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The Cloud Recesses are too quiet.
Wei Wuxian decides this within the first week. By the third month, he is certain of it.
The silence here is not empty. It is not gentle. It is not peaceful in the way people claim it is. It presses in from all sides- settling into the white stone paths, threading itself between the straight-backed pines, slipping through open lattice windows to coil around the hundreds upon hundreds of rules etched into wood and memory alike. Even the wind seems to lower its voice out of respect.
The silence watches.
And, somehow, it feels like it is watching him.
Wei Wuxian refuses to let it win.
So he fills it.
He talks when he walks beside Jiang Cheng down the mountain steps, narrating the shape of the clouds and the way the elders’ beards move when they scold. He talks during lectures, even when he is not supposed to, which is most of the time. He talks until Jiang Cheng hisses that if he doesn’t shut up, he’ll strangle him with his own belt and blame it on a night hunt accident.
He laughs, bright and careless, and keeps talking anyway.
Because if he stops-
If he lets the quiet settle-
Something uncomfortable stirs beneath it.
Lately, his thoughts have been straying somewhere he does not entirely want them to go.
They circle back, again and again, to one person.
Lan Wangji.
The Second Jade of Gusu.
Wei Wuxian looks up from his scroll.
He is seated cross-legged on the floor of the library pavilion, his back resting against a carved wooden pillar. Sunlight filters in through the high windows, falling in pale, deliberate lines across the polished floor. Dust drifts lazily through the beams, suspended like tiny stars.
At the front of the room sits Lan Wangji.
Of course he does.
Where else would he be?
He is perfectly straight, as always, robes cascading in unwrinkled white layers around him. His hair is tied neatly back; the white forehead ribbon stands out stark against the dark silk. He turns a page with precise, unhurried movements.
He barely seems to breathe.
He reads.
He is always reading.
Wei Wuxian tells himself he is not staring.
He absolutely is.
It has been three months.
Three months of something restless and unfamiliar living inside his chest. Three months of catching sight of Lan Wangji across courtyards, across classrooms, across crowded night hunts and quiet libraries. Three months of… trying.
He had started with what he knew best.
Annoying him.
That had been easy. It is easy to annoy Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian only has to exist loudly enough.
He broke rules- important ones. Curfew. Silence. Conduct. He grinned as Lan Wangji stood stiff and cold before him, reciting reprimands with clipped precision. There had been anger in his eyes, sharp and bright.
Wei Wuxian had found that almost charming.
He flirted next.
That had been fun.
Lan Wangji’s ears turn red. Only his ears. The rest of him remains carved from ice and marble, utterly composed. The first time Wei Wuxian noticed it, he nearly laughed himself breathless from the victory of it.
He tried being sweet.
That had felt stranger.
He smiled at him without mischief. Spoke softly. Thanked him sincerely. For a fleeting second, Lan Wangji had looked at him as if he were something puzzling- something he could not quite translate.
Wei Wuxian did not know which reaction unsettled him more: anger, or confusion.
And then-
There was the memory he does not let himself linger on for too long.
Cold water closing overhead. Darkness pressing in. The Waterborne Abyss.
Lan Wangji’s hand in his.
Fingers gripping tight.
Lan Wangji’s arms around him as they surfaced. Lan Wangji’s voice, low and urgent, saying his name.
“Wei Ying.”
Not mocking. Not reprimanding.
Just- him.
That moment has not left him since.
And still-
Lan Wangji turns a page.
He does not look at him.
Not once.
Wei Wuxian swallows.
There is a tightness in his chest that he does not have a name for. It appears whenever he looks too long, whenever Lan Wangji’s profile catches the light just so, whenever he imagines- ridiculously- what it would be like to be the reason Lan Wangji’s expression softened.
It is foolish.
He does not understand why it feels so heavy.
A tickle rises in his throat.
He coughs lightly, covering his mouth with his fist to muffle the sound. The quiet in the library feels fragile, like glass. He does not want to be the one who shatters it.
Lan Wangji does not pause.
Wei Wuxian clears his throat.
It is nothing. The air here is strange- too clean, too thin. It dries him out. That is all.
He lowers his gaze to the scroll again.
The characters blur together. He reads the same line three times and cannot recall a single word of it.
His eyes drift upward despite himself.
Lan Wangji is exactly the same.
Untouchable.
Unreachable.
Perfect.
The tightness in Wei Wuxian’s chest sharpens unexpectedly. He shifts, pressing a hand briefly against his sternum as if he can knead the feeling away.
What is that?
It almost feels like-
No.
He refuses to finish the thought.
He laughs too loudly at something Jiang Cheng mutters under his breath, though he barely hears it. The sound echoes slightly in the pavilion. A few disciples glance over.
Lan Wangji does not.
Wei Wuxian presses his lips together.
Of course he doesn’t.
Why would he?
Lan Wangji avoids him when he can. Tolerates him when he must. Endures him like one endures a persistent mosquito.
The thought settles unpleasantly in his stomach.
Maybe that is all this is- irritation turned inward. Maybe he simply dislikes being disliked.
Yes.
That makes sense.
It has nothing to do with the way his breath stutters sometimes when Lan Wangji says his name.
Nothing at all.
The tickle in his throat returns, sharper this time.
He coughs again.
It hurts.
He winces, quickly covering his mouth with his sleeve. The sound is louder than before, harsher. A few heads turn. He curls in slightly, trying to make himself smaller, quieter.
Lan Wangji hates noise.
Wei Wuxian coughs again.
And again.
Each one scrapes like sand down his throat. His lungs feel tight, as though something is lodged there, something fragile and stubborn.
He bites down on his sleeve to smother the sound.
He cannot-
He coughs once more, violently.
Something wet splatters against his palm.
Wei Wuxian freezes.
The world narrows to the space between his hands.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers his sleeve.
Red.
Bright against his skin.
For a moment, his mind refuses to understand what he is seeing.
Blood?
Why-
Another shape rests in it.
White.
Soft.
Almost glowing against the red.
He blinks.
It clings to his trembling fingers- a fragile cluster of downy seeds, impossibly delicate. Like dandelion fluff caught on the wind.
Wei Wuxian stares at it.
The library remains silent around him.
Someone turns a page.
Somewhere outside, a breeze brushes through pine needles.
He feels as though the floor has tilted beneath him.
This doesn’t make sense.
He coughs again, a choked, involuntary sound. More red. More white. The tiny seeds cling stubbornly to his skin, to the fabric of his sleeve.
His heart pounds so loudly he is certain everyone can hear it.
What is this?
Is he ill?
Has something lodged in his lungs from the night hunts? Some strange spiritual backlash? Did he swallow seeds by accident? That is absurd. How would-
His thoughts scatter, frantic and useless.
He lifts his gaze without meaning to.
Across the room, Lan Wangji sits as he always does- perfectly composed, head slightly bowed over his book. Sunlight catches in the strands of his hair.
Untouched.
Unaware.
Wei Wuxian’s chest constricts so sharply he nearly gasps.
He does not understand why looking at him makes it worse.
He does not understand why the ache feels tied to him at all.
His fingers curl instinctively around the fragile white seeds.
They crumple instantly. It takes no effort at all. He stares at the crushed remains in his palm, at the smear of red across his skin. His shoulders shake once- just once. He presses his sleeve against his mouth, wiping it away quickly, carefully. The blood soaks into the dark fabric. The white disappears.
No one says anything.
No one moves.
Lan Wangji does not look up.
Wei Wuxian lowers his head.
He inhales.
The breath burns.
He exhales slowly.
Another small cough threatens; he swallows it down.
It is nothing.
It must be nothing.
Just a strange cough.
Just blood.
Just flowers.
He forces a grin onto his face, even though no one is looking at him now.
He has always been good at pretending.
And whatever this is-
Whatever is growing inside his lungs, whatever is tightening around his heart-
He will figure it out.
Eventually.
For now, he lifts his scroll again and pretends the words are not swimming, pretends his chest does not feel hollowed out and painfully full all at once.
Pretends he is not afraid.
Wei Wuxian does not go to the infirmary.
Not for bruises. Not for sprains. Not even when Jiang Cheng hisses that he’s bleeding through his sleeve and being an idiot about it.
He prides himself on that.
The Cloud Recesses already think he is unruly, disruptive, lacking discipline. He refuses to add fragile to the list.
But this-
This is different.
He stands outside the infirmary doors with dried blood stiff against the inside of his sleeve and something small and white still clinging stubbornly to the lines of his palm.
The corridor is quiet. Of course it is. Everything in Gusu is quiet.
The infirmary smells faintly of bitter herbs and clean linen. The scent catches in his throat and makes him want to cough again. He swallows it down.
This could be a curse.
That thought is what brought him here.
Not fear.
Certainly not that.
Curses are practical things. Tangible. They can be studied, countered, and dismantled. If someone has managed to curse him inside the Cloud Recesses of all places, then that is interesting. Impressive, even.
Yes.
He can work with that.
He pushes the door open.
Inside, the room is bright and orderly. Low wooden cabinets line the walls, filled with drawers labeled in precise characters. Bundles of dried herbs hang from ceiling beams. A few junior disciples sit on benches along one side, nursing minor injuries from training.
At the central table stands the main Lan-daifu.
She is older, her hair streaked with silver, her robes as immaculate as any Lan’s. Her posture is straight but not rigid; her movements deliberate, efficient. There is nothing hurried about her, nothing wasted.
She looks up when the door slides shut.
Her gaze lands on him.
There is the faintest narrowing of her eyes.
“Wei Wuxian,” she says evenly. “What brings you to the infirmary?”
He offers her his brightest smile.
“Daifu, how rude. Am I not allowed to visit? Perhaps I wished to admire your medicinal cabinets.”
The nearest junior disciple snorts before catching himself.
Lan-daifu does not.
“This is not a place for sightseeing,” she replies calmly, “State your purpose.”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth with another quip ready- but the tickle in his throat interrupts him. It surges up suddenly, sharp and insistent.
He turns slightly, lifting his sleeve to his mouth.
He coughs.
It is worse than before.
His lungs seize around something fragile and unyielding. The sound tears out of him before he can smother it. He doubles forward, shoulders shaking, breath stuttering.
Something wet splashes against his palm.
There is a brief silence in the room.
When the coughing finally subsides into a ragged inhale, he lowers his hand.
Red.
And white.
The tiny, delicate petals- no, not petals. Seeds. Soft and feathery- rest against his blood-slick skin.
The juniors on the bench go utterly still.
Lan daifu’s composure fractures.
Not dramatically. Not with a gasp or cry. But her eyes widen- just slightly- and something sharp flickers across her expression before she smooths it away.
“Come here,” she says quietly.
It is not a request.
Wei Wuxian straightens, wiping his hand absently against his sleeve, though the motion does little. He steps forward.
Up close, he can see that Lan-daifu is studying him far more intently than before.
“How long has this been occurring?” she asks.
“Just now,” he says lightly, “Well. Today. It’s a new development. I was in the library pavilion, minding my own business, being a model student-”
“Wei Wuxian.”
He stops talking.
“Since when,” she repeats, “have you been coughing blood?”
He hesitates.
“Since… earlier,” he admits, “Only a few times.”
She gestures toward a low stool beside the examination table.
“Sit.”
He obeys, unusually docile.
She takes his wrist, fingers pressing against his pulse. Her touch is cool and steady. Her expression remains composed, but there is a tightness around her eyes now.
His pulse must be racing.
He tells himself it is only because the coughing hurt.
After a moment, she releases him.
“Have you experienced shortness of breath?” she asks.
“A little.”
“Chest pain?”
He considers.
“Yes.”
She nods once, as if confirming something to herself.
Then she asks, in a tone so measured it almost slips past him, “Have you recently experienced strong emotions?”
Wei Wuxian blinks.
“Strong emotions?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs.
“I am a very emotional person, Daifu. I experience strong emotions daily. Jiang Cheng exists.”
One of the juniors makes a strangled noise that might be laughter.
Lan-daifu does not react.
“Toward a specific person,” she clarifies.
Wei Wuxian tilts his head.
“I’m fond of many people,” he says cheerfully, “My shidi. My shijie. Even some of your esteemed Lan disciples, when they are not glaring at me.”
Her gaze does not waver.
“Yearning,” she says, “Craving. Persistent attachment. Desire.”
The words land strangely in the quiet room.
Wei Wuxian’s smile falters, just slightly.
“I’m afraid I do not quite understand,” he says.
“Affection,” she continues, “Love.”
The air shifts.
He laughs, because that is what he does when something catches him off guard.
“Daifu, are you suggesting my lungs are bleeding because I am in love? That seems highly inefficient.”
Her expression remains grave.
“I am asking,” she says carefully, “whether there is someone toward whom you feel deeply. Someone whose presence- or absence- affects you strongly.”
His mind, unhelpfully, offers an image.
White robes.
A straight back.
A voice saying his name.
Wei Ying.
He pushes it away.
“No,” he says lightly, “I do not believe so.”
Lan daifu studies him.
“Do you find yourself thinking of someone repeatedly?” she asks, “Seeking their attention. Becoming unsettled by their indifference?”
His chest tightens.
That is a coincidence he hasn’t considered fully.
He shrugs.
“I am unsettled by many things in the Cloud Recesses,” he replies, “Primarily the rules.”
“Wei Wuxian.”
Her voice is not sharp. It is not unkind.
But it cuts through his deflection cleanly.
“You are not cursed in the conventional sense,” she says.
He stills.
“Not cursed?”
“No.”
She folds her hands within her sleeves.
“You are afflicted with what is known as Hanahaki.”
The word means nothing to him.
“Hana…?”
“A rare condition,” she says, “documented sparsely in cultivation records. It manifests when one harbours unreturned love.”
He stares at her.
“I beg your pardon?” he hisses.
“When feelings of deep affection are suppressed or unreciprocated,” she continues evenly, “they take root within the body. They manifest physically, in the form of plant growth. Most commonly within the lungs, though it has been known to occur occasionally in other areas as well.”
He looks down at his stained sleeve.
At the faint white fluff still clinging stubbornly to the fabric.
“That is ridiculous,” he says flatly.
“It is rare,” she agrees, “But not unheard of.”
He shakes his head.
“With respect, Daifu, I am not secretly nurturing some tragic romance in my chest.”
She does not smile.
“You are coughing up flower matter,” she says, “Accompanied by blood. Your pulse is erratic. Your spiritual energy fluctuates sharply when certain topics are introduced.”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“That proves nothing,” he mutters.
“It proves,” she says gently, “that your body is reacting to something your mind is unwilling to acknowledge.”
His stomach drops.
“That’s absurd.”
“Is there someone,” she asks quietly, “whose attention you seek more than others?”
His throat feels tight again.
He thinks of provoking Lan Wangji just to see that faint flicker in his eyes.
He thinks of how the world seems to narrow when those pale irises turn on him.
He thinks of the Waterborne Abyss.
Lan Wangji’s hand gripping his.
The way his name had sounded.
He coughs suddenly, sharply.
More red.
More white.
The juniors on the bench shift uneasily.
Lan-daifu waits until he steadies.
“Hanahaki,” she says, “will progress.”
He lifts his head slowly.
“How?” he asks.
“The growth within your lungs will increase,” she replies. “The coughing will worsen. The bleeding will become more frequent. Eventually, your airways will obstruct.”
The words are delivered calmly.
As if she is describing the weather.
“You will suffocate,” she finishes.
The room feels smaller.
He forces a laugh.
“You cannot possibly mean-”
“You have time,” she says, “Based on the severity I observe, perhaps three months. Less, if your condition accelerates.”
Three months.
The number echoes.
“That is not funny,” he says.
“I am not joking.”
Silence stretches between them.
His mind scrambles for logic.
There must be another explanation. Some spiritual parasite. Some rare herb reaction. Some-
“And the cure?” he asks finally.
“There are two known outcomes,” she says.
“Two?”
“One,” she says, “is death.”
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“And the second?”
She holds his gaze.
“The feelings must be confessed. They must be returned.”
He stares at her.
“Returned,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“To the person I am allegedly in love with.”
“Yes.”
“And if they do not- return them?”
Her eyes are steady.
“Then the condition will not resolve.”
He laughs again.
It sounds thin.
“This is insane.”
“It is inconvenient,” she corrects softly.
He pushes to his feet, pacing once across the small space before the examination table. His head feels too full, his lungs too tight.
“This assumes,” he says, “that I even know who this person is.”
She says nothing.
He stops pacing.
The answer sits there, heavy and obvious.
White robes.
Pale eyes.
A forehead ribbon.
He feels heat crawl up his neck.
“That is-” He cuts himself off, “That is irrelevant.”
“Is it?” she asks.
He turns away from her.
“This is absurd,” he repeats. “You are suggesting that because I- because someone irritates me frequently-”
“Is that what you feel?” she asks.
“I feel,” he snaps, “that Lan Wangji is an infuriating, self-righteous, rule-obsessed-”
He breaks off.
His chest hurts.
Not from coughing.
From something else.
Lan-daifu’s voice is gentle.
“You speak his name quite easily.”
Wei Wuxian freezes.
He had not realised he said it aloud.
The room is very quiet. He hadn’t realised the juniors had left until now.
He swallows.
“That proves nothing,” he mutters.
“It proves,” she says, “that he is the first person your mind offers.”
His pulse thunders in his ears.
“That does not mean-”
“Do you wish for his attention?”
He does not answer.
“Do you feel pain when he withholds it?”
His jaw tightens.
“That is not-”
“Do you think of him when you are alone?”
He cannot seem to breathe properly.
The silence stretches.
Finally, he says, very quietly, “What if I do, Daifu?”
Lan daifu’s gaze softens.
“Then,” she says, “you must decide whether you value your pride more than your life.”
The words land heavily.
Confess.
To Lan Wangji.
The thought is so absurd it almost circles back to plausible.
Lan Wangji, who looks at him as though he is a persistent inconvenience.
Lan Wangji, who enforces rules against him with icy precision.
Lan Wangji, who-
Who held his hand in the dark.
Wei Wuxian lets out a shaky breath.
“And if I tell him,” he says, “and he rejects me?”
Her answer is immediate.
“Then you will continue to cough.”
He laughs again.
It sounds closer to hysteria now.
“Three months,” he says.
“Yes.”
He looks down at his bloodstained sleeve.
At the faint imprint of crushed white.
His chest tightens painfully.
He has never been afraid of much.
Not punishment. Not danger. Not even death, not really.
But this-
Dying because he cannot say something?
Dying because someone might not say it back?
It feels absurd.
It feels humiliating.
It feels unfair.
He lifts his head.
Lan-daifu is watching him carefully.
“For now,” she says, “I will provide herbs to ease the bleeding. They will not cure you. They will only slow the progression.”
He nods mechanically.
She steps away to prepare the medicine.
Wei Wuxian stands there, staring at nothing.
Three months.
Confess.
Have them reciprocated.
Or die.
Outside, somewhere beyond the orderly walls of the infirmary, the pines whisper in the wind.
For the first time since arriving in the Cloud Recesses, the silence does not feel watchful.
It feels suffocating.
Wei Wuxian does not remember walking back.
He leaves the infirmary with a small packet of bitter herbs tucked into his sleeve and a number lodged behind his ribs like a splinter.
Three months.
The Cloud Recesses look exactly the same as they did that morning. White walls, black-tiled roofs, pines standing tall and straight as if they, too, have memorised the rules. The mountain air is cool and clean, thin in a way he used to tease mercilessly.
Now every breath feels like something he has to think about.
He keeps his expression light as he passes a pair of Lan disciples in the corridor. He even raises a hand in greeting. One of them stiffens, clearly bracing for some comment about the prohibition against loitering.
He says nothing.
It feels strange.
The quiet does not press at him today.
It simply exists.
When he reaches the room he shares with Jiang Cheng, he hesitates for half a heartbeat before sliding the door open.
Jiang Cheng is pacing.
Of course he is.
He stops the instant the door moves, turning sharply.
“Where were you?”
Wei Wuxian steps inside and closes the door behind him with deliberate care. The room is neat in the way all guest quarters here are- two low beds, two trunks, a small table set near the window. Jiang Cheng’s half is already tidied for departure: sword belt ready, outer robe folded neatly over his arm.
They were meant to go to Caiyi together.
The thought lands with a dull thud.
“I was delayed,” Wei Wuxian says.
“Delayed?” Jiang Cheng repeats incredulously, “We were supposed to meet the others after lessons. You said you’d only be a moment.”
Wei Wuxian shrugs, dropping onto the edge of his bed. The motion feels heavier than it should.
“I’m unwell,” he says.
Jiang Cheng stares at him.
“You?” The word drips with disbelief, “Unwell?”
Wei Wuxian forces a grin.
“Shocking, I know. Even geniuses fall ill.”
Jiang Cheng crosses his arms. “What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic.” He waves a hand vaguely. “Just a cough. Probably the mountain air. Too refined for someone as worldly as me.”
“Stop joking,” Jiang Cheng snaps, “What happened?”
There is irritation in his voice, yes- but beneath it, something tighter. Concern, worn thin by years of dealing with Wei Wuxian’s reckless tendencies.
Wei Wuxian looks away.
The number repeats in his head.
Three months.
“I said I’m unwell,” he replies lightly, “You should go without me, Jiang Cheng. The others will be waiting.”
Jiang Cheng takes a step closer.
“You hate missing anything. Since when do you skip a trip down the mountain?”
Wei Wuxian shrugs again.
“Since now.”
Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrow. “Did you get into trouble?”
“Only the usual amount.”
“Did Lan Wangji say something to you?”
The name hits too precisely.
Wei Wuxian laughs, a touch too sharp.
“What could he possibly say that would affect me?”
Jiang Cheng studies him for a long moment.
Wei Wuxian keeps smiling.
The silence stretches.
Finally Jiang Cheng exhales through his nose, clearly frustrated.
“Fine. Stay here and be mysterious. Don’t blame me when you miss out.”
“I never blame you,” Wei Wuxian replies cheerfully, “It’s beneath me.”
Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes.
“Take the medicine from the infirmary,” he mutters, glancing at Wei Wuxian’s sleeve, “And don’t cause trouble while I’m gone.”
Wei Wuxian raises two fingers in a lazy salute. “Would I ever?”
“Yes,” Jiang Cheng says flatly.
He turns, snatches up his outer robe, and heads for the door. He pauses only briefly.
“If you’re actually sick,” he adds, not looking back, “don’t be stupid about it.”
Then he leaves.
The door slides shut.
The room is quiet.
Wei Wuxian sits very still for a moment, listening to the fading sound of footsteps in the corridor.
Caiyi.
He imagines the bustle of the little town at the foot of the mountain. The market stalls, the smell of steamed buns, the fishermen shouting to one another on the river. He had been looking forward to it.
He lies back slowly on his bed.
The ceiling above him is plain wood, unadorned.
Three months.
The thought feels abstract.
Ridiculous.
It does not fit inside his head properly.
He turns onto his side, curling slightly without meaning to.
Three months.
That is less than the length of this study period.
Less than the time it takes to properly master a new sword form.
Less than-
His chest tightens.
He presses a hand against it, as though he can hold something inside by force.
He is going to die.
The sentence forms cleanly, without embellishment.
He is going to die in three months.
Not on a battlefield. Not in a blaze of glory. Not because he miscalculated a talisman or overreached in some brilliant, reckless manoeuvre.
He is going to die because of a feeling.
He laughs softly.
It sounds thin in the empty room.
All his life, he has imagined himself becoming something extraordinary.
A great cultivator. A name spoken with admiration. Someone who stands at Jiang Cheng’s side when Lotus Pier rises to its full glory again. He pictures it now- standing just behind Jiang Cheng as his right hand, sword at his hip, spiritual energy bright and steady.
He has always assumed that the future was inevitable.
Now-
His golden core pulses faintly beneath his ribs.
He closes his eyes and reaches inward, the way he has been taught since childhood.
There.
The steady warmth of spiritual energy.
But it feels… thinner.
Is that his imagination?
Lan-daifu’s words echo in his mind.
The growth will increase.
Your spiritual energy fluctuates sharply.
He swallows.
What if it leeches from him?
What if, little by little, whatever is blooming inside his lungs feeds on his core?
He sits up abruptly.
No.
He tries again, focusing harder this time.
The golden core responds- but sluggishly, like a tired muscle.
Panic flickers, quick and sharp.
If he cannot cultivate properly-
If his spiritual energy weakens-
He will not be able to night hunt.
He will not be able to stand beside Jiang Cheng.
He will not even be able to protect himself properly.
He will become a burden.
The word makes his stomach twist.
He has never feared death particularly.
He fears that.
Being useless.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threading into his hair.
Three months.
In three months, he will never see Lotus Pier again.
He will never watch Jiang Cheng take his place as sect leader, tall and proud and bristling with responsibility.
He will never tease him about it.
He will never see Shijie’s children- plump little toddlers with amethyst eyes and her gentle smile.
He will never carry them on his shoulders.
He will never teach them how to fish.
The future stretches before him like a scroll that ends abruptly in a blank tear.
And then-
There is the other thing.
The thing he refuses to name.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Lan Wangji’s face appears anyway.
The cool line of his jaw. The way his brows draw together when Wei Wuxian pushes too far. The faint red at the tips of his ears when he flusters him.
He lets out a shaky breath.
He will never-
He has never even-
He laughs again, softer this time.
He has flirted shamelessly since he was old enough to understand what it meant. He has teased girls at markets and winked at passing cultivators just to see them react.
But he has never been serious.
He has never kissed anyone.
The thought comes suddenly, unbidden.
He will die having never known what it feels like.
He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth.
How ridiculous.
How unfair.
Cursed, the Daifu had said.
Unreturned love.
He rolls onto his back again, staring at the ceiling.
Confess.
Have it reciprocated.
Or die.
He imagines it.
Standing in front of Lan Wangji- Lan Wangji with his perfect posture and controlled expression- and saying it plainly.
I like you.
No.
Worse.
I love you.
He groans softly and drags a sleeve over his face.
Lan Wangji would freeze.
Or frown.
Or deliver some measured reprimand about inappropriate conduct between fellow disciples.
He might never look at him again.
And that-
That would hurt more than the coughing.
He lowers his sleeve.
No.
He will not tell him.
He will not put that look on Lan Wangji’s face.
He will not make himself smaller in that way.
If he is going to die, he will do it on his own terms.
Not begging.
Not confessing like some tragic fool in a cheap opera.
He sits up slowly.
His chest aches, but the pain feels distant, almost irrelevant.
Three months.
If that is what he has-
Then he will use them.
He will climb every rooftop in Caiyi when he gets the chance.
He will sneak wine past the Lan rules and drink it under the moon.
He will learn every sword form they teach him here, even if he has to practice twice as hard to make up for whatever is draining him.
He will laugh loudly.
He will tease Jiang Cheng.
He will provoke Lan Wangji, because that, at least, makes his eyes flash.
He will live.
Not quietly.
Not obediently.
He draws in a breath-
And chokes.
The cough comes fast and violent, doubling him forward before he can brace for it. His hands hit the edge of the bed as his lungs seize around something sharp and insistent.
He coughs again.
It burns.
His vision blurs.
Something spills hot and metallic into his mouth.
He pulls his hand away from the bed and presses it to his lips instinctively.
When the coughing subsides enough for him to breathe, he looks down.
There is more blood this time.
It drips between his fingers, dark against his skin.
And nestled within it-
White.
Soft.
Dandelion fluff, clumped and damp.
His heart pounds.
It is more than before.
He stares at it, breath shallow.
Then-
Something else catches his eye.
A pale shape, distinct from the feathery white.
Small.
Curved.
He lifts his hand slightly, trembling.
A petal.
Not white.
Faintly pink, streaked with deeper color near the center.
A plum blossom petal.
He stares at it, uncomprehending.
Plum blossoms.
Gusu’s state flower, like Yunmeng’s lotus, and Lanling’s peony.
Lan Wangji’s scent sometimes carries the faintest hint of plum from the incense burned in the Cloud Recesses.
His stomach drops.
The petal trembles in his blood-slick palm.
This is getting worse.
It is spreading.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing red across pale fabric. His breathing feels uneven.
Three months.
Perhaps less.
He closes his fingers slowly around the mess in his hand.
The petals crumple easily.
So do dandelion seeds.
So does pride.
He squeezes until the fragile shapes are nothing more than damp pulp.
Then he lets his hand fall limply to his side.
He leans back against the wall beside his bed and stares at nothing.
“I won’t tell him,” he murmurs under his breath.
The words feel solid.
An oath.
“I won’t.”
If Lan Wangji ever feels something-
If, by some impossible twist, those pale eyes soften without prompting-
Then perhaps.
But he will not chase it.
He will not beg for it.
He will not stand before him and confess just to save himself.
He laughs weakly.
“Three months,” he whispers.
Fine.
Three months is enough to cause trouble. Three months is enough to live brightly, even if the brightness burns him up.
He wipes his hand clean on an old cloth, shoves it deep into his trunk, and lies back down.
Outside, the wind moves through the pines.
Inside, his lungs feel heavy with flowers.
The first few days after the diagnosis pass in a blur of noise.
Wei Wuxian makes sure of that.
If he stays still for too long, his thoughts turn traitor. If he lets himself be alone, his mind drifts to white robes and quiet gazes and the soft weight of three months sitting inside his chest.
So he does what he has always done best.
He fills the space.
He drags Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang into long arguments about sword forms they have not yet mastered. He proposes elaborate plans to sneak wine into the Cloud Recesses without getting caught (and then abandons them halfway through, laughing, because even he knows the Lan wards are far too thorough). He demonstrates talisman sketches in the dirt and argues theory with the Jiang disciples until Jiang Cheng snaps that he is showing off.
On the surface, nothing has changed.
He laughs loudly.
He grins easily.
He eats well, complains about the blandness of Gusu cuisine, and makes exaggerated faces whenever a Lan disciple reminds him of a rule he has broken.
But underneath-
Underneath, something is fraying.
He finds himself distracted mid-sentence. He loses track of jokes halfway through telling them. Sometimes he looks up without meaning to, searching for a flash of white in the courtyard.
Lan Wangji is always somewhere nearby.
Not close.
Never close.
But present.
Seated at the edge of the group during lectures, back straight as a blade. Standing beneath a pine during sword practice, correcting a junior’s form with cool precision. Passing by in the corridor, gaze forward, hands folded within his sleeves.
Wei Wuxian has always sought him out deliberately.
Now it feels involuntary.
He catches himself staring more than once.
He cannot afford that.
Suspicion is the last thing he needs.
If anyone begins to connect his coughing to Lan Wangji- if anyone even jokes about it-
He does not let the thought finish.
So he forces himself to behave exactly as before.
When Lan Wangji reprimands him for speaking out of turn, he grins and bows theatrically.
When Lan Wangji’s ears turn faintly red at one of his more shameless remarks, Wei Wuxian laughs and nudges Jiang Cheng as though that is all it is.
A game.
It has always been a game.
Only now, when Lan Wangji turns away, the space he leaves behind feels colder than it should.
He swallows the urge to cough more often than he can count.
The fits come less frequently during the day, mostly because he forces them down. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, focuses on his breathing, swallows against the rising tickle in his throat until his eyes water.
He cannot let Jiang Cheng see.
Jiang Cheng notices everything.
Once, in the middle of a joke, a sharp burn seizes his lungs so suddenly that he has to turn away, pretending to stretch. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood that is not floral.
He manages to hold it in.
But the pressure builds.
It always builds.
By the fourth day, the ache in his chest feels constant. Not sharp, not unbearable- just there. Like something quietly taking root.
They are gathered by the edge of a small stream that afternoon, Nie Huaisang complaining about the humidity ruining his hair, when Wei Wuxian feels it again.
That tightening.
That terrible bloom of pressure in his lungs.
He forces a laugh at something Jiang Cheng says and claps a hand to his chest as if merely amused.
“I’ll be back,” he says lightly, “If I stay any longer listening to Nie-xiong’s complaints, I may perish.”
Nie Huaisang gasps in mock outrage. Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes.
“Don’t wander off too far,” Jiang Cheng says, “We’re meant to review sword forms before dinner.”
Wei Wuxian waves a hand over his shoulder and slips away.
He does not go far.
Just far enough that their voices fade into background noise.
His steps turn automatically toward the library pavilion.
It is a place he knows Lan Wangji frequents, yes- but at this hour, most disciples are outside training. The pavilion should be empty.
He pushes the door open quietly.
It is.
The air inside is cool and still. Rows of shelves line the walls, scrolls and bound volumes arranged with meticulous care. Sunlight filters in through high windows, casting long, pale beams across the polished floor.
The quiet closes around him.
This time, he does not fight it.
The cough comes immediately.
It tears through him without warning, doubling him forward as he barely manages to get the door shut behind him.
He staggers a few steps inside and braces himself against a low table.
He coughs again.
And again.
The sound echoes too loudly in the empty pavilion.
His lungs feel as though they are being scraped from the inside.
He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his fist to his mouth.
When he pulls his hand away, there is blood.
More than before.
It glistens dark against his skin.
And tangled within it-
White.
Always white first.
Dandelion fluff, damp and clumped.
But beneath it-
Pink.
More of it now.
Plum blossom petals, soft and curved, streaked with red from his blood.
He stares at them.
The number pulses in his mind.
Three months.
He has not even made it a week, and already it is worsening.
He slides down slowly until he is sitting on the floor, back against the shelf.
His breathing comes in shallow pulls.
When the coughing subsides, he lets his head tip back against the wood.
For a long moment, he just sits there.
Alone.
He looks at the flowers in his palm.
Dandelion.
Plum blossom.
He had not thought much of the symbolism before.
Flowers are flowers.
But now-
Now he wants to know.
He pushes himself to his feet and moves deeper into the pavilion.
The Lan collection is vast. It takes only a few moments of scanning the spines before he finds a volume dedicated to botany and symbolic meanings- precisely labeled, of course.
He pulls it free.
The cover is smooth beneath his fingers.
He hesitates only a second before opening it and flipping through the pages.
Dandelion.
He finds it quickly.
He reads.
Fleeting feelings.
Transience.
Ephemeral attachment.
His brows draw together.
Fleeting?
His gaze drops to the damp white fluff in his hand.
Fleeting.
Is that what this is?
He laughs softly under his breath.
Nothing about this feels fleeting.
He turns the page.
Plum blossom.
He traces the characters with his finger.
Enduring hardship.
Perseverance through winter.
Love that withstands cold.
His throat tightens.
He reads the line again.
And again.
Love that withstands cold.
The image rises unbidden.
Lan Wangji standing straight beneath falling snow, robes pristine, expression composed and distant.
Cold.
He presses his lips together.
A tear slips down before he realises it has formed.
He blinks in surprise, brushing at his cheek irritably.
Since when does he cry over books?
Ridiculous.
He snaps the volume shut more forcefully than necessary.
Fleeting.
Enduring.
What does that even mean?
That his feelings began lightly and grew stubborn?
That he is doomed to love someone who will never-
He exhales sharply.
He should not even be thinking this way.
He is not going to confess- he has already decided.
The book remains in his hands.
He glances toward the door.
If he takes it back to his room, he can study it properly. There may be more details. More-
He tucks it under his arm.
Just for a short while.
He will return it before anyone notices.
He moves toward the exit-
And nearly walks straight into someone.
He stumbles back a step, instinctively clutching the book closer to his chest.
“Ah-”
He looks up.
White robes.
But not the ones he expects.
Lan Xichen stands in the doorway, tall and composed, sunlight catching in his hair. His expression is warm in a way that Lan Wangji’s rarely is.
“Wei-gongzi,” he says pleasantly, “Where are you going in such haste?”
Wei Wuxian’s heart slams against his ribs.
For a split second, his mind empties.
“I-” he begins.
The cough interrupts him.
It surges up violently, without warning.
He doubles forward before he can stop himself.
In his panic, he steps forward-
And bumps directly into Lan Xichen.
The impact is light, but enough to jostle him off balance.
The book slips slightly from his grasp.
His other hand flies to his mouth as the coughing rips through him.
He cannot hold it back.
Not this time.
He feels the warmth spill across his palm.
Hears the wet, choked sound echo in the quiet pavilion.
When he finally manages to draw a breath, he realises two things at once.
He is gripping the front of Lan Xichen’s robe to steady himself.
And Lan Xichen has seen everything.
Blood stains his hand.
White fluff clings to his fingers.
Pink petals rest against his skin.
The book- tilted awkwardly in his other arm- has fallen open to the page on plum blossoms.
Silence falls.
Wei Wuxian straightens abruptly, letting go as if he has been burned.
“I-” he says again, forcing a laugh that sounds brittle, “Apologies. I did not mean to- I slipped.”
Lan Xichen does not comment on the contact.
His gaze rests on Wei Wuxian’s hand.
Then on the flowers.
Then on the open book.
Understanding dawns in his eyes.
Not shock.
Not judgment.
Understanding.
Wei Wuxian’s stomach drops.
“Is this,” Lan Xichen says gently, “a recent affliction, Wei-gongzi?”
Wei Wuxian considers lying.
He has always been good at that.
But something in Lan Xichen’s tone makes it feel pointless.
“A few days,” he admits lightly, “Nothing worth troubling the sect leader over.”
Lan Xichen’s gaze softens.
“I am not sect leader,” he reminds him kindly, “Not yet.”
He gestures slightly toward the interior of the pavilion.
“Would you walk with me?”
Wei Wuxian stiffens.
“To…?”
“My quarters,” Lan Xichen replies, “For tea.”
The word tea sounds harmless.
It rarely is, in Gusu.
Wei Wuxian glances toward the door, as if calculating escape routes.
He could laugh this off.
Make a joke.
Pretend it is nothing more than an overzealous cough.
But the flowers in his hand betray him.
Lan Xichen has already seen too much.
He exhales slowly.
“Very well,” he says, managing a faint grin, “I would hate to refuse such gracious hospitality.”
Lan Xichen inclines his head.
As they step out into the corridor together, Wei Wuxian keeps his hand closed tightly around the crushed petals.
His mind races.
Lan Xichen is perceptive.
Gentle.
Dangerously so.
If anyone can piece this together-
It is him.
Wei Wuxian lifts his chin slightly.
Fine.
Let him.
He has already chosen his path.
He will not confess.
Even if the whole of Gusu guesses.
Even if the flowers fill his lungs.
He will endure.
Like a plum blossom in winter.
Even if said winter kills him.
The Hanshi is quieter than the rest of the Cloud Recesses.
Wei Wuxian would not have thought that possible.
The path leading to it curves gently away from the main courtyards, screened by bamboo and low stone lanterns. The afternoon light is softer here, filtered through leaves. Even the wind seems to tread carefully.
Lan Xichen walks beside him at an unhurried pace, hands folded within his sleeves. His expression is composed, as always, but there is something thoughtful beneath it- something weighing on him.
Wei Wuxian keeps his own posture loose, casual.
He feels anything but.
His palm is sticky where blood has dried in the lines of his skin. He resists the urge to wipe it against his robes again. He does not want to leave any more evidence behind.
When they reach the Hanshi, Lan Xichen slides the door open and gestures for him to enter.
Wei Wuxian steps inside.
The room is simple, but not austere. A low table near the window. A qin resting carefully upon its stand. Shelves lined with scrolls and bound volumes. The faint scent of sandalwood and something floral lingers in the air.
It feels… lived in.
Private.
Wei Wuxian turns slowly, taking it in.
“Why here?” he asks lightly, though his voice does not carry its usual teasing lilt, “If Zewu-jun wished to lecture me on my studies, the library would have sufficed.”
Lan Xichen closes the door behind them.
“I do not intend to lecture you,” he says gently, “And I believe this conversation should remain private.”
The word lands heavily.
Private.
Wei Wuxian forces a small smile.
“I assure you, I am not in the habit of announcing my coughing fits to the entirety of the Lan sect.”
Lan Xichen does not smile back.
“Please,” he says, gesturing toward the cushions beside the low table.
Wei Wuxian sits.
He perches on the edge at first, as if ready to spring back to his feet at the slightest sign of interrogation.
Lan Xichen kneels opposite him with effortless grace.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Then, softly, Lan Xichen asks, “How long have you had Hanahaki?”
The word, spoken aloud in this quiet room, feels far more real than it had in the infirmary.
Wei Wuxian looks down at his hands.
“Around a week,” he admits.
His voice is quieter than usual.
“There has not been this much blood before,” he adds after a moment, as if that makes it less alarming, “It is only recently that it has worsened.”
Lan Xichen’s gaze lowers briefly to Wei Wuxian’s sleeve, where faint stains remain despite his efforts to clean them.
“And the petals?” Lan Xichen asks, “Do you know what they signify?”
Wei Wuxian lets out a breath that might almost be a laugh.
“I found a book,” he says, “On flower meanings.”
He keeps his tone flippant, but it feels thin.
“Dandelion fluff,” he continues, “are fleeting feelings. Transience.”
His fingers curl slightly against his knees.
“And plum blossoms,” he says, softer, “is about enduring hardship. Loving through winter.”
The words hang between them.
Lan Xichen’s expression changes almost imperceptibly.
“I see,” he murmurs.
He reaches for the teapot beside him and pours carefully into a small porcelain cup. The steam rises in a thin curl.
“Drink,” he says, offering it across the table, “It will not cure you, but it may ease the strain on your lungs.”
Wei Wuxian accepts it.
Their fingers do not quite touch.
The tea smells faintly bitter.
He lifts it to his lips and drinks.
The warmth spreads down his throat, soothing the rawness there. He had not realised how much it burned until the heat dulls it. For a few moments, there is only the soft clink of porcelain as he sets the cup down.
Then Lan Xichen asks, very gently, “Who is the person you desire?”
The question lands like a blade laid carefully across his throat.
Wei Wuxian looks up sharply.
“That is hardly relevant,” he says.
“It is entirely relevant,” Lan Xichen replies, still calm, “Your life depends on it.”
Wei Wuxian’s jaw tightens.
“I will manage, Zewu-jun,” he says lightly, “I always do.”
Lan Xichen’s gaze does not waver.
“Wei-gongzi,” he says, and there is no reprimand in it- only concern, “Hanahaki does not bend to stubbornness.”
Wei Wuxian laughs.
“You have known me for scarcely a few months,” he says, “I assure you, stubbornness is one of my greatest strengths.”
“This is not something to take lightly.”
“Who says I am?” Wei Wuxian shoots back.
The silence thickens.
Lan Xichen studies him for a long moment.
“Tell me who it is,” he says quietly.
Wei Wuxian shakes his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Wei Wuxian snaps, the word sharper than he intends, “it is none of your concern.”
Lan Xichen does not flinch.
“It is my concern,” he says softly, “if you die under this roof.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Wei Wuxian looks away.
The tea has steadied his breathing, but the ache in his chest remains.
“I will not tell you,” he says again.
Lan Xichen’s composure falters- just slightly.
“Wei-gongzi,” he says, and now there is urgency beneath the gentleness, “if I know, I may be able to help.”
“Help how?” Wei Wuxian demands, “Convince them to return my feelings? Draft a polite letter on my behalf? Compose a qin piece to sway their heart?”
His laugh is brittle.
Lan Xichen’s hands tighten briefly in his sleeves.
“I have seen this before,” he says.
Wei Wuxian’s breath catches.
Lan Xichen’s gaze drifts, unfocused, as if looking at something far away.
“It was years ago,” he begins quietly, “On a night hunt to a small village near the border of Yunmeng and Lanling.”
Wei Wuxian stills.
“There was a woman,” Lan Xichen continues, “She was perhaps twenty. A cultivator, though not from a prominent sect. She had come home to her village after training elsewhere.”
His voice remains steady, but there is a weight to it now.
“She had fallen in love,” he says, “With another woman.”
Wei Wuxian’s head snaps up.
Lan Xichen does not falter.
“The affection was not returned,” he says, “Or so she believed. She hid it. Buried it. And it took root within her.”
Wei Wuxian swallows.
“When we arrived, she was already coughing blood,” Lan Xichen says, “The villagers thought it a curse. They called for help when the flowers began to appear.”
“What flowers?” Wei Wuxian asks, despite himself.
“White camellias,” Lan Xichen replies softly, “At first, only petals. Then stems.”
A cold sensation creeps down Wei Wuxian’s spine.
“I stayed,” Lan Xichen says, “Longer than I should have. I believed I could find a way to save her.”
His gaze lowers to the tabletop.
“I watched it worsen,” he continues, “The petals became thicker. Thorns began to grow along the stems.”
Wei Wuxian’s breath grows shallow.
“In the final days,” Lan Xichen says, and now there is the faintest tremor in his voice, “she could not speak without coughing. The thorns tore at her throat from the inside. Blood flowed constantly.”
He pauses.
“When it ended,” he says quietly, “the growth burst through her lungs. The thorns pierced outward. Blood flowed from her mouth… from her nose… from her ears.”
Wei Wuxian’s fingers dig into his knees.
“She bled from her eyes,” Lan Xichen says, barely above a whisper, “And I held her hand as she choked on those beautiful flowers.”
The room feels too small.
Wei Wuxian imagines it.
Thorns tearing through flesh. Petals soaked in blood.
His stomach twists violently.
“The woman she loved arrived too late,” Lan Xichen finishes, “She had not understood the woman’s intentions. She had not known of the love the woman held for her until it was too late.”
Silence falls heavy between them.
Wei Wuxian’s heart pounds in his ears.
“That will be me,” he says suddenly.
The words spill out before he can stop them.
“That is exactly what will happen.”
Lan Xichen looks at him sharply.
“The one I adore,” Wei Wuxian continues, his voice rising despite himself, “would never reciprocate.”
He laughs, and it sounds half-mad.
“He despises me. I irritate him. I break his rules. I am everything he is not.”
His hands tremble.
“So yes,” he says fiercely, the respect he should show to the Lan heir forgotten entirely, “I will bleed. I will cough up flowers until he tears me apart. And he will not even know why.”
Tears blur his vision.
He does not notice them at first.
“He will never-”
His voice breaks.
“He will never look at me the way I-”
He stops.
The silence that follows is unbearable.
Wei Wuxian blinks.
Something wet slides down his cheek.
He stares at it, stunned.
He had not realised he was crying.
Lan Xichen moves.
Not abruptly.
Not forcefully.
He rises and crosses the small space between them, kneeling beside Wei Wuxian.
His hand rests lightly on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder.
“You have thought about this a great deal,” he says gently.
Wei Wuxian lets out a shaky laugh.
“What else am I meant to think about?” he demands hoarsely, “My funeral arrangements, Zewu-jun?”
Lan Xichen’s grip tightens slightly.
“You are not alone in this,” he says.
Wei Wuxian almost scoffs.
But the words catch in his throat.
Lan Xichen’s hand moves- hesitant at first- then brushes back a strand of hair from Wei Wuxian’s face.
The gesture is so unexpectedly tender that Wei Wuxian freezes.
“Come,” Lan Xichen says softly.
He guides him to his feet.
Wei Wuxian does not resist.
He feels strangely light.
Lan Xichen leads him to the bed set against the far wall.
“You should rest,” he says, “Your body is strained. Your mind as well.”
Wei Wuxian almost protests.
He does not.
He sinks down onto the bed.
The bedding is cool beneath him.
Lan Xichen sits beside him.
For a moment, neither speaks.
Then, gently, Lan Xichen’s hand begins to move through his hair.
Slow.
Steady.
Like calming a child.
Wei Wuxian’s eyelids grow heavy.
He does not remember the last time someone touched him with such uncomplicated kindness.
“You are not foolish,” Lan Xichen murmurs, “Nor are you beyond hope, Wei-gongzi. I imagine the one you believe does not return your affections may believe differently from you. I do not believe Wangji would be so oblivious.”
Wei Wuxian wants to argue.
He cannot find the strength.
The exhaustion he has been holding at bay crashes over him all at once.
His breathing steadies.
His thoughts blur.
The last thing he sees before sleep takes him is Lan Xichen’s face above him-
Composed.
Gentle.
And streaked with a single, silent tear.
Wei Wuxian thinks, sometimes, that if he laughs loud enough, the sound might drown out the rasp in his chest.
Two weeks is not a long time.
Two weeks ago he was in the infirmary, bright-eyed and indignant, insisting he feels perfectly fine even as petals stain his palm red. Two weeks ago he walked out of the Cloud Recesses infirmary with a three-month death sentence tucked neatly beneath his ribs, wrapped in dandelion fluff and plum blossoms.
Now he measures time in the evenings he gets to experience.
Evenings in the Hanshi.
Lan Xichen’s quarters are quiet in a way the rest of Gusu is not. The quiet there does not feel like rules pressed into stone tablets or the suffocating weight of three thousand prohibitions; it feels like a held breath, like a hand cupped around a candle flame so it does not go out.
Wei Wuxian tells himself he only comes because of the punishments.
It is not entirely untrue.
The first time he staggers into the Hanshi under the guise of discipline, Lan Qiren’s beard bristling with righteous fury behind him, Wei Wuxian has just been caught smuggling a jug of Emperor’s Smile past the outer gates. He makes no attempt to hide it. In fact, he practically waves it in the air.
Lan Wangji’s gaze has been colder than Gusu’s mountain streams.
Lan Xichen, on the other hand, smiles serenely and says, “Shufu, allow me.”
Since then, Wei Wuxian has been very busy being incorrigible.
He brings alcohol again- badly hidden this time, as though he wants it found. He is discovered in the back hills with a makeshift snare and three indignant pheasants squawking around him. He “accidentally” leaves a trail of rabbit footprints from the direction of Lan Yi’s cave toward the rear fields. Once, he even climbs onto the eaves outside the lecture hall and plays a bright, teasing melody on a dizi he definitely did not borrow from the Lan instrument shelves.
Each time, Lan Qiren pinches the bridge of his nose and hands him over to Lan Xichen as though surrendering a particularly troublesome spirit to a more patient exorcist.
Jiang Cheng fumes.
Wei Wuxian grins.
And in the evenings, he slips into the Hanshi with a bow exaggerated enough to be mockery if anyone else were watching, and the doors slide shut behind him.
Tonight, the room smells faintly of sandalwood and medicine.
Wei Wuxian lies sprawled across Lan Xichen’s bed as though it belongs to him. He has long since discarded propriety here. His boots are neatly lined up by the door- Lan Xichen insists on that much- but the rest of him is a tangle of black robes against pale bedding.
There is a wooden bucket beside the bed.
He pretends not to look at it.
Lan Xichen sits by the low table near the window, xiao resting lightly in his hands. The lamplight paints his features gold; his white robes pool around him like still water. When he lifts the instrument to his lips, the first note is soft and low, threading through the room like mist.
Wei Wuxian closes his eyes.
The music does not cure him. It does not chase the petals from his lungs. But it eases the tightness in his chest, smooths the edges of the panic that sometimes claws its way up his throat in the quiet hours.
They have fallen into a rhythm, the two of them.
Wei Wuxian studies during the day- badly, noisily, often while leaning too far back in his chair to irritate Lan Wangji. He spends afternoons arguing about spring books with Nie Huaisang, baiting Jiang Cheng, or wandering where he is not meant to wander. He laughs. He jests. He makes sure no one looks too closely when he turns his head to cough into his sleeve.
And then, at dusk, he comes here.
Lan Xichen brews tea that tastes faintly bitter but soothes his throat. They discuss texts Wei Wuxian has only half-read but pretends to have mastered. They debate sword forms and talisman arrays and whether rigid adherence to rules stifles innovation. Lan Xichen listens as though every outrageous thought Wei Wuxian tosses into the air is a precious thing worth examining from all angles.
It is… pleasant.
Dangerously pleasant.
If Wei Wuxian were not so thoroughly entangled with Lan Wangji- if his chest did not tighten every time he glimpses pale gold eyes beneath a snow-white ribbon- he thinks he might very well fall in love with Lan Xichen instead.
It would be easier.
Lan Xichen smiles openly. He laughs softly at Wei Wuxian’s antics. He does not freeze like a startled deer when Wei Wuxian leans too close. He does not glare as though Wei Wuxian is a walking violation of the rules etched into his bones.
But Lan Xichen does not have that tiny, almost invisible smile that appears only when no one else is looking.
He does not have eyes like dawn over frost.
He does not stand rigid and furious in defense of a pair of rabbits as though they are sacred beings.
He is not Lan Wangji.
Wei Wuxian exhales slowly.
The music swells, then softens.
“A-Xian,” Lan Xichen says gently when the melody tapers off, lowering the xiao, “You are very quiet tonight.”
Wei Wuxian cracks one eye open.
“Am I? I thought I was being exceptionally charming in my silence.”
Lan Xichen smiles. “You are always charming.”
“Xichen-ge,” Wei Wuxian sighs dramatically, flopping onto his back, “You flatter me. If Jiang Cheng heard you, he’d accuse you of poor judgment.”
Lan Xichen sets the instrument aside and rises, sleeves whispering against the floor as he crosses to the bed. He sits carefully on the edge, not disturbing the rumpled bedding more than necessary.
Wei Wuxian studies the canopy overhead.
He is tired.
The exhaustion has been creeping up on him over the past few days. At first, it is only a faint heaviness after coughing fits. Now it lingers even when he forces the coughs down, swallowing the itch in his throat until his eyes water.
He has grown skilled at hiding it. He excuses himself from meals just before the tightness builds too much. He bites the inside of his cheek during lectures so he does not cough in the silence. He turns his laughter into a cover for the rasp in his breath.
Lan Xichen notices anyway.
“You are pushing yourself,” Lan Xichen says quietly.
Wei Wuxian snorts.
“I am the picture of health. Look at me. Radiant.”
“A-Xian.”
There is something in that tone that makes him falter.
He turns his head.
Lan Xichen’s expression is gentle, but beneath it lies worry. Real worry. The kind that tightens the corners of his eyes and smooths the smile from his lips.
“Have you reconsidered?” Lan Xichen asks softly, “About telling him?”
Wei Wuxian’s chest tightens for an entirely different reason.
“No,” he says at once, too sharp. He softens it with a crooked grin, “I told you, Xichen-ge. It would not change anything.”
Lan Xichen studies him.
“He may surprise you.”
Wei Wuxian laughs, but it cracks in the middle.
“Your brother? Surprise me? He surprises me every day by tolerating my presence, that’s quite enough.”
Silence stretches between them.
Lan Xichen reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from Wei Wuxian’s forehead. The touch is light, brotherly. It makes Wei Wuxian’s throat ache.
“You are too young,” Lan Xichen murmurs, almost to himself.
Wei Wuxian rolls onto his side, facing him.
“Xichen-ge, I am fifteen, not five.”
“You are fifteen,” Lan Xichen agrees, “Which is far too young to be thinking about death.”
The word sits heavily in the room.
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth to make a joke.
He does not get the chance.
The cough hits without warning.
It starts as a tickle, then sharpens into a blade dragged down his windpipe. He jerks upright, hand flying to his mouth. The first spasm bends him nearly double.
Lan Xichen moves instantly, one arm bracing Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, the other pulling the bucket closer.
“A-Xian,” he says, voice tight despite his composure, “Breathe slowly.”
Wei Wuxian tries.
He fails.
The coughing tears through him, violent and relentless. Something scrapes inside his chest, as though thorned vines are twisting through his lungs. He tastes iron.
The first splash of blood hits the bottom of the bucket with a sickening sound.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
It has been plum blossoms for days now- soft, pale petals stained red at the edges. He has grown used to the sight of them clinging to his fingers.
This feels different.
Another spasm wracks him. He spits again.
Something heavier lands against the wood.
Lan Xichen stiffens.
Wei Wuxian forces his eyes open.
White.
Not the translucent white of plum blossoms.
Thicker. Waxy. Layered.
Camellia petals.
They lie in the bucket, pristine and cruelly beautiful, edges soaked scarlet.
For a heartbeat, neither of them speaks.
Then the room tilts.
Wei Wuxian sways.
Lan Xichen catches him before he can pitch forward, one arm wrapping around his back, the other steadying his chin as another cough tears free.
“Careful,” Lan Xichen breathes, voice breaking on the word.
Wei Wuxian’s vision swims. The edges darken. His body feels too light, as though it might dissolve into the air like dandelion fluff.
Camellias.
He knows enough of flowers now to understand what that means.
Devotion.
Unyielding affection.
His chest aches.
Lan Xichen’s hand slides into his hair, fingers gentle against his scalp as he holds him upright. The embrace is firm, protective- an older brother shielding a reckless younger one from a storm.
“You are too young,” Lan Xichen whispers again, and this time there is no composure left in the words, “Far too young.”
Wei Wuxian lets his head fall against Lan Xichen’s shoulder.
He is so tired.
The fight to breathe feels monumental. Each inhale scrapes. Each exhale burns.
He laughs weakly.
“Xichen-ge,” he murmurs, “You make it sound like I am already gone.”
Lan Xichen does not laugh.
His arms tighten.
Wei Wuxian feels it then- the tremor running through him. Lan Xichen, who stands so steady before elders and disciples alike, who smiles through conflict and sorrow, is shaking.
The realisation settles heavily in Wei Wuxian’s chest.
He has not meant to cause this.
He has not meant to be someone worth worrying over.
“I’m tired,” he whispers.
The words slip out before he can dress them in humour.
Lan Xichen’s hand stills in his hair.
“I know,” he replies softly, “It’s alright. Sleep now.”
Sleep.
It sounds wonderful.
Wei Wuxian’s eyelids droop.
Lan Xichen shifts carefully, easing him back onto the bed. He arranges the blankets with meticulous care, as though Wei Wuxian is something fragile and precious. His hand remains in Wei Wuxian’s hair, smoothing it back from his face in slow, steady strokes.
Wei Wuxian breathes in.
The scent of sandalwood is stronger here, mixed with the faintest trace of Lan Xichen’s robes-clean and cool, like mountain air.
For a fleeting, dangerous moment, he imagines pale gold eyes instead of gentle brown.
Imagines a different hand in his hair.
Imagines-
He exhales.
No.
He has chosen his path.
He will not tell.
He will not burden Lan Wangji with a confession that would only make things awkward, painful, impossible. He will not twist that straight-backed righteousness into guilt.
Three months.
Less, perhaps.
He will laugh. He will argue. He will smuggle rabbits and alcohol and music into places they are not meant to be. He will live as brightly as he can, even if the light burns out quickly.
Lan Xichen’s fingers trace a final, soothing path through his hair.
“A-Xian,” he murmurs, so quietly it might be meant only for himself.
Wei Wuxian’s vision blurs.
The last thing he sees before sleep drags him under is Lan Xichen’s face above him- composed no longer. A single tear slips free, trailing down his cheek in the lamplight.
Wei Wuxian wants to tell him not to cry.
He wants to say something clever, something light.
Instead, darkness folds around him, and the Hanshi falls silent save for the soft, uneven rhythm of his breathing and the faint, breaking sound of someone who cares far too much.
There is knocking.
It threads through his sleep like a pebble dropped into still water- distant at first, then insistently rippling outward.
Wei Wuxian does not open his eyes.
He is warm.
Warmer than he has been in days.
His face is pressed against something solid and steady, and when he breathes in, the scent that fills his lungs is clean and faintly sweet- white sandalwood and cold mountain air, with a trace of tea leaves and the softest hint of magnolia blossoms that must cling to the sleeves of the man who spends too much time in the gardens.
Lan Xichen.
The realisation drifts lazily through his mind.
He shifts without thinking, burrowing closer.
An arm tightens around him immediately.
“A-Xian?” Lan Xichen’s voice is thick with sleep, low and unguarded in a way Wei Wuxian rarely hears.
The words brush against his hair.
“Are you alright?”
Wei Wuxian hums in response, a small sound of contentment. He is not coughing. That alone feels like a blessing.
The knocking comes again.
More forceful this time.
Lan Xichen exhales softly, the breath stirring Wei Wuxian’s hair.
“Mn.”
Wei Wuxian keeps his eyes closed, pretending the world outside this bed does not exist. He can feel the steady rise and fall of Lan Xichen’s chest beneath his cheek, the warmth of him seeping through layers of fabric. For once, his lungs do not feel like they are lined with thorns. For once, there is no metallic taste at the back of his throat.
He presses closer.
Lan Xichen’s hand slides up his back in a reflexive, protective gesture, fingers spreading slightly as though to shield him from whatever dares disturb them.
“Someone is at the door,” Lan Xichen murmurs.
Wei Wuxian makes a soft, dissatisfied noise.
“Ignore it,” he mumbles into Lan Xichen’s robes.
His voice is hoarse from yesterday’s coughing, but it holds a lazy, teasing lilt.
“If it’s Lan-laoshi, pretend you’re meditating.”
Lan Xichen lets out the faintest huff of amusement.
The knocking sharpens.
“Xichen!” a voice calls from outside.
Stern. Authoritative. Already displeased.
Wei Wuxian’s eyes snap open.
Lan Qiren.
Speak of the devil.
Lan Xichen goes very still.
There is a brief, suspended moment in which neither of them moves.
Then Lan Xichen carefully disentangles himself, though not entirely. He sits up, bringing Wei Wuxian with him out of habit, one arm still around his shoulders.
Wei Wuxian blinks blearily, hair mussed beyond salvation, robes wrinkled from sleep. He is acutely aware that he is in Lan Xichen’s bed.
Not on it.
In it.
The knocking becomes pounding.
“Xichen!”
Wei Wuxian winces.
“He sounds upset.”
Lan Xichen rubs a hand down his face, composure already reassembling itself like lacquer over cracked porcelain.
“Stay here,” he says quietly.
Wei Wuxian considers obeying.
He does not.
He leans forward instead, pressing his forehead lightly against Lan Xichen’s shoulder as though he might anchor himself there.
Lan Xichen’s arm tightens reflexively.
Then the door slides open without permission.
Lan Qiren does not so much enter as storm in.
His robes flare with the force of his movement, beard bristling like an affronted lion’s mane. His gaze is sharp enough to cut stone.
“Xichen,” he begins, voice ringing through the room, “what is the meaning of-”
He stops.
The words die mid-syllable.
His eyes land on the bed.
On the unmistakable shape of Wei Wuxian half-curled against his nephew.
On the blankets tangled around them.
On Wei Wuxian’s bare feet peeking out from beneath Lan Xichen’s covers.
Silence crashes down.
Wei Wuxian, who has faced down angry sect leaders’ wives and snarling spirits with less apprehension, feels something dangerously close to panic flicker in his chest.
Lan Qiren’s expression shifts.
From anger.
To disbelief.
To something that looks suspiciously like horror.
“Xichen,” he says slowly, dangerously, “what is the meaning of this?”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Lan Xichen inhales, long and steady.
“Shufu,” he says calmly, though there is a note beneath it that Wei Wuxian recognises as strain, “Please close the door.”
Lan Qiren does not move.
Wei Wuxian can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.
“Jiang Wanyin has come to me this morning,” Lan Qiren continues, voice rising again, “reporting that Wei Wuxian has been missing from his quarters at night for just under a week. That his conduct has grown even more disorderly. That punishments have only emboldened him. I entrusted him to your supervision so that you might correct his behaviour, not-”
His eyes flick meaningfully toward the bed.
Wei Wuxian finally finds his voice.
“Lan-laoshi, it’s not-”
Lan Xichen’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly at his back.
“A-Xian,” he murmurs softly, a warning.
Lan Qiren’s gaze sharpens at the familiar address.
“A-Xian?” he repeats, dangerously.
Wei Wuxian wishes, fervently, that the floor would open and swallow him whole.
Lan Xichen stands carefully, easing Wei Wuxian back against the pillows. He steps away from the bed with measured grace and walks to the door.
He closes it.
The soft thud of wood against the frame feels ominous.
When he turns back, his expression is no longer merely gentle. It is resolute.
“Shufu,” he says quietly, “this is not what you think.”
Lan Qiren folds his arms into his sleeves.
“Then enlighten me as to what exactly Wei Wuxian is doing in your bed, Xichen, if not- if not-”
Wei Wuxian feels his throat tighten- not from flowers this time, but from dread.
Lan Xichen glances at him.
There is a question in that look.
Wei Wuxian hesitates.
He has been hiding this from everyone. From Jiang Cheng. From Nie Huaisang. From Lan Wangji most of all.
He does not want Lan Qiren to know.
He does not want anyone else’s pity.
But Lan Xichen is right.
They cannot hide it forever.
He shifts, sliding off the bed so he can stand on his own feet. The movement makes his head spin slightly, but he ignores it. He crosses the few steps between them and, without thinking too hard about it, presses his face into Lan Xichen’s shoulder again.
He does not look at Lan Qiren.
“Tell him,” he mutters against white fabric, “But don’t tell him who.”
Lan Xichen’s hand comes up, resting gently against the back of his head.
“I will not,” he promises softly.
Lan Qiren’s frown deepens.
“Tell me what?”
Lan Xichen exhales.
“A-Xian is ill, Shufu.”
Lan Qiren’s expression flickers.
“Ill?”
“Yes.”
Wei Wuxian feels Lan Xichen’s fingers slide into his hair again, steadying.
“He has contracted Hanahaki.”
The word lands like a stone dropped into a well.
Lan Qiren goes very still.
Wei Wuxian risks a glance upward.
He expects outrage.
Disgust.
Accusation.
Instead, Lan Qiren looks… stricken.
“That is a curse born of-” Lan Qiren stops himself.
His gaze shifts to Wei Wuxian, sharper now but no longer furious.
“How long?”
“Nearly three weeks,” Lan Xichen answers, “And it has been worsening at a faster rate than the deemed normal.”
Wei Wuxian feels oddly small beneath their attention.
“He has been hiding the symptoms,” Lan Xichen continues, “The coughing. The blood.”
Lan Qiren’s jaw tightens.
“And you are certain?”
Lan Xichen nods once.
Wei Wuxian swallows.
“Shufu,” Lan Xichen says quietly, “this is why his behaviour has worsened. Why he has sought punishment so frequently. It allows him to remain here. It allows me to monitor his condition.”
Lan Qiren’s eyes snap back to Wei Wuxian.
“You have been coughing blood within my sect,” he says, not accusing so much as stunned, “and did not inform the infirmary?”
Wei Wuxian shrugs weakly.
“I did. At first.”
Lan Qiren blinks.
The pieces rearrange themselves behind his gaze.
“The main Daifu,” he murmurs, “She did not inform me.”
Lan Xichen’s voice is gentle.
“I requested discretion when it became apparent that A-Xian's situation would not resolve itself easily.”
Lan Qiren looks at him again.
Really looks at him.
Wei Wuxian expects reprimand.
Instead, he sees something else entirely.
Understanding.
A long silence stretches.
Lan Qiren exhales slowly, the sound heavy.
“I see.”
Wei Wuxian braces himself.
Lan Qiren’s next words are not what he expects.
“I owe you an apology.”
Wei Wuxian blinks.
“…What?”
Lan Qiren inclines his head slightly. Not deeply- he is still Lan Qiren- but enough that it cannot be mistaken for anything else.
“Your recent conduct,” he says stiffly, “now makes sense.”
Wei Wuxian stares at him.
Lan Qiren continues, voice measured.
“You are a young man facing… an emotional affliction of considerable severity. It is perhaps not surprising that you have acted out.”
Wei Wuxian almost laughs.
Lan Qiren looks faintly uncomfortable.
“I have been harsh,” he admits, “Though your behaviour has indeed warranted correction, I did not consider that it might stem from suffering rather than mere rebellion.”
Wei Wuxian does not know what to do with that.
Lan Xichen’s hand remains warm at the back of his head.
“There is a remedy,” Lan Qiren says at last.
Wei Wuxian stiffens.
Lan Xichen’s fingers tighten subtly.
“Yes,” Lan Xichen agrees quietly.
Lan Qiren’s gaze sharpens.
“Then why-”
Wei Wuxian pulls back abruptly, forcing himself to stand upright despite the way his knees threaten to buckle.
“No,” he says, more fiercely than he intends.
Lan Qiren’s brows draw together.
“The matter does not concern anyone else,” Wei Wuxian continues, voice rough but steady, “And I will not burden him.”
“Him,” Lan Qiren repeats softly.
Wei Wuxian bites his tongue.
Lan Qiren studies him for a long moment.
Then, unexpectedly, his expression softens.
“You are a foolish boy,” he says, but there is no bite in it, “To choose your own pride over survival.”
Wei Wuxian smiles faintly.
“It’s not pride.”
Lan Qiren’s gaze lingers on him.
“Then it is love,” he says quietly.
The word makes Wei Wuxian’s chest ache more than any blossom ever has.
Silence settles again.
Finally, Lan Qiren clears his throat.
“You will not be expelled,” he says briskly, as though returning to safer ground, “Your… condition will remain confidential. I will inform the infirmary to prepare tonics to strengthen your qi. And you will cease these ridiculous displays of rule-breaking, for the love of the gods above.”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth to protest.
Lan Qiren fixes him with a look.
“Within reason,” he amends.
Wei Wuxian closes his mouth.
Lan Qiren turns toward the door, then pauses.
Without looking back, he says, “You are still a guest disciple under my roof, Wei Wuxian. Do not presume that your suffering makes you beyond care.”
The door slides open.
And closes.
The room falls quiet once more.
Wei Wuxian stands there for a long moment, staring at the wood grain.
“Well,” he says finally, voice faintly incredulous, “That was… not what I expected.”
Lan Xichen exhales softly behind him.
“No,” he agrees.
Wei Wuxian sways slightly.
Lan Xichen is there instantly, guiding him back toward the bed.
“You should rest,” he says gently.
Wei Wuxian does not argue this time.
As he sinks back into the warmth of the blankets, he cannot quite shake the image of Lan Qiren’s subdued gaze.
Not anger.
Not condemnation.
Care.
It feels strange.
He shifts onto his side.
Lan Xichen sits beside him once more, hand returning to its now familiar place in his hair.
“A-Xian,” he murmurs.
Wei Wuxian closes his eyes.
For now, he is not coughing.
For now, he is still here.
And for the first time since petals first stained his palm, he does not feel entirely alone.
Morning lectures in the Cloud Recesses are a test of endurance even on a good day.
On a bad one, they are a slow execution.
Wei Wuxian sits cross-legged among the other disciples, back deceptively straight, hands folded neatly in his lap as though he has absorbed at least three of the three thousand rules through osmosis. Sunlight filters in through the lattice windows, pale and cold, catching in the white of Lan robes and the darker hues of visiting sect uniforms.
The hall smells faintly of ink, sandalwood, and fresh paper.
Lan Qiren’s voice carries clearly from the front, measured and resonant as he recites passages on the proper circulation of spiritual energy through the meridians.
Wei Wuxian tries to listen.
He really does.
But there is an itch at the back of his throat that has nothing to do with boredom.
It starts as a faint prickle, easily ignored. He has grown used to it these past weeks- the subtle warning before the storm. He presses his tongue lightly against the roof of his mouth and breathes through his nose, slow and shallow.
Across the hall, Jiang Cheng sits rigidly, gaze forward. Nie Huaisang is already drooping, sleeve hiding a yawn. A few Lan disciples sit like carved statues, utterly unmoving.
Lan Wangji is to Wei Wuxian’s right.
Of course he is.
Even without looking, Wei Wuxian is aware of him: the straight line of his spine, the pristine fall of his sleeves, the faint coolness that seems to radiate from him like early frost.
The itch sharpens.
Wei Wuxian shifts slightly.
Lan Qiren’s eyes flick toward him at once.
Wei Wuxian forces himself still.
He has been careful. More careful since yesterday morning, since Lan Qiren stood in the Hanshi doorway and saw far more than Wei Wuxian ever intended anyone to see. Careful not to provoke too much, not to draw unnecessary attention.
Careful to swallow the coughs before they can bloom.
The prickle becomes a burn.
His lungs feel tight.
He lowers his gaze, lashes shadowing his eyes, and focuses on breathing. In. Out. Slow. Controlled.
Lan Qiren continues, “-one must never allow turbulent emotion to disrupt the flow of qi-”
Turbulent emotion.
Wei Wuxian almost laughs.
The burn twists sharply.
He inhales too quickly.
And that is enough.
The cough rips free before he can stop it.
It tears through the silence of the lecture hall, harsh and sudden.
Heads turn.
Wei Wuxian jerks forward, hand flying to his mouth. He manages to muffle the second cough into his sleeve, but it is worse- deeper, scraping against his ribs like claws.
He tastes iron instantly.
No.
Not here.
He forces himself to stand, bowing hastily.
“Excuse me,” he croaks.
Lan Qiren is already watching him.
There is a split second in which Wei Wuxian expects reprimand for the disruption.
Instead, Lan Qiren’s expression tightens in something like concern.
“Go,” he says shortly.
The permission lands like a lifeline.
Wei Wuxian bows again- too quickly, nearly losing his balance- and strides for the door. He keeps his sleeve pressed to his mouth, head lowered.
He can feel eyes on him.
Jiang Cheng’s confusion. Nie Huaisang’s worry.
And Lan Wangji’s-
He does not dare look.
The moment the doors slide shut behind him, he breaks into a run.
The cold air outside hits his face like a slap. He barely makes it past the stone steps before the cough explodes out of him again. He staggers toward the nearest line of shrubs, barely caring that they are likely meticulously maintained by some poor Lan disciple.
He drops to one knee.
The first spasm bends him double. Blood spills between his fingers, bright against his skin. It splashes onto the leaves below.
The second cough is so much more worse.
Something tears loose inside him.
Petals follow.
White, thick petals, which he has come to detest.
Camellias again.
They tumble into the bush, stained red at the edges.
Wei Wuxian gasps for air, chest heaving. His vision swims.
He braces one hand against the earth, fingers digging into damp soil.
It should be slowing.
It usually slows.
Instead, the pressure builds again.
A third cough.
He chokes on it.
Something different slips free.
Not white.
Not soft.
A petal lands against the dirt, vivid as spilled ink.
Red.
Deep, violent red.
He stares at it through blurred vision.
Another follows.
Slender. Curved slightly at the tip.
A red spider lily.
Wei Wuxian’s heart drops into his stomach.
No.
It has not even been a month.
Hanahaki is not meant to progress this quickly.
He coughs again, weaker now, and three more crimson petals scatter among the camellias and blood.
Red spider lilies.
Flowers of parting.
Of death.
Of the path that leads souls across the river and never back.
A thin, hysterical laugh trembles at the edge of his throat, but it dissolves into another rasping breath instead.
He presses the back of his hand to his mouth.
Too fast.
It is moving too fast.
He should have more time.
Three months, the Daifu had said.
Three.
He wipes his mouth roughly and forces himself upright.
He cannot leave this here.
He cannot let anyone find it.
With shaking fingers, he gathers the petals- white and red alike- ignoring the way they stick to the blood on his skin. He scrapes at the earth with his hands, digging a shallow hole beneath the bush’s roots.
The soil is cold.
He pushes the evidence into it, covering the red with brown until nothing remains but disturbed dirt.
He smooths it carefully, trying to make it look untouched.
By the time he finishes, his breathing has evened out somewhat. His chest still aches, but the sharpest edge has dulled.
From the lecture hall, the low murmur of dismissal begins.
Perfect timing.
Wei Wuxian wipes his hands on the grass, then on the inside of his robe where the stains will not show. He splashes a handful of water from the nearby basin onto his face and sleeves, scrubbing until the worst of the blood is gone.
By the time the disciples begin spilling out into the courtyard, he is leaning casually against a tree as though he has merely stepped out for air.
Jiang Cheng spots him immediately.
He strides over, irritation etched across his features.
“What was that?” he demands in a low voice, “You almost coughed up a lung in there.”
Wei Wuxian grins faintly.
“If I had, at least the lecture would’ve been more interesting.”
Jiang Cheng scowls. “This isn’t a joke.”
“It’s a cold,” Wei Wuxian says lightly, “Gusu air doesn’t agree with me.”
Nie Huaisang fans himself anxiously.
“It sounded worse than a cold,” he says, “You looked pale.”
“I’m always pale,” Wei Wuxian replies, “It’s fashionable.”
Jiang Cheng opens his mouth to retort-
-and then falls silent.
Wei Wuxian feels it before he sees it.
A presence at his side.
He turns.
Lan Wangji stands there, immaculate as ever, hands folded within his sleeves. His expression is composed, but his gaze is fixed squarely on Wei Wuxian.
Searching.
There is the faintest crease between his brows.
“Wei Ying,” he says.
The sound of his name in that voice does something dangerous to Wei Wuxian’s heart.
“I am told,” Lan Wangji continues carefully, “that you have been unwell.”
Wei Wuxian blinks.
Lan Qiren.
Of course.
He laughs softly.
“Told? By whom? Am I that obvious, eh, Lan-er-gege?”
Lan Wangji’s eyes flick briefly to his sleeves, then back to his face.
“You left before the lecture concluded.”
“That’s because I am a model of obedience,” Wei Wuxian replies, “When told to go, I go.”
Lan Wangji does not smile.
“You are pale,” he says instead.
Wei Wuxian spreads his hands.
“You’ve noticed before.”
Lan Wangji’s jaw tightens slightly.
The others linger awkwardly.
Jiang Cheng shifts his weight.
“If you’re sick, just say so, Wei Wuxian,” he mutters, “Don’t make a scene in the middle of class.”
Wei Wuxian nudges him with his elbow.
“I always make a scene, shidi.”
Nie Huaisang nods fervently.
Lan Wangji steps closer.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough that Wei Wuxian can feel the cool edge of his presence.
“If you require the infirmary,” Lan Wangji says, voice lower now, “I can accompany you.”
It is not a gentle offer.
It is stiff.
Formal.
But there is something under it.
Concern.
Wei Wuxian’s chest tightens painfully.
He looks at Lan Wangji properly then.
At the pale gold eyes that refuse to look away.
At the set of his mouth, controlled but faintly tense.
Lan Wangji, who would rather swallow his own tongue than admit worry aloud.
Wei Wuxian’s smile softens despite himself.
“I’m fine,” he says quietly.
Lan Wangji’s gaze sharpens.
“You are not.”
The words are blunt.
Honest.
Wei Wuxian feels something inside him fracture.
He wants-
He wants to reach out.
To take that hand hidden in white silk and hold it.
To tell him.
Just once.
Instead, he tilts his head and lets his grin return, softer but still deflecting.
“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he teases gently, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared.”
Lan Wangji’s ears flush faintly red.
Jiang Cheng makes a strangled noise.
Wei Wuxian laughs under his breath.
“I appreciate it,” he says, more sincerely, “But truly. It’s nothing serious.”
Lan Wangji studies him for a long, searching moment.
And then-
Very slightly-
He nods.
“If your condition worsens,” he says, “you will inform someone.”
Wei Wuxian’s throat tightens.
“I will,” he lies.
There is a softness in the space between them then. Fragile. Brief.
Lan Wangji’s gaze lingers just a heartbeat too long.
Wei Wuxian thinks he might shatter under it.
From the corner of his eye, he catches movement.
At the entrance of the lecture hall stands Lan Qiren.
Watching.
Not with anger.
With sharp, assessing eyes.
Wei Wuxian’s stomach drops.
He steps back abruptly.
“Well!” he says too brightly, “I just remembered- I need a book. From the library.”
Jiang Cheng frowns.
“Now?”
“Yes, now,” Wei Wuxian says quickly, “Urgent scholarly matters.”
Lan Wangji’s gaze flicks toward Lan Qiren, then back to him.
Wei Wuxian does not let himself look again.
“I’ll see you later,” he says lightly, already stepping away, “Don’t miss me too much.”
Nie Huaisang waves weakly.
Jiang Cheng mutters something about irresponsibility.
Lan Wangji says nothing.
Wei Wuxian turns the corner of the corridor.
And runs.
He runs until the courtyard disappears from view.
Until the murmur of voices fades.
Until the burn in his chest returns, sharp and insistent.
He does not slow.
Not when his vision blurs.
Not when his lungs ache.
Not when he knows, with cold certainty, that red spider lilies do not bloom for nothing.
He runs because if he stops-
If he stops, he might turn back.
And he cannot afford that.
Not now.
Not when the flowers are turning red.
The back fields of the Cloud Recesses are quieter than the rest of the mountain.
The wind moves differently here. It does not carry the low murmur of lectures or the measured footfalls of Lan disciples pacing the stone paths. It slides through tall grass and the low branches of old trees, carrying the faint scent of pine and clean water from the distant streams.
Wei Wuxian sits beneath one of those trees, knees drawn up, back pressed against rough bark.
There is a rabbit in his lap.
It is warm and small and alive in a way he desperately needs something to be.
He strokes its ears absently, fingers threading through soft white fur. The rabbit twitches its nose but does not struggle; it has long since grown accustomed to this particular intruder.
Wei Wuxian exhales shakily.
His chest still aches from running. From coughing. From swallowing red petals that refuse to stay buried in the earth.
Red spider lilies.
The image of them scattered against the grass will not leave him.
He presses his forehead lightly to the rabbit’s back.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters when it tilts its head.
He does not know whether he is speaking to the rabbit or to himself.
Footsteps approach, soft and unhurried.
Wei Wuxian does not look up immediately.
He already knows.
Lan Xichen’s presence is distinct- not in the rigid, cold way of Lan Wangji’s, but like the steady flow of a river. Calm. Encompassing.
The grass shifts as Lan Xichen lowers himself to sit beside him.
He does not speak at first.
He simply reaches out and lifts another rabbit from the small cluster nearby, settling it in his own lap with careful hands.
They sit like that for a moment- two young men in fine robes, each cradling a rabbit as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
Wei Wuxian huffs a faint laugh.
“If Uncle Lan could see this,” he says hoarsely, “he’d add another ten rules about improper fraternisation with wildlife.”
Lan Xichen smiles faintly, though it does not reach his eyes.
“Shufu has seen far more alarming things this week,” he replies gently.
Wei Wuxian’s fingers still.
“So he told you,” he says.
Lan Xichen inclines his head.
“He told me you were dismissed from the lecture before you could finish coughing.”
Wei Wuxian winces.
“How kind of him.”
“And Wangji,” Lan Xichen continues softly, “came to me shortly after.”
Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat stutters.
“Oh?” He keeps his tone light, but it feels brittle, “What did the great Second Jade have to say?”
Lan Xichen’s gaze shifts to him, assessing.
“He is very worried.”
Wei Wuxian’s hand pauses mid-stroke.
“He has been,” Lan Xichen continues, voice low, “for at least a week. He told me he suspects something is wrong. That you are hiding it. That your qi feels… unsettled.”
Wei Wuxian lets out a quiet, breathless chuckle.
“That’s Lan Wangji for you,” he says, “Observant as ever.”
“He wishes to know what is wrong,” Lan Xichen says, “So he can make it better.”
The rabbit in Wei Wuxian’s lap squirms slightly as his grip tightens.
He forces himself to loosen it.
He smiles.
It feels fragile on his face.
“He’s a silly fuddy-duddy,” he murmurs, “Shouldn’t bother himself with this unworthy disciple.”
Lan Xichen does not laugh.
Silence settles between them again, heavier this time.
After a moment, Lan Xichen asks quietly, “What happened?”
Wei Wuxian does not pretend not to understand.
He keeps his gaze on the rabbit’s ears.
“My condition,” he says lightly, “has gotten worse.”
Lan Xichen’s brow furrows.
“You only began coughing camellias yesterday,” he says, “It cannot progress so quickly.”
Wei Wuxian’s lips curve upward.
It is not a pleasant expression.
“Can’t it?”
Lan Xichen’s eyes sharpen.
“A-Xian.”
Wei Wuxian inhales.
The air catches.
There it is again- that creeping pressure beneath his ribs, that thorned sensation threading through his lungs.
He laughs softly.
And then he coughs.
It hits fast.
He bends forward, one hand flying to his mouth.
Lan Xichen is already moving, setting his rabbit aside and reaching toward him.
Wei Wuxian coughs once.
Twice.
The third time, something slides free.
A single petal drops onto the grass between them.
Red.
Bright as spilled blood.
Red spider lily.
Lan Xichen stares at it.
The world seems to hold its breath.
Wei Wuxian swallows thickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There is less blood this time- but the colour at his fingertips matches the flower at his feet.
Lan Xichen whispers, “The Daifu said three months.”
Wei Wuxian lets out a shaky exhale.
“She did.”
“You still have two.”
Wei Wuxian laughs.
It breaks halfway through.
He sets the rabbit gently on the ground. It lingers a moment, as though reluctant to leave, before hopping away.
“I can’t help it,” he says suddenly.
The words spill out before he can stop them.
Lan Xichen looks at him sharply.
Wei Wuxian’s vision blurs.
“I can’t help but fall deeper and deeper for him each day,” he chokes.
His voice cracks.
He pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly, and turns away, leaning heavily against the tree trunk.
Lan Wangji’s face rises unbidden in his mind.
That small, almost imperceptible smile when no one else is watching.
The way his fingers curl faintly around the edge of his sleeves when he is restraining himself from speaking.
The way he said, You are not.
“He’s so beautiful,” Wei Wuxian whispers, voice trembling, “So kind. So cold. So… infuriatingly good, your didi is.”
Lan Xichen stands slowly.
Wei Wuxian presses the heel of his hand against his eyes, but tears slip through anyway.
“I don’t want to ruin what we already have,” he says, words tumbling over one another, “He tolerates me now. We have something. A truce. A… a friendship, maybe.”
His laugh is wet and broken.
“If I tell him, it will change. It will become awkward. He’ll avoid me. Or worse- he’ll feel obligated.”
He shakes his head fiercely.
“I don’t want that.”
His voice drops to a whisper.
“I just want it to end already.”
The admission hangs between them.
Wei Wuxian does not realise he is moving until his knees give slightly and he stumbles forward.
Lan Xichen catches him.
Arms wrap around him, firm and unyielding.
Wei Wuxian collapses into the embrace, hands clutching at white robes as sobs tear out of him in earnest now.
Lan Xichen holds him tightly.
“A-Xian,” he murmurs, voice thick, “You should tell him.”
Wei Wuxian shakes his head violently against his shoulder.
“No.”
“You do not know how he will respond.”
“I do,” Wei Wuxian chokes, “I know him.”
Lan Xichen pulls back slightly, hands sliding to cup Wei Wuxian’s face.
“You know him,” he agrees softly, “But you do not know his heart.”
Wei Wuxian’s tears fall harder.
“I can’t ruin him,” he whispers, “Not with these hands.”
His fingers tighten in Lan Xichen’s sleeves.
“They’re bloodstained already. I break rules. I lie. I make trouble everywhere I go. He’s-”
His breath shudders.
“He’s the great, incomparable Lan Wangji. And I’m the son of a servant. We could never compare.”
Lan Xichen’s expression crumples in a way Wei Wuxian has never seen before.
“You are not a stain,” Lan Xichen says fiercely, “You are-”
His voice falters.
“You are someone I cannot afford to lose.”
He leans forward and presses a gentle, brotherly kiss to Wei Wuxian’s forehead.
It is warm. Comforting. Devastating.
Wei Wuxian sobs harder, hands fisting in white fabric. Lan Xichen cups his face again, thumbs brushing away tears.
“I cannot lose you, A-Xian,” he whispers.
And then-
A sharp intake of breath.
Not theirs.
They both freeze.
Wei Wuxian turns his head.
Lan Wangji stands several paces away.
He does not know how long he has been there.
Long enough.
His gaze takes in the scene.
Wei Wuxian in Lan Xichen’s arms.
Lan Xichen’s hands on his face.
The closeness.
The intimacy.
Lan Wangji’s expression goes very still.
Too still.
The softness that had lingered there earlier is gone.
His eyes turn cold.
Wei Wuxian’s blood turns to ice.
“Lan Zhan-” he begins.
Lan Wangji steps back.
As though burned.
Lan Xichen releases Wei Wuxian immediately.
“Wangji-”
But Lan Wangji has already turned.
His robes flare slightly as he pivots away.
“Wangji, wait!” Lan Xichen calls.
Lan Wangji does not stop.
He walks- controlled, measured- but he does not look back.
Wei Wuxian’s heart slams painfully against his ribs.
No.
Not like this.
Not like this.
“Lan Zhan!” he calls, voice breaking.
There is no response.
Panic surges through him, sharp and blinding.
“He thinks-” Wei Wuxian gasps.
Lan Xichen grips his shoulders.
“Go,” he says urgently, “Go after him.”
Wei Wuxian does not hesitate.
He tears free and runs.
He runs across the grass, past startled rabbits and swaying branches.
“Lan Zhan!” he shouts again, “LAN ZHAN!”
Ahead of him, white robes vanish around a bend in the path.
Wei Wuxian pushes himself faster, ignoring the burn in his lungs, ignoring the red petals that threaten at the back of his throat.
He runs after the man he loves.
And this time, he does not intend to stop.
The path to the cold springs winds away from the main courtyards, stone steps damp with mist, bamboo whispering overhead. It is quieter here than anywhere else in the Cloud Recesses, as if even sound understands it must tread carefully.
Wei Wuxian runs anyway.
He runs without grace, without dignity, without the careful composure that Gusu demands. His breath tears in his throat. His sleeves snag on branches and he does not bother to free them gently. Somewhere behind him, he can still hear Lan Xichen calling his name, but that voice fades beneath the pounding in his ears.
Ahead, white robes flicker between the trees.
“Lan Zhan!” he calls, voice cracking, “Lan Zhan- wait!”
The figure does not slow.
Of course he doesn’t, Wei Wuxian thinks wildly. Lan Wangji has never once waited when told to.
He nearly stumbles on the last stretch of steps before the cold springs, catching himself on the stone railing. The air shifts here- cooler, tinged with mineral water and something faintly floral from the surrounding groves. The steam rising from the springs coils lazily in the pale daylight.
Lan Wangji stands at the edge of the pool, back straight, hands folded behind him. His white robes fall in perfect lines. His ribbon lies smooth against his forehead.
He looks carved from ice.
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian gasps again, skidding to a halt several paces behind him, “Don’t go.”
Lan Wangji turns.
It is not a dramatic movement. It is precise. Controlled.
His eyes are calm.
Too calm.
“Why,” Lan Wangji asks, voice level, “should I?”
The words are not loud. They do not need to be.
Wei Wuxian’s chest tightens.
He has faced resentful spirits that screamed and clawed and wailed, and none of them have ever frightened him like that quiet question.
“I-” He swallows.
His throat tastes metallic.
“I have to admit something.”
Lan Wangji’s gaze flickers, just once. A subtle tightening at the corner of his eyes.
“You do not need to,” he says.
He turns again, as if to leave.
Wei Wuxian lurches forward, hand outstretched.
“Lan Zhan, stop!”
The word stop comes out broken.
Lan Wangji halts- but does not face him.
Wei Wuxian forces his feet to move. He closes the distance until he stands just behind him, close enough to see the faint rise and fall of his shoulders.
“Please,” he says, and the word is foreign in his mouth.
Wei Wuxian does not beg. He cajoles, teases, bargains- but he does not beg.
He begs now.
Lan Wangji’s voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.
“I wished I knew,” he says.
Wei Wuxian blinks.
“Knew what?”
But Lan Wangji continues, as if he has not heard him.
“I wished I knew,” he repeats, “what I had done.”
Wei Wuxian’s stomach drops.
Lan Wangji finally turns his head, just slightly- not enough to meet his eyes.
“It does not matter now.”
There is something in that sentence that feels final.
Cold.
“I am happy for you,” Lan Wangji says, and the words are precise, enunciated with care, “And my brother.”
Wei Wuxian feels as though someone has taken his heart and squeezed.
“I wish you a happy courtship.”
The pause is infinitesimal.
“Forgive this one for interrupting.”
Each syllable lands like a blade.
Lan Wangji inclines his head- a perfect, polite bow.
Then he steps past him.
Wei Wuxian stands there, frozen, as white robes brush by.
“Lan Zhan- ” His voice is barely sound at all.
Lan Wangji does not look back.
He walks away down the stone path, steps even, back straight.
He does not once falter.
Wei Wuxian watches him go.
He keeps watching long after the white disappears between the bamboo.
He tells himself to move. To laugh. To call out something clever and irreverent and fix this the way he always fixes everything- with a grin and a shameless joke.
His mouth opens.
No sound comes out.
His vision blurs.
He clamps a hand over his mouth.
The first sob escapes anyway.
It is small. Strangled.
He folds in on himself, shoulders shaking, the sound trapped beneath his palm. He has cried before- when he was younger, when Madam Yu’s words cut too deep- but he has not cried like this.
This feels like something tearing loose inside him.
“Idiot,” he whispers hoarsely, to himself or to Lan Wangji, he doesn’t know.
His chest tightens.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
It begins as a familiar pressure beneath his ribs, a prickling heat in his lungs.
“No,” he breathes.
He stumbles backward a step.
The pressure becomes pain.
His body jerks.
The cough rips out of him without warning.
It is violent.
He doubles over, hand flying from his mouth as something warm spills over his fingers.
Blood.
It spatters against the pale stone.
Bright.
Obscene.
He coughs again, harder. His vision flashes white.
Something soft brushes his lips.
A petal.
Red.
It falls to the ground at his feet.
Another cough.
Another bloom.
Red spider lilies scatter across the stone like spilled lacquer, delicate petals curling outward in cruel elegance.
Wei Wuxian chokes.
“Not- now-”
He tries to swallow it back. Tries to stand upright.
His body refuses.
The coughing comes in waves, each one stronger than the last. Blood soaks into his robes, staining the white trim dark.
The lilies multiply.
They surround him.
He can smell them now- sharp and sweet, cloying.
He tastes iron and pollen.
His lungs seize.
He gasps for air and inhales something that should not be there.
Something catches in his throat.
He gags.
A thin, green tendril slips past his lips.
He stares at it in horror.
It writhes.
Another cough convulses him, and more vines spill out, slick with blood, twisting against the stone as though seeking soil.
A sound tears from his throat.
It is not a laugh.
It is not quite a scream.
It is something raw and broken in between.
The vines keep coming.
They scrape against his throat, tearing at delicate flesh as they emerge. He claws at his own neck, desperate to breathe, to rip them away.
The world tilts.
Blue.
He sees blue.
Dark blue petals tumble after the vines, landing against the red lilies in jarring contrast. They are deep as twilight, edges stained darker still.
They scatter across his knees, cling to his sleeves.
Wei Wuxian chokes on another vine and the scream finally comes- but it is muffled, swallowed by foliage and blood.
His entire body shudders.
He cannot draw air.
He cannot-
“A-XIAN!”
The voice cuts through the haze.
Lan Xichen.
The sound is sharp with something Wei Wuxian has never heard from him before.
Fear.
Wei Wuxian tries to lift his head.
His vision swims.
He sees white robes rushing toward him, hears the slap of hurried footsteps against stone.
He coughs again, weaker now.
More blood spills down his chin.
The final vine drags free, slick and dark, falling heavily to the ground among the lilies.
His body sways.
Lan Xichen reaches him just as his knees buckle.
Strong hands catch his shoulders.
“A-Xian!” Lan Xichen’s voice is strained, disbelieving, “Oh, oh no, oh no, no no no-”
Wei Wuxian tries to smile.
He cannot feel his lips.
For a moment, time fractures.
Memories flash through him in jagged fragments.
Lan Wangji standing on the rooftop the night they first meet, moonlight catching in his hair.
Their swords crossing, sparks flying, Lan Wangji’s expression sharp and indignant.
Lan Wangji in the classroom, spine straight as a rod, ignoring him no matter how many paper balls Wei Wuxian flicks his way.
That horrified look when Wei Wuxian suggests using resentful energy.
The cold silence in the library when he is punished, Lan Wangji seated across from him, refusing to rise to his provocations.
“GET LOST!” Lan Wangji shouts, voice clipped, when Wei Wuxian teases him with the forbidden spring book.
Lan Wangji’s hand catching his arm at Biling Lake, pulling him back from the waterborne abyss.
The loquat arcing through the air afterward, Lan Wangji catching it with precise, irritated movements, before throwing it back.
The lantern floating upward into the night sky, their hands briefly brushing as they release it.
“Uphold justice. Live with no regrets.”
Lan Wangji’s profile illuminated by candlelight when they sit beside each other in class for the first time.
The faint, almost imperceptible softening in his gaze when Wei Wuxian hands him a black rabbit.
The way his fingers brush fur so gently.
The way he smiles at Wei Wuxian for the first tim; a tiny, imperceptible, perfect smile.
The sound of their swords ringing together during sparring, instructors watching with narrowed eyes.
Every glance.
Every argument.
Every stubborn refusal.
Every moment of falling.
The present crashes back in.
He is falling.
Lan Xichen is trying to hold him upright, arms wrapped around him, hands slick with blood.
“A-Xian, stay with me,” Lan Xichen says urgently.
Wei Wuxian wants to apologize.
For the mess.
For the misunderstanding.
For loving too much.
His chest feels hollow.
Empty.
He tastes salt.
He realises distantly that he is crying.
Lan Wangji’s face swims before him- cold, controlled, walking away without looking back.
“I’m sorry, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian tries to say.
It comes out as a breath.
His vision narrows to a tunnel of white and red and blue petals.
The cold stone presses against his knees.
Lan Xichen’s arms tighten around him.
“A-Xian! A-XIAN!”
Wei Wuxian exhales.
It feels like something inside him finally gives way.
The world goes dark.
Wei Wuxian wakes in pieces.
First, the cold.
It seeps into him like winter meltwater, slow and merciless, creeping along bone and marrow until even his thoughts feel rimed with frost. His fingers are numb, distant things that do not quite belong to him anymore. His toes curl uselessly beneath thin blankets that offer no real warmth. He cannot tell where his body ends and the chill begins. The world is all edges and ache.
Then the heat.
It follows close behind, fever-bright and suffocating, pouring through his veins in molten waves. His skin burns as though lit from within. His throat is raw, scraped bare by every breath that passes through it. Each inhale scalds. Each exhale freezes. The air itself feels like punishment.
He shivers.
The movement sends knives of pain through his chest, sharp and sudden. His lungs seize. He makes a small, broken sound before he can stop himself.
Something tightens around his hand.
Not tight.
Gentle.
Careful.
Holding.
Wei Wuxian frowns faintly, as though the simple act of puzzlement costs him something precious. He pries his eyes open, lashes heavy, vision swimming through a haze of pale light and drifting white.
White ceiling. White curtains. White.
The familiar austerity of it settles into place.
The infirmary at Cloud Recesses.
His gaze shifts.
A face hovers beside him.
Lan Xichen.
Lan Xichen, who is always composed. Always serene. Always wearing that soft, reassuring smile, as though the world’s ugliness cannot quite touch him.
Lan Xichen, who is crying.
Tears track silently down his face, slipping from his lashes, trailing along the curve of his jaw before vanishing into the folds of pristine robes. He does not sob. He does not make a sound. The quiet of his grief is worse than any outburst.
Wei Wuxian stares at him.
For a moment, he forgets how to breathe.
Then habit, stubborn and reflexive, takes over. He tugs the corners of his mouth upward, the ghost of a smile tugging crooked and weak at his lips.
“What’s wrong,” he rasps.
His voice scrapes out of him like broken glass dragged over stone.
“Xichen-ge?”
Lan Xichen’s hand tightens around his.
He does not answer right away.
Instead, he lifts his other hand.
Something rests in his palm.
Blue.
Wei Wuxian’s eyes drift toward it, unfocused at first, then slowly sharpening.
A petal.
Blue as twilight.
Blue as the endless sky above Cloud Recesses.
Blue as the robes that have haunted his dreams and his waking hours alike.
Blue as gentians blooming stubbornly on distant mountain slopes, quiet and resilient and unseen.
Lan Xichen’s voice breaks when he speaks.
“A gentian,” he whispers.
The word settles between them, heavy with everything he cannot bring himself to say aloud.
Final. Unspoken.Love that has gone too long without a voice.
Wei Wuxian hums faintly, a soft, thoughtless sound that vibrates weakly in his throat. He lets his head sink deeper into the pillow, the world dimming at the edges.
Ah.
So this is the end, then.
His chest rises.
Falls.
Rises.
Falls.
Each breath hurts more than the last. It feels like drowning slowly, like something inside him claws and writhes and refuses to let him live in peace. His vision blurs, white bleeding into white. He blinks, sluggish and slow.
“Mn,” he murmurs.
He turns his head slightly toward Lan Xichen. Even that small movement costs him more than he can afford.
“I trust you know how to divide my possessions,” he whispers.
His tongue feels thick, heavy, as though every word must be dragged out by force.
“Among my siblings. And you.”
Lan Xichen’s grip tightens painfully.
Wei Wuxian continues anyway, because stopping feels like surrender.
“I want you to keep the book of flowers.”
Lan Xichen shakes his head.
Once.
Twice.
Then violently, as if he can shake the words apart.
“No,” he says.
The single syllable fractures in his throat.
“You are not dying today.”
Wei Wuxian lets out a weak laugh. It catches halfway through, collapses into a cough that tears at his chest. He winces, breath shuddering.
Too late.
He’s too late.
Everything is too late.
He closes his eyes, lashes trembling.
“Too late,” he murmurs.
His thoughts slip and slide, unraveling at the edges. The world feels distant, as though he is already drifting away from it.
“Too late telling Lan Zh’n…” His voice slurs, thick and uneven. The name catches in his throat, lodged there like something sharp. “…I love him.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Wei Wuxian laughs again. It sounds wrong. Small. Fractured.
“I’m too late,” he repeats, the words tangling together.
He cannot feel his fingers. Cannot feel his feet. Cannot feel anything except the crushing weight in his chest, the ache that refuses to ease.
Lan Xichen’s voice cuts through the haze.
“No.”
Wei Wuxian barely hears it.
“No,” Lan Xichen repeats, stronger this time.
He releases Wei Wuxian’s hand.
For a fleeting, irrational moment, Wei Wuxian mourns the loss of that warmth.
Then-
The curtains rustle.
Light shifts.
A figure stands beyond the veil of white.
Tall. Still. Familiar.
Wei Wuxian’s breath stutters to a halt.
Lan Wangji.
He stands there like a ghost drawn out of memory. His face is pale, his lips bloodless. His eyes are wide in a way Wei Wuxian has never seen before.
Lan Wangji is shaking.
Not with cold. Not with anger. But with something raw and unguarded, something that has finally broken through years of discipline and silence.
Wei Wuxian has never seen him like this.
Lan Xichen turns to his brother, voice quiet and aching.
“This is the consequence of not telling each other how you feel.”
He pauses.
“Wangji,” he whispers, “You must tell him the truth. I won’t have you putting it off any longer!”
Wei Wuxian exhales weakly.
“Too late,” he murmurs.
Lan Wangji moves.
Slowly, as though each step costs him something precious. As though he is wading through water that tries to pull him back.
He crosses the distance between them.
He kneels beside the bed.
He reaches out.
His hand finds Wei Wuxian’s.
Warm. Trembling.
Wei Wuxian stares at their joined hands, disbelief blooming weakly in his chest. This must be a dream. Some cruel hallucination born of fever and dying breath.
Lan Wangji does not touch him like this.
Not willingly. Not gently. Not as though he is something fragile and worth protecting.
Lan Wangji speaks, voice unsteady but resolute in its trembling.
“Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian’s heart stutters painfully at the sound of his name on Lan Wangji’s lips.
“I…” Lan Wangji stops.
Swallows. Tries again.
“I misunderstood.”
His grip tightens, knuckles whitening.
“I believed… you loved my brother.”
Wei Wuxian blinks, slow and dazed.
What?
Lan Wangji continues, each word dragged free as though it hurts to give them voice.
“Brother found me. He told me everything.”
His voice fractures.
“He told me the truth.”
Wei Wuxian cannot think. Cannot breathe. Cannot exist in any way that makes sense.
“I cannot let you die,” Lan Wangji whispers.
His eyes shine, bright and wet.
“Not if Wei Ying loves me too.”
Wei Wuxian’s lips part.
No sound comes out.
Lan Wangji is crying.
Lan Wangji never cries.
Tears spill silently down his face, falling onto Wei Wuxian’s blanket like small, shining wounds. The sight of it splinters something inside Wei Wuxian, cracks him open.
“This…” he swallows, throat burning, “…cannot be real.”
Lan Wangji leans closer, close enough that Wei Wuxian can feel the warmth of him, feel the truth of his presence.
“If you will not listen to the words of this unworthy disciple,” he whispers, voice shaking with restrained desperation, “then at least believe me with this.”
He kisses him.
It is not gentle. Not careful. It is desperate, clumsy, all the control Lan Wangji has ever possessed breaking apart in the act of reaching for him.
Their lips collide.
Wei Wuxian gasps.
Something explodes inside him- energy, warmth, blinding and overwhelming. It surges through his veins like lightning, like sunlight, like life itself returning where death had begun to take hold.
He feels it.
Lan Wangji.
He feels his love- fierce and consuming, restrained ever since they met and now unleashed without apology. It pours into him without restraint. Terrifying. Beautiful.
Wei Wuxian breaks.
Lan Wangji pulls back just in time as Wei Wuxian doubles over, coughing violently. His body convulses, something tearing loose inside him. Petals spill from his mouth in waves.
Blue gentians. Red spider lilies. White camellias. Pink plum blossoms. Dandelion fluff.
They pour out of him endlessly, staining white robes, littering the bed and floor in a riot of colour and blood. Wei Wuxian sobs, raw and helpless, until he cannot tell where the pain ends and the relief begins.
Lan Wangji’s hands find his back, steady and warm, rubbing slow circles as though grounding him to the world.
“I love you,” Lan Wangji whispers.
Again.
“I love you.”
Again.
“Wei Ying, I love you.”
Over and over, until the words lose their shape and become everything.
Wei Wuxian collapses, exhausted and empty and free.
Lan Wangji catches him, holds him against his chest. Wei Wuxian sags into the warmth, trembling- not from cold, not from fever, but from something fragile and newly born.
He tilts his head, looks up.
Lan Wangji’s face hovers close enough to touch.
Wei Wuxian smiles weakly.
“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, voice shaking, “You truly love me.”
Lan Wangji leans down, presses another kiss to his lips- soft now, certain, reverent.
“It could only ever be you,” he whispers, “My Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian closes his eyes.
For the first time in months-
He breathes.
And nothing hurts.
The infirmary is quiet in the way only Cloud Recesses knows how to be quiet.
Not the gentle hush of night insects or wind through trees, but a disciplined silence that presses in from all sides. The white curtains hang unmoving. The incense burns down to ash without smoke. Even the light seems reluctant to linger, thinning into a pale wash over the bed where Wei Wuxian lies propped against folded pillows.
He feels wrung out.
Not in the dramatic, heroic way he is used to after night-hunts, where adrenaline still hums under his skin and the ache in his limbs is almost satisfying. This is different. This is hollow. As if something has been pulled out of him and not yet returned. His chest still aches faintly when he draws a breath too deep, a dull reminder of what had forced him here in the first place.
Lan Xichen’s presence had been warm and steady, his hands careful when he’d helped him settle back against the pillows. Lan Xichen had spoken softly, reassured him, told him to rest. Wei Wuxian had tried to joke, because that is what he does when things get uncomfortable, but even he had heard how thin his voice sounded.
Lan Xichen leaves eventually.
He pauses at the threshold, looking back once, eyes lingering on his brother with an expression Wei Wuxian cannot quite read. It is not a worry alone. There is something heavier in it, something almost like resolve. Then he turns and goes, robes whispering over the floor as he steps out into the corridor.
Wei Wuxian knows why he leaves.
Someone has to explain.
Someone has to tell Jiang Cheng why he saw Lan Xichen half-carrying Wei Wuxian across Cloud Recesses, blood on his lips, staining the pristine white of Lan robes. Someone has to explain why guest disciples caught sight of Lan Wangji running through the corridors like a man possessed, his forehead ribbon askew, Lan Qiren’s furious voice echoing behind him. Someone has to smooth over the ripples before they become waves.
Wei Wuxian exhales slowly.
The room feels emptier without Lan Xichen, even though it is hardly empty at all.
Lan Wangji stands near the bed, stiff as ever, hands at his sides. He has not moved since Lan Xichen left. He looks as though he has been carved into place, the lines of his posture too straight, his expression carefully blank. Only the faint tension in his jaw gives him away.
Wei Wuxian watches him.
He has been doing that a lot lately.
Not in the obvious way, not with the wide-eyed curiosity he usually gives interesting things, but in quiet glances stolen when Lan Wangji is not looking. It is strange, how once you start noticing something, you cannot stop. The way Lan Wangji’s lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones. The way his mouth presses into a thin line when he is displeased, which is often, because Wei Wuxian exists. The way he stands like he is bracing himself against the world.
Wei Wuxian shifts slightly, the movement drawing Lan Wangji’s attention at once.
“Does it still hurt?” Lan Wangji asks.
His voice is low, careful, as if speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile in the air between them.
Wei Wuxian blinks at him, surprised. He had not expected Lan Wangji to speak first.
“A little,” he admits. Then, because he is Wei Wuxian and cannot leave sincerity alone without dressing it in humour, he adds, “But I’ve had worse. You should have seen me after one night-hunt in Yunmeng last year. Jiang Cheng said I looked like a drowned ghost.”
Lan Wangji does not smile.
Wei Wuxian is not sure why he had half-expected him to.
There is a pause. The silence stretches, thick and awkward. Wei Wuxian fidgets, fingers worrying at the edge of the blanket. He is suddenly, acutely aware of how small the infirmary bed is, how close Lan Wangji stands to him. Close enough that he can see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the rise and fall of his chest.
“You should rest,” Lan Wangji says at last.
Wei Wuxian makes a face.
“I’ve been resting all day, Lan Zhan. Xichen-ge practically threatened to tie me down if I tried to get up again.”
Lan Wangji’s brows knit together faintly.
“You should listen to Xiongzhang.”
Wei Wuxian laughs softly. “Since when do I listen to anyone?”
The corner of Lan Wangji’s mouth twitches.
It is so small, so fleeting, that Wei Wuxian almost thinks he imagines it. But there it is- a tiny, traitorous lift at the edge of Lan Wangji’s composure.
Wei Wuxian’s chest does something odd at the sight.
He shifts again, then pats the edge of the bed, the gesture impulsive before he has time to think it through.
“You’ve been standing there forever. You’re going to turn into a statue at this rate. Sit down, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji hesitates.
The hesitation is brief, but it is there. Wei Wuxian sees it in the way his fingers curl, uncurl, as if he is weighing something invisible. Then he moves, carefully lowering himself to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance between them.
Wei Wuxian grins.
“See? The world didn’t end.”
Lan Wangji does not respond, but he does not move away, either.
For a while, they sit in silence.
It is not an uncomfortable silence, exactly. It is just unfamiliar. Wei Wuxian is used to filling empty spaces with noise, with jokes, with commentary. This quiet feels… delicate. Like something that might break if he pokes at it too hard.
He studies Lan Wangji out of the corner of his eye.
Up close, Lan Wangji looks more real. Less like the unapproachable, rule-bound Lan disciple who haunts his lectures, more like a person made of flesh and bone. Wei Wuxian notices the faint crease between his brows, the slight tension in his shoulders that never quite goes away. He wonders, suddenly, what it would take to make Lan Wangji relax.
The thought startles him.
“You…” Wei Wuxian begins, then trails off.
Lan Wangji turns to look at him. “What?”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth to deflect, to joke, to say something meaningless.
Instead, the truth slips out.
“You ran,” he says.
Lan Wangji stiffens.
Wei Wuxian watches the reaction ripple through him, subtle but unmistakable.
“Everyone saw. Xichen-ge said,” he continues, more gently now, “Lan-laoshi was furious. I thought he was going to blow a hole through the corridor with sheer anger when he finally came in here.”
Lan Wangji’s gaze drops to the floor.
“I could not let you be alone.”
The words land harder than Wei Wuxian expects.
He blinks, a strange tightness forming behind his ribs.
“I’m always alone,” he says lightly, “You know me. I wander off into trouble for fun.”
“That is not what I meant,” Lan Wangji says.
Wei Wuxian’s smile falters.
There is something in Lan Wangji’s voice now that he has not heard before. Not anger. Not disapproval. Something rawer, quieter.
They sit with that between them, the unspoken weight of it.
Wei Wuxian shifts again, the bed creaking faintly.
“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” he says, “Did Lan-laoshi finally work you into the ground?”
Lan Wangji shakes his head.
“I am fine.”
Wei Wuxian snorts. “Hmm, you say that like I believe you.”
Lan Wangji looks at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he moves. He draws off his outer robe and sets it aside with careful precision. The movement feels oddly intimate, though Wei Wuxian cannot say why. Then Lan Wangji lies down beside him, rigid as a board, leaving a careful space between their shoulders.
Wei Wuxian’s breath catches.
The bed is not meant for two people. The closeness is unavoidable. He can feel the warmth of Lan Wangji’s body through the thin layers of fabric, can sense the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“This is… highly inappropriate behaviour for a disciple of the Gusu Lan sect,” Wei Wuxian murmurs.
Lan Wangji’s voice is quiet.
“You are injured.”
Wei Wuxian swallows.
They lie there, side by side, staring up at the white ceiling. The world outside the infirmary feels far away, muffled by layers of discipline and incense and quiet.
“Wei Ying has silver eyes,” Lan Wangji says suddenly.
Wei Wuxian blinks.
“What?”
Lan Wangji turns his head slightly, his gaze steady.
“In this light. They look like silver. Like the moon.”
Wei Wuxian laughs, a soft, startled sound.
“No one’s ever said that before. Usually they just say I look like trouble.”
Lan Wangji studies him as if committing the sight to memory.
“Wei Ying’s hair is difficult,” he says, “Untamed.”
Wei Wuxian grins.
“It has a rebellious spirit. Like its owner.”
There is that tiny smile again, almost invisible.
“Wei Ying’s nose is small,” Lan Wangji continues, as if he cannot stop himself now, “And… Wei Ying’s waist is narrow.”
Wei Wuxian chokes.
“Lan Zhan, are you… complimenting me?”
Lan Wangji does not look away. “I am simply stating facts.”
Wei Wuxian’s heart is doing something very strange. He laughs, too loudly, to cover it.
“Well, if we’re stating facts- your eyes look like gold in the sun. And you do this little thing with your mouth when you’re not scowling. It’s… cute.”
Lan Wangji’s ears go red.
Wei Wuxian notices.
He also notices the strength in Lan Wangji’s arm when he shifts, the solid warmth of muscle beneath fabric.
“You’re strong,” he adds, because apparently his mouth has decided to run off on its own, “Your biceps feel like they could carry me all the way back to Yunmeng if you wanted.”
Lan Wangji’s breath stutters, just a little.
They fall into a quiet, tentative conversation after that, talking about nothing and everything. About lectures they hate. About the rules that make no sense. About the way the mountains look at dawn. It is all small, ordinary talk, but it feels like a fragile bridge being built between them, plank by careful plank.
After a while, Wei Wuxian turns his head to look at Lan Wangji.
“When the lectures are over,” he says, the words coming out softer than he expects, “would you… want to visit Lotus Pier?”
Lan Wangji looks at him.
Wei Wuxian rushes on, suddenly nervous.
“Just for a year. You could meet my shijie. She makes the best lotus and pork rib soup in the world. We could swim in the ponds, eat lotus seeds until we’re sick, go on night-hunts-”
“I will go,” Lan Wangji says, without hesitation.
Wei Wuxian blinks.
“Just like that?”
Lan Wangji’s voice is steady.
“I will follow you anywhere you wish me to.”
The words settle into Wei Wuxian’s chest, warm and heavy.
They fall asleep like that, side by side, the quiet of Cloud Recesses pressing in around them.
“Good night, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, already half-asleep, “See you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji answers, brushing a hand through Wei Wuxian’s hair, a small but fond smile on his face, “See you tomorrow.”
Wei Wuxian can’t wait for tomorrow to come.
-fin-