Love has no face.

Then, finally-

Wangji's eyes fluttered open, slow and uncertain, lashes trembling like the fragile wings of a moth waking to the dawn. That flicker of life—dull gold irises clouded by exhaustion—struck Xichen with the force of a storm. Relief flooded him, so sharp it hurt, and he let out a shaky breath he hadn't known he was holding. Tears welled, blurring the world as he gazed at the brother he'd nearly lost.

How had he ever believed he could survive without those eyes? Eyes that once brimmed with quiet strength and gentle light, now haunted by shadows that refused to lift. Wangji's pain was a living thing, coiling through Xichen's chest, searing itself into his soul.

With trembling care, Xichen reached out, his fingers barely brushing Wangji's shoulder. "Wangji," he whispered, voice raw and breaking, "it's me. Xichen. You're safe. No one will ever hurt you again. I'm here."

But his touch, meant to comfort, made Wangji flinch as if struck. He recoiled, curling in on himself, dragging the blanket over his face with a shudder so small yet so devastating. Xichen froze, the realization striking like a blade: *He's afraid. Even of me.*

Helplessness crashed over him, bitter and cold. His hand hovered, then fell away, and he bowed his head, swallowing a sob that threatened to tear him apart.

From beneath the blanket came a broken, muffled breath—then a single, fragile word: 

"Gege…"

The blanket lowered, just enough for Xichen to see Wangji's tear-streaked face. Their eyes met, and in that silent, aching moment, a thousand words passed between them—grief, love, apology, pain.

Xichen's heart caved under the weight of his brother's suffering. There were no words strong enough to mend what had been broken, but he had to try. He reached out again, softer this time, and gently laid his hand on Wangji's head, careful of every bruise and bandage. "Don't cry, Wangji," he murmured, voice trembling. "Let it out. I'm here. You're not alone. Not ever."

The room was silent but for the quiet chorus of cicadas outside. Wangji's tears fell freely now, soaking the pillow, and Xichen simply sat with him, silent and steadfast, holding space for his brother's sorrow—letting him cry, truly cry, with no shame.

Time slowed. Minutes stretched into aching eternity.

Then, in a voice so soft it was almost lost to the wind, Wangji whispered, 

"Why did you save me? You should have let me die… It would have spared the clan… the shame."

The words struck Xichen like lightning. He moved without thinking, cupping Wangji's cold face in trembling hands, forcing his brother to see him—really see him. "Wangji, don't ever say that. Not ever. You are not a burden. This clan, this name—none of it matters if it means losing you. You are not shameful. You are not ruined."

His voice broke, thick with tears. "You are my brother. My blood. The purest, most precious gift my mother ever gave me. Don't ever say that again. I couldn't live without you. You are my family. You're… everything."

Wangji's sobs shook his small frame. "I'm… I'm dirty, Gege."

The words landed like knives in Xichen's heart. He pressed his forehead to Wangji's, tears mingling between them. "No. You are not dirty," he said, fierce and unyielding. "You are the purest soul in this world. Always have been. Especially now."

He drew in a trembling breath, his words a prayer, a promise: 

"You are not what was done to you. You are still you. You are still Lan Wangji."