[ open post: Lan Wangji and guests ]

[lightbearinglord]

In the wake of his disorienting and unpleasant stint in Gu Xiang's body, Lan Wangji has done his utmost to resume and enjoy all of his usual pursuits. He has, he believes, thoroughly made up for his lapse in his promise to Wei Ying. He has wielded kitchen knives, his ink brush, and Bichen with precision and enthusiasm. He has sunk into long, restorative shichen of meditation. He has, at Claudius' behest, thoroughly perused Emily Post's instructions regarding how to conduct oneself as the best man at a wedding.

There is the matter of his qin, too. The discovery of the spirit in Gideon's sword struck Lan Wangji with greater surprise than he might have expected. Such things were once commonplace for him; he hardly went two weeks, before he came to this place, without finding himself called to some night-hunt. He does not like to believe that he could become complacent, and he has always practiced diligently, but still.

The tableau is a familiar one: a certain parlor near the entryway of the mansion, one that often houses this particular cultivator along with his spiritual instrument. Wangji is balanced on a table at the center of the room, polished black wood gleaming and strings freshly tuned, and Lan Wangji sits cross-legged before it. He is not actually playing it at this precise moment, however, because he currently has guests. A small white rabbit sits next to the qin, munching his way through a piece of lettuce. An equally small brown rabbit is perched in the crook of Lan Wangji's elbow, eyeing his brother with some envy. Ostensibly, the rabbits are in trouble, because they have recently laid waste to Lan Wangji's copy of Emma. It is impossible to tell, because Lan Wangji is petting Danding's head with exactly as much solemn focus as always.

Comments

[sagramore]

"Christ, that's beautiful," softly, holding another leaf in his other hand for Xiaoxue.

[lightbearinglord]

One day, it is possible that this memory will wear thin for Lan Wangji, but such a day seems vanishingly far off. Thirteen years do not dissipate so quickly, nor do the preceding eight. He is briefly quiet, sitting with the thought of Wei Ying's new face, the familiar cleverness behind those unfamiliar eyes. It is easy enough to put his hands back to the qin and resume the piece.

[sagramore]

And, just as he did the first time, Sagramore listens quietly -- though the first time he was thinking of how he'd guard his heart against the trouble of love, and now he's thinking of his husband, and how he'd recognize him if had been lost. He thinks of the sicanje on Laertes' arm, and how it marks them as a family, with their fir trees and doubled stars; he thinks of the way Laertes looks when he's tousled and sleepy, when he's flushed with the pleasure of some new project, the light in his eyes when he looks at Szarka, the soft thoughtful face he makes while he's reading. He thinks of what an act of love it is for Laertes to be his master, and how much he wants to be Laertes' in return, and give him everything he needs or wants.

[lightbearinglord]

If Lan Wangji wrote this same song today, it might well be markedly different. He hears, when he plays it, the rough edges, the technical imperfections he could have smoothed out with another two decades of study, the desperation that overtook him as he composed it. He hears Wei Ying saying Lan Wangji! Wangji-xiong! Lan Zhan! and he hears Wei Ying screaming at him in a cave in Yiling, ordering him to leave, and he hears Wei Ying's new voice laughing over the words I'm much more attracted to people like Hanguang-jun. He would not change even one note, now.

It is less a performance, this time, as compared to playing for Claudius and Crowley. Sagramore did not ask this of him, and it is only the two of them, a moment shared with a friend. Still, there is no melody his hands know better than this one.

[sagramore]

It's so different from listening to Asmodean play, and yet that does spring to mind, inevitably -- but there must be something about the love song, or Lan Wangji's calming presence, because instead of feeling pained by the thought he just thinks about how much he loves Asmodean too, how it felt that first day to lie on the blanket under the tree and listen to him play the harp, and to feel for the first time in decades as if something new and good had happened to him. Sagramore watches the rabbits eat and listens. Everything will be all right, he thinks. He will learn to hate himself less, and Laertes will wait for him to learn, patient and loving as he always is, and in the meantime it will be all right.

[lightbearinglord]

Before too terribly long, it comes to an end. The qin is a quiet instrument; there is no especially grand finale, only the last notes echoing lowly throughout the parlor. Lan Wangji composed this song believing that he was sentencing himself to madness over one boy for the rest of his life, and he was right, but he might like to see the look on his own fifteen-year-old face if he could speak to that young man and tell him that one day Wei Wuxian would be in his bed every night, would yield to him in all the ways that he wants and defy him to the same standard, would kiss him through a smile several times a day.

Lan Wangji lets the silence creep in afterward, his own attention now on the happily-snacking rabbits.

[sagramore]

As the song ends, Sagramore smiles, watching the rabbits eat, before he glances up at Lan Wangji.

"In Camelot, I had a friend who played the rebec and wrote songs. His name is Dinadan. He's one of the only people I wish was here."

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji doesn't quite smile back at Sagramore, but the impression of warmth is there. "I hope that he comes for you."

[sagramore]

He lets the ends of the arugula drop, and leans back on his hands. "I hope he doesn't. He was perfectly happy with his lot. I don't think his fate needs to be changed the way mine did, no matter how much I miss him."

[lightbearinglord]

After a careful pause, Lan Wangji asks, "Your fate?"

[sagramore]

"Oh, I'm sure I was destined to die in the next few years if I had stayed. I was really miserable, and I was often alone. I always thought I'd be killed falling down the stairs drunk, or perhaps getting stabbed to death in some stupid quarrel, or-- something trivial, you understand. The man I loved most had done with me; I had nothing." He says it easily -- it feels bearable to say, now.

[lightbearinglord]

"Mn." Another pause follows, this one longer. The rabbits are polishing off the last of the arugula. "Then I am glad you came here instead."

[sagramore]

"So am I. I've never imagined being happy like this before."

[lightbearinglord]

Before Lan Wangji came here, he was happy. He recalls that happiness easily: he was married, a new and unbelievable boon; Sizhui was bright and promising and sweet, freshly exploring his ancestry with Wen Qionglin; his students were good, diligent and thoughtful even when they failed. The happiness of this mansion is less steady, and it is a happiness he could never have even known he might want. Dancing with Wei Ying without fear for any cruel eyes on them, playing weiqi with Claudius, Magnus' uncomplicated trust in him. These, too, are gifts of fate. "Nor have I," he says quietly.

[sagramore]

There are things he's considered telling Lan Wangji, now that they're friends -- things about himself he rarely shares, but which he knows Lan Wangji is unlikely to repeat, things he would tuck away as if within his qiankun pouch and carry forever. But the moment is so pleasant that Sagramore can't bear to. Instead he's quiet, watching the rabbits, and letting his happiness rest.