Chapter Text
Lan Xichen is 12 years old
Lan Huan places his finished essay on his father’s desk and waits for his acknowledgement, his hands neatly folded in his lap.
“You’re done?” His father mutters without looking up. “You can go now.”
Lan Huan remains on his knees. It takes a while for his father to notice he hasn’t left. “What is it? I will look at it tomorrow, it’s late.”
“A-Die, I have a request.”
The brush in his father’s hand stills. “Mn. Speak.”
Lan Huan gathers all his courage, ignoring the pounding of his heart. “Please let A-Zhan grow up with the other disciples.”
His father places the brush to the side and looks at him thoughtfully. “Lan Zhan is the heir to the sect, just like you are. It’s my duty to prepare him for his responsibilities. You two are not like the others; you know this, Lan Huan.”
He has played this conversation out in his mind a thousand times, thinking through all the arguments he can make. “Shufu says A-Zhan is talented at playing the qin. He understands the music like few do and can read the intention of the tones quicker than anyone he has ever taught. Shufu says if A-Zhan continues to play, he might become the most skilled musical cultivator in the history of our sect.”
His father huffs. “Your shufu likes to exaggerate.”
Lan Huan has heard him play. Shufu wasn’t exaggerating when he said that Lan Zhan is talented. But if Lan Zhan has to follow in his footsteps, there would be no time for him to play the way he loves to. Since his father has taken over his education two years ago, Lan Huan barely has time to breathe. He insists he study philosophical texts, write essays about the meaning of humanity, learn about the art of diplomacy, and accompany him to conferences; all on top of his regular cultivation lessons.
It doesn’t leave room for passion, or existing, or… anything.
“A-Die, you have taught me that there is more than one way to serve our sect. Lan An was a master of the qin and we play and interpret his songs to this day. A-Zhan’s nature is quiet and elegant like the qin. He is born for this. Please let him focus on musical cultivation.”
The silence between them stretches into discomfort. Lan Huan wants to fidget with the tails of his ribbon, but he knows that his father hates it when he does that and now is not the time to make him angry.
“If I say yes to this, then you will have to study harder. You can never slip up. The entire responsibility of leading the sect will fall onto you.”
Lan Huan clasps his trembling hands together. Lan Zhan has been so sad ever since their mother died. He doesn’t cry often, but Lan Huan can see it in his eyes and dejected posture. His didi has already suffered so much at his young age and Lan Huan would do anything—anything—to make him happy. When he plays the qin, he looks genuinely happy, and he can’t bear seeing someone take this lifeline away from him.
“I understand,” he whispers.
It is fine. As long as one of them can follow their heart, Lan Huan will be content.