[ 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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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]