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rhysianaIs Snippet Saturday an actual thing? No. But I have admitted this isn't a WIP, and it's not really exactly a whole fic, but it stands on its own well enough to post, so here it is. Lan Xichen & Song Lan mostly, with a little Lan brothers angst thrown in, LXC POV.
Wangji comes to sit with him sometimes. Wangji is very good at silence; always has been, better than Xichen, though his silence never felt particularly serene. Xichen thinks he understands now. He has gotten much better at silence, and he is not serene.
He is still the one to break it, though. It’s been long enough since he last spoke aloud that his voice scrapes out of his throat, rough and ugly and broken. It seems fitting. “You must have hated me so much. All those years when he was dead, and I had them. For me to be happy while you were buried under so much grief.”
Wangji’s spine stiffens in surprise next to him, something that would have been a flinch in anyone else. He continues to stare out into the garden, but his fingers disappear into his sleeves like they have since he was a child, clenching where no one can see.
“No,” he says, firm, definite. “I did not begrudge xiongzhang his happiness.” He pauses to take a breath, slow and measured. “I was angry with the world, though. That it continued when he did not. As if he never mattered.”
Xichen should say that he is happy Wei Wuxian has been returned to his brother, against all odds. He doesn’t.
Silence descends again. Eventually, Wangji leaves.
***
At first, Xichen thinks the man on the path at the edge of his garden must be Wen Qionglin, but on second glance, he is too tall, too slender, too… elegant. Still a fierce corpse, though.
The man bows in apology and turns to head back down the path. Xichen racks his brain for who this might be, a fierce corpse incongruously dressed as a priest, and memory snags on a pile of confused night hunt reports from the juniors in the days before everything fell apart.
“Song Zichen?” he tries. It comes out dry and quiet. It’s been too long since he spoke, again. A bad habit.
The other man turns back, bows in acknowledgement this time.
“Would you like some tea?” Xichen asks, surprising himself.
Song Zichen quirks half a wry smile.
Xichen curses his uncharacteristic lapse in tact. Truly, he must have been away from people for too long now. He’s not wholly sure he regrets it.
He tries again. “Ah… or just to sit?” He gestures out at the garden, where a few fireflies have started to blink in and out over the flowers.
Song Zichen considers him for a moment, then inclines his head and comes to sit on the edge of the porch. He arranges himself with care, a perfect straight-backed meditation posture Xichen has seen in other temple-raised visitors who have come to consult the Gusu Lan libraries. Then he reaches into his sleeve and draws forth a spirit pouch, very white against the black and gray of his robes, and places it reverently in his lap. He looks at Xichen to see if he understands.
Xichen feels tears well in his eyes and blinks them away as he resettles himself on the other side of the porch. They sit there in twin silence, two men in love with ghosts, watching the fireflies long into the night.
***
I think our founder was wrong, he writes. He has to keep butterfly messages short, but he finds he doesn’t have much to say these days anyway. We should not have turned to cultivation in the world. Staying apart is better.
Song Zichen’s reply is over a week in coming, a letter written in excruciatingly careful calligraphy. Xichen remembers long, almost delicate fingers handling the spirit pouch and wonders how difficult such dexterity is for a fierce corpse.
Not better, just easier, he has written.
The blunt brevity startles Xichen into a laugh.
***
Doesn’t withdrawal from the world help us on the path toward immortality? Xichen returns, days or possibly weeks later, he no longer keeps track.
It can. Song Zichen had, of course, spent years traveling with a disciple of Baoshan Sanren. He should know. But should immortality really be considered an end goal? What will you do after achieving it, if you have no more attachment to the world?
Xichen can think of no reply to this startling question.
*~*~*~*~*~*~
I don't really remember if I intended to go anywhere with it after that. I think if I did, it would be with LXC decided to become a wandering cultivator for a while, either intentionally with Song Lan or meeting up with him at some point along the way. I just think they have a lot to philosophically hash out, between Song Lan arguably not being able to die anymore and Lan Xichen questioning probably everything in his life now.
Rebloggable on Tumblr, if you do that sort of thing.
Wangji comes to sit with him sometimes. Wangji is very good at silence; always has been, better than Xichen, though his silence never felt particularly serene. Xichen thinks he understands now. He has gotten much better at silence, and he is not serene.
He is still the one to break it, though. It’s been long enough since he last spoke aloud that his voice scrapes out of his throat, rough and ugly and broken. It seems fitting. “You must have hated me so much. All those years when he was dead, and I had them. For me to be happy while you were buried under so much grief.”
Wangji’s spine stiffens in surprise next to him, something that would have been a flinch in anyone else. He continues to stare out into the garden, but his fingers disappear into his sleeves like they have since he was a child, clenching where no one can see.
“No,” he says, firm, definite. “I did not begrudge xiongzhang his happiness.” He pauses to take a breath, slow and measured. “I was angry with the world, though. That it continued when he did not. As if he never mattered.”
Xichen should say that he is happy Wei Wuxian has been returned to his brother, against all odds. He doesn’t.
Silence descends again. Eventually, Wangji leaves.
***
At first, Xichen thinks the man on the path at the edge of his garden must be Wen Qionglin, but on second glance, he is too tall, too slender, too… elegant. Still a fierce corpse, though.
The man bows in apology and turns to head back down the path. Xichen racks his brain for who this might be, a fierce corpse incongruously dressed as a priest, and memory snags on a pile of confused night hunt reports from the juniors in the days before everything fell apart.
“Song Zichen?” he tries. It comes out dry and quiet. It’s been too long since he spoke, again. A bad habit.
The other man turns back, bows in acknowledgement this time.
“Would you like some tea?” Xichen asks, surprising himself.
Song Zichen quirks half a wry smile.
Xichen curses his uncharacteristic lapse in tact. Truly, he must have been away from people for too long now. He’s not wholly sure he regrets it.
He tries again. “Ah… or just to sit?” He gestures out at the garden, where a few fireflies have started to blink in and out over the flowers.
Song Zichen considers him for a moment, then inclines his head and comes to sit on the edge of the porch. He arranges himself with care, a perfect straight-backed meditation posture Xichen has seen in other temple-raised visitors who have come to consult the Gusu Lan libraries. Then he reaches into his sleeve and draws forth a spirit pouch, very white against the black and gray of his robes, and places it reverently in his lap. He looks at Xichen to see if he understands.
Xichen feels tears well in his eyes and blinks them away as he resettles himself on the other side of the porch. They sit there in twin silence, two men in love with ghosts, watching the fireflies long into the night.
***
I think our founder was wrong, he writes. He has to keep butterfly messages short, but he finds he doesn’t have much to say these days anyway. We should not have turned to cultivation in the world. Staying apart is better.
Song Zichen’s reply is over a week in coming, a letter written in excruciatingly careful calligraphy. Xichen remembers long, almost delicate fingers handling the spirit pouch and wonders how difficult such dexterity is for a fierce corpse.
Not better, just easier, he has written.
The blunt brevity startles Xichen into a laugh.
***
Doesn’t withdrawal from the world help us on the path toward immortality? Xichen returns, days or possibly weeks later, he no longer keeps track.
It can. Song Zichen had, of course, spent years traveling with a disciple of Baoshan Sanren. He should know. But should immortality really be considered an end goal? What will you do after achieving it, if you have no more attachment to the world?
Xichen can think of no reply to this startling question.
*~*~*~*~*~*~
I don't really remember if I intended to go anywhere with it after that. I think if I did, it would be with LXC decided to become a wandering cultivator for a while, either intentionally with Song Lan or meeting up with him at some point along the way. I just think they have a lot to philosophically hash out, between Song Lan arguably not being able to die anymore and Lan Xichen questioning probably everything in his life now.
Rebloggable on Tumblr, if you do that sort of thing.
