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Learning how to live was one of the most arduous tasks Lan Wangji had ever undertaken.
The price of thirty three people’s lives cost him three years of agony that could never be undone, thirty three scars, fresh blood on marred skin that demanded to be thoroughly cleaned by the hour. Except that wasn’t even where the hurt lay - not when it was left to fester and rot by the command of his Uncle, not when his brother came in the dead of night to freshly dress the wounds and especially not when he’d clutch his head and scream Wei Ying’s name because of the nightmares that plagued his mind during the few hours of sleep that managed to get the better of him.
Nothing of that night in the cave would let him live, especially not his mind.
The sting of the whip still existed three years later, brilliantly stark against the Second Jade of Lan’s skin, itching, burning hot and so very numb. The fleeting memory of a wash of black and red was enough to garner Lan Wangji useless, the early hours of the morning witness to the way his trembling fingers picked at the scabbed skin, crimson blood staining bed sheets and hurt slowly pulling a good man apart.
He’d wake up to hope, a toddler with a red smile and inquisitive hands that wanted to touch and hoped to be held. Where there was loneliness, there was hope. Lan Wangji humoured him, wrapped him up in bundles of blankets and fought off the chill of the mountain for him with will and adoration alone. The child in his arms giggled when Lan Wangji sang the final note of his song. It was theirs alone.
He’d lie awake at night, tormented, only to have his day brightened by chubby fingers that passed over the strings of his guqin. A Wen child his saving grace.
The spilled blood lessened until his skin began stitching itself together. Unlearning how to sleep on his tummy was the easy part. Learning how to breathe without choking on a sob took some time, took delicate petals of a pressed flower, took countless clay jars of Emperor's Smile and broken rules. He took beatings to his back and felt the pain recede as more tears covered the dark hardwood floor of the Jingshi.
He learned to walk, a few years with a stick nearby and then nothing at all. He learned to lessen the burden on his shoulders, learned to give vulnerable love and watched with shining eyes as he received something tenfold more. The boy that once sleepily drooled on his shoulder after eating a small serving of soup grew to become one of the Lan’s finest disciples.
It is of the highest honour to teach someone who carries your spirit, Wei Ying, Lan Wangji played on the guqin that night. The notes held his tears and fury, stories of love and loss that went unheard of, stories of black and white and everything that stood between, words that hurt too much to say aloud.
He was seventeen and he’d never met anyone like Wei Ying. Years later and the sentiment still stands. He’s Wei Ying’s, alone.
It was just as he began living for the second time, that the third time began anew.
A melody was played, private notes played for hurt ears experiencing falling in love for the first time. It was like learning to walk all over again, relearning how to cultivate, learning how to keep a face that didn’t mirror the terror that the neatly wrapped scars for sure conveyed.
Wei Ying returned to Gusu with him.
The aura of peace despite the non stop chatter that surrounded Mo Xuanyu was different, but wholeheartedly welcomed.
There were a group of kids with stars in their eyes that relearned the tales of life at the hands of a teacher that glowed pink beside his partner in crime. They took in the black and white and assessed the grey for themselves, giggling realising the truth behind the shy smiles and the abhorrently cute conversations exchanged between the two men when they thought their entourage was out of ear shot. That, or they just couldn’t bring themselves to give a damn.
They were fifteen and so brave, so determined. Wei Ying preened at the thought that these were the kids that his Lan Zhan had taught - his nephew included.
Oh, and how Lan Zhan watched as more love unfolded right before his eyes.
He learned to let himself go between the hands that played the black, lacquered flute. Beautiful, alive, alive.
Dead and back again - a good soul never stays behind.
Favoured by the Gods, perhaps, or maybe just a victim of the gross manipulation by those in power, or those beaten down by it.
Be that as it may, he breathed. He breathed and lived with the memories of a smiling lady who cradled his cheek with trembling fingers, breathed as he was met with an exhilarating, Yunmeng smile, breathed as he looked on from afar, breathed when it was too late. He breathed when Wei Ying couldn’t, harsh sounds that could lacerate the ears, a faint heartbeat shared between a young adult and a toddler. He learned to breathe, he learned to walk, he learned how to rake his fingers through his partners hair, exerting enough pressure by his nape just the way he likes it.
There was a boy he loved. He’ll never stop.