[ Lan Wangji will never not be breathtaking. He'd known it then, at fifteen, too young and foolish to the machinations of the real world. He'd known it at seventeen and twenty and upon first breath back on shared ground and he knows it now, deeply and unerringly, watching as the shape of him in the sky grows from hope to shimmer to reality.

It takes effort to make himself stay put, to quash the urge to leap up and rush to meet him. He's been all but lounging, sprawled back on an elbow, all the markings of a leader prepared to address the masses of his people. His people, who have all, despairingly, expectedly, gotten lost on their way.

Bar one. ]

Hanguang-jun.

[ There's no chill in it, no derision, no distance. Something soft settles in the corners of his eyes as he says it, warms the slow curve of his mouth around an unbidden smile. It's almost reverent, he realizes with a belated laugh, and his smile widens as he dares to let the delight buoy him up. Indulges in it, even, in a way he's never really allowed. ]

Lan Zhan.

[ And that, that's better. Whatever the reason for this, however it plays out, it will have been worth it for this moment alone.

He levers himself up, inelegant. Lan Wangji is ever-ethereal under the trappings of night and this brokers no difference. He's luminous, brilliant, and all the more important: here.

He mocks a hasty salute from where he sits, grinning still. ]

This humble one is grateful that Hanguang-jun has granted him the gift of his time. And rushed, too! Careful, or I might start to call on you for each and every disappointed spirit that crosses my path.