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we always talk about lwj yearning but. wwx did his fair share of pining too
the way in which he realized he was so close to having everything he ever wanted, but it was a twisted and messed up version of it, stained with the blood of everyone he ever loved. either way, someone would get hurt. and as always, the hero thinks: it might as well be me.
for a second, maybe two, wei wuxian allows himself to dream. of lan wangji watering a-yuan when he plants him on the ground. of lan wangji, staining his white clothes with the soil, helping out the wens, carrying the weight that is way too heavy for him to lift all on his own.
wei wuxian wonders if lan wangji regrets things too. if he lays down at night and thinks about the maybes. he wonders if he's angry, if he considers what would have happened, had he gone back to the cloud recesses with him. had he never left him alone. wei wuxian sure does.
there was no other way. what happened was the only thing that could possibly have happened. they know this. he knows this. and still. deep in his heart, he wishes for a second chance. another life, in which he gets to save everyone and be happy as well.
in that moment, the mighty and scary and awful yiling laozu felt utterly alone. he wanted to grab him by the sleeve and pull him back. he wanted to say, stay. for me. just one night. or forever. whatever suits you. but how could he ever ask so much of lan wangji?
that night, when liquor is mixed in with his blood and his cheeks are heated, he thinks about lan wangji. he dreams about a world that's fair and just. he tells himself, if the circumstances had been different, perhaps we would have had a chance.
wei wuxian laughs. maybe, in some other reality, a man much like him but not quite sits across from the respected hanguang-jun, and shares a cup of wine with him, and there is not an obligation, or a moral code, or a rule, keeping them apart.
but in this lifetime, wei wuxian is the villain, trying to bloom life from dead soil, living among resent and dirt. and lan wangji is alone, playing the guqin for no one, stoic and stone-faced, in a tall far away mountain made out of cold.
