Work Text:
Lan Xichen spent centuries roaming the earth. He saw countless empires rise, and he witnessed just as many fall. He broke bread with kings and deities and beggars and learned something from each. He built shelters and homes and wandered through the ruins of temples he laid stone for.
After cultivating to immortality, he left the Lan Sect in the capable hands of the next generation. With his nieces and nephews grown, he had nothing left to tie him to the Hanshi and the wooden floors he knew better than his own hand. He left to go where the chaos was like Wangji had in the years between Wei Wuxian’s death and resurrection.
Perhaps it was about atonement.
It took decades to stop flinching at the sight of a dimple paired with any curling pair of lips. It took longer to stop being haunted by memories of his late sworn brothers. It took many years of self-reflection to trust his judgment once more.
Perhaps it was about freedom.
As the eldest, he had always been bound to the Cloud Recesses in a way Wangji, as the second heir, was not. He had dedicated his youth to his sect. He guided it through a war, through some of the best and worst decisions of his life, and then into the next generation’s capable hands.
Whatever it was about when he packed his bags and took to the untrodden roads, he had needed it.
The sting of the wind, the soaking rain, and the wisps of smoke became his most constant companions for a long time.
One year became five, and then ten, and then the decades began passing faster and faster. His trips back to Gusu grew rarer and rarer.
And then Wei Wuxian died again.
Mo Xuanyu’s core, despite training, could never reach immortality.
Wei Wuxian lived a long, healthy life, but ultimately, he aged into a distinguished, gray man, and he passed surrounded by his many children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and so on.
Xichen returned home for the funeral.
Wangji grieved, but the pair had nearly 200 years of wedded bliss before death separated them once more.
With his offspring long grown, Wangji joined his brother as an immortal wanderer. Wangji never once forgot the pledge he and Wei Wuxian had made as boys.
Injustice was wiped from any path Hanguang-Jun graced.
Xichen was proud.
They roamed onward.
Decades bled into centuries.
Dynasties rose and fell. War changed. Cultivators grew rarer as technology eased the lives of commoners and emperors alike.
After centuries of wandering, Lan Xichen returned to the Cloud Recesses. The Lan Sect had diminished like all the others, but the land had been preserved.
Hiding in plain sight, Lan Xichen became the docent of the historical site.
It was a way to see his culture preserved, and a way to meet all sorts of interesting civilians. From school trips with their matching hats and tiny shoes (he could practically hear his late brother-in-law exclaiming over the cuteness of tiny feet and pinchable cheeks) to experienced hikers and artists on retreat.
Three decades later, Wangji settled back into the Jingshi and began to record and share his compositions on the Internet. All but one.
They both knew he was waiting for Wei Wuxian to reincarnate. It had been centuries, but Lan Xichen did not doubt that they would find each other again.
He was right.
On a sweet summer night, while the air was sticky with pollen and moonlight, Lan Xichen made his rounds near the guest cottages, then he heard it.
Admittedly, he had never expected to hear Wangxian, the most intimate composition of his brother’s heart, rendered on harmonica. Of course Wei Wuxian would be drawn to that terrible, noisy instrument. At least, he supposed, it wasn’t a kazoo.
With a stifled laugh, he crept closer to the unsuspecting young musician.
In profile, he looked vaguely familiar, but not like Lan Xichen remembered.
When the song concluded, a twig crunched underfoot. Wei Wuxian whirled to face him, and Lan Xichen was gobsmacked. There was no doubt this was Wei Wuxian. It was even his face. His first face.
“Ah, sorry, Mr. Tour Guide, sir.” Wei Wuxian ran a hand through his unruly, chin-length hair and revealed thoroughly pierced ears. Wangji would like those. “I didn’t think anyone would be out this late.”
Smiling again, Lan Xichen bowed to the young man. “My apologies, young master. I did not mean to startle you. It is just that my brother is a composer and your song sounds like something he would enjoy.”
Wei Wuxian leaned forward eagerly and without any consideration for propriety. Lan Xichen had not realized how much he missed him. “Really?”
“Yes. In fact, I think he would love to have tea with you and discuss music, if you are amenable.”
One eyebrow arched suspiciously. “Oh? Right now?” Lan Xichen nodded. Wei Wuxian squinted. His face did something complicated, and he shoved his harmonica and his hands into his cargo pockets. “Do I know you? My memory sucks, but you seem familiar.”
Lan Xichen could not help the mischief in his smile. “Perhaps we have met before in another life.”
Wei Wuxian weighed this response for a moment and grinned back. “I think you must be right!” A pause, and then, “Do you think I knew your brother, too?”
As Lan Xichen guided him toward the Jingshi, he replied, “I am sure you did.”
Three minutes later, Wangji dropped a full tea set on the floor. Two minutes after that, Wei Wuxian climbed into Wangji’s lap amidst the ceramic shards.
Lan Xichen returned to his rounds with a soft, unshakable smile.