#sometimes blood still matters yknow?? et cetera et cetera

[presumenothing]

(thought too much about this. accidentally wrote fic. you know how it is)

“I’ve been thinking, Uncle Ning,” Sizhui begins.

Wei Wuxian would’ve pulled a face: oh, you don’t want to do that! – like he hadn’t singlehandedly invented multiple things that had made Sizhui’s jaw actually drop a little even before he understood anything about the desperately rushed circumstances most of them had been created under.

Wen Ning just turns to glance at him, quiet and attentive. It reminds him more than a little of Hanguang-jun, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping my boundaries,” Sizhui continues, which is not actually stalling because he really is being presumptuous here, but still. Get on with it, he tells himself sternly. “Would it be at all permissible for me to teach some of the Wen sword style to my friends? Jingyi, and the others.”

There’s the barely-visible flicker of fondness (also familiar, though the reasons here are physical instead) that his uncle can’t seem to help showing whenever Jingyi is mentioned; as far as Sizhui has been able to decipher, it’s partly because Jingyi is not entirely unlike how Senior Wei was in his younger days.

Sizhui can’t even disagree with that assessment.

But then Wen Ning’s expression settles back into something heavier. “And- um. Sect Leader Jin?”

Sizhui gives in to the wince that Wen Ning would probably be making if he were capable of it.

What about Jin Ling, indeed. Jingyi’s already pouted enough about Wen Ning only teaching him that his answer would be obvious, and Zizhen will probably be open to the idea as long as they swear up and down not to breathe a word to his father, but – that still leaves the biggest question of all.

His imagination of Senior Wei is correct. Thinking is a frustrating exercise. “I don’t know. Only if he actually wants to learn, and then only if it’s appropriate.”

Which sounds absurd, even to himself. Is there anything appropriate about this? Even the thousands of Lan sect precepts and likely the entire contents of their library (and then some) has little in the way of helpful advice in navigating relations where this many complications are involved.

It’s times like this that he wishes Zewu-jun wasn’t still in seclusion, though possibly Sect Leader Jiang might have the more brutal insight to a topic like this.

Sizhui would rather throw himself into the murkiest lakes of Yunmeng a hundred times over than ask for any of it.

Maybe this is a bad idea after all. Especially when he doesn’t necessarily have a good reason for it, not really, beyond that the Wen, for everything else that they’d been, were family.

A different kind of family than he has been so generously bestowed with at the Cloud Recesses, certainly, and maybe all that ties him back to the Wen now is just the blood still running through his veins. A trifling matter, in contrast to all the greater injustices that may never be fixed, even decades from now.

And yet –

And yet this much is within his meagre power, to make it so that perhaps their legacy will not solely be one Lan disciple, one fierce corpse (who is nevertheless a very good uncle, Sizhui adds loyally), and a name that is still spat with burning vitriol more often than not.

That is, if Wen Ning doesn’t refuse. Which he is well within his rights to, though from the slight knit of his eyebrows his thoughts don’t seem to be running in that direction.

That’s confirmed a moment later when he speaks, words slow and careful. “I don’t want you to get into trouble. You- you are already enough. More than enough.”

Sizhui has a lot of practice in not letting things show on his face, even heartbreak at what sounds a lot like more family than I’d ever expected to have again in this life. It’s a feeling he knows from the inside. “Don’t worry. I’ve learned a lot about getting out of trouble, too.”

The corner of Wen Ning’s eyes crinkle in the way that means his uncle is smiling back at him. “Then, A-Yuan – Lan Sizhui,” he corrects, each syllable of his name its own weight, and Sizhui’s breath catches a little as Wen Ning draws himself up to the height that everyone always forgets he has unless they’ve run screaming from the Ghost General. “On behalf of the sect, I, Wen Qionglin, do hereby permit you to teach the style of the Qishan Wen to whoever you see fit, so long as it is in the service of good.”

They are both still kneeling. It would be very inappropriate to follow up his bow with a hug, but Sizhui very much wants to do it anyway. “This nephew will do everything possible to honour that trust,” he replies, because thank you seems too little.

“You already honour us. More than- than you could ever know,” Wen Ning says, halting stutter creeping back in place of the earlier measured weight, and Sizhui ducks his head at a tentative pat to hide the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

(It will be worth trying, even if Jin Ling decides not to speak to him for a year or more. This is something worth trying for.)

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(AO3)