[ Once, as a boy, he might have asked what exorcism felt like. To split the soul in many parts, then extirpate them? Painful work. A howling. And then, Uncle Jiang said, look at the lake, that one there, now throw your pebble in, and another, and a third. You too, Jiang Cheng. Watch the ruin of ripples, watch the waters turn, the balance shift to sickness. Watch the tumult.
Now, think if every rock could be fished, every dust stain removed, every lick of violence depleted. How would the lake feel, no longer tainted?
Like this: Wei Wuxian, deflating with each breath he feels foolishly compelled to time to the rumble of Lan Zhan's heartbeat, under the bridge of knuckle bone. He fights Lan Zhan's grasp for a moment; shakes free, only to splay his hand whole, to turn the slick warmth of his palm on Lan Zhan's chest and listen. Sixteen years, never straying, never shunning Yuan, or his fealty, or his fated love.
Fate...? Men write their fortunes. Braid and bind each red string to their life's purpose with honest hands. Whatever histories will write of Jin Guangyao, he worked his end. Whatever Wei Wuxian brokered, mouth dry with crumbled dirt, writhing between stone and stiffened corpses — that was his own design.
And this fool of a man, who plants himself so readily beside the Yiling patriarch, who keeps the pace even as mother night's chills swathe him... Lan Zhan chose Wei Wuxian as his poison. ]
Lan Wangji.
[ The subject of this fairy tale that started sixteen years ago in blood, carried on in mourning whites, and lives his grand finale here, pecked by Wei Wuxian's hawkish cruelty. Hanguang-Jun. Better yet: ]
Lan Zhan. [ Cotton-soft, between them. Every sorry he's not allowed to say. ] I overstepped.
[ Surrendering Wei Ying's hand is a simple task, yet one he hesitates to complete. Willing. Happy. Free. His own words echo in his mind, a monk's mantra to remind him how to escape the mistakes of his father and how to prove to Wei Ying that his love is not born of possession. Lan Zhan has never allowed himself possessions that were kept for any selfish reasons. Bichen, a weapon. Wangji, a tool. Jade tokens for entry into Cloud Recesses. Hair ornaments for symbols of status. Everything serves a purpose. Except for Wei Ying, who will never be a possession, and yet may someday choose to belong with Lan Zhan rather than to him.
Wei Ying may laugh at fate, but Lan Zhan considers it a bittersweet friend. The red string between them may be woven by their own hands, tied in knots with the bite of cruel words or knitted with flowers thanks to kindnesses, perhaps even cut with the dull scissors of time or swift strike of a blade. They were born with that string already tied to them—what they choose to do with it is their own design.
He covers Wei Ying's hand with his own, gentle rather than forceful. There's no regret in him for the words he'd spoken, long-winded but medicinal after the poison of Wei Ying's sarcasm. If he knew of his love's thoughts, he'd be forced to correct them again. Their story was conceived at the gate of Cloud Recesses with a silencing spell and born on a rooftop aglow with moonlight, two smiles of an emperor, and Wei Ying's own mischievous grin. ]
Wei Ying. [ The ice of his expression melts into warm fondness. ] You could not know. I had not told you.
[ Stop making my excuses, he doesn't bite back, teeth have blunted between the past hour's offensives. Too much. He's filled one evening's tally with Lan Zhan's hurts, and they're too bound for more blood, connected decisively at the point of Lan Zhan's heartbeat.
It's too much, so it has to reduce top nothing: he invades, distracting, in the two-pace radius where only practised glares and a gentleman's dagger might still protect Lan Zhan from close-range harm. Brows a hard slant, he studies — then decides, the clash of his mouth on Lan Zhan's temple, jaw, mouth, like a wave hitting shore. Soft, for the resigned lack of recourse.
Self-taught, he'll have to also finish Lan Zhan's education: these are kisses of apology. Before, of acquaintance. At some point, they will be teasing, at another passionate, territorial, cruel. Nuances, like in sword work. ]
I know more things than you've ever thought to teach me. [ Lan Zhan and his pretty sect and his rigorous grand master, rooted so rigidly in orthodoxy. ] I'll be good over dinner.
[ He's already spoiled the better part of their journey down the hill, to the firefly-lit span of a crouched village, where inns and administrative halls dwarf dwellings like juts of a hungry dagger over sand lines. They walk. He nudges them to it. This body lacks the benefits of cultivation — within a few hours, like a child, it will need rest.
From earlier, he remembers: the meandering walkway into the main marketplace, to the sibilant street to the miniature artisan district and, ever separate, the foreign inn quarters. Little Apple's enjoyed fine hospitality against Wei Wuxian's coin for the better part of a day, that scoundrel.
And then, the inevitable adjustment, slip of Wei Wuxian's step from beside Lan Zhan to gently ease behind him, where a light breeze or, say, the small but ever-present likelihood of a stray dog begging road scraps must cross Lan defenses before reaching him.
He may have a problem. That problem tends to bark. ]
You could silence me and feed me, if you'd like. But you should talk. You never talk.
[ Arguably, because Wei Wuxian never shuts up to allow it. ]
[ The distraction is thorough and easily pierces Lan Zhan's defenses. The walls that stand as solid granite for others are thin silk to Wei Ying, easily torn from where they hang to leave Lan Zhan bare, vulnerable. At least this siege is a desirable one as he sprinkles kisses across his face, much-needed spice for a man so used to a bland diet of loneliness and unrequited love. So he had thought. They may be self-taught, but Lan Zhan is a studious learner, one who prides himself in his dedication to teachings, and Wei Ying is by far the best tutor he has ever had.
Humming before they part, Lan Zhan looks down at Wei Ying with wonder. He had only dared to dream of kissing him in the darkness of the Jingshi, stealing such lewd thoughts from the shadows and hoping Wei Ying would never find out. Guilty. Shameless. Now those same soft presses of lips calm his guilt as well as his momentary frustration with the object of his no longer buried desires. ]
You are more well-versed in many disciplines, Wei Ying. Aside from discipline itself.
[ A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, a playful string of which Wei Ying holds the end. They pass the first line of buildings, shut up for the night with windows like eyes shut to the world while the inhabitants sleep. At the end on the lane, he spots the same inn he had passed earlier in the day, a lifetime ago before waiting for Wei Ying, before kissing Wei Ying. ]
Feed, but never silence. I never talk because I am listening to you. [ Wei Ying is, after all, so skilled at speaking that he does it at length, and with such a wide variety of words. ] What do I have talk about?
[ Oh, Lan Zhan's so soft. Too soft by far. Who gave Hanguang-Jun the right to melt so completely over a bouquet of fleetingly peppered kisses? Oh no, Wei Wuxian's heart nearly builds itself from chaos and clutter to melt. ]
Shhhhhhhh. Trust the master. You're drunk.
[ And he loops his arm with Lan Zhan's again despite any lurking canine dangers, because birds of a feather sway gently on jagged roads together, and friends don't let friends show their face so bare in the midnight road. Some spirit will spy the great chief cultivator with lowered defenses, then parade around with his stolen likeness, and they'll know, everyone will know what Lan Zhan looks when he's tame. His spotless reputation can only take so much disgrace.
Inn within reach, he only breaks from Lan Zhan long enough to fetch Little Apple from another tavern and pass the donkey unto the new stable hand's care, before stepping in and — ...ah. But it's warm. Nice and warm and pleasing, and a low table to greet him, a handsome man to return to. A body that still answers him, sweetly aching when he sits on a cushion and not hard ground, after a day of travel.
He should pay more attention to their server, or their surroundings, or the scents of hefty broth simmering in the fireplace. Neglects all of these things, elbows locked on the table, soft palms cupping his chin and cheeks. Is he not too adorable to be denied information? He is, indeed he is, he must make himself so. ]
Tell me everything. Lan Zhan, don't play coy. Sixteen years, come and gone. Whooosh.
[ Possibly, with that same sound of Wei Wuxian's hollowed whistling. ]
I barely had scraps of you before. Now, I know less. What poetry do you like anymore? [ A pause, then with the awkward jumble of his hand through his hair. ] I don't even know which of the poets are still alive. Scholars die too quickly.
[ Soft hearts, quick-filled. Imagine if they took poets to battle? Terrible. ]
Jin Ling tells — well, Jin Ling showed me. He doesn't tell me much of anything. But he wears a glove on his arrow hand when he shoots. They all do. It's the — [ His fingers pinch air. ] 'Done thing' nowadays. It was just, you know, fussy before. So, that's changed.
[ In a world that seems to have suspended its breath until Wei Wuxian could redeem his reputation, the Lanling Jin had the audacity to discover best archery practices. ]
[ Lan Zhan allows the linking of their arms to forge them into the shortest but strongest of chains, two pieces entwined and inseparable. Even the passage of time and the finality of death hadn't been able to keep them apart, so why should the fear of a dog when Lan Zhan's shoulders are wide enough to hide behind, scowl dark enough to fend off worse than a simple-minded animal? His reputation is far from a priority for him now, the notion carefully folded up and tucked into a corner of his mind. Another lesson learned from Wei Ying who did what he saw as just before worrying about what society believed was right.
Allowing Wei Ying to part from him momentarily, he steps into the inn and towards a corner table, requests a few extra cushions for Wei Ying and his penchant for lounging more horizontally than vertically. His own back is stiff as a board as he orders for them both—tea, wine, broth, vegetables—and then lifts his face to welcome Wei Ying to the table as a flower welcomes the sun's light after a long winter's night. He is indeed worthy of adoration, but not only because of the innocent intrigue he feigns for Lan Zhan.
Sixteen years, come and gone. He tries not to shut his eyes against the reminder. ]
I read classics, new poetry and literature are unknowns. [ He is, after all, still the same old fuddy-duddy at heart. It is also easy to ignore new practices in the remote safety of Cloud Recesses. Still, Lan Zhan had wandered the realm enough to know of some changes that may have escaped his uncle's notice. ] You know more of archery than I do.
You have seen for yourself the use of your inventions. It is a big change for cultivation.
Yes, yes. A big change for cultivation. Very important. I wonder, and I dazzle. All hail me.
[ Tender lubrication, thin poison of disbelief and mockery, mildly brewed. A smile turned patiently not at Lan Zhan, but at his feeble attempts to deflect — a strategy Wei Wuxian was denied with fireflies for company in the open field, barely an hour before. It feels more artful here, amid the muted din of settled patrons and the rushed pitter-patter of servers, hunched down by the heft of brimming treys. Wei Wuxian still rejects it. ]
Lan Zhan. If words cost you a great deal, I have a crown we can trade in.
[ Wei Wuxian should not take it upon himself to raise and jiggle the battered satchel that hides a prized Lan heirloom, in evidence. Does anyway, before safely returning it on his lap, where only thieves with a penchant for honoured suicide might presume to challenge themselves with stealing, in the presence of the chief cultivator. ]
Speak freely. About you. Indulge me.
[ There are changes, great and minute, invisible and known. A singed brand here, three hundred lashes there. The foul, ignominious betrayal of a wrinkle, Wei Wuxian suspects, when Lan Zhan furrows his brows just so. ]
How long did until you could play the guqin again? After... [ His lips thirst; in a fit of whim and fancy, he has already gently nudged their server to return the wine to the barrel of flavoured water whence it came from. He teethes at his lower lip, as if the flush of blood beneath might soothe it. ] Your back.
[ There is delicacy in approaching an instrument that casual torture at one's clan's hands has a tendency to disrupt. Not that Wei Wuxian has spent a handful of white nights planning well-earned retaliation against the safely anonymous elder who must have delivered Lan Zhan's punishment. The band of them who may well have taken turns. ]
[ Lan Zhan lets out a huff of annoyance soft enough to barely disrupt the hair that frames the sides of his face. When he speaks, it is succinctly and honestly, his talk of poets and cultivation both truths rather than distractions. It is not so much an attempt at deflection as it is a lack of experience: how can he reveal himself to Wei Ying when he has spent his life hiding it from others? Years of disciplined study with books as his only companions, that fleeting time when Wei Ying had spoken for both of them, his years of seclusion and penitence. He hopes, at least, that Wei Ying can understand that his stunted conversation is not born from a lack of trying or desire to avoid him.
He hums at the taunt, uncaring if the piece of vanity sitting cold and weighty in Wei Ying's satchel might be bartered for anything that may please Wei Ying. Wine, perhaps, would earn some envy if it were to grace Wei Ying's lips after being purchased with the silver of one who would lay claim to that part of him. His brow does furrow, maybe revealing a wrinkle, but also unveiling his discomfort at being asked to talk of things he has put in the past. A hand raises, unbidden, to press at the left side of his chest where the Wen brand marks his skin with an unnecessary reminder of both Wei Ying and Lan Zhan's own penchant for dramatic melancholy when drunk. Wine is an eternal enemy. ]
Years. [ The rejection of the alcohol soothes the petty green beast in Lan Zhan heart, laying it back to rest for the moment. When the tea arrives in wake of the wine, he is quick to pour for them both so that Wei Ying may wet his lips with something in light of his nervous worrying of such precious lips. ] The proper posture was difficult to maintain. It took longer to gather enough energy to play with purpose.
[ A flash of light in Wei Ying's eyes catches his attention, and though he doesn't know whether it was a reflection of firelight or something more tumultuous within him, it encourages him to speak further. Strange, but he is willing to fill a silence if it is to bring Wei Ying peace of mind, a poor replacement for the song of clarity but adequate for the setting. ]
There is little pain. I wear the scars with honor.
[ There is no honour in cruelty and debasement. In punishment unearned, discipline doled out with perverted gladness. In crippling an artist, let alone a warrior, that bittersweet marriage of madness and talent and blood-thirst that the Gusu Lan combine in their brigades — epitomized by Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang-Jun.
Years, to recover posture. Then, no doubt, months to sit upright. Weeks to breathe. Days, until pulses of pain must have subdued on raw-flayed skin.
He oversteps: crushes Lan Zhan's fingers on the tea cup, warmth of the fresh pour diffusing to tickle his palm, no doubt meaner on Lan Zhan's skin that shields Wei Wuxian's. The last time, he means to mouth. The last time this is allowed. ]
You won't gain any again. [ Scars, they're done with that. So long, goodbye, good riddance. Pure and pristine and untainted, this is their Hanguang-Jun. ] Not mine. Not another's. Not the clan's. Not Zewu-Jun's.
[ And the trick of it, he's learned, serpentine: whisper it like steel's cut, too steadfast to waylay. Wei Wuxian speaks it, so it will be done. All of Yiling rises behind that certainty.
His hand releases Lan Zhan's, retreats, elbow bending, to support his chin. Hello. They're smiling again, acts one and two and three and the grand finale. ]
Play for me, one day. At ease. At length. [ Without the rush of travel, the agony of taming Wei Wuxian's sicknesses or unrest. ] I want to see if I can tell the difference in your play. Or remember it.
[ Knowing Lan Zhan, it should be nigh imperceptible — a fault so discreet, it might be interpreted as an artistic shift in a mature performer's execution. ]
[ There is no honor in cruelty, and the same could be said of the treatment towards Wei Ying. A man used for the gain of those leading the Sunshot Campaign and then demonized for championing innocent civilians. Wei Ying's methods may have been wicked, but his intentions were pure in Lan Zhan's eyes. A warrior, an artist, sent to his death for questioning the world order and embracing a technique that others had lauded when it suited them and condemned when it did not. Lan Zhan cannot help but think about how their fate have may turned out differently if he had convinced Wei Ying to return with him to Gusu, or if he had convinced his brother to open their borders to the Wen refugees, or if he had soothed Wei Ying's mind when it was at the peak of tumult.
His breath hitches as Wei Ying's hand covers his own, pinning it to the hot ceramic beneath his palm. The words pierce through his calm and widen his eyes as he drinking in the image of Wei Ying, fierce and passionate, sitting there across the table from him. At times, he feels like he's dreaming of his return and he may slip through his fingers again at any moment, smoke on the breeze conjured by Lan Zhan's own fevered, desperate love.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he allows Wei Ying to retreat. Perhaps he'd been that metaphorical snake plaguing Lan Zhan's mind, always coiled with a smile but ready to strike at an enemy. Lan Zhan is blessed that all of their enemies are shared, that this snake would coil around him not to suffocate, but to shield. Still, Lan Zhan has been warned countless times that consorting with this snake would earn him a bit sooner or later. That venom is one that he longs to taste. ]
If you have requests, bring the scores and I will play them. [ He has composed in his solitude as well as his position as a teacher; the first were melancholy things not to fall on such lovely, lively ears; the others, tools of cultivation that would fail to entertain such a musician as Wei Ying. ] My technique has not faltered.
Uffff, how composed our Hanguang-Jun is. How accomplished. Tut-tut-tut.
[ But he's laughing between click-clacks of his tongue, instinct to tease at war with misplaced decorum. Somehow, still holding the ground. A troubled thing, entertaining the chief cultivator for dinner at the anonymous inn of a castaway village. His manners have already twice depleted themselves, between the pitter-patter of a scowling server and wafts of provincial, unrefined spice.
Broths fume their righteous indignation, Wei Wuxian fumbling to recover his chopsticks, and start fishing out the tofu from his bowl. Disgusting, how far and wide this fondness for health has spread in Gusu Lan. Just think the blessing a little bit of luscious rib might whisper in this stew.
With a sigh (careful, orchestrated, his finest yet), he ferries the silken white beads to a fresh home in Lan Zhan's bowl, humming when he follows up to repudiate his least-favoured vegetables also. There, a convoy of tofu and threadbare cabbage and strips of leak, for Lan Zhan's consideration. You don't kiss a man without gaining imperial rights over his dinner bowl after. Wei Wuxian might be hard-pressed to detail his limited experience in love trysts, but he's fairly sure at least one spring book reached this natural erotic conclusion. ]
How long do you have here? Really. Until they scour the earth to find you, every last one of your bureaucracy boys, carrying your papers? Do you like them? [ No. Never mind the pretence that aides are ever more than instruments representing cause, in the eyes of Hanguang-Jun. ] It. Any of it. Really.
[ The fussing, the meandering, the quarrels, the administration. Intimidating sect leaders into good behaviour, for their own wretched good. Diplomacy and manipulation and scandal — even past the original task of husbandry, of salvaging efficiency and dignity in the wake of Jin Guangyao.
Wei Wuxian would sooner incinerate himself. ]
I think you must be good at rule. You're good at — everything. But lonely.
[ Lan Zhan is also, as time and precedent have struggled to write down, lonely at all times. And now, the curse compounded: Zewu-Jun withdrawn, a single smiling face recused of its duties. Baby Yuan pursuing the noble feats that will lay down his own gentlemanly path. Wei Wuxian himself flickered, in and out of Gusu Lan existence. ]
[ He glances at the bowls as they're placed in front of them, already anticipating Wei Ying's assault on his own helping of healthful ingredients. The envoy of tofu and radishes is met with thanks as Lan Zhan begins to pick out a few choice morsels to replenish the diminished contents of Wei Ying's bowl: a few quarters of potato, several slices of carrot, and a scattering of snow peas. The exchange completed, he sets down his spoon to reach into the qiankun bag sitting against his hip. With only a moment's delay, his hand reappears holding a small red pouch which he offers to Wei Ying. Inside, secreted away for just such an occasion, is a pile of finely-ground red chili. ]
I took a week of leave. [ All of the meetings and paperwork piling up in that time would surely lead to minor quantities of regret, but that was for Lan Zhan to form headaches over in the future. There was nothing to regret about meeting Wei Ying when bidden, his company more priceless than any amount of time Lan Zhan will be forced to pay back in double. Wei Ying's currency is kisses and glances and tasteless vegetables, and Lan Zhan is grateful for such charity.
Humming, he stirs the contents of his bowl and watches it swirl together, blurring as his eyes unfocus slightly. Could he honestly say he enjoys the work? There lies a conundrum of whether valuable work is ever enjoyable. He doesn't enjoy listening to the droning of lords who value their words more than the Chief Cultivator's time, nor does he enjoy the petty squabbles he must mediate between. There is surprisingly little cultivation work to be done as he has to delegate requested aid and send disciples on night hunts when he wishes to go himself. There are times when Lan Zhan doubts that he is meant for the task, too honest to bother with the sly politicians he finds himself at court with. He has come to understand something of the grace to Jin Guangyao's manipulations simply due to the fact that he could never achieve such a wide and wicked web of influence. ]
I do not rule. [ He sips at his tea, nose wrinkling almost imperceptibly at the stale taste of the leaves. The cup is set down almost immediately. ] I guide.
[ He suppresses a flinch at the word. Lonely. It is an ironic companion in his life, one that he has been reunited with countless times. A lonely child who found comfort in fleeting visits with his mother. A lonely student who sought companionship in books. A lonely cultivator whose life was flung into chaos by a friend he hadn't expected to make nor endeavored to keep. A lonely soldier searching for that lost friend. A lonely man with no clue of how to raise a child.
Swallowing thickly, he takes up his soup in hopes of wetting his lips and easing his tongue. ] It is lonely but honorable work. I wish for someone to share what free time I have.
[ He who guides, not he who rules — the distinction so granular and semantic that Wei Wuxian appreciates it in the spirit in which Lan Zhan's newly-learned pedantic shrewdness intends it.
He laughs, the nods slight and congratulatory, celebrating Lan Zhan's diplomatic endeavours before he dips in to collect a tender spread of fleshy eggplant between trembling chopsticks, scooping a light bedding of rice from his bowl, then drenching it in the glistened waters of hot oil Lan Zhan graciously presented him with, generously painting each side.
Brows perched, smile yet glaring, he holds out the lethal chopstick-led menace in the general vicinity of Lan Zhan's mouth, invitation plain.
Be that coward, Hanguang-Jun. Pull back before the red death. ]
Come on. What's a man without war — [ Fortunate, Sizhui, spared. ] — and a cultivator without a sword — [ Wei Wuxian. ] — and life without suffering?
[ Does Lan Zhan yet live, if his tongue and teeth don't ache gruellingly for that pleasure? No man in the history of Yunmeng has ever qi deviated from the horrors of his peppers, though they're of a different breed in Gusu Lan, tender and pretty and frail. To look at Lan Zhan's body — Wei Wuxian allows himself the measure, slow and careful, eyes slanted — he might be a rope of muscle, twined, but the sun will flay him for his pallor, the ]
Eat, and I'll share your burden. You can write me all your sect troubles, and I'll solve them. All of them.
[ Not one letter ignored or trouble loitering. Noble Hanguang-Jun will write, The sect leaders grow complacent and querulous, and Wei Wuxian will answer, Have you considered setting their robes on fire? And Lan Zhan will, of course, say, Yes, that is sound, and Wei Wuxian will agree, The most sound, now tax Jiang Cheng for two lotus pod, make it the riper pair from the northern lakes, and Sun Tzu will tremble for the ruthlessness of their war cunning.
Sharing is caring, and the rims and edges of Wei Wuxian's tired heart feel impossibly fat and disastrously stretched full. Eat this heavens-cursed eggplant, spare some troubles of the mind. ]
[ Lan Zhan watches with mild fascination as Wei Ying prepares the bite of food only to push it away from himself and leave it hovering in front of Lan Zhan. His eyes widen at the sheer amount of chili covering the wretched morsel, all intended flavor now buried beneath dusty fire and pain. He is loath to back down from the challenge, however, and more than that is his willingness to suffer at the hands of Wei Ying and no one else. The offer sweetens the dilemma somewhat, though he knows it to be a tease. Wei Ying would sooner flee to the farthest corner of the realm than sit with members of the gentry for any length of time. Closing his eyes and drawing in a steadying breath, Lan Zhan opens his eyes to lock his gaze with Wei Ying's as he leans in to take the offered food.
Regret is instant. He feels as though his tongue may shrivel up and break apart in his mouth. Stubborn teeth refuse to part and chew, so he is left to salivate on a fool's errand of washing the spice away from his delicate tastebuds. But Lan Zhan has faced worse tortures, survived harsher punishments, relinquished greater sacrifices. Carefully he chews, face impassive but for the flush that starts to creep into his ears and nose, a faint dusting of pink across his cheeks. To swallow is to escape the pain but subject his stomach to such foreign matter. He has come this far, however, and refuses to back down. There is plenty of saliva to smooth the passage, and he allows himself several seconds of decorum before reaching for his soup to wash away the taste of hellfire and brimstone.
He parts his lips to speak and finds himself hoarse. Clearing his throat, he succumbs to the allure of stale tea in favor of life rather than death. Hanguang-jun will not be killed by his soulmate's fixation on peppers. ]
There is only so much companionship to be found in paper and ink. [ Much of his life has been spent in the company of both those fellows, either as tools of study or bound and shelved for perusal. It is such a delicate thing, asking Wei Ying to return to Cloud Recesses, a knife's edge between entrapment and abandonment. Lan Zhan wants neither—a free Wei Ying is a happy Wei Ying, and that is all he wishes for in the world. All that he is allowed to wish for outside of his selfish dreams, of course. There is also the matter of the promise he'd made to him. Free, happy, willing. They will be the words he dies by at this rate. ]
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Now, think if every rock could be fished, every dust stain removed, every lick of violence depleted. How would the lake feel, no longer tainted?
Like this: Wei Wuxian, deflating with each breath he feels foolishly compelled to time to the rumble of Lan Zhan's heartbeat, under the bridge of knuckle bone. He fights Lan Zhan's grasp for a moment; shakes free, only to splay his hand whole, to turn the slick warmth of his palm on Lan Zhan's chest and listen. Sixteen years, never straying, never shunning Yuan, or his fealty, or his fated love.
Fate...? Men write their fortunes. Braid and bind each red string to their life's purpose with honest hands. Whatever histories will write of Jin Guangyao, he worked his end. Whatever Wei Wuxian brokered, mouth dry with crumbled dirt, writhing between stone and stiffened corpses — that was his own design.
And this fool of a man, who plants himself so readily beside the Yiling patriarch, who keeps the pace even as mother night's chills swathe him... Lan Zhan chose Wei Wuxian as his poison. ]
Lan Wangji.
[ The subject of this fairy tale that started sixteen years ago in blood, carried on in mourning whites, and lives his grand finale here, pecked by Wei Wuxian's hawkish cruelty. Hanguang-Jun. Better yet: ]
Lan Zhan. [ Cotton-soft, between them. Every sorry he's not allowed to say. ] I overstepped.
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Wei Ying may laugh at fate, but Lan Zhan considers it a bittersweet friend. The red string between them may be woven by their own hands, tied in knots with the bite of cruel words or knitted with flowers thanks to kindnesses, perhaps even cut with the dull scissors of time or swift strike of a blade. They were born with that string already tied to them—what they choose to do with it is their own design.
He covers Wei Ying's hand with his own, gentle rather than forceful. There's no regret in him for the words he'd spoken, long-winded but medicinal after the poison of Wei Ying's sarcasm. If he knew of his love's thoughts, he'd be forced to correct them again. Their story was conceived at the gate of Cloud Recesses with a silencing spell and born on a rooftop aglow with moonlight, two smiles of an emperor, and Wei Ying's own mischievous grin. ]
Wei Ying. [ The ice of his expression melts into warm fondness. ] You could not know. I had not told you.
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It's too much, so it has to reduce top nothing: he invades, distracting, in the two-pace radius where only practised glares and a gentleman's dagger might still protect Lan Zhan from close-range harm. Brows a hard slant, he studies — then decides, the clash of his mouth on Lan Zhan's temple, jaw, mouth, like a wave hitting shore. Soft, for the resigned lack of recourse.
Self-taught, he'll have to also finish Lan Zhan's education: these are kisses of apology. Before, of acquaintance. At some point, they will be teasing, at another passionate, territorial, cruel. Nuances, like in sword work. ]
I know more things than you've ever thought to teach me. [ Lan Zhan and his pretty sect and his rigorous grand master, rooted so rigidly in orthodoxy. ] I'll be good over dinner.
[ He's already spoiled the better part of their journey down the hill, to the firefly-lit span of a crouched village, where inns and administrative halls dwarf dwellings like juts of a hungry dagger over sand lines. They walk. He nudges them to it. This body lacks the benefits of cultivation — within a few hours, like a child, it will need rest.
From earlier, he remembers: the meandering walkway into the main marketplace, to the sibilant street to the miniature artisan district and, ever separate, the foreign inn quarters. Little Apple's enjoyed fine hospitality against Wei Wuxian's coin for the better part of a day, that scoundrel.
And then, the inevitable adjustment, slip of Wei Wuxian's step from beside Lan Zhan to gently ease behind him, where a light breeze or, say, the small but ever-present likelihood of a stray dog begging road scraps must cross Lan defenses before reaching him.
He may have a problem. That problem tends to bark. ]
You could silence me and feed me, if you'd like. But you should talk. You never talk.
[ Arguably, because Wei Wuxian never shuts up to allow it. ]
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Humming before they part, Lan Zhan looks down at Wei Ying with wonder. He had only dared to dream of kissing him in the darkness of the Jingshi, stealing such lewd thoughts from the shadows and hoping Wei Ying would never find out. Guilty. Shameless. Now those same soft presses of lips calm his guilt as well as his momentary frustration with the object of his no longer buried desires. ]
You are more well-versed in many disciplines, Wei Ying. Aside from discipline itself.
[ A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, a playful string of which Wei Ying holds the end. They pass the first line of buildings, shut up for the night with windows like eyes shut to the world while the inhabitants sleep. At the end on the lane, he spots the same inn he had passed earlier in the day, a lifetime ago before waiting for Wei Ying, before kissing Wei Ying. ]
Feed, but never silence. I never talk because I am listening to you. [ Wei Ying is, after all, so skilled at speaking that he does it at length, and with such a wide variety of words. ] What do I have talk about?
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Shhhhhhhh. Trust the master. You're drunk.
[ And he loops his arm with Lan Zhan's again despite any lurking canine dangers, because birds of a feather sway gently on jagged roads together, and friends don't let friends show their face so bare in the midnight road. Some spirit will spy the great chief cultivator with lowered defenses, then parade around with his stolen likeness, and they'll know, everyone will know what Lan Zhan looks when he's tame. His spotless reputation can only take so much disgrace.
Inn within reach, he only breaks from Lan Zhan long enough to fetch Little Apple from another tavern and pass the donkey unto the new stable hand's care, before stepping in and — ...ah. But it's warm. Nice and warm and pleasing, and a low table to greet him, a handsome man to return to. A body that still answers him, sweetly aching when he sits on a cushion and not hard ground, after a day of travel.
He should pay more attention to their server, or their surroundings, or the scents of hefty broth simmering in the fireplace. Neglects all of these things, elbows locked on the table, soft palms cupping his chin and cheeks. Is he not too adorable to be denied information? He is, indeed he is, he must make himself so. ]
Tell me everything. Lan Zhan, don't play coy. Sixteen years, come and gone. Whooosh.
[ Possibly, with that same sound of Wei Wuxian's hollowed whistling. ]
I barely had scraps of you before. Now, I know less. What poetry do you like anymore? [ A pause, then with the awkward jumble of his hand through his hair. ] I don't even know which of the poets are still alive. Scholars die too quickly.
[ Soft hearts, quick-filled. Imagine if they took poets to battle? Terrible. ]
Jin Ling tells — well, Jin Ling showed me. He doesn't tell me much of anything. But he wears a glove on his arrow hand when he shoots. They all do. It's the — [ His fingers pinch air. ] 'Done thing' nowadays. It was just, you know, fussy before. So, that's changed.
[ In a world that seems to have suspended its breath until Wei Wuxian could redeem his reputation, the Lanling Jin had the audacity to discover best archery practices. ]
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Allowing Wei Ying to part from him momentarily, he steps into the inn and towards a corner table, requests a few extra cushions for Wei Ying and his penchant for lounging more horizontally than vertically. His own back is stiff as a board as he orders for them both—tea, wine, broth, vegetables—and then lifts his face to welcome Wei Ying to the table as a flower welcomes the sun's light after a long winter's night. He is indeed worthy of adoration, but not only because of the innocent intrigue he feigns for Lan Zhan.
Sixteen years, come and gone. He tries not to shut his eyes against the reminder. ]
I read classics, new poetry and literature are unknowns. [ He is, after all, still the same old fuddy-duddy at heart. It is also easy to ignore new practices in the remote safety of Cloud Recesses. Still, Lan Zhan had wandered the realm enough to know of some changes that may have escaped his uncle's notice. ] You know more of archery than I do.
You have seen for yourself the use of your inventions. It is a big change for cultivation.
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[ Tender lubrication, thin poison of disbelief and mockery, mildly brewed. A smile turned patiently not at Lan Zhan, but at his feeble attempts to deflect — a strategy Wei Wuxian was denied with fireflies for company in the open field, barely an hour before. It feels more artful here, amid the muted din of settled patrons and the rushed pitter-patter of servers, hunched down by the heft of brimming treys. Wei Wuxian still rejects it. ]
Lan Zhan. If words cost you a great deal, I have a crown we can trade in.
[ Wei Wuxian should not take it upon himself to raise and jiggle the battered satchel that hides a prized Lan heirloom, in evidence. Does anyway, before safely returning it on his lap, where only thieves with a penchant for honoured suicide might presume to challenge themselves with stealing, in the presence of the chief cultivator. ]
Speak freely. About you. Indulge me.
[ There are changes, great and minute, invisible and known. A singed brand here, three hundred lashes there. The foul, ignominious betrayal of a wrinkle, Wei Wuxian suspects, when Lan Zhan furrows his brows just so. ]
How long did until you could play the guqin again? After... [ His lips thirst; in a fit of whim and fancy, he has already gently nudged their server to return the wine to the barrel of flavoured water whence it came from. He teethes at his lower lip, as if the flush of blood beneath might soothe it. ] Your back.
[ There is delicacy in approaching an instrument that casual torture at one's clan's hands has a tendency to disrupt. Not that Wei Wuxian has spent a handful of white nights planning well-earned retaliation against the safely anonymous elder who must have delivered Lan Zhan's punishment. The band of them who may well have taken turns. ]
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He hums at the taunt, uncaring if the piece of vanity sitting cold and weighty in Wei Ying's satchel might be bartered for anything that may please Wei Ying. Wine, perhaps, would earn some envy if it were to grace Wei Ying's lips after being purchased with the silver of one who would lay claim to that part of him. His brow does furrow, maybe revealing a wrinkle, but also unveiling his discomfort at being asked to talk of things he has put in the past. A hand raises, unbidden, to press at the left side of his chest where the Wen brand marks his skin with an unnecessary reminder of both Wei Ying and Lan Zhan's own penchant for dramatic melancholy when drunk. Wine is an eternal enemy. ]
Years. [ The rejection of the alcohol soothes the petty green beast in Lan Zhan heart, laying it back to rest for the moment. When the tea arrives in wake of the wine, he is quick to pour for them both so that Wei Ying may wet his lips with something in light of his nervous worrying of such precious lips. ] The proper posture was difficult to maintain. It took longer to gather enough energy to play with purpose.
[ A flash of light in Wei Ying's eyes catches his attention, and though he doesn't know whether it was a reflection of firelight or something more tumultuous within him, it encourages him to speak further. Strange, but he is willing to fill a silence if it is to bring Wei Ying peace of mind, a poor replacement for the song of clarity but adequate for the setting. ]
There is little pain. I wear the scars with honor.
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Years, to recover posture. Then, no doubt, months to sit upright. Weeks to breathe. Days, until pulses of pain must have subdued on raw-flayed skin.
He oversteps: crushes Lan Zhan's fingers on the tea cup, warmth of the fresh pour diffusing to tickle his palm, no doubt meaner on Lan Zhan's skin that shields Wei Wuxian's. The last time, he means to mouth. The last time this is allowed. ]
You won't gain any again. [ Scars, they're done with that. So long, goodbye, good riddance. Pure and pristine and untainted, this is their Hanguang-Jun. ] Not mine. Not another's. Not the clan's. Not Zewu-Jun's.
[ And the trick of it, he's learned, serpentine: whisper it like steel's cut, too steadfast to waylay. Wei Wuxian speaks it, so it will be done. All of Yiling rises behind that certainty.
His hand releases Lan Zhan's, retreats, elbow bending, to support his chin. Hello. They're smiling again, acts one and two and three and the grand finale. ]
Play for me, one day. At ease. At length. [ Without the rush of travel, the agony of taming Wei Wuxian's sicknesses or unrest. ] I want to see if I can tell the difference in your play. Or remember it.
[ Knowing Lan Zhan, it should be nigh imperceptible — a fault so discreet, it might be interpreted as an artistic shift in a mature performer's execution. ]
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His breath hitches as Wei Ying's hand covers his own, pinning it to the hot ceramic beneath his palm. The words pierce through his calm and widen his eyes as he drinking in the image of Wei Ying, fierce and passionate, sitting there across the table from him. At times, he feels like he's dreaming of his return and he may slip through his fingers again at any moment, smoke on the breeze conjured by Lan Zhan's own fevered, desperate love.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he allows Wei Ying to retreat. Perhaps he'd been that metaphorical snake plaguing Lan Zhan's mind, always coiled with a smile but ready to strike at an enemy. Lan Zhan is blessed that all of their enemies are shared, that this snake would coil around him not to suffocate, but to shield. Still, Lan Zhan has been warned countless times that consorting with this snake would earn him a bit sooner or later. That venom is one that he longs to taste. ]
If you have requests, bring the scores and I will play them. [ He has composed in his solitude as well as his position as a teacher; the first were melancholy things not to fall on such lovely, lively ears; the others, tools of cultivation that would fail to entertain such a musician as Wei Ying. ] My technique has not faltered.
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[ But he's laughing between click-clacks of his tongue, instinct to tease at war with misplaced decorum. Somehow, still holding the ground. A troubled thing, entertaining the chief cultivator for dinner at the anonymous inn of a castaway village. His manners have already twice depleted themselves, between the pitter-patter of a scowling server and wafts of provincial, unrefined spice.
Broths fume their righteous indignation, Wei Wuxian fumbling to recover his chopsticks, and start fishing out the tofu from his bowl. Disgusting, how far and wide this fondness for health has spread in Gusu Lan. Just think the blessing a little bit of luscious rib might whisper in this stew.
With a sigh (careful, orchestrated, his finest yet), he ferries the silken white beads to a fresh home in Lan Zhan's bowl, humming when he follows up to repudiate his least-favoured vegetables also. There, a convoy of tofu and threadbare cabbage and strips of leak, for Lan Zhan's consideration. You don't kiss a man without gaining imperial rights over his dinner bowl after. Wei Wuxian might be hard-pressed to detail his limited experience in love trysts, but he's fairly sure at least one spring book reached this natural erotic conclusion. ]
How long do you have here? Really. Until they scour the earth to find you, every last one of your bureaucracy boys, carrying your papers? Do you like them? [ No. Never mind the pretence that aides are ever more than instruments representing cause, in the eyes of Hanguang-Jun. ] It. Any of it. Really.
[ The fussing, the meandering, the quarrels, the administration. Intimidating sect leaders into good behaviour, for their own wretched good. Diplomacy and manipulation and scandal — even past the original task of husbandry, of salvaging efficiency and dignity in the wake of Jin Guangyao.
Wei Wuxian would sooner incinerate himself. ]
I think you must be good at rule. You're good at — everything. But lonely.
[ Lan Zhan is also, as time and precedent have struggled to write down, lonely at all times. And now, the curse compounded: Zewu-Jun withdrawn, a single smiling face recused of its duties. Baby Yuan pursuing the noble feats that will lay down his own gentlemanly path. Wei Wuxian himself flickered, in and out of Gusu Lan existence. ]
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[ He glances at the bowls as they're placed in front of them, already anticipating Wei Ying's assault on his own helping of healthful ingredients. The envoy of tofu and radishes is met with thanks as Lan Zhan begins to pick out a few choice morsels to replenish the diminished contents of Wei Ying's bowl: a few quarters of potato, several slices of carrot, and a scattering of snow peas. The exchange completed, he sets down his spoon to reach into the qiankun bag sitting against his hip. With only a moment's delay, his hand reappears holding a small red pouch which he offers to Wei Ying. Inside, secreted away for just such an occasion, is a pile of finely-ground red chili. ]
I took a week of leave. [ All of the meetings and paperwork piling up in that time would surely lead to minor quantities of regret, but that was for Lan Zhan to form headaches over in the future. There was nothing to regret about meeting Wei Ying when bidden, his company more priceless than any amount of time Lan Zhan will be forced to pay back in double. Wei Ying's currency is kisses and glances and tasteless vegetables, and Lan Zhan is grateful for such charity.
Humming, he stirs the contents of his bowl and watches it swirl together, blurring as his eyes unfocus slightly. Could he honestly say he enjoys the work? There lies a conundrum of whether valuable work is ever enjoyable. He doesn't enjoy listening to the droning of lords who value their words more than the Chief Cultivator's time, nor does he enjoy the petty squabbles he must mediate between. There is surprisingly little cultivation work to be done as he has to delegate requested aid and send disciples on night hunts when he wishes to go himself. There are times when Lan Zhan doubts that he is meant for the task, too honest to bother with the sly politicians he finds himself at court with. He has come to understand something of the grace to Jin Guangyao's manipulations simply due to the fact that he could never achieve such a wide and wicked web of influence. ]
I do not rule. [ He sips at his tea, nose wrinkling almost imperceptibly at the stale taste of the leaves. The cup is set down almost immediately. ] I guide.
[ He suppresses a flinch at the word. Lonely. It is an ironic companion in his life, one that he has been reunited with countless times. A lonely child who found comfort in fleeting visits with his mother. A lonely student who sought companionship in books. A lonely cultivator whose life was flung into chaos by a friend he hadn't expected to make nor endeavored to keep. A lonely soldier searching for that lost friend. A lonely man with no clue of how to raise a child.
Swallowing thickly, he takes up his soup in hopes of wetting his lips and easing his tongue. ] It is lonely but honorable work. I wish for someone to share what free time I have.
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He laughs, the nods slight and congratulatory, celebrating Lan Zhan's diplomatic endeavours before he dips in to collect a tender spread of fleshy eggplant between trembling chopsticks, scooping a light bedding of rice from his bowl, then drenching it in the glistened waters of hot oil Lan Zhan graciously presented him with, generously painting each side.
Brows perched, smile yet glaring, he holds out the lethal chopstick-led menace in the general vicinity of Lan Zhan's mouth, invitation plain.
Be that coward, Hanguang-Jun. Pull back before the red death. ]
Come on. What's a man without war — [ Fortunate, Sizhui, spared. ] — and a cultivator without a sword — [ Wei Wuxian. ] — and life without suffering?
[ Does Lan Zhan yet live, if his tongue and teeth don't ache gruellingly for that pleasure? No man in the history of Yunmeng has ever qi deviated from the horrors of his peppers, though they're of a different breed in Gusu Lan, tender and pretty and frail. To look at Lan Zhan's body — Wei Wuxian allows himself the measure, slow and careful, eyes slanted — he might be a rope of muscle, twined, but the sun will flay him for his pallor, the ]
Eat, and I'll share your burden. You can write me all your sect troubles, and I'll solve them. All of them.
[ Not one letter ignored or trouble loitering. Noble Hanguang-Jun will write, The sect leaders grow complacent and querulous, and Wei Wuxian will answer, Have you considered setting their robes on fire? And Lan Zhan will, of course, say, Yes, that is sound, and Wei Wuxian will agree, The most sound, now tax Jiang Cheng for two lotus pod, make it the riper pair from the northern lakes, and Sun Tzu will tremble for the ruthlessness of their war cunning.
Sharing is caring, and the rims and edges of Wei Wuxian's tired heart feel impossibly fat and disastrously stretched full. Eat this heavens-cursed eggplant, spare some troubles of the mind. ]
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Regret is instant. He feels as though his tongue may shrivel up and break apart in his mouth. Stubborn teeth refuse to part and chew, so he is left to salivate on a fool's errand of washing the spice away from his delicate tastebuds. But Lan Zhan has faced worse tortures, survived harsher punishments, relinquished greater sacrifices. Carefully he chews, face impassive but for the flush that starts to creep into his ears and nose, a faint dusting of pink across his cheeks. To swallow is to escape the pain but subject his stomach to such foreign matter. He has come this far, however, and refuses to back down. There is plenty of saliva to smooth the passage, and he allows himself several seconds of decorum before reaching for his soup to wash away the taste of hellfire and brimstone.
He parts his lips to speak and finds himself hoarse. Clearing his throat, he succumbs to the allure of stale tea in favor of life rather than death. Hanguang-jun will not be killed by his soulmate's fixation on peppers. ]
There is only so much companionship to be found in paper and ink. [ Much of his life has been spent in the company of both those fellows, either as tools of study or bound and shelved for perusal. It is such a delicate thing, asking Wei Ying to return to Cloud Recesses, a knife's edge between entrapment and abandonment. Lan Zhan wants neither—a free Wei Ying is a happy Wei Ying, and that is all he wishes for in the world. All that he is allowed to wish for outside of his selfish dreams, of course. There is also the matter of the promise he'd made to him. Free, happy, willing. They will be the words he dies by at this rate. ]