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Lan Xichen doesn’t manage to do more than dress. He secures his guan and ties his ribbon, but it feels like a lie. And it does nothing to stop him from falling apart.
He sits on the edge of the bed and struggles to wrench his mind back from the sick, serrated revulsion eating away at him. The thought of food is unbearable, so when the servants knock, he ignores them. They are accustomed to this and will not send for his brother for several more days.
He feels untethered, like he might never be free of the crushing emptiness in his chest, like he will drift eternally.
Objectively, he knows it will pass, that tomorrow will be easier and he won’t feel like the scorched remains of a ransacked house. But today he’s hunched over the caldera of his heart.
It isn’t until icy fingertips brush against his temple that he can drag himself away from the memories. He doesn’t open his eyes, just turns his face into the touch, too weak to pretend he doesn’t want it.
The fingers don’t retreat like he fears they will, as they do in every dream that leaves him hollow and gasping. Instead, they press against his cheek, and a thumb skims through the tear tracks under his eye. Lan Xichen lets out a shaky breath.
Song Lan hums, quiet and steady as he so often is.
It’s easier, already, to breathe, and Lan Xichen loses himself in the current of Song Lan’s humming, lets it wash through him and dislodge something that was stuck.
The tune is not familiar; it’s barely even a melody. And a distant but lucid part of Lan Xichen is grateful; he has had his fill of music laced with purpose. That same part of him is grateful too that Song Lan knows this. He knows without Lan Xichen ever having said it out loud.
He catches the hand still resting against the side of his face and brings it to his mouth, kissing the palm reverently. He wants to press his gratitude into Song Lan’s skin. He wants to sink deep enough that he can find his way back later.
He wants—
Oh, he wants this.
Song Lan gasps from somewhere far away and the moment shrinks back into a mounting sense of horror as Lan Xichen abruptly realises what he’s done. When he opens his eyes, Song Lan is staring at him, lips parted, entirely still.
Lan Xichen tries to breathe through the strangling clutch of panic and will his fingers to unclench.
Song Lan blinks and shakes his head, catching Lan Xichen’s hand before he can let go completely. He brushes a thumb over Lan Xichen’s knuckles and takes a small, unconscious breath. Slowly, deliberately, watching Lan Xichen’s face, Song Lan lifts their joined hands to his mouth. It’s brief and chaste and tender, and Song Lan’s eyes never waver.
He waits for one beat—two. Then he places Lan Xichen’s hand in his lap, squeezing gently before standing to retrieve the washbasin.
As he carries it back, water sloshes against the edges of the porcelain, loud in the silence of the Hanshi.
Kneeling in front of Lan Xichen again, Song Lan takes the folded cloth from the side of the bowl, wets it and wrings it thoroughly. Then, just as carefully as he had before, he reaches towards Lan Xichen’s jaw, holding his face steady with one hand. With the other, he runs the cold, damp cloth over Lan Xichen’s tear-swollen cheeks and across his forehead, careful not to touch the ribbon fastened there.
Lan Xichen exhales as evenly as he can, tangling his fingers in the spill of his robes, so he doesn’t reach out. The moment aches with something both bright and heavy.
When he sets the cloth aside, Song Lan sits back on his heels and lifts his eyes. He smiles, a gentle, ruinous thing, and Lan Xichen reaches for him at the same time Song Lan reaches back.
Forfeiting the last of his restraint, Lan Xichen tucks his face into Song Lan’s shoulder and breathes the pine scent of him. He smells like the mountains, like a river: clear and swift with its own power, its own history, but bending to meet him.
It’s an embrace made up of sharp edges and strength and a choked off sob. A relief and a precipitous swoop of nerves. But Song Lan’s arms wrap tightly around Lan Xichen shoulders like it means just as much to him as it does to Lan Xichen.
The thought makes Lan Xichen’s heart pick up again. It’s heady and exhilarating to think that this silent man with his towering grief might find solace here, within these walls that can’t quite contain their ghosts.
It’s too bright to look at directly. Lan Xichen wants so much to be understood, to be seen and held by someone who doesn’t pity him. To seek comfort in a touch that isn’t wind or rain, to reach out and have his fingers meet something that isn’t a shadow, a memory. He wants this solid knowledge beneath his hands, under his skin. He wants certainty to borrow unto his chest and settle securely enough he can build something on top of it.
When Lan Xichen pulls back, Song Lan watches him. Waiting. And Lan Xichen realises he’s been waiting for some time. The expression isn’t new, but he is not waiting for Lan Xichen to explain himself or get better or be better.
He’s waiting for something far more precious.
Lan Xichen’s eyes slip closed as one cool hand tails up his neck to rest at the corner of his jaw. Lan Xichen’s own hand tightens in the sleeve of Song Lan’s robes; the delicate texture beneath his fingers helps him focus, keeps him from fracturing.
He doesn’t open his eyes, even as he presses forward, blindly searching out Song Lan’s mouth by the almost silent inhale.
With permission given, Song Lan kisses him like a dam breaking, like the rush of snowmelt, like he can’t help but fill the emptiness in Lan Xichen.
When they surface, Lan Xichen sucks in air and blinks until he can see again. Song Lan’s face is softly astonished, and his eyes flit down to Lan Xichen’s mouth. He presses a darting kiss to the corner, and it’s only then that Lan Xichen notices the smile on his own mouth.
Not the polite, diplomatic smile he has armed himself with these last few years. But a surprising, honest smile. Something breathless and cherished and fragile.
Song Lan sees it for what it is, and that is just one more thing to be grateful for.
