Work Text:
He first hears about it from the villagers. Walking through the marketplace, thatched basket hooked on his elbow, he’s weighing up two nappa cabbages – one in each hand – when hushed voices reach his ears.
“Did you hear? Old man Fong found another one when he was out foraging for mushrooms.”
“Seriously? This is the third time this month...”
“He said it was a field of chrysanthemums! If he hadn’t plucked some and brought them home for Aunt Yi, I never would have believed it myself.”
“It’s the middle of winter, just the other day my little cousin almost got snowed in. There’s no way chrysanthemums could flourish in such harsh weather.”
“Not to mention—"
The two women glance over at the mysterious white-robed cultivator, eyes widening before hurrying away.
Wangji places both cabbages into his basket, the telltale clink of bronze coins finalising his purchases. The two women had mentioned mushroom foraging, which often happened in the dense underbrush and ice-slashed rock cliffs nestled at the base of the mountain.
Chrysanthemum flowers in the middle of winter? He can almost imagine the fragile stems snapping under the harsh blasts of frosty winter winds. Absolutely ridiculous, a complete waste of resources. What kind of person would even bother with such a fruitless endeavour?
Wrapping the fur-lined cloak tighter around his person, Wangji drifts out of the marketplace, leather boots crunching atop freshly fallen snow.
Wangji ends up taking the scenic route home.
The late afternoon sun spills over the woodland paths, casting sharp shadows amidst the bluish tinge of frost as it climbs up, voracious, clinging stubbornly to ragged bark. Wangji brushes his fingers against the trunks, faint sparks creating intricate fractals as frosty flowers bloom from beneath his fingertips.
Oftentimes, Wangji would scour the land for nuts, berries and fungi, harvesting fresh produce for his meals. As a child, he remembers searching shrubs with a single-minded focus, ignoring the incessant background chatter that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He’d been taught since he was young - how to navigate the nooks and crannies of the mountainside, little pockets of adventure obscured by frosted glass.
Admittedly, a small part of him was curious. Who would go out of their way to plant flowers in the middle of winter?
Surrounded by bare-barked spindly figures dotting the steep slopes, scattered twigs and decomposing foliage blanketed with a dirt-snow sludge, Wangji’s white robes and stiff posture blends in with the frosty, barren landscape.
A field of chrysanthemums, they’d said. Wangji makes his way home along the frozen footpath, eyes peeled for anything unusual or unnatural. Overhead, clouds begin to gather once more, dusty grey smudged against the clear blue sky.
Up ahead is a stone bridge, curved over the frozen surface of a quaint freshwater river as it winds down from the mountain precipice. As a child, he remembers sifting through riverbed pebbles for the perfect skipping stone, the warm satisfaction burning low in his chest as the stone splashes and clatters to the other side of the river. Under the stone bricks, Wangji stoops down to pick one up, feeling the cool smoothness against the pad of his thumb.
That’s when he notices it.
Nestled between unyielding rock, a single bud blooms, tucked shyly against the foot of the bridge.
Like a golden core surrounded by a halo of pearly white, a single daffodil bashfully peeks out between raised slates of grey.
Reaching out, slender fingers brushing against quivering flower petals, Wangji frowns as he feels the familiar hum of spiritual energy, its golden warmth curling around his fingers before settling in his palm. It has been a long time since he’d felt the presence of another cultivator. Not many dared to venture so close to the ends of the earth.
Crossing the bridge with more questions than answers, Wangji travels the rest of the way home. His hand curls in on itself, almost involuntary. Chasing the ghost of a long-forgotten touch, as the last remnants of golden warmth slowly dissipating into the frost-covered aether once more.
After the bridge incident, Wangji begins to notice flowers in the unlikeliest of places. Vibrant purples tucked up inside the hollow chest of a weary fallen oak, specks of petalled gold carelessly scattered underneath rings of wide-brimmed mushrooms, striking splashes of vermillion squirrelled away from sunlight in the deepest corners of lichen-slicked caves. Every day without fail, a new flower seems to blossom from the frozen ground.
Wangji stares up at the budded vines climbing the harsh drop of a weather-worn cliff-face. His hand reaches out almost unconsciously, reaching out towards the vines as they hum softly with that same frustratingly-familiar spiritual energy. The leafy ropes seem to have a mind of their own, twisting and turning, casting patches of ice to imprint frozen fractals onto its leaves.
'Climbing hydrangeas…?' Scrutinising the green-tipped, unopened flowers, he can’t be sure.
In the distance, a waterfall roars as it tumbles over the edge in a white-foamed frenzy, as Wangji’s heart is continually, inexplicably drawn to these shivering unfurled buds.
The next time he visits the village market, the atmosphere has changed completely, transformed by the humid sweep of southern winds as they tousle and tug at bare-branched trees. Young maidens totter along, intricately petalled hair ornaments swaying with each step. Vendors hold up jars of wine, faces flushed as they holler out their wares. The whispers about a frozen forest haunted by flowers have been all but snuffed out, replaced by a jovial warmth of midwinter festivities as the villagers chatter and gossip…
...about some mysterious eclectic travelling merchant of many talents.
“The Yiling Patriarch? Oh, I’m not sure where he is at the moment...” The young lady manning the loquat stall blushes a pretty pink, “he comes and goes at the most unpredictable times!” A pause. “Umm... are you Young Master Lan by any chance? The patriarch mentioned he’s been meaning to meet you, so please come visit more often!”
Lan Wangji thanks the maiden for her time, leaving the storefront with a basket of loquats in hand. Yiling Patriarch... the title does not sound familiar. Yet they are familiar with him? The thought irks him somewhat.
With an arm full of groceries, and a head full of questions, Wangji heads home once more.
He’s meditating when he notices it.
Something’s tripped the barrier spell, the gentle chime of spiritual bells resonating in Wangji’s mind. An oddly familiar tickle in the back of his consciousness.
Wangji rises, slipping on his outer robe before hurrying to the East wall. Arm outstretched, he calls it up, sparks dancing along his forearm as spiritual energy thrums and gathers in his palm, golden eyes scanning for the intruder.
“Who’s there?”
A muted thump, a muffled curse. A pile of black fabric topples over the unyielding grey stone, puddling into an undignified heap in the snow. “Sorry, sorry,” the mysterious figure laughs, bright, loud, and sheepish, “I was travelling outside when the blizzard hit, and couldn’t find anywhere to rest! If this Young Master is kind enough to allow me to stay until the storm clears, I would be most grateful…” There’s a hint of a grin before the figure bows and almost faceplants in the snow. A dull clank of clay against clay as the stranger straightens once more.
Wangji’s brows tighten slightly. This person has something under his robes. “What are you hiding?”
“Oh! It’s Emperor’s Smile! I’ll give you a jar. As payment for letting me stay ‘til the storm clears – I’ve only got a few jars on me, so it’s precious, okay?” A rustle of fabric, before a clay jar of alcohol dangles between them, a peace offering of sorts.
“Alcohol is forbidden,” Wangji states.
“Oh really? What a shame, I guess I’ll have to keep it for myself!” The other man casually tucks the jars of alcohol back into his robes. “But… I can repay in other ways, young prince. I can cook and clean and tidy this place up! And decorate it too, there’s too much grey and white and not nearly enough colour.”
Wangji steps forward, hand stretched, palm faced upwards.
“Oh wait, did you change your mind and want Emperor’s Smile again? Sorry, sorry, that was a limited time offer, I’ve offered you my other services instead. Maybe you should – hey!”
Wangji’s palm glows electric blue, frosty fractals spidering up his arm. “Confiscating.”
The other man’s eyes widen. “Waitwaitwait! These jars of alcohol were gifts from the villagers back in Caiyi Town. Their hard work brewing it should be thoroughly enjoyed, not gone to waste! I won’t let you throw them away!” He wraps his arms around himself, cradling the clay jars as if it were his own beloved child.
Wangji sighs. “I will return them to you when you depart.”
A quick peek. His arms slowly unravel. “Mm... alright, but you gotta promise not to steal any for yourself, okay? Who knows what might happen if you get a little tipsy, Young Master!” He sniggers.
“Hmph.”
“Okay, okay, here’s the jars, there’s five of them, make sure all of them are kept well and stored somewhere cold – make sure not to break my babies!” He wheedles, drawing out the clay jars one by one.
Wangji dips his chin, slender fingers grasping at the well-worn rope handles as they dangle and dance beneath the other man’s outstretched arm. “Come.” Pristine cultivator robes brush against powdered white as light footsteps on stone leads the other man back to the jingshi.
The man’s name is Wei Ying.
“What do I do, you ask?” Tilting his head back, Wei Ying peers at him through the veil of his bangs. “Well, it’s not much of a story... I’m a travelling merchant, flowers are my trade!” With a flick of his wrist, the other man pulls out a peony, the graceful dip of its snow-white petals a sharp contrast to the cavalier way he waves it around. Beckoning Wangji closer, Wei Ying smirks before tucking it in his hair, fingers brushing against the reddened tips of his ears. “See? I’m good at my job – this flower suits you perfectly!”
Wangji‘s eyes narrow.
Wei Ying laughs. “Young Master, we’ve been living under the same roof for several days now. We’re very familiar with each other now, yes? After all, you’re my Prince Charming, rescuing me from the horrors of the snow blizzard.” He bats his eyelashes, blowing a kiss in his direction.
Wangji’s ears burn. “Shameless!” Ignoring the way his heart hammers in his chest, Wangji turns back to the scriptures in hand.
After the great fire, many scriptures had been damaged, from the light scorch marks licking the edges of scriptures, to drenched papers from the resultant extinguishment. The gentle crinkling of dried parchment fills the comfortable silence between the two. Only…
After a few more minutes, Wei Ying speaks up. “Hey, Young Master? I’ve been meaning to ask... you’re a cultivator, right?”
“Mm.”
“That’s amazing!” Wei Ying grins, eyes bright. “Could you show me your powers sometime?”
Another pause. “It is forbidden to expend spiritual energy in a frivolous manner.”
“Boo…” Pouting, he turns back to the blank parchment, twirling the calligraphy brush in hand. “Don’t you train though? I think I saw it etched on the giant wall earlier – ‘One must exercise the body and the mind. Oh! Why don’t we spar, you and I? I bet I could give you a run for your money. I’m stronger than I look!”
The other man peers at Wangji’s stern expression, cheeky grin tugging at his lips. A pause.
“So… What do you say?”
“…Ridiculous.”
The eccentric man sighs, slumping over the writing desk like he owns it. Loose tendrils of black scatter across the tabletop like careless brushstrokes, narrowly missing the ink-covered grinding stone. Seeing him like this, Wangji can’t help but feel a familiar twinge of annoyance.
It’s barely half an incense time later, when the other man breaks the silence once more.
“Hey, Young Master?”
“?”
“The truth is, I’ve been looking for someone.” The mysterious man rolls to one side, careful not to knock over the brush stand. “Someone uniquely talented, a performer of sorts. Someone who can share the stage with me. Who can steal the audience’s breath away.” A small smile plays at the other man’s lips, eyes bright, as if holding the sun’s warmth in his gaze.
He hears the question, the heavy insinuation weighing between them. A performer? Wangji shakes his head. “Best wishes in finding this special someone.”
The other man’s smile falters, before slender fingers curl around a spare calligraphy brush. And just like that, all traces of previous reluctance are wiped away. “Haha, thank you, I will! In the meantime… Mind if I draw?”
Wangji says nothing, returning to his scriptures with a single-minded focus.
As the washed-out sun climbs over the snow-kissed pagoda, the library pavilion is filled with the heady scent of freshly-ground ink against crinkling parchment.
It’s late in the afternoon when Wangji places his brush down.
He’s made satisfying headway into transcribing, the small pile of string-bound books stacked neatly on the tabletop. On any other day, he would be content with his progress, flicking through crumpled volumes in the fast-fading sunlight. Only…
“Young Master? Hey, Young Master!” A black blur perks up from behind an assortment of vases, before yet another sheet of paper is shoved at his chest. The man in question grins, rubbing his nose. “It’s you! Do you like it? If you don’t let me know, I’ll paint another one for you, until you’re satisfied, wait—”
“…” Even after the better half of a week, Wangji still finds himself lost for words. With purposeful movements, he unfolds the painting, golden eyes drinking in each brushstroke as it traces his visage.
“Well? What do you think?” Wei Ying lips quirk up in a self-satisfied grin. “I’m a pretty good artist, if I say so myself. Here, take this one as ongoing payment for letting me stay!”
It’s …oddly familiar.
Paintings were a medium for artistic expression, to capture a subject through the artist’s lens, subtle tweaks and hidden emotions blooming like flowers across a canvas. Looking at the painting, he feels a calm serenity through the mirrored figure in his hands, a soft tranquillity trickling through his slender fingers to settle deep within his chest. The white-petalled peony winks at him from behind the painted man’s ear. Wangji resists the urge to reach up and touch his own hair instead.
He’s talented enough, Wangji admits to himself as he admires the still-drying ink.
“It’s good, right? You didn’t look in the mirror earlier when I slipped the peony in, but like I said, it suits you!” A sharp grin, before the other man continues. “Next time, I’ll decorate your hair with something more sophisticated! Just one flower isn’t enough to bring out your beauty~”
Wangji feels a weird twang in his heart. What was that?
“…Ridiculous.” Turning away, Wangji strides out of the pavilion, without another backward glance.
“I know! I’ll make a— hey, wait! Where are you going! Young Master, wait for me…”
That night, Wangji dreams of the sun. Of too-bright laughter, the harsh scrape of metal against metal, the glare of sword light refracting across the library pavilion’s unscorched walls. Of countless scraps of shredded paper, dancing in the air like a furious snowstorm of crinkled petals as it snags in his hair and scatters across the bamboo mats.
“Lan Zhan! Look at the mess you’ve made!” a voice tuts, obnoxiously loud even as Wangji’s blood starts to boil. “Haha, this is your fault, all done by you, I’m not going to help you clean it up, no way~”
This person… how dare he… so shameless—!
Wangji’s mouth clicks open, and the words that leave his lips shake him to the core. Wangji can recite all 3000 rules off the top of his head. He knows his next remarks will violate several of his sect’s doctrines. But try as he might, he can’t stop the words from spilling out—
“Get lost!”
It’s been a week since the mysterious man had first pleaded for shelter, and the weather is much calmer than before. The furious howls from the blizzard’s snow-tipped maw have melted into soft, unassuming mewl. Even the skies, once heavy with grumbling grey, have petered off to wisps of silvery-white.
Wangji knows the worst has passed. The blankets of unswept snow seem thinner by the day, even as the rhythmic scrtch of twigs against stone echoes through the courtyard. The silent nights are interspersed with ghostly hoots as snowy owls return to their nests, swooping and scavenging through the frostbitten foliage.
The worst has passed. Yet his companion displays no desire to depart.
“Young Master, look over here!” “Let me grab that for you.” “Hand me a broom too, with two people, won’t the chores be done faster?” “This courtyard is huge, why don’t we let ourselves stay snowed in until spring melts it all away?” “Hm… Let’s make it a competition! If I finish first, I win, and you’ve gotta treat me to something good, okay?”
Several days in, Wangji has a revelation.
Being with the other man is not nearly as bad as he had initially thought.
And—
He wouldn’t mind if he asks to stay a little longer.
“I won!” the other man crows, broom slung across his shoulder like a spear. Surveying the snow-free courtyard, Wangji feels a warm sense of satisfaction as his companion whoops and cheers in delight.
“You won.” Wangji is nothing, if not graceful, when conceding defeat.
The other man grins up at him, low and smug. “Are you ready to fulfil my request?”
“…if it is reasonable.”
“Oh, it definitely is!”
Wangji holds his breath, and braces for the worst. What would he say? To build a snow fort and have a snowball fight? Carve his name into the stone walls with a rock and chisel? Watch as Wangji wears his robes backwards for a day? The possibilities are endless.
The other man surprises him yet again.
With a soft laugh, the other man scratches the nape of his neck. “I’d like to head outside the walls, with you.”
Going outside?
That’s it?
There’s a niggling feeling burrowing into his sternum. Is there a trick? Wangji can’t help but frown at the straightforward request.
“Hm? Hey, hey, don’t look at me like that,” the other man pouts, “so suspicious and accusatory. What? Did you think I’d ask you to strip or something?” At Wangji’s petulant stare, the other man breaks out into laughter once more.
Clutching his stomach, he gasps out, “Seriously? What do you take me for, some kind of pervert? It’s not like I haven’t seen you n—mmph!”
Ears burning, Wangji marches away.
“Mmph mmph mmgh mn MMPH!” If he looked back now, he’s sure the other man’s face must be stomping his feet, teary-eyed, flushed pink with frustration. The niggling discomfort has disappeared, replaced with a low, satisfied simmer. It’s not so bad, the occasional peace and quiet.
“—MMPH!”
A small smile plays on Wangji’s lips.
“It’s fr-freezing!” Wangji glances over at the other man as he furiously rubs his arms.
“Is it cold?” Being an ice elemental user, Wangji hardly notices the drop in temperature.
“O-of course it is! Young Master, save me, or you’ll have to drag me back into the compound as a completely frozen ice block— how would you feel about that? It’ll be a shame, losing someone like me to the elements, don’t you think? I’ll even haunt you, in your dreams, you’ll be hearing Young Master, Young Master echoing through the compound—”
“No.” Wangji turns around and settles his hand onto the small of the other man’s back.
“—what do you mean, no? No as in you won’t save me? Drag me back? Help me defrost after watching me turn into a giant ice block? Young Master, how heartless…” He fakes a sob, wiping at the corners of his dry eyes.
“It will be quiet.” Wangji soaks in the other man’s indignant expression.
“You, you, you—” A waggling pointer finger narrowly misses his face. “Wait a second, are you teasing me? You are, aren’t you?”
“…Mm.” The other man was rather entertaining.
“I can’t believe you! The Young Master? Teasing me? Oh heavens, strike me down, right where I stand.” Spread-eagled, he looks up towards the sky, as if expecting something to happen.
A few beats of silence.
“Well, what do you know? I guess the world isn’t ending. But! Watch your back, Young Master, I’ll have my revenge when you least expect it!”
The other man marches ahead, intent on leading their impromptu ‘expedition into the wilderness’. Only, Wangji has lived here his entire life, and knows the scraggly mountainsides like the back of his hand. He opens his mouth to say as much, but ultimately decides to stay silent and watch it all unfold.
As they venture through the snow, only a small fraction of flowers have survived the voracious blizzard, as it strips away the fragile petals, sapping moisture from the delicate bulbs as they quiver, anxious and neglected, upon this frosted, wintry stage.
“Young Master, look at this!” The man speeds ahead, tendrils of hair whipping around him as he pirouettes to beckon him closer. “Aiya, you’re so slow, come on, hurry up!” Kicking up plumes of snow, he hurries forward, trusting Wangji to follow close behind.
He can hear it now. The same waterfall he’d visited all those moons ago, climbing vines sprawled across the cliff face, with its illegible green-inked scrawl.
The other man is rocking on his heels, waving his arms like a madman. “Hurry up, come over, or else I’ll ah—”
No.
Oh no.
Wangji rushes forward, even as the other man falls over the ledge, head-first. He barely registers the pinwheeling arms before he’s calling up a nest of ice crystals, suspended in mid-air as his blade flashes silver beneath his feet, and he’s flying—
No, he can’t lose him here. Don’t let him out of your sight, something inside him roars, raw and desperate, get to him before it’s too late—
“—tricked you!” There’s a low snigger, and the other man’s lilting tone douses the deafening inferno of white noise with a single, lopsided smile. Wangji’s heart skips a beat, blood pressure falling to normal levels as he takes in the sight before him.
The eccentric man is sprawled atop a knotted hammock, green vines swaying even as the waterfall spits out clouds of shimmering dust which pitter-patters onto the spade-like foliage. He’s completely let his guard down, lazy smirk playing on the plant man’s lips even as he sits up with a slow wink.
“Haha, I said I’d get you when you’d least expect it!” Like a freshly-fed cat, he has no intention of moving. “Did that surprise you? It totally did, didn’t it? I told you I wasn’t useless, don’t look down on me, I can hold my own!”
Wangji says nothing, controlling Bichen to hover beside the other man’s waist.
“Hm? What’s wrong? Did it really scare you that much? Aw, look, come here, I’ll give you a hug, you can check to see I’m completely 100% fine! Wait, what are you doing, hey, hey—”
Pursing his lips, Wangji bundles the other man up in a bridal carry, lifting him off the bed of leaves in one smooth, practiced motion.
“Hold on tight.”
The other man’s clothes are damp, after being incessantly peppered by the waterfall’s yawning mouth. With how the other man’s arms loop around his neck, he feels a strange sense of déjà vu.
‘The fabric is rougher,’ a voice inside him whispers, ‘but he’s safe now, in your arms.’
Glancing down, Wangji drinks in the other man’s half-lidded eyes, his breathless smile, the way his fingers toy with the fine hairs hidden at the nape of his neck. Mine, says a voice inside him, and he’s startled at the ferocity of the claim.
‘He’s just a stranger,’ Wangji frowns inside, ‘yet why does it feel like I’ve done this before?’
It’s not until much later, that he realises. After changing into a fresh set of robes, dinner was an uneventful affair. The other man chatters on between bites as always, stuffing his mouth with rice and steamed cabbage like it’s his last meal on earth. ‘Are you a cultivator too?’ Wangji doesn’t ask, ‘those vines, did you place them there?’
Logically, he recognises it. Those vines had vibrated at the same frequency as that dew-drop daisy all those weeks ago. It resonates with his own elemental energy, and he finds himself double-checking for any unsolicited frost patches skittling along his skin. He knows he’s met other cultivators before, many years ago. But this unrepentant yearning, he’s never experienced it in all 3-and-a-half decades of his life.
'What is wrong with me?' Wangji senses, at some level, that something is changing.
And he’s not sure what it is.
That night, he dreams.
He’s absolutely drenched, completely soaked through. The bitter chill of high-speed winds siphons warmth from his clammy hands, as writhing tendrils of inky black water lash out at him, barbed ends hooking onto his off-white robes.
He’s on a sword, but he’s not flying up. He’s diving down, manoeuvring between deadly water whips to get at something, deep underwater.
His fist closes around a scrap of fabric. No, it’s silk, embedded with numerous talismans to keep the cloth afloat, fighting against the whirlpool’s insistent pull.
It’s the young man again. Faceless, nameless, Wangji’s pulse pounds as he flies them both to safety. Left hand clenched against the other man’s cultivator robes.
Is he breathing? Wangji checks for a pulse, listens to his chest. He presses his knuckles against the other man’s sternum – once, twice.
And pulls back when the other man splutters, lake water pooling at the corners of his mouth.
After a few shuddering breaths, the man beneath him croaks out, “Why did you pull my collar? Can’t you just hold onto me?”
Wangji’s left hand tingles at the memory. Averting his eyes, he states.
“I do not like to touch others.”
Cyclone Wei is a force to be reckoned with. It sneaks up on him when he least expects it— a whispered ‘Young Master’ tickling his earlobes, the shadow of a smile casting across the sunlit courtyard. It builds momentum with every skipped step, every teasing tug of his robes. The mysterious guest stops at nothing to drag Wangji into his games— “Who do you think’s faster, you or me?”, “Ah? You don’t think so?”, “I won, now let’s go outside!”
“—aster? Young Master? If you space out like this, we’re gonna starve tonight, you know?”
Wangji blinks twice. Bamboo rustles in his grip. There’s two dirt-speckled mushrooms nestled in the cloth folds, like a mother and child sheltering from the elements.
“Hurry up,” Wei Ying calls out, footprints threading through the dense foliage. “I won’t wait for you if you fall behind!”
Wangji peers down at the matching basket in his hands, before setting off after the other man.
“I’m actually a great forager,” Wei Ying announces, two incense times into their latest ‘expedition’. “When I was a kid, my mushroom-picking skills were second-to-none!”
Wangji notes how the other man sprinkles spiritual energy onto scattered spores when he thinks the other man isn’t looking. Did that count as cheating? (Perhaps.)
But when Wei Ying turns around, wide grin bursting at the seams, Wangji can’t find it within himself to point it out.
Wei Ying loves to play.
“Young Master? Young Master, turn around and look at this!”
Wangji indulges in the other man and is met with a face full of scattered flower petals. Blinking twice, he utters, “Wei Ying.” The other man starts at the sound.
“La—ah? What was that?” Petals lying forgotten in the snow, Wei Ying leans in, peering at Wangji’s frozen face. “Did I hear that right? I did, didn’t I?” He rubs his nose, “Young Master, you finally called me by my name— Aiyoh, and my birth name, too! Such familiarity,” an eyebrow waggle, “does that mean we’re friends now? It does, doesn’t it?”
‘Fr—?’ Wangji’s brow furrows. “Ridiculous.”
Like a blazing bonfire, nothing seems to dampen the other man’s mood. “Young Master called me by my name!!” he schools his face, mouthing the two words Wangji is now beginning to regret saying. “Just you wait, sooner or later, I’ll become your best friend! And then, and then,” Wei Ying leers, “I’ll wash your back, and you’ll wash mine! Wouldn’t that be great? You’ll finally get to see. All. Of. Me!”
There’s a scorching fire, flaming tongues licking at the tips of his ears. “Shameless!”
“Aww, Young Master, no need to be so shy. I’m male, you’re male, what parts are there to hide?” Wei Ying laughs, loud and boisterous. It rattles through the chilled landscape, like freshly roasted pumpkin seeds, tossed about in a metal wok. “I’m just teasing you, ah. Why are you looking at me like that?”
Wangji moves away, mindful of his footsteps. The other man sweeps up all the petals with a simple flick of his wrist, calling after him time and time again.
A little while later, Wei Ying pauses, mid-step.
“?” Wangji glances over at his frozen companion.
Wei Ying presses a finger to his grinning lips. “Shh!” He points to one side, eyes wide. Wangji reads the two syllables off the other man’s lips.
Rabbits?
There they are. Nestled at the foot of a tree trunk, two snow-white bunnies poke their heads out. Wei Ying’s face softens when he catches sight of their quivering whiskers, pink-buttoned noses twitching in the frosty air. But that glint— the way his eyes light up…
Wei Ying pounces.
It feels like déjà vu, watching the other man fall in slow motion. The skittish bunnies scatter like marbles, and all Wei Ying has to capture is a face-full of snow. Wangji watches as Wei Ying lies on the ground, unmoving. He resists the urge to poke at the other man’s prone figure.
Eventually, Wei Ying rolls to one side with a groan. “Young Master, why do rabbits hate me so? All I want is to pet them, but they always run away…”
Wangji says nothing, embroidered sleeves cradling a fluffy ball of fur.
“Wait a second,” the mysterious guest jumps to his feet, pointer finger accusatory. “What’s this? They run away at the sight of me, but flock to you in droves. Playing favourites now, are we?” Wei Ying’s voice drops half an octave. “Well, guess who’s having rabbit and mushroom stew tonight~”
“…”
“What?” Wei Ying pouts. “Serves them right for liking you more! Aiyah, alright, stop looking at me like that, Young Master! Maa, I guess we’ll have rabbit stew some other time, what a shame.”
Clicking his tongue, Wei Ying saunters off into the wilderness once more.
And Wangji? He sticks close, trailing after the other man’s fast-fading words.
“Well, what do you think?” The fruits (or fungi?) of Wei Ying’s labour fill his vision. There’s an assortment of dirt-dusted mushrooms, a handful of spade-like leaves, a grape-like cluster of baby potatoes, and a single carrot.
‘…a carrot? Where did that even come from?’
“Do you think this is enough?” Wei Ying shakes the basket again, “Should we head back? It gets dark so early, how do you deal with this?” He mutters to himself with a shake of his head.
Checking his own basket, Wangji “Mmn’s” in affirmation. “Good work today.”
Like a new year’s lantern, the mysterious cultivator lights up at the praise. Clapping his hands together, he cheers in earnest, “Young Master, we’re gonna have a feast tonight!”
“Mm.” Wangji nods. “It’s time to go home.”
Wei Ying loves to talk. He patches up their shared silences with a tapestry of stories and anecdotes, stitching and weaving tales into the fabric of their conversation with all the ease of a master seamstress. The way he speaks of his hometown is bursting with excitement; Wei Ying breathes life into the smallest of worlds and spares no detail. He speaks of sweltering summers, of sticky thighs and dripping cheeks as he digs into sliced watermelon with gusto. Of rustling leaves, verdant greens scattering into ombres of vermilion and gold, a forest set alight as fireflies flit over the lake’s mirrored surface.
“—and then,” he breaks off, giggling to himself, “the boat keeper bursts out, waving his broom! We dived into the pier to scoop up as many pods as we could,” he mimes stuffing them into his robes, “but we were practically sitting ducks, because of course, the old man’s got a boat, and it’s being pulled along by a water ghoul, of all things! So, we’re paddling away, but the little boat’s gaining on us, I could practically feel the wooden oar swipe at my neck—”
Wei Ying pauses, eyes wide.
“But, as I felt my life flash before my eyes, something wrapped around my waist. At that very moment, something was pulling us away— we were no more than fish hooked on a fishing line, dragged through the water at a break-neck speed—!”
Wangji’s brow crinkles.
“—at the end of the day, we managed to get away from the crazy farmer guy, loot and all! Those lotus pods tasted especially sweet,” Wei Ying sighs wistfully, “Young Master, did you know? The best lotus pods—”
“—still have their stems attached.” Wangji’s lips move on their own, as the other man pauses mid-sentence. ‘How unusual,’ he thinks to himself, ‘where did I learn that from?’ The line seems terribly familiar.
Wei Ying has resumed his rambling. “Yes! Lotus seeds are delicious, but pork rib lotus root soup? That’s what I looked forward to most, every night.”
And so, the rest of the afternoon is filled with idle chatter about spicy side dishes and flaking red bean pastries, as the two men head back home, side by side.
Wangji sleeps.
He dreams of greener pastures, soft grass rippling with each contented exhale of the spring-scented elements. Of a choir of white-ringed daisies, golden heads turned towards the East. Of sunlight, threads of warmth knitting around to drape onto his slender frame.
“Lan Zhan!”
Someone’s calling him.
“Lan-gongzi!”
Who is it?
He blinks as something is placed on his head. ‘Who…?’
“Lan-gege, I told you, I was right!” There’s a gentle pressure, cradling his cheeks. The mysterious boy continues, “These flowers are perfect— the baby blue definitely brings out the flecks of gold in your eyes!”
“Mmn.” He nods in agreement.
The other boy beams, reaching over to tuck away a stray strand of hair. “Besides,” his grin is infectious, and Wangji feels his eyes soften, “between the two of us, you’ve always been the one with the better memory, after all.”
‘W—'
Wangji wakes up to the subtle scent of grassy fields after freshly fallen rain.
“Finally!” Wei Ying crows, bouncing on the balls of his feet as Wangji sighs quietly. The mountain of items in his arms wobble, heart-stoppingly precarious, like a juggler with one too many balls. “Don’t look so worried. Young Master, I promise you won’t regret this!”
“Is this necessary?” Wangji has a feeling he’ll be regretting something very soon.
Wei Ying nods, “Of course! Young Master, I know you’ve been gracious enough to cook for the both of us these past few weeks, but wouldn’t it be fun to try some new dishes from across the country?” He dumps the stack of ingredients onto the table. He leans over, tilting the other man’s head up with the crook of his finger. “Well? How about it?”
Wangji sighs. “Okay.” After all, he’d lost to the other man in a quick game of marbles, with a twist. Who would’ve thought the “twist” was to play it blindfolded. 20 steps away. He’d spent the latter half of the game marvelling at the enigma of the man before him, as Wei Ying knocked out those blue-tinged marbles with pin-point accuracy.
“Truth be told, the food around here is so bland,” Wei Ying grins through teary eyes as he dices another onion. “I can’t wait until you try some of the dishes tonight, it’ll blow your mind— ah!” The knife clacks onto the chopping board. “I need some spice!” Without further ado, he starts to open and rummage through the cupboard like he owns the place.
Wangji watches as Wei Ying navigates the kitchen, muttering ingredients under his breath as he pulls out bag after bag of unlabelled dried herbs. The other man must have some hidden special ability, with how he tracks down every single spice in his kitchen— from cardamom pods to ground peppers. ‘I’m a master at finding things,’ he can hear the other man preen, rubbing his nose, ‘don’t believe me? Just watch and see!’
“—all done!” Wei Ying swipes his hand against his forehead. “Hmm… I guess I could work with this. Now that I have all your spices,” he winks at the other man, “I can finally begin!”
Wangji’s hand darts out to grab at the other man’s wrist.
“Ah? Young Master, don’t be so worried about my cooking—” Wei Ying protests.
Wangji shakes his head. “There is more.”
“?” The other man blinks, glancing at the hand on his wrist, before dragging his eyes back up.
“Come,” Wangji tries again. He starts making his way to the rear doors.
Wei Ying follows behind him, curiously silent.
The wooden door clatters to one side. The earthy scent of damp soil wraps around them both. ‘It smells like…'
Wangji steps over the wooden threshold first, before finally letting go of Wei Ying. His hand curls in on itself, almost instinctively, like a furled flower bud seeking residual warmth within itself.
“This is…” The other man walks forward, marvelling at the assortment of potted plants hidden in the room. “Amazing! Wow, look at how many plants you’ve got in here, Young Master, you’ve got a very impressive green thumb,” Wei Ying salutes. “Look at these!” His finger brushes against the delicate petals, “You’ve even cultivated orchids! They’re notoriously hard to grow.”
Something tickles in his chest at the other man’s eager gaze. “Wei Ying,” he calls out, crouching next to a plant he’s nurtured for over a decade. “Here.”
Wei Ying’s still staring at the other plants. Expression complicated, he asks, “How long have you had these for?”
For as long as he could remember. “Thirteen years.”
“…I see.” Wei Ying’s expression clears, before he latches onto Wangji’s arm. “So, what did you want to show me?”
Wangji steps aside to reveal the fruits of his labour.
“Fresh chilli?” Wei Ying’s eyes widen as the other man nods. “But you don’t even like—” he shakes his head, “How did you know that was what I was after? Thank you, Young Master!” Snip. Snip. Red peppers rain into the other man’s palm.
A nod.
“This is perfect.” Wei Ying brandishes his fistful of fresh ingredients. Twirling around, he announces, “And now, it’s time to cook!”
It’s different. The kitchen is filled with a cocktail of scents— the stinging fragrance of seven-spiced pork belly rumbles in a distant corner, whilst the blooming aroma of deep-fried fish spits flecks of oil onto the overeager chef’s borrowed robes.
Cooking beside the mysterious guest, Wangji attentively listens to every instruction Wei Ying gives. For someone who talks more than he sleeps, he’s remarkably apt at detailing instructions. It’s different to the four thousand rules carved into the compound’s wall, the rigid discipline engraved in Wangji’s bones. It’s a dynamic guidance, the way Wei Ying encourages him, “—yes, just like that! Slice diagonally, and then plate the pork just so—”, or “—try lifting the wok, flick your wrist, like this—”, or “—you’re doing great! I’m overjoyed, having such an efficient helping hand like you—", and it’s Wei Ying’s calloused hands on his, Wei Ying’s murmured encouragement washing over the impatient rattle of boiling pots and pans.
When the two of them finally settle before their table-spread of fragrant (foreign) dishes, Wangji notes the shocking swathes of vermillion alternating with more subdued hues.
“Young Master?” There’s a slice of spiced pork belly atop a bed of rice. Then strips of seasoned eggplants appear, glistening in the lantern-light. Next up is a deboned piece of trout, generously drizzled with soy sauce. Then a crispy stir-fried lotus root. Bite-sized pieces of every dish somehow ends up in his bowl, and Wangji watches as Wei Ying props his chin up with one elbow, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Let me know what you think!”
Wangji takes a bite of the eggplant. It’s a tad hot, a smidge burnt, but the smoky charred flavour only adds to the experience. With slow purposeful chews, he swallows and dabs his mouth with a cloth.
Wei Ying’s eyes never leave him. “Well? How is it? What do you think?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Don’t lie, I can tell!”
He takes another bite.
“Young Master?” his companion calls out.
Wangji nods. “It’s delicious.”
Wei Ying lights up at those two words. “I’m glad!”
Eating Wei Ying’s food reminds him of street-side food stalls. Of red-stringed lanterns, dancing in the breeze, as cool waves lap at aged wooden piers. Of bright laughter ringing through the steady haze of the marketplace, as dragonflies hover over pink-petalled lotuses. He polishes off every last dish, even as the spice numbs his tongue and turns his vision blurry.
It’s worth it. It’s worth it all, just to see the other man smile brighter than the stars.
“—wow, look at all this food!”
Wangji glances down at the table between them. There’s a colourful assortment of food, a vivid ombre of crimson and gold cradled within delicate porcelain plates.
“Aiya, Lan-er-ge, where did you find all these dishes? They’re spicy too, it’s so red, are you sure you’ll be okay?”
He shakes his head. “Not all spicy.” And it’s true. There’s a few side dishes—grated radishes and pickled plums settling pale-faced to one side.
A low hum. “Is that so…?” The other man pauses. “Oh!”
“?”
“Hehe, I found it.” There’s a piece of sliced pork held between two lacquered wooden chopsticks, looping through the air to dive-bomb towards Wangji’s half-closed mouth. “Hurry up, hurry up, say ahh~”
Wangji wakes up to the lingering taste of char-grilled pork, and the phantom press of warmth against his lips.
“Wow, this is amazing!” Wei Ying rocks on the balls of his feet, head sweeping left and right at the lantern-lit streets before them. It’s cute, the way the other man perks up, nose raised as he follows the scented trail to untold treasures.
“What would you like to eat?”
“Hmm…” Wei Ying totters over. “Why don’t we wander around, and grab whatever looks good?” He links their elbows together. “But everything looks good! Aiya, Young Master, what should we do? Something sweet? Savoury? Soupy? Fried? Oh! I know, how about something spicy?! I think I’ve got just the thing—"
Wangji walks alongside the bubbly man as they thread through the streets with the precision of a seasoned seamstress. His companion speaks enough for a choir of people, chattering away about whatever he lays his eyes on. Wangji is content to just listen.
He remembers visiting the marketplace, years ago. Loitering around the edges of the bustling town centre, he’d taken it all in— the blinding burn of too-bright lights, the crackle and pop of woks and fryers, the sweat-specked stall vendors brandishing dented cleavers as they hollered their wares. Even with the hustle and bustle of the villagers, he felt it was simultaneously too quiet and too loud. Like a roaring waterfall fading to white noise, leaving nothing but salt-spray in its wake.
But now…
“—Young Master?” Wei Ying’s face fills his vision. There’s a smatter of freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose, and it’s especially noticeable when Wei Ying grins, bright and loud. “I’m gonna get some food for us, so wait here for me, okay?”
Wangji nods. “En.”
When Wei Ying returns, he lugs over an armful of food. “Young Master, look what I found!” he babbles as he hands over a matching set of chopsticks. “Shumai! Xiao Long Bao! Crab sticks and beef skewers and, oh, there’s even a—"
Wangji finds himself plied with an assortment of dishes. He doesn’t even have time to lift food to his lips, because someone else is already there.
Pressing a piece of grilled squid to Wangji’s lips, Wei Ying’s grin widens. “Young Master, say ahh~”
When Wangji is half-way through his third beef skewer, he hears a familiar clink. “…”
“What?” Wei Ying holds the clay jar away from the other man. “We’re outside! Your wall rules don’t apply here. You can’t confiscate it, I won’t let you, besides, meat tastes best with a jar of alcohol!” Wei Ying rapid-fires, as if he’d prepared these responses decades ago. “It’s Emperor’s Smile, do you want a cup?”
Wangji shakes his head.
A shrug. “Suit yourself. That just means there’s more for me!” Wei Ying grins, before four more jars miraculously materialise from thin air.
“…”
“Hehe, surprised?” Wei Ying guffaws, “Aiya, Young Master, don’t look so unimpressed!”
“Drink responsibly.” Wangji confiscates three jars, ignoring Wei Ying’s indignant squawks. Dusting off his robes, he announces, “I will return with more food.”
Wei Ying waves his chopsticks, “See you! Ah, Young Master, bring me more alcohol, too!”
Wangji wanders through the streets, stringed lanterns pulsing with each step. Meat dishes, soup dishes, dumplings, and skewers… he sifts his way through, as his white fabric boots lead him to one of the rowdier stalls.
“Lotus pastries! Lotus pastries! Get yer lotus pastries here!” the store vendor hollers in his flour-dusted apron. “Fresh outta the oven, guaranteed to be delicious!”
Lotus pastries? Wei Ying had mentioned something about lotuses, a few weeks back.
“Lotus pastries! Lotus—Young Master, care to try one? I guarantee they’re the best in the prefecture!”
Wangji pulls out his coin pouch, worn floral fabric fraying at the seams.
“Two pastries, please.”
“Young Master, you’re finally back! You sure took your sweet time, haha.” Wei Ying grins up at the white-clad cultivator. “Too bad, I’ve polished off everything here, there’s not even a drop of alcohol left! Oh — did you buy some? More Emperor’s Smile?” Wei Ying giggles. “Haha, just kidding, a straight-laced cultivator like you wouldn’t sully themselves to cater for my expensive tastes. Well? Young Master? Did you bring back food, as promised?”
Wangji nods. “Here.”
“Mmmmm, it smells delicious!” Wei Ying’s eyes scrunch shut, breathing in the sweet aroma. Grabbing a piece, he grins. “Lotus seed pastries? I’m so touched you remembered!”
“Mn.”
A pause. “But you know what goes well with lotus pastries too? No, not tea, from where I’m from, we drink alcohol!” Wei Ying holds his hand out, as if waiting for something.
Wangji hesitates, before pulling out a single jar of Emperor’s Smile.
“Young Master, I knew I could count on you!” Wei Ying cradles the jar to his chest. “But, you confiscated three jars, why are you only giving me one back? My alcohol tolerance is crazy high, even if you buy out the entire store, who knows if I’ll get drunk! Ah, whatever.” Wei Ying uncorks the jar, lifting it to his lips. “Cheers.”
The freshly-baked pastry crumbles with each bite, but Wangji can’t bring himself to care about the state of his robes. Not when the man before him is licking his fingers clean, one by one.
“How is it?” Wangji asks, watching the other man’s face as he reaches for another piece.
He’s not sure if it’s just the trick of the light, or if Wei Ying’s eyes actually look a little bit misty when he replies, “Thank you. They’re absolutely delicious.”
Wangji softens at the other man’s tender smile. “You’re welcome.”
“Gah!” Wei Ying wipes his face with his sleeve, “It’s really been too long since I’ve last gone back down South. Getting emotional over a pastry of all things? I definitely need another drink, ah.” And like magic, he pulls another bottle out from his inky sleeves, emptying the entire jar before Wangji can snatch it from his grip. “Did you want to hold the empty jars for me? My oh my, Young Master, did you want to drink alcohol that badly?”
Wangji tucks the empty jar into his sleeves. “Confiscated.”
Wei Ying squints at the white-clad man. “But that one didn’t even have any liquor left inside? What are you— never mind.” Shaking his head, he reaches out, arms outstretched, as if begging to be carried. “Hey, Young Master?” Flickering lantern-light skitters along Wei Ying’s exposed wrists to lick at his sleeves. “It’s almost bedtime for you. Let’s go home?”
Wangji nods, just once. Pulling the other man up, he dusts off Wei Ying’s crumb-scattered robes. “Mm.”
‘Let’s go home, together.’
“Aren’t you cute?”
Wangji glances back at his giggling companion.
“No, you’re more than cute. You’re absolutely adorable!” A few golden sparks twinkle at Wei Ying’s fingertips, as the tulip in his grip shivers at his words.
“…”
“Ah, don’t be jealous!” Like a gentle gust of spring, Wei Ying flits over to the next patch of flowers. “I like you too. Those deep violet hues are fit for royalty, you know?”
“…Wei Ying.”
“But did you know?” The other man continues, oblivious to Wangji’s continuous calls. “I have a secret. A really big one!” He leans in even closer. “But I can’t tell you what it is, because a certain someone might overhear…”
Wangji watches as the other man wobbles about, “Wei Ying, you’re drunk.”
At that, the other man finally reacts. “I’m not, drunk!” He laughs at his companion’s unimpressed mien. Tiptoeing over, he pokes at Wangji’s cheek. “Well, I’m maybe a little bit tipsy. Huh. Who would’ve thought?”
“…Let’s go home.”
Wei Ying shakes his head harder than a wet dog. “Not yet. I’ve actually,” he pats himself down, “I’ve got something for you, where is it…” Humming to himself, he rifles through his clothes, before pulling out a cloth pouch. “Here it is— your present!”
“?”
“Oh wait, give me a moment—” He blows warm air into the pouch. “Okay, you can take it!”
Wangji admires the sachet in his hands.
“Don’t open it yet, I’m giving it to you now in case I forget later. Look at it after we’re back in the jingshi—”
Wangji nods. “Okay.”
“Good!” Wei Ying beams at himself, pleased, as he clambers onto Wangji’s back once more.
“Hey, Young Master?”
“What is it?” Wangji’s footsteps slow to a stop.
Wei Ying’s arms tighten around his neck. “Why won’t you perform with me?” He asks, voice small. “It’ll be fun, I promise. It might be out of your comfort zone, but I really think you’d enjoy it. I’ll show you a sight you’ve never seen before.”
Why doesn’t he want to perform with Wei Ying? The more he thinks about it, the harder it is to find a reason.
“I’ve been searching for that special someone for over a decade.” Wei Ying admits, “There’s no one better for the role than you. And before you say something like ‘not true’, I’m serious! Because, from the beginning ‘til the end of time, it’s always, always been you.”
Wangji feels the other man nuzzle against him. “Wei Ying,” he starts, but the other man isn’t listening, because—
Bathed in the silent shimmer of frozen starlight, Wei Ying starts to hum.
It’s a soft melody, which crests and falls like the changing of the tides. Airy and light, it’s gentle in its lulling tune. Listening to it reminds him of warmth. Of bright maple leaves rippling atop slumbering lakes. Of snow-dipped rabbits, tussling in the snow.
But hearing the song makes something inside him twist. He knows it. He knows this melody but he doesn’t know why and all he feels is an unrepentant yearning—
‘—don’t fall asleep on me, don’t close your eyes just yet, stay awake, stay awake, please—’
Under the sparse silvery wash of the crescent moon, everything fades to silence.
With Wei Ying’s face buried in his hair, and nought but the steady crunch of boots against snow, Wangji makes his way back home. It’s quiet, and the dense atmosphere weighs heavier on him than the full-grown man on his back.
If there’s a dampness on the nape of his neck, he says nothing.
At night, Wangji dreams.
‘It’s warm.’
Sunlight filters through the lush canopy, casting mottled nets onto swaying grass. It drifts to the beat of rhythmic clops, of swishing tails and soft laughter as the man in front tilts his bamboo hat.
“Hey, do you remember?” The other man turns, gaze bright. “That song you sang all those years ago, back in that cave. What did you call it? Wangxian? Haha, what an original name.” A low chuckle. “Why are you looking at me like that? I really liked the song, but for the life of me, I can’t remember exactly how it went again…” He hums a few notes, which dissipate like dragonflies in the late summer haze. “Was it like that?” He scratches his neck.
“…”
“Aiya, what’s with that face? If it’s wrong, why don’t you correct me, Lan-er-ge? Or better yet,” He taps his chin, “play it for me again! On your guqin! How does that sound?”
Wangji sighs, before reaching backwards, fingers brushing against lacquered wood. “I will play.” After all, it’s not the first time the other man has pulled this stunt.
As the first few strains of their song resonate in the space between them, his eyes slide shut at the familiar melody. It’s something he’s held onto for years now, through the yawning darkness of midnight to the whispered frost of dawn. It’s precious, it’s special, and it’s theirs.
The notes cascade from the instrument in his hands, drop by drop as he strums his fingers against the metal strings. He’s barely halfway through, when a second sound jumps into the fray.
Wangji looks over, a silent question.
The other man quirks an eyebrow, as if saying, ‘Doesn’t the song sound better, with two?’
And it does. The airy trills of the other man’s flute injects life into Wangji’s soulful strings. It chases after the guqin’s restrained reverberations, as if calling out, ‘Catch me if you can!’
Wangji’s lips soften at the other man’s teasing vibrato.
Fingers on his strings, Wangji’s heart responds with a tremolo of his own.
Wei Ying is gone.
Wangji wakes up to an empty jingshi. A silent compound. There’s no muffled laughter, nor startled yelps, no mumbled ‘mmnn… ‘s too early… wake me up later…’ beside him.
‘Isn’t this what you wished for?’ A traitorous voice whispers in the back of his mind. ‘Peace and quiet, just like before.’
“Mm.” What’s that sinking feeling in his chest? He’d known from the very beginning, that Wei Ying’s presence was temporary. Combing his hair, Wangji ties on his forehead ribbon, and goes about his daily routine.
Sweeping the floors, clearing the courtyard. Buying ingredients from the marketplace.
It’s the same as it’s always been. And Wangji knows it.
But when he flips open the documents he’d been transcribing over the last week, an origami butterfly flutters to the ground. Pressed flush against his brushstrokes, half-written phrases adorn the paper creature’s wings.
“—Young Master! Look at all these paper animals, which one do you like most? Oh, let me guess, it’s the rabbits, am I right? Here, take them all, I folded them just for you. Even if you don’t want them, I’ll hide them in literary scrolls when you’re not looking, and you’ll find them decades later, haha. Hey, wait—”
Wangji picks up and tucks the single butterfly into his sleeves.
“Wei Ying.”
The compound has always been the same size. The blankets of snow covering the courtyard are thinning as the first sprouts of Spring draw near.
Scrtch. Scrtch. Scrtch.
As Wangji sweeps the courtyard with practiced strokes of his broom, he takes in the mottled patchwork of grey and white.
“I’ll decorate the place if you want me to, Young Master! I was serious before, you know? This whole place is so monotone— there’s not nearly enough colour!”
He’d been living alone in this compound for as long as he could remember. He’d memorised every nook, every cranny of his stone-paved abode. He knew exactly how large the place was, and yet…
‘Since when did it start feeling this empty?’
{If he finds himself buying enough ingredients for two, he says nothing.}
{When the stir-fried vegetables come out a bit redder and more burnt than usual, he says nothing.}
{When he spoons out two bowls of rice, instead of one, he says nothing.}
“Young Master! It’s barely been a day, don’t tell me you’re missing me already?”
‘Wei Ying is gone.’
Wangji tells himself as he closes his eyes to rest. The overpowering aroma of sandalwood curls around him like a scented cocoon, his only companion in this room. It weighs heavy on his eyelids as they drift shut, unheeded.
Yet, amidst it all, Wangji senses something different. A whiff of sweetness mingles in the sea of sandalwood, a soft cry of attention. ‘Where?’
Pulling back the covers, Wangji tracks his way to the single floral sachet nestled in his robes.
The present.
“Look at it after we’re back in the jingshi,” a familiar voice teases. ‘So impatient.’ He can see the words dancing in the other man’s eyes.
‘I’m not impatient,’ Wangji doesn’t respond. Actions speak louder than words, after all.
But now, Wangji is alone in the jingshi, as requested. He plays with the navy tassels, feeling the steady thrum of spiritual energy inside the mysterious cloth sachet. If he opened it, what would happen?
“Well,” the same voice huffs, “there’s only one way to find out.”
Flowers. Dozens of them, scattered across the floor of the jingshi like it’s a wedding procession — vibrant yellows and pastel pinks infusing the wooden walls with a distinctive floral scent. It looks like a blizzard’s torn through the place, with how streamers of climbing ivy cling to the rafters as violet petals settle in his hair.
Looking at the mess, Wangji feels his eye twitch. He can almost hear the other man’s guffaws echoing through the compound. The waggling finger, and the accompanying, “Got you there!”
A soft crinkle. ‘When did this get here?’ Wangji wonders to himself, picking up the folded parchment. There’s a cute doodle of a donkey chasing an apple on the front, and Wangji’s chest loosens at the sight.
As he reads the words in black and white, his gaze draws downwards to the final signature. In lieu of their name, a single blue flower sings at him in a way none of the other flowers do.
The same familiar spiritual energy emanates from the delicate blossom.
(Sunlight. Warmth. Happiness.)
Against his better judgment, Wangji presses the letter to his lips. Unasked questions rattle in his mind to tickle at his throat.
Yet, no matter how much he asks, the other man is not present to give Wangji an answer.
‘Why do you want me to perform with you?’
‘Why would you leave me forget-me-nots?’
And:
‘Why does this all feel painfully familiar?’
Weeks pass by.
Thick frosty blankets of snow dwindle by the day, dissolving into crystal mirrors as they shine bluer than the skies above. The wooden twist of (tree) branches grow livelier every morning, as white-flecked partridges chirp and chatter, darting about to peck at sprigs of sprouting greenery. Curling ferns peek from beneath the shadow of aged oaks, delicate fronds waving at passers-by, bashful yet eager to please.
Wangji makes his way through the defrosted woodlands, white robes spotless even as he digs around for nuts and fungi. He snoops by rings of mushrooms, ignoring the ‘Young Master, look what I found?’ that echoes with every rustled step. Dusting off grains of dirt, he closes his eyes at the other man’s insistent tone. ‘Young Master, I’m a master forager, you know? When it comes to mushroom-picking, if I’m second, no one would dare claim to be number one—’
The same voice follows him into the marketplace.
<< “Young Master, Young Master!”
The other man waves his arms around, uncaring of how ridiculous he looks, sleeves flailing in the middle of the street.
‘Look at this!’ He holds up two round orange fruits, one in each hand. “There’s persimmons— I haven’t had one in so long, did you want to share one with me, take a bite?” Wei Ying grins, eyes bright. “Oh wait— before we buy some, I have a really important question for you.”
“?” Wangji waits for the other man to continue.
Wei Ying takes that as an invitation to creep closer. “Say, Young Master,” he leers, waggling his eyebrows, “how do you like them? Soft. Or. Hard?”
“…”
“Hahaha!” The same man doubles over, eyes scrunched shut. “Your face! Aiyo, that was priceless, okay, I’ll stop, I’ll stop teasing you now. I was gonna buy both anyway.” Then he puts back both persimmons, and extends out a hand, as if waiting for something.
Clink. Wei Ying’s eyes light up at the copper coins in his palm.
“Thank you, Young Master!”
A little while later, Wangji hears the other man sigh to himself.
“Ahh...” the same man pouts, “Truth is, I really wanted to eat apricots… such a shame they’re not in season. But persimmons are orange too! So, I guess they’ll do.” >>
Wangji’s fingers trace the fuzzy apricot skin. Wei Ying liked these, didn’t he?
Glancing up at the store vendor, he nods. “I’ll take one basket.”
‘If I keep apricots at home, will you come back and eat some?’
Walking back is an uneventful affair. Every time he returns from the marketplace, the scenery seems a little bit brighter. The chilly wash of winter sunlight gives way to warmer hues as they dance along bud-specked trees. Shivering saplings peek out, as if trying to say hello.
<< “—Hello there!” Wei Ying bounces over, ungloved fingers tracing fragile stems. “You might be frightened by how big the world is right now,” he whispers, low and conspiratory, “but, you know what? One day, you’ll grow as big and tall as all those trees around you! I’m sure of it.”
It’s quite endearing, how the other man talks to plants as if they’re his own children. He waters them with words of encouragement, dousing them in the endless warmth of his soft, secretive smiles.
As if the other man senses Wangji’s eyes on him, he straightens up, and dusts himself off. “Well then,” he grins, devastatingly bright, “shall we go?” >>
As a child, Wangji had been aversive to touching others. Back when his powers were yet to be controlled, sparks of ice energy would skitter and land at the slightest point of contact.
“Mama,” he calls out, “Mama, when I touch the flowers, why do they all turn black?”
‘I don’t want to hurt anyone,’ his gaze turns downward, ‘and people don’t like it, because it’s too cold.’
<< “The cold?” Wei Ying parrots, “I like it! It’s cool and refreshing, just like you~” He sends a sultry wink in Wangji’s direction.
Wangji’s ears heat up. “Wei Ying—”
“Yes? That’s my name.” The other man glances up from the book he’s reading. “Ahh… Being cold all the time, must be lonely, hm?” He closes the book, tapping the spine against his chin. “Oh! I know!” Reaching over, he grabs Wangji’s wrist in his grip. “Come here for a moment.”
“What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” The other man gazes up at Wangji, eyes soft. “If you ever feel cold, come to me! I’ll help warm you up. It’s not like you’re allergic to human contact or something, so it’s fine.”
Wangji feels out of place, straddling the mysterious man’s lap. “I don’t—”
“You don’t what, hm?” Wei Ying pulls the other man closer, arms looped around his waist. “Stop being such a stick in the mud all the time, Young Master. It’s just the two of us here. We’re already so close, aren’t we?”
It’s absolutely ridiculous. Their position is frankly outrageous, if anyone else saw them in this position, they’d surely think—
‘But it’s just the two of you, here. What’s the harm?’ A traitorous voice whispers in the back of his mind.
Truth be told, it’s comfortable. The sputtering flame from before has grown into a blazing bonfire, as Wei Ying shifts beneath him to thumb at the novel’s pages. The other man smells …nice. Like the first dewdrops of dawn, sprinkled in a meadow of daisies.
(It’s nice.) >>
When Wangji returns to his bedroom, he hesitates, before pulling out Wei Ying’s letter.
It’s become a habit, almost. Another step in his daily routine. Reading the wild cursive of the other man’s calligraphy, of the date and details of what is to come.
‘On midday of the Spring Equinox, I’ll be in the marketplace! Come find me.’
Wangji traces the delicate embroidery of the ceremonial robes Wei Ying had left behind. The instructions were rather succinct, for someone who liked talking as much as he did. As Wangji folds the letter back up, Wei Ying’s final words ring out in his mind, clearer than crystal.
‘And don’t forget to bring your sword!’
“Young Master!”
Something barrels into him from behind. Black wisps scatter across his vision, and Wangji blinks twice at the sudden heaviness in his arms. “Wei Ying.”
“Hehe, it’s me! I’m surprised you managed to remember my name, ah,” the other man teases, “I was worried you’d forget about me during the months we were apart—”
Wangji shakes his head. “I won’t forget.”
“Sure, sure,” Wei Ying waves it off, “but anyway, I managed to get some of the villagers to help us out! Aren’t they kind? Young Master, I know you’re beautiful and all, but your dress code leaves much to be desired. Did you bring the robes I left you?”
A nod.
“Okay, great! I’ll let these lovely ladies tend to you while I go change into my own clothes,” the other man bids Wangji farewell. “I’ll see you later!”
Then he’s gone.
Wangji finds himself seated before a bronze mirror, as the two attendants chatter behind him. They tug and prod at his hair, wooden combs snagging on invisible knots as they spray scented mist into his face. There’s an assortment of accessories scattered on the dining-table-turned-makeup-cabinet, baby blues and shimmering silvers sparkling in the sunlight.
“—the poor man,” the first woman murmurs as she fixes Wangji’s headpiece in place. “He’s been searching for his beloved for over a decade!”
“Right, right,” the second lady nods, hairpieces jangling at the movement. “The Yiling Laozu himself, hiking through all four corners of the earth, looking for a way to bring back his beloved’s memories. It seems like he might’ve finally found a cure!”
“Ahh,” the first woman sighs, “I hope it works out for the young man! I heard from A-Zhu —you know, the baker’s daughter? — that their story was endlessly tragic. She’d heard from him directly —after one too many drinks, you know how he is— that he had to track down a witch to reverse the curse!”
“A witch?!” the other lady gasps, fanning herself. “The price must’ve been terribly heavy.”
“I believe so,” the first woman’s eyes seem downcast. “But you know how he is. There’s no price too heavy for his beloved, after all.”
Wangji listens in, the furrow between his brows deepening at every word. ‘A curse? Memory loss? A heavy price to pay?’
The silky whisper of ceremonial robes cascades over his limbs, gentle like a lover’s caress. As he stands up, he catches his own reflection in the mirror. He takes in the delicate embroidery lining his sleeves, the carefully curated eye mask covering his features, the intricate stitching painting countless snowflakes on his person —
<< “—Young Master! I knew it. These flowers really suit you – they bring out the golden flecks in your eyes.” Wei Ying steps back to admire the impromptu flower braid. “Wow, I really am the best at this. Wait here, just a moment, I’ll make you a crown as well—” >>
When Wangji takes in his figure, one thing stands out.
‘These robes are a forget-me-not blue.’
Lan Wangji finds himself alone on an elevated platform. The spring-scented breeze nips and tugs at his robes like an overzealous puppy waiting for food. Below him, there’s a steady buzz, climbing louder with every passing heartbeat.
His surroundings seem familiar, yet not. He’s walked through the town square countless times on his way to the morning markets, but today is special in a way all the other days are not. Every single villager is present: from dust-covered farmers to round-bellied innkeepers, hundreds of civilians line the streets to fill the plaza-turned-stage. There’s a palpable tension buzzing in the air. ‘Where is it? When will it start?’ He can feel his pulse thrum in earnest.
Tha-thump.
Tha-thump.
The ceremonial drumbeat thrums in his veins. ‘Play the protagonist,’ he feels someone whisper, ‘protect what you love, defend where you stand.’
Tha-thump.
Something’s coming. Someone warm and familiar and it’s flying towards him from the heavens themselves—
Bang!
The flurry of flower petals dissipates to reveal a black-clad man. There’s something dangerous in his step, something savage in his gaze, a cocktail of desperation and desire swirling amidst the shades of grey.
“Sorry I’m late,” Wei Ying laughs, low and sonorous. “Are you ready?”
The masked man swings his blade— back and forth, he slices apart paper ribbons, leaving them to flutter uselessly in the air. He’s experimenting, hefting his blade, watching Wangji’s unmoving figure as he advances, step by step. Around them, the crowd starts to cheer— drumming their feet and clapping their hands in a cacophony of noise. “Defeat the demon!” some little boy hollers, waving his tiny fists in the air.
Wangji narrowly avoids a whistling blade as it slices the air where his head once resided.
‘Young Master,’ the other man’s smirk is all sharp edges and honed blades, ‘if you don’t concentrate, you’ll lose.’
Wei Ying continues to advance. His swordsmanship is …unconventional. It seems like a patchwork of different styles— one moment, he’s leaping forward, slashing downwards in a mad frenzy, the next, he’s side-stepping all of Wangji’s blows, each strike missing by a hair. He switches up his footwork, too; the way he blocks and parries makes Wangji feel like he’s been read like an open book.
Through the mask, Wei Ying’s eyes seem to glint in challenge. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ rings between them, silent but understood.
Wangji steps forward, robes billowing as he brings his sword towards the other man’s face, but the answering clang of metal-against-metal never comes. Instead, he feels something tug at him, flinging his sword skywards as Wei Ying smirks at Wangji’s shocked expression.
‘String?’ He frowns. ‘No, it’s more than that.’
Wei Ying advances again, but the longer they spar the easier it seems to become. Wangji’s reactions against the other man’s unpredictable strike sequences now flow like second nature. His blade’s there before his mind even registers what’s happening.
‘I’ve done this before.’ The thought drifts through his mind like an untethered ghost. ‘I’ve fought this man before, but when?’
They’re dancing. Give and take, parry and slice, the way the other man’s shallow breaths encourage Wangji to go faster. Strike harder. Defeat me, if you dare.
When Wei Ying leans in close, mask glinting in the sunlight, Wangji’s heartbeat echoes in his ears. Something’s falling, spiralling deeper into the silvery outlines of the other man’s eyes as Wangji’s breaths quicken at the sight. There’s the sharp sound of something shattering in the background, spilling onto the pebbled sidewalk. ‘Clay?’
There’s a glimmer of something in the other man’s eyes. And then—
Flowers. Wei Ying’s calling up a flurry of flower petals, and it’s all Wangji can do, to call up a matching volley of ice. The other man jumps off the platform, onto his pastel pink foothold. A multitude of multicoloured petals rain down, sweet-scented as the crowd below them gasps in awe.
‘Catch me if you can,’ the other man’s gaze seems to say. ‘I’m here. Reach out to me. Grab my hand, before I disappear.’
Wangji calls up his own cloud of ice crystals. They hold their position, suspended in midair, blocking Wei Ying’s furious storm of—
…Forget-me-nots?
The blue-petaled flowers rain down upon the crowd. Wangji grabs at the other man, fingers latching onto the other man’s ribboned mask. He pulls at it, to bring Wei Ying closer, but the frigid glare he gets in return makes his stomach twist. Wrenching his head back, he feels something loosen as his vision blurs.
<< “Get lost.” Fiery flames lick at the other man’s blackened robes. His eyes glow red (why red? How did this happen?) “Who said we’re close, anyway?” A sharp bark cuts deep into Wangji’s trembling heart. “We’re too different, you and I. Hanguang-jun, aren’t you the bearer of light? Why are you reaching towards a shrivelling weed like me?”
“Wei Ying, I—”
“Don’t call me that.” The other man snaps. “We’re not close.”
Wangji tries again, “Listen to me, Wei—” >>
—Wuxian.
Wangji mouths the two syllables, as both silver masks clatter to the ground, one after another. There’s a growing roar thundering in the crowd below, but Wangji hears nothing. He feels nothing, sees nothing, smells nothing. It’s like he’s simultaneously dissociating from the material world, and re-entering his own.
“Lan… Zhan…?” The other man, Wei Wuxian, no, his husband, tests out the two words on his tongue. “I’m.. I can finally… Lan Zhan—!”
“Wei Ying.” Those two words had always felt right, rolling off his tongue. He tries it again, and again, but now, more than warmth, it brings an unforgettable sweetness to his lips. “Wei Ying.”
‘I’m here.’ Bichen returns to its sheath, as Wei Wuxian throws himself into Wangji’s arms, droplets of silver pooling at the corners of his eyes. Wangji blinks reluctantly, feeling something slide down his cheeks. ‘Tears?’
Wei Wuxian shakes in Wangji’s embrace. “You’re finally— I can— you idiot, who told you to sacrifice yourself for me?”
Wangji shakes his head. “Losing my memories is nothing.” He’d give anything just to see his husband, alive and well.
Thump. A balled fist slams over his sternum. “Lan Zhan,” the other man sniffles, “do you know how long I searched for a cure? This isn’t even the first time I’ve tried something similar. Every year, your memories reset on the night of the goddamn Autumn Equinox.”
“I’m… sorry.” Watching Wei Wuxian’s face scrunch up from over a decade of pent-up emotions, he feels something unravel inside him.
“Sorry? Do you think just a sorry will cut it? Besides, ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’, there’s no need for those words between us. Did you forget?” His husband grumbles through his tears. “If you’re trying to comfort me, you’ll have to do better than that.”
Wangji reaches forward, cupping the other man’s cheek. “Wei Ying.”
His lover finally lifts his head, gaze fuzzy. “Wh—"
Wangji leans in, pressing their lips together.
(It feels right.)
Of course it does.
Wangji tastes warmth on his tongue, in the shape of late summer afternoons and fresh lotus pastries. It’s devastatingly addictive, thawing his frozen fingers and caged heart. It speaks to him, with its too-bright laughter and liquor-flushed cheeks.
Loving Wei Wuxian has always felt right.
‘It’s you. It’s always been you.’
There’s a legend in CaiYi town. It speaks of two cultivators— one colder than frost, the other blossoming with life. It talks of a star-crossed fate. Of curses and cures, of witches and civilians alike.
Once upon a time, there was a cultivator who travelled the skies and seas to search for a cure for his beloved. He’d tried everything— from floral teas brewed from the Thousand Leaf Cleansing Snow Lotus, to herbal remedies ground from sun-and-moon-dew seeds in Bailu Forest. Nothing within the realm of humanity had worked.
But what if his lover could be saved by a god?
‘You must trade his life for something of equal value.’
‘Equal value? I’ll offer anything. Take my life, if you will.’
‘Your life?’ The Being scoffs. ‘There’s something you value more than your life, young man.’
There was once a young cultivator who sacrificed his memories to save his beloved.
Who would’ve thought he’d be saved with a song, a performance, and a few jars of Emperor’s Smile?
—BONUS POST-CREDIT SCENE—
“Lan Zhan!”
Wangji turns around at the other man’s voice.
“Lan Zhan, look over here!”
Wei Wuxian jumps up and down, pointing at something down below.
“Hurry up, come quick, or I’ll leave you behind!”
Wangji frowns. “Wei Ying, what are you doi—”
“Too late, I’m heading down first!” The other man runs, no, charges off the cliff with a loud, resounding whoop! There’s the familiar rustle of leafy vines, thick twining ropes knitting a sturdy net mere moments after Wei Wuxian’s feet leave the ground.
“…” Wangji pulls out Bichen, hovering downwards towards his wayward husband.
Wei Wuxian bounces on his makeshift hammock. “Lan-er-ge, come here, take a look!”
Wangji settles onto the matted foliage. “Where is it?”
His eyes trace the other man’s pointed finger… to land on the cliff-face they’d just jumped off.
“?”
Wei Wuxian sniggers. “You know, back when you still couldn’t remember anything, I left a ton of clues everywhere for you! Even though I couldn’t say your name, or write it, or mention it, or—anyway. Did you ever stop to look at all those hidden messages I’d scattered across the mountainside?”
Hidden messages? “The daffodil. Under the bridge.”
The other man lights up at Wangji’s words. “Yes, exactly! I wasn’t sure you’d find them all.”
Wangji glances at the cliff face. “This is a message?”
Wei Wuxian pouts. “Of course, it’s a message! Aiyoh, do you need me to spell it out for you?”
He traces the vines adorning the scraggly cliff-face. “There’s different-coloured hydrangeas.”
“Yes, there are!” The other man props his chin up with his hands, gaze expectant. “And…?”
“There’s words.”
“Mmhm!” Wei Wuxian beams, endlessly bright. “What does it say?”
Wangji focuses on the blue blossoms, then the pink ones. “Wang…Xian.”
“That’s right.” Something buries itself into the crook of his neck. “Say, Lan Zhan? You’ve finally cracked the code, so a congratulations is in order, isn’t it?”
Wangji nods. “Mm. And a gift.”
Wei Wuxian jolts, “Wait, what do you mean, a gift? Young Master,” he pouts, “what kind of gift are you after?”
Wangji nips at the other man’s pulse point. “This gift.” He tightens his grip.
“Wh…wha— hey, what are you doing? Lan Zhan!”