"Brother—" The word tore from my lips as I collapsed to my knees, the cold stone biting through my robes. Disbelief and crushing disappointment surged through me in waves, leaving me breathless. My heart twisted painfully as I looked up at my brother, searching his face for any sign of compassion. I couldn't tell what haunted him more: the fragments of Wei Wuxian's lost memories, or the sting of my own defiance—my refusal to bow to him and Uncle, to the suffocating weight of tradition.
"Not only did Wangji talk back to him," Xichen's voice trembled, each syllable heavy with accusation and sorrow, "he even fought with his fellow Gusu Lan sect cultivators…" His words hung in the air, thick with unspoken consequences, and I felt the shame settle on my shoulders like a shroud.
Wei Wuxian's voice was barely a whisper, raw and broken. "I—I didn't know… I really…" The guilt in his eyes was almost unbearable, so tangible it seemed to seep into my own soul. I ached to reach out, to take his trembling hands in mine and assure him that none of this was his fault, that he was blameless. But my voice caught in my throat, strangled by the weight of all the things I could not say.
Xichen's next words were like a blade, each one slicing deeper than the last. "After he insisted on sending you back to the Burial Mound, he returned in low spirits to receive his punishment—thirty-three whip scars! One for each person. You should know how much it hurts when it lands on your body!" The memory of that pain—sharp, searing, relentless—flashed through me. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, silently pleading for him to stop, for this torment to end. Tears spilled down my cheeks, hot and helpless, as I begged in my heart: Stop blaming him. Please, stop.
"Even so, when he learned about your death, he still dragged himself to the Burial Mound to see you, no matter what…" Xichen's voice softened, but the ache in it was unmistakable. My chest tightened, my breath coming in shallow gasps remembering that dreadful moments, grief-stricken, making his way through the darkness to find me—too late.
"Wangji was a model disciple when he was young and a prominent cultivator as he grew. THE ONLY MISTAKE HE EVER MADE IN HIS LIFE IS YOU! AND YOU SAY… AND YOU SAY YOU DON'T KNOW!" The sudden fury in Xichen's voice struck me like thunder, echoing in the hollow chamber of my heart.
Mistake? My breath hitched, the word ringing in my ears. No. My Weiying is not a mistake. Our love is righteous—pure. I wanted to scream, to shout the truth until the world itself listened.
"Young Master Wei, after you returned in your body, how did you pester him and confess? Every night… every night you had to… and you say you don't know?"
No, no! Don't say it! My mind reeled, panic clawing at my chest. It can't be true! Weiying wouldn't have done those things because of my brother's words! The thought was unbearable, a twisting agony that left me gasping.
Suddenly, the haze of incense faded, and I jolted awake, my body trembling. The first pale light of dawn crept through the window—6 AM. My tears had not dried, and I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, trying to steady my racing heart. Wei Wuxian, blissfully unaware, still slept, his breaths slow and even. He would not wake for hours, not until the sun had climbed high. He did not know the storm raging inside me.
"Lan Zhan… What happened?" Wei Wuxian's voice was soft, still heavy with sleep, but I heard the concern threading through it. For a moment, I could only stare at him, overwhelmed by the love and pain tangled together in my heart.
Weiying's heart raced, pounding against his ribs with a frantic urgency, as he watched Wangji—his beloved husband, his anchor—dissolve into tears. The sound of Wangji's sobs echoed through the stillness of Jingshi, each anguished cry slicing through the quiet like a dagger, leaving Weiying raw and exposed. The questions battered his mind, relentless and merciless: What happened? Why won't he tell me? They swirled inside him like a tempest, churning up old fears and insecurities he thought he had buried long ago. Instinctively, Weiying reached out, desperate to bridge the growing chasm between them. He wrapped his arms around Wangji, trying to offer solace, but Wangji recoiled, pushing him away with a force that felt both foreign and devastating. The rejection stung, leaving Weiying's arms empty and his heart aching with a pain that was almost physical.
No, don't walk away! Weiying's thoughts screamed in silent panic as he watched Wangji retreat, each step away a blow to his fragile hope. A cold grip of helplessness tightened around his heart, squeezing until it was hard to breathe. I can't lose him; he's my last hope, he thought, the words echoing in the cavernous silence that had settled over Jingshi. The contrast between the oppressive quiet of the room and the chaos raging inside him was almost unbearable. His heart ached to chase after Wangji, to beg for forgiveness, to piece together whatever had shattered between them. But his mind, ever cruel, dredged up memories of past losses—friends, family, loved ones slipping through his fingers despite his desperate efforts to hold on. You were wrong; you're his mistake, his inner voice whispered, twisting the knife of self-doubt even deeper.
As the day dragged on, the sun's golden light faded into the dim gloom of evening, and still Wangji did not return. Weiying sat alone in the muted half-light of their home, his eyes hollow, staring unseeing at the floor. The air around him felt thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved feelings, as if the very walls of Jingshi were closing in on him. He could almost hear the echoes of laughter from happier times—soft, warm, and distant—now replaced by a suffocating silence that pressed down on his chest. Every movement was a reminder of Wangji's absence, each moment stretching into eternity as Weiying waited, hope and dread warring within him.
Meanwhile, on the other side of Jingshi, Wangji was locked in his own private battle. The bitter burn of alcohol coursed through his veins, dulling the sharpest edges of his pain but doing nothing to erase the memories that haunted him. He clung to the thought, Weiying loves me; I know it, repeating it like a mantra, though doubt gnawed at his resolve like a relentless beast. The words he had heard before—words spoken in anger, in fear, in moments of weakness—replayed in his mind, a broken record he could not silence: You're not enough; you'll only hurt him. Each repetition chipped away at his confidence, leaving him raw and exposed, torn between the desperate desire to reach out and the paralyzing fear that he was, indeed, unworthy of the love he so desperately craved.
A Fragile Reunion
That night brought a fragile sense of hope as Wangji stumbled back into Jingshi. Weiying was still there, waiting with bated breath. "Wangji!" he exclaimed, grabbing Wangji's arm to steady him as he swayed unsteadily. Please don't fall, Weiying thought fiercely. It was an instinctive reaction; after all, Wangji had always been his shield, protecting him from harm even when it meant bearing the brunt of pain himself.
Weiying gently guided Wangji to the table, feeling the warmth radiate from their shared space despite the chill in the air. He fetched a wet cloth and began to clean Wangji's mouth and hands with tender care, each stroke imbued with love and concern. As he carefully replaced Wangji's robes with fresh ones, he noticed the tears welling in Wangji's eyes once more.
"Lan Zhan… My husband… Will you tell me what's bothering you so we can fix it?" Weiying asked softly, cupping Wangji's face in his hands.
"You," Wangji whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of unshed tears.
"I...? I'm bothering you?" Weiying's heart sank at the thought.
Wangji shook his head slowly, confusion clouding his features. "No...?"
"Then who's bothering you?" Weiying pressed gently.
Wangji pointed at himself with trembling fingers."You are bothering yourself?" Weiying sought clarification.
Wangji shook his head again but added quietly, "Bothering Weiying."
"No," Weiying said firmly yet lovingly. "You're not bothering me; my Lan Zhan can never bother me." He pressed a soft kiss to Wangji's forehead, wishing to soothe away the turmoil within him.
"Hurt Weiying," came Wangji's pained admission.
"No," Weiying replied passionately. "My Lan Zhan never hurt his Weiying and will never do that."
"We had… but you don't want… you did for brother."
"Lan Zhan," Weiying said softly but firmly, "I don't understand. Will you tell me what we had and what I don't want?"
"S'x," Wangji murmured, shame lacing his voice.
"Weiying never wanted… did for brother."
In that moment of vulnerability, they stood on the precipice of understanding—a fragile bridge built on love and fear—waiting for one another to take that crucial step forward into healing together.
"Lan Zhan, what are you saying? I don't understand," Weiying stammered, confusion swirling in his mind. The warmth of their shared moments felt distant as he tried to grasp Wangji's words. What could Zew Wu Zun have said?
"You had it with me 'cause brother said," Wangji replied, his voice trembling with emotion.
Had what? Weiying's heart raced as he searched Wangji's eyes for clarity.
"In Guanyin Temple, brother told you…" Wangji continued, and suddenly the pieces began to fit together in Weiying's mind.
"Lan Zhan, how do you know about that?"
"Incense burner," Wangji murmured, his gaze dropping.
"Oh! So you think I had it with you 'cause Zew Wu Zun told me to?" Weiying's voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief washing over him.
"Lan Zhan," he said slowly, "we shared a bed before your brother told me that. I went to Jiang's ancestors hall with you and took two bows in front of my late adopted parents. I won't take anyone unless I consider you my soulmate. I've always loved you, Lan Zhan." His heart swelled with the weight of unspoken truths. "I just do things I like; I like being with you, my husband, my Lan Zhan."
"And I'm still willing to have…" Weiying whispered seductively in Wangji's ear, feeling the heat radiate between them.
That night, as they became intimate, it was more than just a union of bodies—it was a gentle collision of hearts aching for closeness. Their breaths mingled in the quiet room, every sigh a secret, every kiss a confession. Fingers traced skin like cherished maps, exploring the places where pain once lived and where healing now began. With each caress, they peeled back the layers of fear and loneliness, exposing the raw, unspoken truths that had always lingered beneath the surface.
Their movements were slow, reverent—like they were rediscovering each other for the first time. Eyes locked, not a word was needed, yet everything was said. Time seemed to blur around them, the world outside falling away, leaving only the rhythm of their hearts syncing in the dim candlelight. In that sacred stillness, they didn't just make love—they remembered how it felt to be seen, to be safe, to be home.