined to make something of his loss. Once he emerged from his seclusion, there was A-Yuan, a wonder. There were calls for help, and Lan Wangji answered every one that came his way. He had missed opportunities to help while he was mired in sorrow, and he would make up for those failures. There were small, stubborn ways to honor the fallen Yiling Patriarch. Uncle had hated it when Lan Wangji taught his students to make use of spirit attraction flags. Lan Wangji taught them nonetheless. There was his brother, who could, at least, hear Wei Ying's name with an expression only of careful neutrality rather than one of fear or hatred.
Now, he has such bounty and from such unexpected sources that it hardly feels real to him. With every day that passes, he misses Gusu, but with every morning that comes, he feels Wei Ying's weight atop him and allows himself surprised gratitude to be here despite that. He has two rabbits in a wooden hutch, and he has hay and vegetables in his qiankun pouch to feed them. He has, impossibly, more than one friend. He has the promise of a celebration not of the Yiling Patriarch's death, but of his marriage to Hanguang-jun. These gifts have accumulated slowly, and none mark the day of his birth in specific, but he holds the warmth of them in his hands along with that little box.
He stops outside the door to his quarters. Wei Ying will be inside, and he will smile like the sun breaking through clouds, and he will not let go of Lan Wangji for the remainder of the day or night. He will be exactly as good as Lan Wangji wants him to be -- which is not very good at all. Lan Wangji never wanted to die, but it is a privilege to see continuing to live as a gift rather than a burden. He opens the door.
It would be impossible, Lan Wangji suspects, not to feel some compulsion to sink into his own thoughts on this day, the occasion of his first birthday in a place where the only reminders of home are one man and his own memories. It has never been a day of outsized significance. At most, his uncle would gift him with fresh sheet music for his qin or his brother would accompany him on a pleasant but quiet trip to walk along the waterways of Caiyi. There was the birthday where he received his courtesy name. 忘机: he understood it for what it was, a mark of approval but also a warning. Do not be like your father. Release worldly attachments. Do not want anything too keenly.
Naturally, he did not succeed. As a result of that failure, he spent thirteen birthdays hollowed out and cold. The first of those, he nearly did not notice, and would not have if Lan Xichen hadn't come to visit him that day, to help dress his wounds and encourage him to sit up so that one day he would regain the ability to sit at his qin and play.
He passed those thirteen years grimly, determined to make something of his loss. Once he emerged from his seclusion, there was A-Yuan, a wonder. There were calls for help, and Lan Wangji answered every one that came his way. He had missed opportunities to help while he was mired in sorrow, and he would make up for those failures. There were small, stubborn ways to honor the fallen Yiling Patriarch. Uncle had hated it when Lan Wangji taught his students to make use of spirit attraction flags. Lan Wangji taught them nonetheless. There was his brother, who could, at least, hear Wei Ying's name with an expression only of careful neutrality rather than one of fear or hatred.
Now, he has such bounty and from such unexpected sources that it hardly feels real to him. With every day that passes, he misses Gusu, but with every morning that comes, he feels Wei Ying's weight atop him and allows himself surprised gratitude to be here despite that. He has two rabbits in a wooden hutch, and he has hay and vegetables in his qiankun pouch to feed them. He has, impossibly, more than one friend. He has the promise of a celebration not of the Yiling Patriarch's death, but of his marriage to Hanguang-jun. These gifts have accumulated slowly, and none mark the day of his birth in specific, but he holds the warmth of them in his hands along with that little box.
He stops outside the door to his quarters. Wei Ying will be inside, and he will smile like the sun breaking through clouds, and he will not let go of Lan Wangji for the remainder of the day or night. He will be exactly as good as Lan Wangji wants him to be -- which is not very good at all. Lan Wangji never wanted to die, but it is a privilege to see continuing to live as a gift rather than a burden. He opens the door.
