Archive of Our Own

Lan Wangji saw the strike before his mind could name it. A blur of black mist, a hiss like tearing silk, and then—Wei Wuxian’s body jerked back. The sound of flesh yielding to a blade, sharp and wet, split the night.

For a heartbeat, everything was still. Wei Wuxian’s expression froze in a mixture of shock and disbelief—the kind that hollowed the light from his eyes. Blood spilled too quickly, too dark, glimmering red beneath the flicker of their talismans. His flute fell from his hand and hit the dirt with a dull, lifeless note.

Lan Wangji couldn’t think. There was only the sound of Wei Wuxian’s breath catching—ragged, pained, wrong—and then silence.

Something broke.

The Yao that had struck him didn’t have time to move again. Lan Wangji’s sword was already in motion, the stroke clean, fast, and merciless. The creature shrieked, half-formed limbs splitting apart under Bichen’s glow. He moved through the carnage without precision or restraint, every motion driven by something deeper than thought. When the body fell in two, he didn’t stop. The blade sang again and again until there was nothing left to strike, until the air itself trembled from the force of it.

Only when there was no more sound—no more movement—did he realize his hands were trembling.

Lan Wangji turned, and all the fury drained from him. Wei Wuxian was on the ground, breath shallow, hand pressed weakly to his side where the wound bloomed bright red against his robes. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused.

Lan Wangji dropped to his knees beside him, fingers already slick with blood before he even reached for him. The world around them—the forest, the night, the bodies—ceased to exist. There was only Wei Wuxian, too still, too pale.

He didn’t understand what had gone wrong. The plan had been perfect, the seals flawless. Wei Wuxian had been smiling just moments ago.

Now all Lan Wangji could do was press his hand against the wound and whisper, “Wei Ying.”

His voice was too calm for how hard his heart was breaking.

Wei Wuxian’s lips parted, the breath that left him trembling and wet. Blood caught at the corner of his mouth, but still—still—he smiled. It was faint and crooked, the kind of smile that once meant everything was fine, that he had it under control, that Lan Wangji didn’t need to worry.

Except he was worrying. He could feel it like a crack beneath his ribs, spreading wider with every shallow breath Wei Wuxian took.

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Wuxian’s voice rasped, raw with pain. His hand twitched, as though to reach up, to brush away the horror Lan Wangji knew was written across his face. But the motion faltered halfway, and blood welled faster between his fingers pressed to his side.

“Don’t,” Lan Wangji said—low, steady, though his pulse thundered in his ears. “Save your strength.”

Wei Wuxian tried again, another smile breaking through a grimace. “It’s not… that bad…” he lied, a thin line of crimson tracing his chin.

Lan Wangji’s hand shook as he pressed harder on the wound, feeling warmth spill over his knuckles. His mind moved with cold precision even as panic clawed at him. The wound was too deep. Wei Wuxian’s golden core—borrowed, fragile—was already struggling to hold his spiritual energy together. Healing it on his own was impossible.

They needed a healer. Now.

The nearest place—Cloud Recesses. Just a few miles, if he moved quickly. He could make it. He had to.

Lan Wangji carefully lifted Wei Wuxian, supporting his weight with one arm and cradling the back of his head with the other. Wei Wuxian winced but didn’t resist, still trying to form words through the pain. “Lan Zhan… I’m fine…”

“You are not.” The words came harsher than he intended, quiet but edged with fear.

Wei Wuxian blinked up at him, dazed, as if he could still laugh about it if he only had the strength.

Lan Wangji gathered him closer, robes already soaked through with blood. He didn’t look at the ruined remains of the Yao, didn’t look at the destruction he’d left behind. His world had narrowed to the rise and fall of the body in his arms.

“Hold on,” he murmured, almost too softly to hear, as he adjusted his grip. “We are going home.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes fluttered shut, a faint exhale ghosting against Lan Wangji’s throat. Wei Wuxian’s lashes fluttered as Lan Wangji adjusted his hold. His breathing came in short, ragged bursts, but still—still he tried. “Lan Zhan…” he whispered, voice faint and hoarse, “you… know …I love you right.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, the ghost of a grin that might’ve been teasing, might’ve been meant to ease the weight pressing between them. But before he could say more, his breath hitched. His body jerked once, and a wet cough tore through him. Blood spilled over his lips, bright and vivid against the pallor of his skin.

Lan Wangji froze. “Wei Ying!”

Wei Wuxian tried to take another breath—failed—and the sound that followed was a fragile, wet rattle. His eyes rolled, unfocused, and then closed entirely as his body went limp in Lan Wangji’s arms.

“No—” The word escaped him like a prayer, raw and broken. He pressed trembling fingers to Wei Wuxian’s throat, then his chest—seeking, pleading—and felt it: a heartbeat, faint and unsteady, still there. Still alive.

Lan Wangji’s composure shattered in silence. He didn’t breathe for several seconds, his heart hammering hard enough to ache. The blood on his hands had already gone cold.

“Hold on,” he said again, though there was no response. “Do not leave me.”

With a surge of spiritual energy, he lifted them both onto Bichen. The sword glowed a pale, unearthly blue beneath the moonlight, reacting to the urgency pulsing through him. He steadied Wei Wuxian’s body against his chest, one arm firm around him, the other gripping the hilt.

Then he moved.

The night split apart in their wake, the forest blurring into streaks of black and silver as Bichen soared through the air. Wind tore at Lan Wangji’s hair and sleeves, blood trailing faintly behind them in the current. He flew faster than he ever had before—faster than he should have dared—but he had to make it. Wei Wuxian had to make it.

Wei Wuxian’s weight felt unbearably light in his arms. His breathing was shallow, each rise of his chest weaker than the last.

Lan Wangji leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper against the roar of the wind. “Wei Ying… stay with me. We are almost there.”

The peaks of Cloud Recesses glimmered faintly in the distance, bathed in moonlight—so close, and yet not nearly close enough.

Lan Xichen stepped down from the walkway, his hands folded calmly behind his back, as the quiet hum of evening settled over Cloud Recesses. The air was crisp with mountain mist, the lanterns just beginning to glow. He had been on his way to meet Uncle when a sudden ripple of spiritual energy swept across the courtyard—familiar, intense, and sharp with urgency.

He turned.

Bichen’s glow broke the stillness first, then the figure upon it—white robes torn by wind, streaked through with crimson. Lan Wangji descended too quickly, landing with a force that sent dust scattering across the stone. Lan Xichen’s heart lifted for a brief, instinctive moment—his brother, home again—but that warmth vanished the instant he saw who was in his arms.

Wei Wuxian.

His robes were soaked in blood. His head rested limply against Lan Wangji’s shoulder, skin the color of paper.

Lan Xichen’s composure cracked, just enough for his voice to turn sharp. “Fetch a healer. Now.”

One of the younger disciples with him jolted and immediately sprinted toward the infirmary. The other hesitated only a moment before bowing and following.

Lan Xichen approached, his steps swift but controlled. “Wangji,” he said softly, his gaze sweeping over Wei Wuxian’s form—his chest rising faintly, barely. “What happened?”

Lan Wangji didn’t look up at first. His own torso was still pressed against Wei Wuxian’s wound, blood seeping through to his white robes no matter how hard he held. His voice, when it came, was low and steady, though his throat felt tight.

“Yao attack.”

Lan Xichen’s brows drew together. “How far?”

“West ridge,” Lan Wangji replied. “He was struck before I-..Before I could-.”

He shifted slightly, tightening his hold as if Wei Wuxian might slip away if he loosened his grip even for a breath. The healer’s courtyard was close—too close and yet far too far. Wei Wuxian’s breathing had grown faint enough that Lan Wangji could feel each shallow tremor against his own chest.

Lan Xichen’s gaze softened, concern flashing through the calm restraint of his expression. “He is alive,” he murmured, more to steady his brother than himself.

Lan Wangji inclined his head once, eyes fixed on Wei Wuxian’s face—on the faint color draining from his lips, on the weak rise and fall of his chest. His jaw clenched.

“Wei Ying…” Lan Wangji said quietly.

And though his words were even, the trembling in his hands betrayed how he was actually terrified.

Two healers appeared within moments, their robes a blur of pale blue and white as they crossed the courtyard. One carried a stretcher infused with faint spiritual light, its wood reinforced by talismans to steady the injured. The other kneeled immediately beside Lan Wangji, eyes widening as she took in the amount of blood.

“He needs immediate treatment,” she said quickly. “We’ll take him to the infirmary.”

Lan Wangji didn’t move. His hands remained holding his husband. The healers hesitated, glancing between him and Lan Xichen, uncertain whether they were allowed to intervene.

Lan Xichen stepped forward, his tone calm but gentle. “Wangji.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze lifted, meeting his brother’s. His expression was unreadable, but his grip on Wei Wuxian’s body tightened, protective to the point of trembling.

Lan Xichen reached out, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder. “They will help him,” he said quietly. “You have my word. Every resource, every effort—he will be tended to.”

The tension in Lan Wangji’s arms didn’t fade immediately. For a long moment, he stayed kneeling, the night air heavy with the scent of iron. Only when he saw the faint rise and fall of Wei Wuxian’s chest—when he remembered that alive still meant hope—did his hands begin to loosen.

Slowly, with deliberate care, he shifted Wei Wuxian onto the stretcher. The healers moved at once, murmuring under their breath as they lifted the stretcher and hurried toward the infirmary.

Lan Wangji rose to his feet, his robes stained in large patches — how could one human bleed so much and remain alive? — his hands shaking faintly at his sides. He took one step forward—then another—before Lan Xichen’s voice stopped him.

“Wangji.”

He turned slightly, eyes still locked on the direction the healers had gone.

“Go and change,” Lan Xichen said, his tone warm but firm. “He will not wish to see you like this when he wakes.”

When not if. The word anchored something deep in Lan Wangji’s chest.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he gave a single, silent nod—an acknowledgment—and turned towards his room.

Lan Xichen watched him go, the soft echo of his footsteps fading into the mountain stillness. Only when his brother was gone did he exhale the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and murmur to the empty air, “He’ll be all right.” He must be… if he is not, I do not know what would come of Wangji.

But even he wasn’t sure who he was trying to reassure.

The Jingshi was quiet when Lan Wangji stepped through the doors—too quiet. The faint scent of sandalwood still lingered from the morning, mixed now with the sharp metallic trace of blood clinging to him. He closed the door behind him, the soft sound seeming far too loud against the silence.

He stood for a moment without moving, then began to strip off his outer robes. The once immaculate white fabric was now soaked through with a deep, rich red—Wei Wuxian’s blood.

He folded the garment automatically, hands steady by habit alone, but his gaze drifted away—past the neat lines of the shelves and toward the rest of the room.

It was no longer pristine. Not truly.

Robes lay draped over the arm of a chair, one half-folded, the other abandoned. A stack of papers had been left on the low table, covered in Wei Wuxian’s handwriting—half notes, half doodles, little bursts of thoughts scattered in every margin. A brush still sat in its ink, dried now at the tip.

And beside all of it, a small bowl of lotus seeds. Unpeeled, waiting.

Wei Wuxian had been sitting there just hours ago, laughing about something trivial, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he teased Lan Wangji for peeling too slowly.

Now the silence pressed hard against his chest.

Lan Wangji set the bloody robes aside with deliberate care, though his hands had begun to tremble. His inner garments were stained too, but he did not change them immediately. He stood by the table instead, staring at the small, ordinary chaos that Wei Wuxian left in his wake.

Every piece of it was alive with his presence—too alive. Wei Wuxian could be dead… Wei Ying could be dead, and I’m not there. I’d never see his face again…I’d never hear his laughter or his voice.

He closed his eyes, the memory of the attack flickering unbidden: the sound of claws tearing through flesh, Wei Wuxian’s startled breath, the warmth of blood spreading across his palms. The sound would not leave him.

He drew in a slow breath through his nose, but it shook as it left him. His throat ached, though he had not spoken.

Not again.

The thoughts came violently, burning behind his eyes. He could not live through losing him again. The last time had hollowed him, stripped everything that made breathing bearable. The idea of facing that emptiness once more—of walking through this room without Wei Wuxian’s voice, his smile, his hands—was unbearable.

Lan Wangji pressed his fingers to the table’s edge, trying to ground himself in the smooth grain of the wood. The blood on his skin smeared faintly against it, a dark mark among the scattered papers.

He stared at it for a long moment, then finally turned away, moving to the basin of water in the little kitchen. Water splashed as he washed his hands—again and again, until the crimson faded in the water below.

But no matter how many times he rinsed, the faint red still clung to his cuffs.

He changed into fresh robes in silence, the motion mechanical. When he finally straightened, he looked once more toward the lotus seeds, untouched and waiting, and whispered, barely audible—

“Do not leave me again.”

The empty room did not answer.

The lanterns outside the infirmary burned low, their light soft and wavering in the mountain mist. Lan Wangji crossed the courtyard without hesitation, his stride silent but urgent, his eyes fixed on the sliding doors ahead. He was only a few steps away when a voice stopped him.

“Wangji.”

He turned sharply. Lan Xichen stood near the walkway, posture composed, but his expression carried that careful look he only used when something was very wrong.

Lan Wangji inclined his head, a silent greeting—acknowledgment, respect—but his hand had already lifted toward the door.

Lan Xichen moved subtly into his path, not blocking it outright, but close enough that the message was clear.

Lan Wangji’s brow furrowed, the faintest crease between his eyes. “Brother.”

Lan Xichen hesitated, choosing his words with care. “The healers are still working. I was told the injury is…” He drew a slow breath. “…worse than it first appeared.”

Lan Wangji’s breath caught, a fraction too sharp, though his face remained unreadable. Inside, his thoughts spiraled fast and silent. Worse. That meant the blood loss, the wounds he hadn’t been able to close—too much. Too deep. He could have died. He could still die.

He had seen Wei Wuxian die once before. He had watched him fall, watched his body vanish into nothing.

Not again.

Please not again.

A pulse of pain struck through his chest, sudden and overwhelming, and the edges of his vision narrowed. He could almost hear the sound of the forest again—the gurgling breath, the blood-soaked earth, the way Wei Wuxian’s fingers had gone slack—

“Wangji.”

A hand pressed to his shoulder. Steady. Firm.

Lan Xichen’s voice was low, steady as water. “Listen to me.” He waited until Lan Wangji’s gaze flicked back into focus, focusing on him. “The healer will come to speak to you soon. Be patient a little longer.”

Lan Wangji exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. Then he gave a short, silent nod.

He did not move away from the doors.

Lan Xichen sighed quietly but didn’t press further. He could see it—how his brother’s entire body was held taut, as if sheer will alone might hold the world together. The robes he’d changed into were clean at least; it was the only small victory he’d managed tonight.

So he stood beside him in silence, watching the mist curl around the lantern light, while Lan Wangji remained—unmoving, unyielding—as if waiting could be enough to keep the man inside alive.

The mountain was silent when the healer finally emerged. The lanterns had burned low, their light little more than a soft amber haze against the paper walls. Somewhere in the distance, the temple bells had already marked curfew hours ago. Everyone had long since returned to their quarters.

Except for the two brothers waiting outside the infirmary.

Lan Wangji hadn’t moved from his place before the doors, not even once. His back was straight, his posture unyielding, though his knuckles were white from how tightly he held his hands together in his sleeves. Lan Xichen stood a few paces away, composed as always but with the faintest hint of weariness around his eyes.

When the healer stepped into the courtyard, both men turned toward her at once. She bowed deeply, hands folded before her. Her face was calm, but her freshly changed outer robe spoke of long hours and too much blood.

“Hanguang-jun. Zewu-jun,” she greeted quietly. “Please—come inside.”

The interior was spotless—the scent of antiseptic herbs hung in the air, faint but sharp. The floors gleamed under lamplight, and the tables had been cleared of any visible traces of what had taken place. The main room was divided by folding screens, with small chambers on the left and right where patients rested out of view.

Lan Wangji’s eyes swept the room, searching for the only person who mattered. Wei Wuxian wasn’t visible anywhere.

For a moment, the air seemed to thin around him. His heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out the healer’s voice until—

“—poisoned.”

The word struck like an arrow. Lan Wangji’s head lifted sharply, golden eyes snapping to her face.

She blinked once, then realized he hadn’t heard most of what she’d said. Her expression softened, understanding flickering through her features. “Forgive me, Hanguang-jun. You are worried. I will repeat myself.”

Lan Wangji gave a short, tight nod—one of thanks and also apology.

“The wound,” she began gently, “was poisoned, likely from the demon's claws. It spread through his bloodstream quickly—far faster than we would have anticipated. The toxins caused a severe infection, and his spiritual energy is… unstable. We are treating him with every antidote and purification method available.”

Her words came carefully measured, but Lan Wangji could hear what she wasn’t saying.

“He is stable for now,” she continued, “but he has not regained consciousness. His golden core is… weakened. It is doing all it can to sustain him, but it cannot cleanse the poison.”

The silence that followed was heavy, like the pause before a storm breaks.

When Lan Wangji finally spoke, his voice was low and rough, a testament to his restraint. “Wei Ying… will make it?”

The healer hesitated. Her hands folded tighter before her, and she glanced down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “I do not wish to give promises I may not be able to keep, Hanguang-jun,” she said softly. “We are doing everything we can to ensure that he does not suffer.”

The phrasing was gentle. Too gentle.

Lan Wangji understood immediately.

He felt the weight of her words settle in his chest like ice. Does not suffer. That was not the same as he will live.

His throat constricted, but he did not move or speak. His expression remained carved from stone, though something deep within him buckled.

Lan Xichen watched his brother from the corner of his eye and saw the way his shoulders drew taut, how his breath faltered just slightly.

The healer bowed again. “I will inform you the moment there is any change.”

Lan Wangji inclined his head once—nothing more. The motion was sharp, almost mechanical.

When she turned and slipped back behind the screen, the room was silent once more.

Lan Wangji remained where he was, staring at the floorboards, unmoving. To anyone else, he appeared the picture of composure—stoic, unreadable, calm.

Only Lan Xichen, standing beside him, could see how close his brother was to breaking. His voice broke the silence first, gentle and deliberate, the way one might speak to a frightened child.

“Wangji,” he said softly, “it is late. You have not rested since you brought him here.”

Lan Wangji did not respond. He stood still, gaze fixed on the closed partition where Wei Wuxian lay beyond, motionless. His posture was perfect—shoulders straight, chin lifted—but his hands were hidden deep in his sleeves behind his back to conceal the tremor that had not left them since the moment they arrived.

Lan Xichen took a step closer. “If you collapse, you cannot help him. Let me stay. I will see to it that you are called the instant there is any change.”

The words were kind. They were reasoned. But reason had no place in Lan Wangji’s heart right now.

He shook his head once, slow and unyielding. “No.”

“Wangji—”

“I will not leave him.” His tone was quiet, flat as stone—but beneath that restraint, his voice wavered with something close to desperation. “Not again.”

For a long moment, Lan Xichen looked at him. The flicker of lantern light softened his brother’s features, but nothing could hide the strain in them—the hollow shadows beneath his eyes, the rigid line of his jaw.

Lan Xichen sighed quietly, the sound half sorrow, half understanding. He reached out and rested his hand on Lan Wangji’s arm. “Then stay,” he murmured. “But promise me you will at least try to rest.”

Lan Wangji did not answer, but he inclined his head slightly—acknowledgment enough.

Lan Xichen lingered a moment longer before releasing his grip. “If you need anything, send word.” His voice was quieter now, touched with resignation. “And, Wangji…” He hesitated, then added, “He has endured much and returned to you each time. Do not lose faith now.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they struck something more profound—a memory of a cliff, of his world gone silent, of a name whispered nothingness. Lan Wangji remained silent.

Lan Xichen’s expression softened with helpless affection, and he finally turned to leave, his robes trailing softly across the polished floor. The door slid shut behind him with a click, leaving Lan Wangji in the hush of the infirmary.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the closed partition, before the head healer appeared once more. Her expression was weary but kind. “Hanguang-jun,” she said quietly, “if you wish to stay with him, you may. Please, this way.”

He followed without a word.

The air beyond the screen was heavy with the scent of medicine—bitter herbs, crushed roots, and faint traces of iron, blood. The dim light revealed a single low bed at the far wall, surrounded by neatly arranged medicine, bandages, and bowls of water darkened with blood.

And on the bed—

Wei Wuxian.

Lan Wangji stopped short.

The sight before him hollowed his chest, the breath leaving him all at once.

Wei Wuxian lay pale against the linens, the color of his skin leached away until only the bruising remained—a mottled spread of sickly gray and purple across his abdomen, creeping up his ribs, curling along the edges of his collarbone and vanishing beneath the band of his trousers. The wound itself had been cleaned, the torn flesh carefully sutured, but it still oozed dark, viscous blood that drained slowly into a waiting basin below. The smell of iron and infected tissue was sharp in the air.

His chest rose and fell, barely perceptible. His lips were parted slightly, breath shallow and uneven.

The healers had removed his hair ribbon; his dark hair fanned loosely around him like spilled ink, strands clinging to his neck and the hollow of his throat. Without it, he looked impossibly young—fragile in a way Lan Wangji could scarcely bear to see. And yet, he could not deny that, even in this state, his husband was beautiful beyond measure.

For a long time, Lan Wangji remained still. He couldn’t. His heart was pounding so hard it made his vision blur. Every instinct in him screamed to reach out, to touch, to do something—to wipe the sweat from Wei Wuxian’s brow, to press his hand to that failing pulse and will it steady.

But he did not.

He moved forward slowly, each step deliberate, silent. When he reached the bedside, he knelt at its head, folding himself with the quiet ease of a man who might otherwise shatter. His knees hit the floor with a muted thud, and he bowed his head, his breath trembling in his throat.

Wei Wuxian’s face was turned slightly toward him. The faint light traced the curve of his cheek, the hollow beneath his eyes, and the way his lashes rested with his closed eyes.

Lan Wangji stared—drank in every fragile line, every too-still breath—terrified that if he blinked, the world would take him away again.

He wanted to reach out, but his hand hovered inches above Wei Wuxian’s temple, trembling, before he pulled it back. His self-control was the only thing keeping him upright.

So he simply watched.

He watched the rise and fall of Wei Wuxian’s chest, the minute movements of his pulse beneath thin skin. He listened to the quiet, rhythmic drip of poisoned blood into the basin.

Every sound carved another wound inside him.

He had sworn—sworn—that he would protect him. That after the first time, there would never be another moment like this. Yet here he was, surrounded by the scent of death, his husband lying pale and still before him, the world once again threatening to unravel.

He lowered his head, his hands tightening into fists against his knees. His lips parted, the words barely more than a whisper:

“Forgive me.”

The air did not answer. Only Wei Wuxian’s shallow, fragile breaths broke the silence.

Lan Wangji closed his eyes. And though not a single tear fell, his entire body trembled with the weight of what he could not lose.

The sun had long since risen beyond the peaks of Cloud Recesses, bathing the courtyards in pale gold—but inside the infirmary, time had lost all meaning.

Lan Wangji had barely moved in three days.

He sat where he always sat—beside the narrow bed, robes immaculate but his face drawn with exhaustion. The faint shadows beneath his eyes had deepened, though his posture never faltered. A bowl of untouched rice and a cup of cooled tea sat forgotten on the table behind him. The healers had urged him to rest, to eat, to sleep, even for an hour. He hadn’t listened. He couldn’t.

Because every time he’d closed his eyes, Wei Wuxian’s breath had hitched, or his pain had spiked, or the poison had flared in dark colors across his chest, threatening to take his heart. Every flicker of change sent panic flooding through him—quiet panic, tightly controlled but no less devastating.

By the end of the first night, Wei Wuxian had begun to burn with fever. By the morning of the second day, the infection had spread so violently that the healers could no longer guarantee he’d survive until dusk.

Lan Wangji had never been closer to breaking.

He had stood there, hands pressed to Wei Wuxian’s chest, watching the healers scramble to keep him breathing. He had heard one whisper that it might already be too late. And in that instant, Lan Wangji’s composure had cracked so profoundly that even Lan Xichen—who had rushed in at being told of the update —had seen the panic in his eyes—the desperation.

It had taken both healers to steady him, to convince him not to pour every last drop of his own energy into Wei Wuxian then and there.

But once the fever broke—barely, miraculously—he did what he could.

From that afternoon through the next day and night, Lan Wangji gave Wei Wuxian his own spiritual energy in slow, measured pulses. He sat beside him, hand hovering over his husband’s body, channeling warmth and light into the flickering, fragile glow of Wei Wuxian’s golden core.

He watched the angry bruising fade to faint gray. Watched the fever recede. Watched the tremors in Wei Wuxian’s breathing begin to still.

Now, on the third day, the change was visible. Wei Wuxian’s skin had regained a hint of color. His breathing had evened out, weak but steady. The poison’s mark had dulled to pale shadows.

Lan Wangji remained beside him, the back of his knuckles brushing against the bed’s edge, close enough to feel the faint warmth of life. The healers had left him for a time, giving him quiet after so many days of silent vigil.

The only sounds were the faint crackle of incense, the daily noise of disciples just outside, and the wind through the open window.

Then—

A faint stir.

Lan Wangji straightened in an instant. Wei Wuxian’s hand twitched against the sheet. His brow furrowed slightly, his lips parting in a shallow breath that trembled as if dragged up from somewhere deep and heavy.

Lan Wangji leaned forward, every muscle tense, scarcely daring to breathe.

“…Wei Ying.”

The name came quietly, reverently.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Wei Wuxian’s eyes fluttered open. Not wide—just enough for a sliver of gray to show through the haze. His pupils were unfocused at first, his gaze wandering before it found the faintest outline of white robes beside him.

“Lan…” His voice broke on the single syllable, hoarse and slurred, barely more than a breath. He swallowed hard, trying again. “Lan… Zhan…?”

Lan Wangji bowed his head slightly, relief flickering through the mask of composure. “Mn.”

Wei Wuxian’s lips curved faintly, though the effort made his face twist in discomfort. “Knew you’d… still be here…” His voice cracked halfway through, a rasp of pain and exhaustion.

“You should not speak.”

Wei Wuxian blinked slowly, his lashes trembling. Then, against all reason, he managed a small, crooked grin—the ghost of the teasing smile Lan Wangji had thought he might never see again. “Ah… still worrying…” he rasped, the words slurred. “Lan Zhan… you… really do… worry too much…”

Lan Wangji drew in a slow breath through his nose, his gaze softening even as the faintest crease appeared between his brows. “Wei Ying.”

His tone carried a quiet reprimand—firm, restrained—but his voice was gentler than it had been in days.

Wei Wuxian gave a weak, breathless chuckle that turned into a cough. Lan Wangji immediately reached for the water cup, lifting it to his lips and steadying his head as he coaxed him to drink.

When Wei Wuxian finally sank back into the pillow, his eyelids drooping, Lan Wangji set the cup aside and stayed close, watching the color slowly return to his face.

“Rest,” he murmured.

Wei Wuxian blinked up at him, his expression soft, hazy. “You didn’t… sleep either, did you?”

Lan Wangji did not answer. He only adjusted the blanket over him, movements steady.

Wei Wuxian smiled again—small, faint, but real—and whispered, “Knew it.”

Lan Wangji exhaled quietly, a sound that might almost have been a laugh if it weren’t so quiet, so full of relief. His hand hovered briefly above Wei Wuxian’s cheek before settling lightly against the edge of the pillow.

For the first time in days, the world didn’t feel like it was ending.

He lowered his head, voice nearly lost to the soft rustle of the wind. “Rest, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian’s lips curved faintly again, his eyes drifting closed, and in the fragile peace of that moment, Lan Wangji finally allowed himself to breathe.

The light had softened by the time Lan Xichen returned to the infirmary. The golden hue of late afternoon spilled across the courtyard, filtering through the paper screens and casting a muted warmth on the walls. It was quiet.

When he slid the door open, he expected silence, the faint scent of herbs, and the low hum of the healers assisting disciples off on the other side of the building with minor injuries. He expected Wei Wuxian to be sleeping, as he had been for the last few days. What greeted him instead made his breath catch.

Wei Wuxian was sitting up.

He was propped against a small stack of pillows, a tray balanced on his lap with a bowl of broth and a delicate cup of tea that steamed faintly in the cool air. His movements were slow and clumsy—his hand trembled slightly each time he tried to lift the spoon—but his eyes were open, bright and alert even through the haze of exhaustion. Bandages wrapped around his torso, clean and tight, a stark white against the loose robes draped over his shoulders.

And he was talking.

The words came out uneven—fragmented and uncertain, his tongue tripping over sounds his mind hadn’t quite re-learned—but they were words. Real words, spilling out of him in halting bursts of sound.

Lan Xichen paused on the partition, his body wavering into open relief.

At the bedside, Lan Wangji knelt, posture straight and unyielding as always, though the change in him was unmistakable. The exhaustion was still there—his face pale from sleepless nights, his shoulders drawn with the weight of everything he’d endured—but his eyes… his eyes were alive again. There was light in them, soft and steady, a life that had nearly been snuffed out three days ago but had now returned in full.

Wei Wuxian, noticing movement, turned his head. It was a little too quick, and he winced slightly, but when he saw who it was, he broke into a crooked smile. “Ah—Lan… Xi–chen—ge,” he stammered, the syllables rough but full of life.

Lan Xichen’s lips curved into a rare, open smile. He stepped inside and inclined his head. “Wei Wuxian,” he greeted gently. “It is good to see you awake.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile widened, his voice still fractured by breath and effort. “Still… alive. You… can’t… get rid of me… th…that easy.”

The humor was faint, wavering at the edges, but it was there. The kind of careless teasing that made the air feel lighter, that brought color back into the room.

Lan Xichen chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head. “I can see that. How do you feel?”

Wei Wuxian opened his mouth, drew in a shaky breath, and managed, “Fine—good—” before the word broke off into a sudden gasp. His hand went to his abdomen instinctively, face tightening in pain as the tray nearly tilted.

Lan Wangji’s reaction was immediate. In one fluid motion, he caught the tray, setting it aside as he leaned in close, one hand bracing the small of Wei Wuxian’s back, the other hovering near his chest as if to steady the air itself.

“Do not move,” he said quietly, his tone sharp with concern despite its evenness.

Even Lan Xichen took a step forward, the faint line between his brows deepening. “Wei Wu—”

But Wei Wuxian raised a trembling hand before either could reach him, his breath shallow but steadying. He forced a smile through the pain. “I–I’m fine. Just—moved wrong. Don’t—look so scared.”

His fingers—bone white, still faintly trembling—found Lan Wangji’s hand where it hovered near his chest. He pressed it down gently, palm over palm, a quiet reassurance in the warmth of that touch.

Lan Wangji’s jaw tightened. His pulse thundered beneath the surface of calm as he stared at their joined hands. “You are not fine,” he said softly.

Wei Wuxian only smiled again, faint but sure, and squeezed his hand. “But… alive.”

Lan Wangji said nothing, but after a moment, he allowed himself to sit back on his knees again. His expression didn’t change, but his grip on Wei Wuxian’s hand lingered a fraction longer before he let go.

Lan Xichen watched them both—the light glancing off Lan Wangji’s hair, the quiet determination that radiated from his still form, the fragile joy in Wei Wuxian’s smile—and felt something in his chest unclench.

For days, he had watched his brother teeter on the edge of despair, silent and immovable as stone, refusing to rest, refusing to breathe until this man opened his eyes again. And now, with Wei Wuxian awake and alive, Lan Wangji’s stillness was different. It no longer came from restraint or grief—it came from peace.

Wei Wuxian let his head tip slightly to the side, his eyelids heavy but his gaze fixed on Lan Wangji. “You… stayed,” he murmured, his words slurred but clear enough.

“Mn.”

“Didn’t… eat, did you?” Wei Wuxian tried to grin again, though his lips trembled. “You… always… so stubborn.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes softened, though he did not answer.

Lan Xichen smiled faintly and moved closer, adjusting the tray back into Wei Wuxian’s lap. “You both are,” he said kindly. “But for once, I am glad of it.”

Wei Wuxian huffed a faint, broken laugh, resting back against the pillows. Lan Wangji reached forward to steady the cup in his hands, the motion small but instinctive.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Lan Xichen saw his brother’s expression ease—just slightly, but enough to know that the light of life had truly returned to both of them.

Outside, the wind stirred the bamboo, whispering against the eaves. Inside, there was laughter again—quiet, halting, fragile, but real. And for the first time since that night, the halls of Cloud Recesses no longer felt haunted by grief.  It was nice; he hoped it could all stay like this.

Wei Wuxian shifted slightly, his spoon clinking against the rim of the bowl. He’d just managed to finish a few sips of broth with help from Lan Wangji before his eyes flicked toward Lan Xichen again. His voice was still ragged and broken, his words staggered by the repercussions of fever and exhaustion.

“Lan… Xi–chen ge…” he murmured, forcing the syllables past a dry throat, “what… are you… Doing here? Need… something?”

Lan Xichen smiled, the expression gentle, almost fond. “Nothing for myself,” he said. “I came to check on you—to see how you were faring after… everything. And,” he hesitated for a breath, “a guest arrived this morning who asked after you. He heard of what happened and wished to visit.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head, the movement slow, deliberate. Even fogged by pain and medicine, his intuition remained sharp. He gave a faint, rasping chuckle that turned halfway into a cough. “Guest..? Let me— guess…” His smile curved weakly, though there was affection beneath it. “Y-Yelling? Dema..anding answers?”

Lan Xichen’s eyes softened, but he didn’t confirm it.

Wei Wuxian sighed, his breath wheezing faintly as he sank back into the pillows. “It’s …okay… let him …in.”

A quiet “No.” came before the words had even finished leaving his lips.

Lan Wangji’s tone was calm but absolute. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t frown, but the steel in that single syllable could have cut through stone. He was still kneeling at Wei Wuxian’s side—but his jaw tightened just slightly, and his hand rested protectively on the edge of the bed as if daring anyone to come closer.

“You need rest,” he said. “Not be disturbed.”

Wei Wuxian turned his head toward him, that small smile flickering again. “Lan Zhan…” His voice softened, the words halting but sincere. “He’s… worried. You know …h-how.. he gets…”

Lan Wangji’s eyes narrowed fractionally. He knew precisely how Jiang Cheng got. Sharp words, short temper, too much guilt twisted into anger. Wei Wuxian didn’t need that. Not now. Not ever in his opinion.

“He can visit later,” Lan Wangji said firmly. Or never.

Wei Wuxian looked at him with those soft grey eyes—exhausted, pleading, full of warmth despite the pain. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out, fingers brushing the back of Lan Wangji’s. “Please… Lan ..Zhan. Let him.”

Lan Wangji’s resistance faltered immediately. That cracked pleading expression, the tear that welled up in his eye, that he watched drip down that pale cheek. He had faced fierce spirits and cultivators alike with unshakable calm, standing alone against the world's condemnation without flinching. Still, the look in Wei Wuxian’s eyes could undo him completely. The tear was what broke him.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the faintest flicker of displeasure crossing his face. “…Mn.”

A single syllable of reluctant agreement. But he still reached out to wipe the tear away.

Wei Wuxian’s smile widened just a little before he closed his eyes again, clearly drained by the effort.

Lan Xichen, standing near the doorway, couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped him. “You two never change,” he murmured. He inclined his head to them both. “Very well. I’ll inform our guest that he may come in—but only briefly.”

Lan Wangji gave a curt nod, still visibly displeased, his hand hovering protectively near Wei Wuxian’s.

Lan Xichen slipped out of the room, the door sliding softly closed behind him.

The peace lasted less than thirty seconds.

“Wei Wuxian!”

The shout shattered the quiet like a thrown stone through glass.

The door slammed open, and Jiang Cheng strode in, purple robes flaring behind him, his expression thunderous. His voice carried through the room like the crack of a whip. “What the hell do they mean you almost died?!”

The words stopped halfway through his next breath.

Wei Wuxian looked up at him from the bed, still pale, bandages stark white against the loose folds of his robe. His hair spilled loose across the pillows, his cheeks hollowed, his lips tinged faintly red from lingering fever. The tray of broth wobbled precariously on his lap. He looked fragile.

For a moment, Jiang Cheng just stood there—mouth open, fury caught in his throat. The sight of Wei Wuxian like this robbed the words from him entirely.

The silence stretched thin. Wei Wuxian did a lot of reckless things…he had seen him do a lot of reckless, idiotic things…but this- why did it hurt harder this time?

Because he had died again, you wouldn’t have been able to do anything to stop it. His mind supplied.

Then he felt it: the weight of a gaze like the edge of a blade.

Lan Wangji had risen to his feet, the smooth lines of his posture still but coiled. His eyes were fixed on Jiang Cheng with a look so cold and sharp it could have frozen the air between them. If looks could kill, Jiang Cheng would’ve been dead three times over before he reached the bedside.

To his credit—or his pride—Jiang Cheng didn’t flinch. His jaw tightened, and he shot Lan Wangji a glare right back. “Don’t give me that look, Hanguang-jun,” he snapped. “I’m not here to start a fight.”

“Then do not,” Lan Wangji said quietly, the warning heavy in his tone.

Wei Wuxian sighed weakly, the sound small but edged with amusement. “Boys, please…” His voice cracked again, words tumbling apart as he tried to sit up a little straighter. “I just…cough r-recovered  cough almost dying—can’t you …—.” But he couldn’t get the words out because of how hard he was coughing.

Jiang Cheng’s glare faltered, his expression twisting between irritation and something dangerously close to grief.

Lan Wangji’s eyes flicked back to Wei Wuxian immediately, all focus and quiet concern. He reached out to steady the bowl again before it could spill, murmuring, “Do not strain yourself.” He lifted the cup of water to his husband’s lips, helping him sip at it gently.

The words were soft, but the look he gave Jiang Cheng afterward spoke volumes: This is what you could have lost.

For once, Jiang Cheng didn’t argue. He swallowed hard and nodded, his anger dissolving into a rough exhale as he stepped closer—slowly this time. His boots clicked sharply against the polished floor as he came to stand at the side of the bed. For a long moment, he said nothing, his hand tightening around Sandu’s hilt out of habit, his expression unreadable. He stared down at Wei Wuxian—alive, awake, but barely.

His …brother—yes his brother ok?! He’s..it’s a work upon…— looked fragile in a way Jiang Cheng had never seen before. The bandages were stark against his skin; the faint, tremoring breaths were almost too soft to hear. But his eyes—those familiar grey eyes—still carried that same reckless spark. It should have comforted him. Instead, it twisted something deep in his chest.

“What happened?” Jiang Cheng asked finally, the question coming out gruffer than he intended. His throat was tight, but he masked it with irritation. “They said you almost died. What in the hell were you doing?”

Wei Wuxian’s lips parted, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to laugh it off, the way he always did. He drew in a slow breath. “We were—”

He stopped.

His brows furrowed faintly, eyes flickering unfocused as though searching through fog. He tried again, slower. “We were… hunting a Yao. Right?”

Lan Wangji straightened beside him. The faint flicker of confusion in Wei Wuxian’s voice, the pause before he spoke—it startled him too.

Wei Wuxian frowned, his hand twitching slightly on the blanket. “But… after that—” He trailed off, expression clouding. “I don’t… remember.”

The room went still.

Lan Wangji’s breath caught soundlessly, his pulse thudding once, heavy and slow. His gaze fixed on Wei Wuxian’s face, reading every slight shift, every uncertain blink. For three days, he had listened to his husband breathe through fevered delirium, fought to live through the pain, but never once had Wei Wuxian sounded lost, not like this.

Before Wei Wuxian could force another word, Lan Wangji spoke quietly, his tone clipped, deliberate. “You were injured during the hunt,” he said. “The Yao attacked. You were struck. I destroyed it.”

It was the shortest, most pared-down version of events possible—bare bones and cold fact. Jiang Cheng blinked, clearly expecting more, but Lan Wangji’s face was unreadable. He had no intention of giving the man a single extra detail.

Still, he knew Wei Wuxian would want Jiang Cheng to understand at least that much.

Jiang Cheng’s mouth twisted, half a scowl, half a grimace. “Of course you would get hit by a stupid Yao,” he muttered under his breath. “Idiot.”

But his eyes didn’t match the insult. Beneath the irritation was something heavier—fear, grief that had no safe place to go.

Wei Wuxian heard the tone, if not the words. He smiled faintly, a slight, apologetic curve of his lips. “Guess I… messed up, huh?” he rasped.

Before anyone could respond, the door slid open again. The head healer entered, her expression calm yet alert, having clearly heard the coughing from across the room.

“I see our patient is very popular,” she said lightly, bowing before she crossed to the bed. “Hanguang-jun, Sect Leader Jiang.” Her eyes softened when they fell on Wei Wuxian. “You’re awake—and talking. That’s a good sign.”

Wei Wuxian tried to nod but winced instead, his face scrunching slightly. The healer frowned at that, setting her tray down and beginning to check his pulse and temperature.

“How do you feel?” she asked gently.

Wei Wuxian tried to speak, but his voice came out broken and halting. “Fuzzy. Fine. Tired.”

She nodded, her hands steady as she examined him. “You had a severe fever for quite some time. It’s common for memories to become unclear after such a strain. The toxins and fever likely disrupted your spiritual energy flow temporarily. It will recover with rest.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes didn’t leave her face as she spoke. He had heard these exact words three times already, but each time they sounded different—less clinical, more like a lifeline he was afraid to trust. And each time Wei Ying had forgotten he’s been told….

The healer gave a slight, approving hum. “Your pulse is stronger than earlier. That’s good. But you’re not out of danger yet. The infection has not completely cleared, and the wound is still healing. You must avoid overexertion or strong emotion for the next few days.”

Wei Wuxian smiled again—faint, tired, but determined. “I’ll be fine.” The words came out half-broken, his voice cracking under the strain.

Lan Wangji’s expression darkened instantly, his hand tightening on the bedsheet near Wei Wuxian’s arm. The subtle shift in his posture said everything his voice did not: You are not fine. You almost died.

Jiang Cheng’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked away, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. The anger on his face was only a mask—thin, brittle, barely covering the panic that had sunk into his bones. He had seen Wei Wuxian dead once. He had mourned him once. And now, standing here, seeing him pale and fragile, hearing the healer say he still wasn’t safe—it made something inside him claw for air.

The healer bowed slightly to both men. “Please see that he rests,” she said. “If there is any change, call for me at once.” Then she quietly left the room.

Lan Wangji turned back to Wei Wuxian, his gaze full of something wordless and raw. He reached for his husband’s hand, fingers brushing the back of it before curling gently around it.

Wei Wuxian blinked up at him, seeing the plea in his golden eyes even before Lan Wangji spoke. He knew that look—knew it better than his own heartbeat.

He gave a small sigh, his lips twitching faintly into something that tried to be a smile. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll… take it.. easy. Promise.”

The tension in Lan Wangji’s shoulders loosened slightly. He inclined his head in a single, subtle nod.

Across the room, Jiang Cheng crossed his arms, still scowling—but his gaze softened when it landed on his brother, only for it to appear again looking at Wei Wuxian’s hand enclosed in Lan Wangji’s. He didn’t speak. The anger on his face was a poor disguise for the fear that still gripped him.

Wei Wuxian leaned faintly into the pillows again, exhaustion tugging at his eyes, but his fingers squeezed Lan Wangji’s hand one last time before he drifted toward sleep.

Lan Wangji stayed where he was, silent, watching the slow rhythm of his breathing—because now, after everything, even the smallest rise and fall of Wei Wuxian’s chest was a miracle he would never take for granted again.

Jiang Cheng didn’t move for a long time after Wei Wuxian’s eyes drifted shut again. The quiet in the room was heavy but peaceful, the steady rhythm of the others' breathing a sound he hadn’t realized he’d missed until now. It was faint, fragile—but steady.

Wei Wuxian’s lashes fluttered once, then stilled. His chest rose and fell, even and unbroken. Only then did Jiang Cheng let himself breathe properly.

But the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“…Did he really almost die?”

Lan Wangji didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to. He sat still beside the bed, his hand resting lightly on the blanket near Wei Wuxian’s arm, golden eyes lowered to the sleeping face before him.

“Mm.”

Just that sound—soft, almost absent—was enough.

Jiang Cheng’s fists clenched at his sides. He could feel Zidian tighten around his finger, the ring pulsing faintly with his rising energy until a small spark jumped from it, a purple flash that hissed in the quiet. His jaw locked as he turned sharply on his heel, unwilling to let anyone, least of all Lan Wangji, see the storm behind his eyes.

Without another word, he left the room, the echo of his boots fading down the hall.

Lan Wangji didn’t watch him go. His attention never wavered from Wei Wuxian. He reached out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from Wei Wuxian’s face. The gesture was slow, loving. He let his hand linger there for a moment, thumb tracing the faint curve of his temple before lowering it again.

“Rest,” he whispered, though Wei Wuxian was already deep in sleep.

For the first time in days, his breathing—the sound, the steadiness—didn’t terrify him. Still, Lan Wangji kept his vigil until the lanterns burned low.

The next day came with sunlight streaming through the lattice window, dappling the floor in gold. By midafternoon, Cloud Recesses had returned to its serene hum. The scent of mountain air and tea drifted faintly through the open window.

Wei Wuxian sat propped against a pillow, his bandaged abdomen carefully supported by folded cloth. His hair was loose again, half-dry from the morning’s gentle cleaning, falling around his shoulders in dark waves. He looked out the window at the bamboo swaying in the breeze, a faint smile tugging at his lips. His voice was still too weak to hum, but his fingers tapped absently on the blanket as if keeping time with a tune only he could hear.

Lan Wangji was gone—called away to meet with Lan Xichen for some matter of importance—and though the room was quiet, it wasn’t lonely. Not exactly. Wei Wuxian was thinking about how peaceful it felt, about how rare it was to feel anything at all. Being alive again was truly something that, even after all these months, he hasn’t grown used to.

Then, the door slid open.

The sharp sound of boots against wood broke the silence as Jiang Cheng stepped in. His expression was characteristically scowling, though something in his posture was softer—he carried no blade, and the set of his jaw wasn’t anger so much as restraint.

Without a word, he crossed to the chair beside the bed and sat down with a faint huff, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

Wei Wuxian blinked, startled, then smiled. “Ah—Jia..ng Cheng…” His voice still carried the raw, halting edge of recovery. “You c-came—”

“Shut up,” Jiang Cheng cut him off immediately, his tone brisk and sharp. “Don’t talk. You sound like a dying goose.”

Wei Wuxian blinked, then laughed softly, though it broke into a cough halfway through.

Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Idiot.” He reached into his sleeve and pulled something out—a small, cloth-wrapped bundle—and tossed it onto Wei Wuxian’s lap with more force than necessary.

“Here,” he said. “Before you start making that pathetic face again.”

Wei Wuxian blinked down at it, confused. “What’s… this?”

Jiang Cheng scowled, looking anywhere but at him. “Something you should’ve had already. You’re supposed to be from Yunmeng Jiang, remember? Running around without one is disrespectful. What kind of disciple—no, what kind of head disciple—forgets his own clarity bell?”

His voice rose slightly, his irritation spilling over into sharpness, but Wei Wuxian could hear it now—the tremor beneath it. The words were cruel on the surface, but the edges were blunted by something else entirely.

So entirely Jiang Cheng.

Wei Wuxian stared at the bundle for a moment before carefully unwrapping it with trembling hands.

The cloth fell open, revealing a clarity bell unlike any he had ever seen. Nothing like the one he lost as a teen.

It was exquisite—crafted from silver so clear it caught the sunlight and crystal, which refracted light into soft hues of lavender and silver. The intricate metalwork around its sphere glimmered faintly with spiritual light, and from its base trailed twin tassels—one a deep, regal violet, the other a silvery white that shimmered faintly.

A perfect blend of Jiang and Lan sect colors.

Wei Wuxian’s breath caught. He turned it slightly in his hands, the bell giving off a delicate, crystalline chime that filled the room with a faint, pure sound. His fingers trembled as they brushed over the tassels, the colors blending beautifully, much like Wei Wuxian blended into both sects.

It hit him all at once—the weight of it, the meaning behind the gesture.

His throat tightened. His eyes blurred before he even realized he was crying.

The first tear fell onto the bell, catching on the crystal before sliding down his fingers. Then another.

Jiang Cheng stiffened immediately, snapping his head toward him. “W–What? Why are you crying!?” he demanded, his voice too loud, too quick. “I didn’t mean—it’s not—it’s just a bell! Stop crying, you idiot!”

Wei Wuxian tried to speak, but his voice failed him. He clutched the bell against his chest, his shoulders shaking with a quiet, uneven sob. When he finally managed to get the words out, they came small and broken, but sincere.

“Th–thank you.”

Jiang Cheng froze. The words hit him harder than any ever could. He stared for a moment, jaw tightening again as he turned his gaze away.

“Tch.” He crossed his arms tighter, looking toward the window instead. “Yeah, well. Don’t lose it this time.” His voice softened imperceptibly. “And… make sure the damn thing rings. People should hear it when you walk in. Remind them who you are.”

Wei Wuxian smiled through his tears, still clutching the bell against his chest as if afraid it might vanish.

The small, shimmering sound of the bell filled the room again as it swayed in his trembling hands—clear, light, and impossibly alive.

For the first time since he arrived, Jiang Cheng let out a breath that wasn’t clenched with worry.

He didn’t look at Wei Wuxian again, didn’t trust himself to. But his voice came quieter, rougher, as he muttered under his breath, “Just… stay alive this time, all right?”

Wei Wuxian smiled, eyes still wet, and the bell chimed once more—a delicate sound that filled the room like forgiveness.

“I will, Shidi…I will.”