Chapter Text
Lan Zhan.
Current Day.
Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.
The words hover out of reach. He feels them inside, swirling around in turmoil and he silently begs them to come out. He won't feel at ease until black paints white, but the cursor persists in mocking him. It taps against the white of the screen impatiently for the first sentence of the last book. Just like it's blinked every day for the past two months. Sometimes it moves a sentence forward slowly, before quickly deleting itself back. The memories of false starts pile up, hidden from view but still scratching at him.
The ending was easy. He'd finished it years ago, before writing the first book. Not quite a happily ever after because he'd beaten and tortured and killed one of them along the way. The reader might not expect the torment on the horizon, might fault him for it, but always he knew their ever after would have its ups and downs and sideways. Together though, that they would be. He only had to get there.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
He'd read and reread his source material, looking for clues as if his own brain were hiding something from him. He'd even spoken passages aloud in hopes a different input would result in output. But nowhere in the drone of his voice or the repetition of lines born of his own mind did inspiration strike. Several times, a word, the same word, comes to him, but never reveals what's meant to come after. Typing it out never led to anything more. He is out of ink and out of pens.
Blink. Blink.
His agent will be calling soon. He stares at his phone as if it's already buzzing. He should have a rough draft completed right now, based on the speed of his previous books. His editor is going hungry for work, yet he doesn't even have a scrap of a page to feed him. One week, maybe two, he surmises. He wonders if they'll fly out here, arriving in quick succession at his door, greedily dipping their buckets into a well that has run dry, forcing him to explain why they've shattered against the rocky bottom.
Blink.
He closes the laptop lid in an admission of defeat. There is no story and there will be no story because there is no muse. Every ounce of inspiration has already wet the page and while his spark hasn't died, it struggles to breathe. Some mornings it feels like a gentle breeze could snuff it out. Now, just the thought of one could.
He looks around the house for inspiration but it is an act of delusion. There's nothing here that stirs his heart. Not the bland walls or the perfectly organized books. Not the record player that no longer spins, or the endless blue beyond the paneless windows. They, too, are wells that have run dry. It is a dark quiet when the only sounds are the sounds they've made themselves.
A motorcycle breaks the night silence, as if the evening either pities him or can suffer him no longer. It's harsh and grating and it grows louder and louder and louder and is it in his own front yard? It dies abruptly. He almost welcomes it, though he hates the sound, because it is something different. A shock to the system that might get his tired heart beating. And it sounds just like the one he used to hear, suspiciously so, but he knows better. This is just fate's cruel coincidence.
A few minutes later, a light turns on next door.
The house beside him has been holding its breath for more than a year. He'd expected someone to buy it, anticipated this day would come. Now it's here and he feels unprepared. There hadn't even been a showing, not that he'd seen. He stands at the window and watches, but the blinds are down. He just sees light after light turn on, and the shadow of someone moving around inside.
He turns away when the bedroom across from his illuminates.
Maybe he should have bought it himself, just so it could stay empty. Just so he could have a place to come back to. If he ever comes back, that is. It had seemed foolish and impulsive when he'd thought of it, but now he half regrets not following through.
There's a bike in the driveway, but nothing else. No other vehicle, no moving truck. It will probably come soon enough, and stomp out the last burning embers of a dying wish.
He came here to break routine, but routine found him anyway. Habit is his habit and habits are hard to change. He rises early to run the beach, chasing that feeling the sunrise used to give him. Some days it's a little prettier than others, but he's grown used to every shade of it. He'll slip into meditative thought, trying to imagine the next steps his characters will take. Lately, they just stare at each other, daring the other to move first.
This morning, there is too little sun and they fight over it. Hanguang Jun and the Yiling Laozu, shooting each other daggers with their scornful eyes. Somehow they've found swords they use to stab each other's most delicate parts, twirling and clashing on the beach beside him. They turn their anger and fury to the other's inaction. Neither will be the first to take that step ahead, and they'll surely kill each other here. Never do they realize their swords should be trained on him, the god that forces them to exist.
After his run, he showers and eats on the patio— a tofu omelette and cherry tomatoes. He picks at it, his appetite waning even after his exercise. One bite forced down leads to another bite forced down. He might as well be eating sand off the beach for all the flavor he tastes. A thought occurs to him, errant and unwelcome, that his mother ate like this, picking at her food, moving it around with her chopsticks like she could digest it with her eyes before eventually putting something in her mouth and crinkling her nose as she swallowed roughly.
It is a throwaway thought.
After he eats, he writes. Or he tries to write. There's no more water in the well than there was last night. So he stares at the blinking cursor, and whoever named it that must have been a writer because it has indeed cursed him. To be wordless. To be bloodless.
It's a story of sworn brothers and the evil that tries to separate them. So far they've journeyed worlds and fought devils and gods alike. One sent to hell and back while the other wedded hope for his return. Now they've reunited, but he cannot see their near future or the steps they will take to reach their end. Too much has happened between them. Resentment for dying and the shame of abandonment. He can't decide which apology will come first and neither will help him. They both stare at him stubbornly.
A sliding glass door opens and his routine splinters and cracks.
A man emerges from the neighboring house. Tall and lean, he stretches and Lan Zhan catches that strip of pale skin above his waistline that used to make his mouth water. He knows the long black hair that's been pulled up into a ponytail but the undercut is new. He knows the swagger of the man's hips, even though it's dulled. It is the boy next door.
And it is not.
Lan Zhan watches as he stares at the ocean straight ahead and something about it chills his blood. Not cold enough to freeze his heart though, which pounds wildly in his chest, but enough to freeze the words that swell in his throat and stick there. He should call out to him, but he can't find enough force to push the air out of his lungs. So his fingers tremble and his eyes water and he watches in fear for what must be coming.
Wei Ying walks towards the ocean. One step after the other. Not wavering. Not questioning. He walks as if it's his last destination. He stops where the water laps against the sand, and he stares. Only then does Lan Zhan breathe, a rush of salty air filling his lungs with relief. Strands of hair that have escaped Wei Ying's red rubber band get tossed in the wind, but he doesn't try to restrain them. Sand must be covering his toes but he doesn't try to free them.
Eventually, he takes a few steps back and sits down.
It's been a long time since Lan Zhan felt the cold tendrils of anger swirling in his belly, but he feels them now. They burn, allowing his body to move again. The sky is overcast. It will storm later, he's lived here long enough to know it without checking the report. Maybe an hour or two. The sun still shines though, even though he can't see it.
He grabs the spray bottle of sunscreen he keeps outside and charges forward. His steps are soundless, any noise he makes gets stolen by the wind. But Wei Ying isn't surprised when he steps into view. His cold, gray eyes stare straight ahead, unmoving. He's seen that stare before.
Lan Zhan raises the bottle, holding it only several inches away and sprays. He sprays the man's face, his exposed neckline, his bare arms, his feet, and the back of his neck. He covers him in SPF 50 from top to bottom. Almost the whole bottle because his hand doesn't leave the trigger, then he throws it down beside his feet with such force it leaves an indentation in the sand.
"What the FUCK, Lan Zhan?" The man finally talks. Yells actually, indignant and angry as if he's any right to be. As if he doesn't deserve to be assaulted with care. But Wei Ying remembers his name. At least there's that.
It gives him a small satisfaction to turn and walk away. He grabs his laptop on the way and heads inside, slamming the door behind him, feeling that gunmetal scowl every step of the way.
His brother is out of breath when he calls. He hears the sounds of the annoying Pilates woman in the background until it's paused.
"Everything okay, didi?" He always asks this of Lan Zhan when he calls. It's not unreasonable; Lan Zhan only calls when something's bothering him. When the words stop, or when they won't stop coming. When a storm swells in the distance or when it swells inside his brain. He calls him probably more than he should, and on several occasions Xichen will gently ask if he's tried to make new friends. Not that he doesn't love hearing from his baby brother, of course he does, but wouldn't it be nice if he had someone closer?
"Wei Ying is back." It's the wrong way for Xichen to get his wish.
"Already? I thought he wasn't out for another year or two?" He's shocked, Lan Zhan can tell.
"I saw him this morning."
He hears the sound of typing and clicking, and his brother is silent for a moment. "Oh, yeah, here it is. Looks like Jin Zixuan was able to get him released early."
"I see." He hadn't heard that name in years, and now regrets calling his brother. Because any moment he will ask—
"Wangji, does that upset you? I know things between you ended poorly."
"It was my decision, ge. Not upset. Surprised." The two names were never supposed to be in the same sentence. Does he even want to know how Zixuan was involved in Wei Ying's case? It's been years. It's none of his business, and yet he still wants to know.
"Wei Wuxian's sister married him. That's probably how he got involved."
"That makes sense." Carefully crafted sentences that give nothing away, because Zixuan didn't get involved for Yanli but it made sense he would have. She might have wanted it, as well. Probably did want it. Wei Ying always bragged about his older sister and how she doted on him. She might have even thought Zixuan did it for her. He hopes they can live that lie together.
"I'm not sure you knew they married. We received the invitation when you were at school. I didn't think to bring it up. Should I have?" His brother sounds contrite. Everyone assumed he'd been more invested in the relationship than he actually had been. Zixuan included.
"No. It wouldn't have mattered."
There's an awkward silence before Xichen speaks again. "How did Wei Ying look?"
Like Wei Ying and not Wei Ying. Someone wearing his body like a coat, not knowing how his smile was supposed to look, or his laugh was supposed to sound. Broken and glued back together with the cracks still showing.
"Different."
"He's been through a lot, Wangji. Just be polite. Like the first time you met. Remember?"
"I wasn't polite, then. I made him cry."
"No, right. I'm sorry. Like I asked you to be the first time you met. Be gentle. Maybe bring him some food?"
"Good idea. Are you and Mingue coming to visit?"
It's an odd question. They haven't visited in years. Once when Lan Zhan had moved back here after college, but it had been hard for his brother to stay in the house their mother haunts. So much so, he'd worried something was wrong with him for choosing to live here. Somehow, Xichen understood. We're different, didi.
"Would you like us to come visit?"
His brother's tone is hesitant. He'd come if Lan Zhan pressed. He could be a buffer between him and the boy next door. Xichen always knew what to say during hard times. But he also withered here.
"No need. Goodbye, ge."
The call hadn't been extremely helpful to soothe his nerves, but his brother had given him something to work with. Food, he could do. He spent the afternoon in the town's grocery store, filling his cart with old memories. Wei Ying loved salty snacks and dried meats. Their last summer together, he'd keep the pantry stocked and those would dwindle the fastest. His mother never said anything, even knowing Lan Zhan was a vegetarian. She just quietly restocked them as the disappeared with a knowing smile.
He spent the equivalent of a month's worth of groceries in one trip, but it was because feeding Wei Ying was the one thing he knew how to do. When he couldn't talk or explain or communicate how he felt inside, he could shove something in the boys mouth and watch his eyes crinkle as he chewed.
Not that things were like that anymore.
He sighed as he put the groceries away. He couldn't give him all of it. It wouldn't make sense, and Wei Ying would probably refuse it. He'd refuse anything Lan Zhan gave him. Return to sender. Just like every unopened letter he found in his mailbox.
The first year Wei Ying was locked away, he wrote him weekly. Even after the letters were returned, he still wrote. If Wei Ying refused to read them, at least he'd know Lan Zhan still thought of him. Maybe he'd feel less alone. The letters dwindled down as he ran out of things to say. He could have just sent empty pages, since they'd be returned anyway, but he figured a year was enough. 52 letters returned. That was enough.
He arranges a small basket, and because he's petty he finds the 52 letters and places them on bottom, cradling the offerings in numerical order, knowing full well he might find them shredded on his front lawn tomorrow.
He knocks on the door, but Wei Ying doesn't answer. The bike is still parked out front, though his moving van hasn't shown up. Maybe one isn't coming? If Wei Ying just got out, he won't have any possessions. The thought saddens Lan Zhan. All that's in the house is what his grandmother had left behind after she died. Family members had come, things had been hauled away. Does he even have a mattress?
He shouldn't worry. It's not his place to worry. Wei Ying has made that clear over the years through his continued silence. And not just when he'd been locked away. He'd been silent before, one that echoed through every unreturned text. So Lan Zhan tries to turn the spigot closed, even though it won't shut completely. Worry will still trickle out and he'll rub it into the ground with the heel of his foot.
He places the gift basket of passive aggression at Wei Ying's stoop and presses the doorbell one last time. Then he walks across both lawns and back into his own house, where another sleepless night surely awaits him.
* * *