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A-Yao’s body is very small.That is the first thought Xichen has when he – gently, very gently – lifts him up, out of the grave he shared with Nie Mingjue’s corpse. His head sagging forward limply, and Xichen’s hand shakes as he supports his broken neck. Bracing him against his shoulder and he could be sleeping, like this. Any moment and he would open his eyes and smile at Xichen with that gentle smile and the warmth in his eyes that Lan Xichen had long known was for him alone.He’s not smiling now. The last expression Xichen had seen on his living face had been defiant terror, poisonous fury. Betrayal. Now his features are blank. His eyes are empty. Xichen’s fingers do not shake as he closes them. They do not tremble as he folds A-Yao to him, mindless of the dried blood smearing rusty stains on his white robes.The limpid sound of his brother’s guqin holds Nie Mingjue at bay. Wangji glances at him. So does Nie Mingjue’s corpse. Lips pulled back into a snarl, reaching forwards, like he’s determined to hold fast to his venegeance even beyond death. Xichen’s grip on A-Yao tightens as the shrill notes of Wei Wuxian’s dizi freeze Nie Mingjue in place. Guqin and dizi weaving together into a melody that has his sworn brother’s fierce corpse shuffling forwards like a quietly obedient dog, back to the grave he had escaped.Xichen holds A-Yao close. He does not watch his sworn brother’s eyes close, or Wangji lower the Guanyin statue back onto him. A-Yao’s face is still. His eyes are shut. The scar Nie Mingjue had left on his forehead the only livid thing on him. Xichen wipes at his temple, at the blood crusted on his lips with his sleeve. The blood crumbles away in flecks, and Xichen takes care not to leave a stain. A-Yao always prized neatness and dressing well, he had so hated appearing slovenly because that, like everything else, could be used against him -“Ge,” Wangji’s soft voice stirs him back into himself. He falls still. A-Yao does not open his eyes. His skin is so cool.His brother is watching him. Wei Wuxian is busy painting sigils on the Guanyin statue, doing his best not to intrude. Xichen holds A-Yao. His hair ribbon brushes against A-Yao’s cold cheek as he shifts him in his grip.Had it happened when A-Yao was alive, would he have pulled away? Xichen wonders. Would he have apologized and never spoken of it again? Or would he have held fast?Xichen will never know.“I.” Xichen stops, starts again. His throat hurts. “I’m sorry.” He lets out a breath. A-Yao’s maimed arm dangles to his side, and Xichen adjusts it, folding it to A-Yao’s body. Holding A-Yao tighter to him. Like he can still save him. Like it isn’t beyond too late.“Let’s go.” Xichen says. Wangji doesn’t say anything. Xichen understands what he means, anyway.--They bury A-Yao at Gusu. Xichen doesn’t bother asking the Lanlingjin sect if they wanted to claim his body, although to his surprise Jin Ling shows up, a scowling Sect Leader Jiang in tow. Wei Wuxian must have sent a message to Lotus Pier. Though struggling with the fallout of everything that had happened, along with the sudden weight of his new responsibilities, Jin Ling had stepped forward to fulfil his duty to the man who had raised him. Xichen had asked him quietly if he could be the one entrusted with guarding Jin Guang Yao’s grave. Jin Ling had looked more grateful and relieved than anything else as he agreed. If Uncle Lan Qiren thinks to say something at the sight of Xichen holding A-Yao’s body, he keeps it to himself. Xichen, for once, is too exhausted to care.Wei Wuxian keeps an arm around Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng standing beside them as Xichen places A-Yao’s corpse in a simple wooden coffin. He’s in the same robes he had died in, and Xichen has to suppress the bile rising in his throat at the sight of the stained white peony.I never thought to harm you! A-Yao’s voice, full of hurt. His eyes, full of heartbroken, furious betrayal. His hand pushing Lan Xichen away with all his remaining strength –He feels warmth, beside him. Wangji. He doesn’t peel Xichen’s hands away from A-Yao. He just stands close by, as silent as ever. After a while, Jin Ling takes a deep breath, pulls away from Wei Wuxian’s grip with a half-hearted scowl and walks over to Xichen’s side. His cheeks are wet.Xichen and Jin Ling lower the coffin lid. Xichen watches A-Yao’s still face – clean now, Xichen had washed the blood off with a cloth and tidied his hair, had wrapped the livid scar on his forehead with a bandage because he couldn’t find his gauze hat, no matter how hard he looked – disappear behind the polished wood. Wei Wuxian reaches forward to paint sigils on the coffin lid, only to be stopped by Wangji’s hand on his wrist. Xichen gives his brother a look of quiet gratitude as Wei Wuxian hands him a small knife. He barely feels the pain as he cuts open his palm.The blood that wells up is red, red as A-Yao’s, staining his yellow silk. Red as the flames of the Wen clan’s robes as A-Yao tugged Xichen after him, the Cloud Recesses burning all around them. He lets the blood drip and he’s startled by the warmth of Wangji’s hand on his shoulder. He takes a deep breath, the scent of choking iron and the memory of smoke in his lungs, starts to paint.He does not know how long it takes, only that when he returns to himself, it’s to the sight of a freshly filled-in grave. After that, Xichen only knows the scent of incense and his brother’s shoulder, brushing against his.--- Xichen sits in front of A-Yao’s grave for a very long time.Wangji sits with him. Xichen remembers another time, when their roles were reversed. Xichen trying to offer comfort he didn’t quite know how to give, his own heart crumbling at Wangji’s silent, devastated grief. There was no other who could better understand the gaping hole left by A-Yao’s absence in his chest. How every breath since the loss of him feels like being wounded anew.It is hours before Xichen speaks.“Go, Wangji.” Xichen says. His voice is soft. “Wei Wuxian is expecting you.” He does not grudge his brother his happiness, unlikely as it had been. It is not a hope he spares for himself. But Wangji does not move.“What will you do?” He asks. Xichen stares at the new grave, the offering of joss sticks in the little brass pot, the smoke curling in the breeze and blowing away. A-Yao had been in charge of the Lanlingjin Sect’s daily needs, before, like a quiet melody that was only noticed for its absence, ensuring that things ran smoothly as he bided his time. When he was young and new and perhaps he had never been innocent, but maybe he could have been saved. Maybe Xichen could have saved him.“I will pray.” Xichen says. “And ask for forgiveness.” He turns his gaze towards Wangji. “It is something I would like to do for A-Yao alone.” His hand flexes. His sword hand. The one that ran A-Yao through without hesitation at Nie Huaisang’s lie. The hand with the cut on it aches. He had refused bandages. Now the blood has clotted, dried rust-brown like A-Yao's blood. His brother simply looks at him, and Xichen knows he’s remembering what he had done to himself in the wake of Wei Wuxian’s death. Xichen looks away.“Ah Zhan,” He says. He so rarely calls his younger brother by his birth name. “Please. I need to be alone.” It’s a while longer before Wangji stands up. His eyes lingering on Xichen as he kneels.Then, Xichen is alone. The winds of Gusu caress his face, bringing with them the scent of pine. A few grains of earth from A-Yao’s grave stir, then fall still. Xichen waits with baited breath, but nothing appears in front of him. No shadow, no silent apparition staring at him in resentment and hurt. His sword hand clenches. He will never forget the feel of A-Yao’s blood on his skin. The sensation of flesh giving way beneath steel. The look in A-Yao’s eyes. A-Yao, pushing him away.Before he quite knows what he’s doing, he’s drawing Shuoye. Its blade gleams in the dying sun, stained red. A-Yao’s blood. No matter how many times he’ll wash it, it will never be clean again. Like his hands.Nie Huaisang had lied to him, but it was Xichen that had delivered the final blow, all the same. He shifts Shuoye to his other hand, his grip tightening on the handle as he raises it. The fresh cut breaks open, bleeds anew. He lets his sleeve fall out of the way and holds his arm out, the fingers tightening into a fist. The blade swings down, bites.