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Winter has always been a time of mourning for Lan Xichen. His mother had passed away just before the snow had started to fall in Gusu, so the first blizzard of the season was always a mournful one for the Lan man. After Jin Guangyao’s death, summer became a period of mourning, too. He finds himself hating the harsh heat and mugginess of the season, the warmth as suffocating as it was the day his lover died. He spent the first winter after Yao’s death tucked away in his Hanshi; Most of the first few months were spent crying and sleeping, his soul crushed by the death of his lover.
The first summer after his death is spent attending meetings, mind foggy and words too far away to reach. He stumbles over his sentences and forgets key points of important lectures, but Lan Wangji was always there to correct him or fill in what he missed. He feels terrible when he inevitably has to step down, he just couldn’t handle leading anymore, but Wangji volunteers and steps up to the podium with a confidence he’d rarely seen his brother with in his youth.
He supposes it has something to do with Wei Wuxian standing by his side, now, and Lan Xichen ignores the bitter jealousy that thought brings. He was happy for them, he was, but a resentful part of him would always be jealous that things worked out for Wangji, that the fates had given his brother his true love back, but had taken away Meng Yao in the process.
He had always known something was.. Different with Meng Yao, had always known he harbored a deep seated hatred and loathing for the life he was given, but he had never thought the younger man would go so far as to betray everyone close to him. /Kill/ everyone close to him.
When Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian brought up their concerns, he was quick to remind them he /knew/ Yao, knew he was a good man, that he’d never do something so horrible as to kill his sworn brother in cold blood.
The signs were always there, he realizes as the pieces start to fall together and the evidence piles up. He should have known, should have /seen/ but it takes a confession for everything to truly sink in.
In a way, he’d always known. He’d always known that something had gone horribly wrong, but he never wanted to believe Yao was capable of something like that. Sweet, loving, honest Meng Yao, the one who harbored him in the war, who nourished him back to health, who kept him safe despite the world being on a hunt for him.
When Yao confesses, he feels his world shatter apart. He could no longer deny the warning signs, the red flags that were blaringly obvious, as Yao had knelt in front of him, gripping his robes with a pleading expression.
In the time it would take an incense stick to burn, he has Meng Yao pierced on his blade. Tears welled in his eyes as the man he’d come to love told him how he’d never hurt him, how he’d betrayed and killed everyone else but he’d never once thought of hurting Lan Xichen.
Lan Xichen still remembers his face when he asks him to stay and die with him. Still remembers the shock and pain on Yao’s face when Lan Xichen lowered his hand, accepting the fate Meng Yao had offered him. He’d rather die there with him then live on without him, and the thought pained Yao, even with the things he’d done.
He remembered deciding to give everything up in that moment, to die with his beloved just as he’d asked. He remembered the flash of longing and regret that crossed Yao’s face when he used what was likely the last of his spiritual power to push him away to safety, tears dripping down his cheeks as blood stained his robes.
Lan Xichen doesn’t carry his sword with him anymore. It had been retrieved shortly after their clans had swept the area; They’d found it just next to the coffin, still covered in Meng Yao’s blood, and had cleaned it and brought it back to him dutifully. He’d refused to take it at first, so Wangji brought it back to Gusu for him.
Lan Xichen keeps it in a large trunk in his closet now, buried deep in the back with all of the gifts and letters and trinkets Meng Yao had gifted him over the years of their relationship. He hasn’t looked inside since he’d originally filled it, though sometimes the longing calls to him. The siren song of his own sword luring him in.
He finds himself standing in front of it sometimes, staring down at the dark stained wood of the chest in contemplation, heart numb and mind foggy. Sometimes his fingers trace the edge of the lid, but he never opens it. Opening it would make the suffering real, would mean Yao was truly dead, that he was all alone.
It’s the fifth anniversary of Meng Yao’s death that Lan Xichen caves and opens the chest. Strong liquor burns through his body and clouds his mind as he pulls the chest from the back of his closet, cracking it open with shaking hands. Empty and broken bottles are strewn about his room, along with a few pieces of upturned furniture, an indicator of the anger and frustration that were coursing through his body minutes prior.
His shaking hands undo the seal on the chest, then the lock, and finally they lift the lid, slow and hesitant.
Everything was still inside, as it should be, and he can’t help but feel a little silly having hoped the items were gone. He pulls out the stacks of letters first, reads over each one multiple times, reads them until the sky is dark and the moon hangs heavy and bright in the coal colored sky.
He searches for answers to questions he’s too drunk to ask, too tired to even think about formulating the words into sentences. He searches for the point where everything went wrong, where he could have done more, where he could have saved Yao if he’d tried hard enough. If he’d have paid a little closer attention.
He pulls out the gifts next, anxiety and pain causing full body shakes as he looks over each one with muffled sobs. Tears spill down his cheeks as his fingers brush over something smooth and cold. The jade token sits at the top and Lan Xichen’s heart wrenches in his chest, the cool jade feeling mocking as he stares down at it. Past it there were robes he’d never gotten to wear, a variety of hair pieces he’d never pin to his dark locks, even a tea set that he’d never even drank from, but none of them hurt as much as seeing that jade token.
“Now that it’s lost its efficacy, it’s time to return it to the owner.” It had been the first time Lan Xichen had shown any signs of distrust and Yao had looked at him with something like resignation and regret. Lan Xichen grips it tight to his chest as sobs force their way up his throat, the man slumping down as he recalls the regret he’d felt when Yao had said that. He had listened to Yao’s warnings and plans about the burial mounds afterwards, but only barely. It hurt him to doubt the man he loved, the man that he thought loved him, but he had no choice.
He had no choice.
He told himself the lie over and over the first year Yao had been dead; He’d heard it countless times from various people, but it never felt true. He could have waited, could have turned around and looked instead of drawing his sword. He could have believed in Jin Guangyao, but instead he had run him through on Shuoyue thanks to the warning from Nie Huaisang.
His sword lays in the bottom of the trunk, blade dull and flat looking from years of collecting dust, and he debates turning it on himself for a moment. He picks up the weapon and looks it over, a quiet whimper leaving his lips as his gaze trails down the blade. Fresh tears fall as he traces two fingers over the middle, mind swirling as he stares down at his own hazy reflection in it.
He could make it quick and painless, could give himself an easy death, a quick out from the emotions he was dealing with. Or he could make it hurt, atone for his sins against Yao with his blood and pain and suffering, just like Yao paid for Xichen’s distrust.
“Er-ge?” He hears called from the other side of the door and he freezes, sword still in hand as he looks to the closed entrance to the room. He stands immediately, stumbling his way to the door, sword dropped to the floor as he rushes to the entrance. His heart is pounding in his chest when he swings them open to find there’s no one on the other side, no one out on the verandas at all. He could have sworn he’d heard him call out, heard his voice one last time..
Xichen sighs, shoulders slumping as he closes his eyes, grief washing over him in waves. The mind played funny tricks when you were grieving, he remembered telling Wangji that same thing when he was mourning the death of Wei Wuxian. He glances to his sword as he closes the doors, body heavy and slow as he sinks to the ground in front of the blade and chest. He’s tired, has been for years, but he knew this wasn’t the way to do things, wasn’t the right thing to do, even if it felt like it right now.
Yao had wanted him to live. He’d pushed him out of the way, sent him flying out of the room with what was no doubt some of his last lingering energy. He hadn’t said it out loud, but he’d wanted Xichen to live, even if it meant he died alone.
Lan Xichen lets out an unsteady breath as he slowly tucks everything back into the box with care. His head was pounding, his body sore from hours of kneeling, and he felt a little sick, but he was alive, just like Yao wanted.
He stares down at the chest, expression blank and heart numbed, and for a moment he debates getting rid of it all. He thinks about setting all of it aflame in one of the burning pits down by the training grounds, debates throwing the jade passage token in the nearest river, but he can’t bring himself to follow through. Instead he tucks the trunk back into his closet, drapes it in the white cloth he kept it covered in, and closes the doors.
He’s exhausted as he cleans up the broken clay pots, hiding away the empty but unbroken jars of emperors smile and climbs into bed. He has a hard time keeping his eyes open so he doesn’t bother, lets them drift shut as the moon starts to lower itself to make way for dawn. He’d have to be awake in a few hours, but he lets himself rest for now, lets his mind be consumed by the darkness as he holds his blankets tight to his chest.
Yao was gone, nothing would ever change that. He was dead, but Lan Xichen wasn’t, and while the pain would never fully leave, he’d keep himself alive, if even just for another day. He longed for the day he would see Meng Yao again, but he knew today wasn’t that day. Instead, Lan Xichen sleeps; His slumber is deep and motionless, but he’s still breathing come dawn. He dreams of golden robes and gentle hands, dreams of dark, smiling eyes and dimpled cheeks, but dreams were all they were. Meng Yao was dead, but Lan Xichen would never forget him, and some day, maybe, they would see each other again.