Spring fully bloomed in the days following the festival. The Cloud Recesses, still shimmering with remnants of celebration, seemed softer now—less like a sacred monument and more like a place where life could breathe. The last of the lanterns had been packed away, scrolls returned to the library, and the juniors now walked with a bounce in their step, whispering about songs, petals, and the ever-mysterious sixth smile of Hanguang-jun.

Wei Wuxian had never felt more at peace.

He leaned back on the stone bench beneath the plum tree where he and Lan Wangji had kissed. A bamboo flute rested across his lap, its reeds polished to a soft sheen. His robe was slightly rumpled, his hair coming loose, and there was a smudge of ink on his cheek from something he’d tried—and failed—to fix earlier in the talisman workshop.

But his grin was lazy and warm, his eyes watching the horizon like he expected it to surprise him with a poem.

“Lan Zhan,” he called, “do you know what day it is?”

Lan Wangji, seated at the guqin nearby, responded without looking up. “The day after the day after the Spring Festival.”

“Exactly!” Wei Wuxian said, pointing. “Which makes it a holiday. An after-after celebration day. You know what that means?”

Lan Wangji plucked a single string. “No rules?”

“No rules.”

“Except Sect rules.”

Wei Wuxian waved a hand. “Except those.”

He leaned further back, stretching. “I think we should commemorate it. With a new tradition. Post-Festival Picnic Day. We’ll bring leftovers from the kitchen, play music badly, and nap in the courtyard.”

“You already nap in the courtyard.”

“Now it’ll be official.”

Lan Wangji looked over, one brow lifted in mock sternness. “You want to make a formal holiday… for napping?”

“With snacks.”

Lan Wangji didn’t say anything, but the corners of his lips twitched.

Wei Wuxian narrowed his eyes. “Was that… was that a smile?”

Lan Wangji returned to tuning the guqin. “No witnesses.”

“Oh no, no, no.” Wei Wuxian leapt to his feet, flute in hand. “That makes seven! Seven smiles! You’re breaking your own record!”

He darted toward the Jingshi, shouting, “Sizhui! Jingyi! Alert the disciples! The number has increased!”

Before he could get too far, a hand caught his sleeve and pulled him gently but firmly back.

“Lan Zhan!”

“Stay.”

Wei Wuxian turned, smiling. “You can’t just say ‘stay’ like that. It makes my knees weak.”

Lan Wangji didn’t let go. Instead, he stepped closer. “I meant it.”

Wei Wuxian looked up at him, the teasing fading into something more vulnerable. “I know.”

They stood there for a while, silence stretching between them like golden thread. The late-morning sun filtered through plum blossoms above them, speckling their robes with light.

“I was thinking,” Wei Wuxian said softly, “about writing it all down. The festival. Everything we did. The food, the music, your—” he grinned “—legendary smiles.”

“A record?”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “Not for history. Just for us.”

Lan Wangji looked thoughtful. “A journal?”

“A love letter.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then I will write it with you.”

That surprised Wei Wuxian more than anything else could have. “Really?”

“You remember the details I forget,” Lan Wangji said. “And I remember what you overlook.”

Wei Wuxian stepped forward, touched by the quiet certainty in his voice. “It’ll be full of ridiculous things. Like dumpling poetry. And... uh, a list of all the times I broke Sect rules in one day.”

Lan Wangji gently rested a hand on his shoulder. “Then it will be complete.”

They returned to the Jingshi together, hands occasionally brushing, sharing silent smiles that didn’t need counting anymore.

Inside, Wei Wuxian pulled out a blank scroll and set it flat on the low table. He reached for an ink brush, dipped it slowly, and hesitated.

“What should we call it?” he asked.

Lan Wangji considered. “Spring Begins in Chaos.”

Wei Wuxian cackled. “Perfect.”

He started writing.

The Spring Festival at the Cloud Recesses began with one man’s determination to set the world’s most reserved sect on fire—with spice, sparkles, and sentimentality.

As he scribbled the next lines, he looked up at Lan Wangji, who had sat beside him and was patiently adjusting the alignment of the inkstone and water dish.

“Do you really want to write the whole thing with me?”

“I want to remember it. As it was. With you.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t answer right away. His heart was full—of light, of laughter, of lanterns, of love. Of home.

They spent the afternoon writing. Sometimes Wei Wuxian would pause mid-sentence and grab his flute, playing a few notes of a new tune he claimed was inspired by the “essence of spring dumplings.” Lan Wangji would occasionally suggest a phrase or quote a poem that paired surprisingly well with a line Wei Wuxian had just invented.

At some point, Sizhui came by with tea and a puzzled expression. “Are you… writing lyrics again?”

Wei Wuxian looked up. “Nope. A chronicle.”

Sizhui blinked. “Of what?”

“Of everything,” Wei Wuxian said. “Of us.”

Sizhui smiled and quietly left them to it.

As twilight approached, Lan Wangji rose and lit a single lantern, placing it at the edge of the windowsill.

“For next year,” he said.

Wei Wuxian added a line to the bottom of the scroll: Let this be the first page of every spring to come.

Later that night, they sat beneath the stars again. The same plum tree, the same stone bench. The courtyard was quiet, peaceful. The air still smelled faintly of ink and sweet rice.

Lan Wangji reached over and took Wei Wuxian’s hand.

“Next year,” he said, “will you write another song?”

Wei Wuxian laughed softly. “Of course. About how you secretly hoard my hair ties. And how you blush when I steal your tea.”

Lan Wangji paused. “I do not blush.”

“You absolutely do.”

Lan Wangji turned to him fully. “Then I will write one about you. How you steal my robes and leave talismans in the soup.”

Wei Wuxian grinned. “You’ve been holding back!”

They laughed, warm and easy, wrapped in moonlight and memory.

As the breeze passed through the trees, it carried not only petals, but something more subtle—something like a promise.

Not a grand oath. Not a dramatic vow.

Just this: we will stay. We will return. We will remember.

The Spring Festival had ended.

But the warmth it brought stayed behind, nestled in every corner of the Cloud Recesses, carried in every flute note, every brushstroke, every stolen glance.

And in the Jingshi, on a scroll now half-filled with verses and chaos, two names sat side by side.

Wei Ying.
Lan Zhan.

Together.

💖 Thank you for reading! 💖
Your support lit up this story brighter than a lantern ✨🎐
Lan Zhan smiled 7 times — but you made me smile even more! 😄🌸
See you next time! 🐰💕

With Love,

Cloud Recesses Dropout