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Chapter Text

i.

“Cloud Recesses has been burned.”

Lan Wangji has finally done it, said aloud the words he has been holding back in the face of Wei Ying’s endless pestering. Days spent ignoring the litany of Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. Days of deflecting demanding questions about what happened. Days of concern and care he doesn’t need. Shouldn’t need.

My leg is fine.

I am fine.

Everything is fine.

Leave me alone.

(Don’t.)

(Don’t go.)

(Don’t leave me alone.)

As Lan Wangji finally gives in, speaks the fate of the Cloud Recesses, he remembers why it was so important to resist in the first place. The moment the words are through his lips, said to Wei Ying of all people, everything threatens to crumble, a great reverberating fault line widening in his chest.

He switches from irritation and anger to sadness so quickly that he feels unmoored, like the flames of the fire in front of them in the dark cave—dancing wildly, ready to consume and destroy from within.

It is not as if Wei Ying didn’t already know about the Cloud Recesses, as if Wen Chao had not crowed about it as he dragged Wei Ying off to a dungeon that spit him back out covered in blood and a fatigue that no smile could completely cover. Though Wei Ying tried, of course. He always did.

So flippant and unregulated. So aggravatingly frivolous about everything, not only others’ hearts, but his own safety.

“Are your people safe?” Wei Ying asks now, voice soft and delicate as if he can tell Lan Wangji is reeling even as he keeps himself still. So very still. “Your uncle? Your brother?”

Lan Wangji does not allow himself to look away from the flames, to move so much as a muscle in reaction. Does not look at the face he knows will be earnest and beautiful, not when he is stuck as he is in this cave where there is nowhere to hide from it. “My uncle was badly wounded. My brother is missing.”

These are the facts. Cold. Hard. Unchangeable.

“Zewu-Jun is missing?” Wei Ying asks, tone voicing the pain in his own heart. His shoulder presses closer against Lan Wangji’s side.

Because Wei Ying is reckless and foolish and irritating and inescapable, and worst of all he is endlessly, violently kind.

Lan Wangji’s eyes flood with wetness.

Shameful. Where is his control? Emotional displays do not change facts. They never have.

He closes his eyes tightly, both to escape the tears he has almost let fall and because he can feel the drag of exhaustion in his bones that tell him it is time to sleep. But also to shield against the painful beauty of Wei Ying’s face in the flickering firelight. His teasing smiles and laughter that are not Lan Wangji’s and are not meant for him and never will be. So easily spread to many with no true intent. Even worse, the way Wei Ying’s provoking laughter has fallen quiet now, leaving something even more maddening. No jokes at his expense, just an understanding that makes it impossible to keep his control perfect and undented the way it must always be. In front of Wei Ying more than anywhere else.

He will not be weak enough to cry. To give something for Wei Ying to make a mockery of. Or perhaps worse, to be seen. Understood. That somehow seems even more treacherous.

Wei Ying continues to speak softly, and Lan Wangji lets the chatter flow over him like a lullaby, like a comfort that it has no right to be. Lets it push away all thoughts of the Cloud Recesses and his brother and embarrassment and yearning. The endless confusing tangle Wei Ying sows in him. How he hates it and longs for it.

He just needs to rest. To reestablish his equilibrium. Then everything will stop tilting to the side, his foundations will solidify.

Only then, unexpectedly, soft cloth settles across his body. Warm hands settle on his shoulders. Ignore it, he orders himself. Sleep. Escape.

Against his will, his eyes flutter open. So undisciplined, so out of control.

Wei Ying is leaning over him, so, so near as he settles his outer robe over Lan Wangji, a soft look of something like fondness in his expression.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, face close enough that Lan Wangji can see the faint blush rise on his cheeks. So close that his breath stirs the air against his face, soothing and provoking all at once. Just as Wei Ying himself has always been.

Wei Ying’s thumbs rub absently across the curve of Lan Wangji’s shoulders, giving him a sheepish smile. “I thought you were asleep.”

Maybe he is asleep. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe he is just broken and tired and unable to resist. The fleeting, thoughtless caress of Wei Ying’s hands against his shoulders spilling everything over. Because somehow Lan Wangji forgets that this means nothing. Means nothing to Wei Ying. Only thinks how much he wants it to mean something.

His hand lifts, fingers touching softly against the warmth of Wei Ying’s cheek, chasing the burn of color there, like seeking proof. When his choice is between doing this and crying, this feels only marginally safer.

“Uh, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, not moving, but eyes widening. “Is there something on my—”

He stops talking as Lan Wangji’s thumb presses into the corner of that devastating, infuriating, teasing grin.

Lan Wangji briefly wonders if this is what being drunk feels like. If this is why it is forbidden, if such a state makes people just do as they please without fear of consequence. If it makes bodies incapable of being still and doing nothing which is the choice he should have made. Usually makes.  

Wei Ying has not pulled away, just blinks back at Lan Wangji for long moments before swaying even closer. His mouth opens on a gentle exhalation and Lan Wangji curls his fingers into the soft skin of Wei Ying’s neck just behind the sharp jut of his jaw. Presses in.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, wonderingly, his voice sliding down Lan Wangji’s spine, flaring heat low in his belly.

“Wei Ying,” he says, their same endless call and response. His voice sounds wrong though. He’s giving too much away, is too ragged to hide it. Too worn to brace for the inevitable pain and embarrassment that will follow, this thing he has fought against for so long. To lose Wei Ying at last to hatred and disgust.

Maybe Lan Wangji really is nothing without his ribbon lashing him together.

It’s a horrible, shameful thought, but he has no time to linger on it because Wei Ying’s face is dipping even closer, his lips brushing against his.

It’s almost a question, the gentle not-quite-there touch, Wei Ying’s eyes still open as he watches Lan Wangji’s face, nose softly bumping against his cheek. Nudging. Testing his boundaries. As always.

It takes everything in Lan Wangji not to surge into the touch, to not just take what he has wanted for so long even as he fought against it. He is still half-braced for the laughter, for the punch line, for Wei Ying to dance back out of reach the second he tries. Did you honestly think I could want you? Want a pillar of ice?

He does not want to believe Wei Ying could ever be that cruel. Even unknowingly.

“Do not joke,” Lan Wangji somehow manages to say, wanting to sound harsh and unbending, wanting to shove and retreat, but knowing instead how broken and pleading his words are. Wanting. His hand is not pushing away, but curling tight into the silken strands of Wei Ying’s hair.

Wei Ying studies his face, something painfully sincere there. “I won’t. I wouldn’t.”

But rather than pulling back, than ending this horrible torment that Lan Wangji only has himself to blame for, Wei Ying presses closer, lips firm and warm against his.

Lan Wangji’s entire body threatens to shudder under the sensation, emotions rioting and fighting to escape his control. He sucks in a breath through his nose and closes his eyes in a panicked attempt to find equilibrium. It has the effect of focusing all his senses down on the feel of Wei Ying’s lips, the heat of his nearness, the relentless thud of his own heart. None of this centers him. Not when the simple press of dry lips is already almost too much. Nowhere near enough.

He has to stop himself from starting at the sensation of fingers against his cheek, Wei Ying moving closer, pressure increasing. Lan Wangji’s lips give way to him as a soft round sound tries to break free of his throat.

He lets Wei Ying kiss him like this, remaining still and open under him. Too afraid to give anything back despite the heat blooming in his chest. Too afraid that the moment he tries to reach for more it will be snatched away. But, oh, how much he also wants, wants, wants, and so he can’t resist the cautious flick of his tongue against Wei Ying’s lower lip where it presses between his, wanting to taste him. Wei Ying jerks, only to meet him immediately, mouth open and eager, welcoming, somehow seeming to know what it is Lan Wangji wants when he barely knows himself.

Wei Ying presses even closer, a whiney sound at the back of his throat that seems to reverberate in Lan Wangji’s own flesh like an answering note. Deep. Abiding. Inescapable. He is drowning. He is coming up for a first true gasp of air.

Everything retreats unexpectedly as Wei Ying jostles Lan Wangji’s leg—sharp, unforgiving pain shooting through his entire body, enough to cut through the heavy haze of desire.

Lan Wangji hisses, feeling sweat break out on his brow, black spots in his vision. He is reeling and lost, bouncing between opposing sensations.

Wei Ying pulls out of reach. “I’m so sorry! I can’t believe—I wasn’t thinking. Is your leg okay? Of course, it’s not okay. Let me see. Did I ruin it? Does it hurt a lot?” His hand lands on Lan Wangji’s thigh as he twists to look at it, but Lan Wangji couldn’t care less about his leg in the moment. He should. That would be the proper thing.

None of this is proper.

The pain recedes as he concentrates on the lurid heat of Wei Ying’s palm on his thigh, the flush of Wei Ying’s face, his lips shiny and full and well-kissed. By Lan Wangji. That was done by him. The satisfaction unfurling in his chest is a solid, dangerous thing.

Wei Ying still babbles and apologizes, the words echoing and building against the stone walls. Lan Wangji briefly shuts his eyes against it, centering himself, even as he wants to know what, exactly, Wei Ying is apologizing for. But also afraid to know.

Do not be of two minds, he thinks automatically, and tries to let it calm him, contain him. But it is hollow, as he has always been of two minds when it comes to Wei Ying.

“Are you sorry?” he finds himself asking.

Wei Ying looks at him, eyes wide. “Of course, I am! Your leg—”

Lan Wangji shakes his head. “Not my leg.”

Wei Ying stills, and only because they are still so close, because Lan Wangji is staring at him so brazenly, unable to look away, does he see the moment of raw feeling—something like worry and pain, and more vulnerable than he would ever think to see from Wei Ying—before his expression slips carefree and teasing again.

His body is all fluttering movement in an instant, and Lan Wangji considers that can be as much a cover as stillness. It’s a startling thought, one he files away carefully to think on more when he has the chance.

Wei Ying rubs at the back of his head, smiling widely. “Oh, uh. Yes. I can apologize for that too if you like. I thought…but I probably thought wrong! And now I’ve horribly offended you. Yet again. So maybe you can just please forget I did that and we can pretend, even though, honestly, I think I’d much rather do that again, every day if you would let me, and, boy, is that something I was not expecting, but I know that you barely tolerate me and I’d rather you didn’t hate me, so we can just chalk it up to—”

Lan Wangji grabs Wei Ying’s shoulder and cuts him off by dragging his mouth back to his. Like Lan Wangji is possessed, wild. And maybe he is because this time he does not sit passive under Wei Ying’s kisses, finally giving way to what he wants, mouth taking and demanding because Lan Wangji is always listening carefully when Wei Ying speaks and Wei Ying said he wants to do this again. Every day if he would let him.

Wei Ying makes the most ridiculously wanton sound against his mouth and Lan Wangji wants to swallow it down and let it live inside of him forever.

Wei Ying slides his hands into Lan Wangji’s hair, fingers pressing into the curve of his skull, each pad of his finger a bright spot of energy shooting straight down his spine. Lan Wangji lets out a gasp, pulling his mouth away just long enough to suck in a deep breath and Wei Ying immediately protests, shuffling forward on his knees, nearly falling over in his eagerness.

Lan Wangji presses his hand to the flat of Wei Ying’s back to steady him. He guides him closer out of range of his leg that no longer hurts in the slightest and maybe that should be worrying but the thought flitters away, because Wei Ying is closer now, at last, knee pressing up against the outside of his thigh right before he crushes his mouth back to Lan Wangji’s.  

Everything is heat and pressure and the slide of Wei Ying’s tongue against his, Lan Wangji feeling as if he’s swallowed an entire wildfire, not the steady power and warmth of his core, but something writhing and sparking.

With Wei Ying nearly in his lap now, there is no part of him that is not easily within reach, and Lan Wangji’s hands are greedy, like this might be something snatched away at any moment. He methodically discovers the planes of his sides, his back. Wei Ying’s sinfully red robe is so thin under Lan Wangji’s palm, hiding none of the heat or shifting muscles of his back as he reaches and writhes and never stops moving because he is Wei Ying, even while doing this, so much Wei Ying. Lan Wangji wants his mouth on every inch of Wei Ying’s body with an intensity that winds him. He can no longer feel shame for it. Just wants, sharp and liquid.

He is dizzy with the continued assault of Wei Ying’s mouth and lips and tongue and it is somehow too much and not enough, too far and too near.

Lan Wangji twists his hand in the front of Wei Ying’s robe, needing him closer, needing him to still, just needing something to hold onto and Wei Ying lets out a sharp yelp of pain. Lan Wangji jerks back, releasing his grip, Wei Ying’s mouth pulling free from his with a wet sound that is going to haunt him forever.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Wei Ying says between bouts of shaky laughter. “We have perhaps not chosen the best moment for this.”

“I apologize,” Lan Wangji says, horrified to have so thoughtlessly caused him pain.

Wei Ying shakes his head, pressing a hand to the still-seeping brand on his chest. “No, no. A little pain is worth it. Believe me.”

Lan Wangji can’t help but feel the flair of annoyance in his chest, everything inside him writhing and upside down and not in its proper place. “Worth having her remember you always?”

Wei Ying’s eyes widen, another laugh spilling from his lips. “Heavens. I read that so wrong didn’t I? I mean, you were jealous. But not of Mianmian. I can’t believe that. Am I dreaming right now?”

Wei Ying looks delighted, and Lan Wangji has to look away, feeling his ears burn, not sure if being so transparent is mortifying or if he’s simply relieved for Wei Ying to finally see him, if that is better than Wei Ying’s misguided teasing and blindness.

But Wei Ying doesn’t relent long enough for Lan Wangji to clarify his own thoughts. “I actually meant a little pain was worth kissing you, by the way. This entire fucking disaster is worth getting to kiss you. Isn’t that insane to even say? But it’s how I feel right now. Even if you come to your senses the moment we get rescued. Or you actually get some sleep.” There is something bittersweet under his smile, and Lan Wangji realizes he has let himself be far too dazzled by those grins to see what might be hiding underneath. Or maybe too scared to look long enough to be able to notice.

He will set himself to the task of learning better to see it. To know each and every inflection. He’s never looking away again.

“I am always sensible,” Lan Wangji says.

Wei Ying laughs again, patting absently at his shoulder. “Yes, yes. I certainly didn’t mean to offend. No one could speak against Lan-er-gongzi’s levelheadedness.”

Lan Wangji feels Wei Ying is deliberately misunderstanding him for some reason, but he has no shame left, having already broken himself open so effectively, having now felt what it is to have Wei Ying in his arms. Willingly. Enthusiastically. There is no lying to himself. And there is no lying to Wei Ying.

Lan Wangji reaches for the back of Wei Ying’s neck, pulling him near.

Wei Ying’s hands flap a bit in surprise, but he comes willingly, everything in him seeming to go still, almost hanging from his grip, and this is another reaction Lan Wangji wants to learn more about. Some time when he is less exhausted.

Only once Wei Ying’s face is nearly touching his own, their eyes looking directly into each other, does Lan Wangji speak again. “I am always sensible,” he repeats. He has not lost his sense. He has only taken what he has always wanted. What he will always want. There will be no recanting. To think he would is offensive to him.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, his eyes blown wide. “Oh.”

Lan Wangji hums in agreement, attention caught by the sight of Wei Ying’s lips even as he feels exhaustion tugging relentlessly, his eyes heavy.

“So this isn’t just like, I don’t know, temporary insanity?”

Lan Wangji gives him a flat, unimpressed stare before leaning back against the cave wall behind him. “Long term insanity.” There can be no other way to describe the confliction he has been plagued with for so long.

Wei Ying lets out a startled laugh, and this one feels real and earned by Lan Wangji and it’s the most lovely sound he’s ever heard. “Lan Zhan!” he says, delighted and scandalized.

He feels his eyes sliding shut, his exhaustion a solid thing dragging him down. “Since I first met Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, this time soft and a bit thick. “I like you so much.”

Lan Wangji struggles to stay awake, to open his eyes, to think of something to say in response, something right, but he can only squeeze Wei Ying’s arm where he is still holding it. Never wants to let go of.

“It’s okay, Lan Zhan. Go to sleep.” There’s the soft press of what must be Wei Ying’s lips against his forehead, right where his ribbon should be, seductive warmth spreading out through his entire body from the simple touch. “Sleep now.”

“Wei Ying,” he mumbles one last time, and then drifts off.

Chapter Text

ii.

When Lan Wangji next wakes, Wei Ying is sitting by the fire, once again drying off his damp outer robe. His hair hangs down his back in wet tangles, turning the thin fabric against his back dark and sheer. It’s very nearly obscene.

Rather than looking away, Lan Wangji allows himself to stare without fear of being caught, without fear of what it might mean that he wants to look so keenly. He knows exactly what it means. And so he stares and lets the events of the previous evening replay in his mind, even as his breathing becomes unsteady. Only then does he think to take stock of his own body, noting that the splint is no longer on his leg, his robes now pulled carefully down to his ankles.

The break has nearly set again, but he can still feel the bite wound. The beast’s mouth, while not poisonous, was still far from clean either physically or spiritually. The wounds threaten to fester, better for the herbs Wei Ying applied, but still taking much of his energy to keep at bay. There is a dark residue, resentful and oily, that lingers tenaciously. He will be able to fight it off, but not without weakening himself. And without food or water it will only become more difficult as the days pass.  

There is nothing to be done, and so Lan Wangji doesn’t dwell on it.

Lifting his hand to his forehead, he feels his headband once again firmly in place. Done while he was sleeping.

The movement attracts Wei Ying’s attention at last. “Oh, you’re awake. Must be five in the morning. Very reliable. I, uh, put your headband back on. I know it makes you uncomfortable to be without it.” His cheeks are flushed as he continues to ramble, turning back to the fire after just the briefest glance.

Any other day, Lan Wangji might have found himself in tumult over the thought of Wei Ying tying his headband on for him. But even if Wei Ying doesn’t know what it means, it is his right, now. Always will be.

“Thank you,” Lan Wangji says, knowing the gesture to be meant as a kindness and not to offend. 

This only seems to ramp Wei Ying up, blathering on about how he doesn’t want Lan Wangji’s formal thanks. Then he explains how he’s been back into the underground lake again, searching for the exit Jiang Wanyin had found. To no avail. It’s important information, even as Lan Wangji is annoyed to think Wei Ying went back into that brackish, bloody water while injured with a burn. By himself. With an ancient creature more than capable of killing him. That he risked himself yet again.

“Your wound?” Lan Wangji asks, touching his own chest as if to mirror the injury.

“What, this?” Wei Ying brushes off. “Fine! Barely hurts.”

Wei Ying continues to twist and move in a frenzy, the thin layer of his underrobe loose around his collarbones, rich color beautiful against the warm bronze of his skin.

Lan Wangji observes this another long moment, the edge to Wei Ying’s movements, the way his gaze doesn’t settle. The strange way his smile sits on his face. It’s a luxury to observe so intently. Yet beneath the warmth this new freedom affords him, a tension starts to gather between Lan Wangji’s brow as he watches, seeing the strange distance Wei Ying is keeping when yesterday he had been content to press up into Lan Wangji’s space like a sleepy kitten.

Is Wei Ying…upset?

He doesn’t know how to ask, how to understand how Wei Ying is acting. Another long moment of watching and something occurs to him. Does Wei Ying wish to pretend what happened between them had not? Pain flares in Lan Wangji’s stomach at the thought. Though he also knows that for Wei Ying’s comfort, for his friendship, he would allow it. Find a way to contain all of this back in the shattered cage of his chest. A near impossibility, but for Wei Ying he would.

“Your leg looked better,” Wei Ying says, still fluttering. “When I took the splint off. And you slept pretty well. That’s good! Probably all back to your normal self again.” He peers back over his shoulder, and there is that fleeting, artificial smile again.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, the problem becoming clear.

“Hmm…what?” Wei Ying replies, almost absently, his back still turned to him. And yet he is flapping the fabric in front of the flames rapidly enough that Lan Wangji is concerned it might catch fire.

“Wei Ying,” he says again, willing himself to be patient. “Come here.”

“Right, of course,” he says, bouncing over to his side and yet still keeping a careful distance. Something he has never bothered to do in all the time he has known him. “Do you need something?”

Decisive action is best, Lan Wangji decides. Reaching out, he pulls Wei Ying’s mouth down to his.

Wei Ying makes a brief sound like “mmmfph!” but then goes boneless, sighing into the kiss. This time it is brief, delicate. Almost shy, and Lan Wangji finds he doesn’t mind, fascinated by the idea that kisses can be different and unique and no less compelling. Like endless variations on a single theme. Something deserving of study.

He pulls back, observing the way every line in Wei Ying’s body has gone soft and relaxed.

Better, he thinks, gratified that he has drawn the right conclusions, that his action appears to be the correct one.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, face red. “What was that?”

Lan Wangji thought it rather self-evident. “You said every day.”

Wei Ying’s eyes widen. “Uh. Well, yes, god, I suppose I did actually say that. I didn’t expect you to listen to me.”

Lan Wangji furrows his brow. “I always listen to Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “Okay. I’m honestly not sure what to do with that.”

“Did you not mean it?”

Wei Ying runs his hands restlessly down his robes as if attempting to straighten them, hands spreading flat against his thighs. “Oh, no. I definitely meant it.”

Lan Wangji nods, giving a soft hum. They are in agreement then.

“What. That’s it? You’re just…okay with that?” Wei Ying’s voice has gone slightly hysterical.

Lan Wangji looks him over critically. He looks tired. Wrapping his hand around Wei Ying’s wrist, he tugs, pulling him down so that he is once again sitting against his side away from his injured leg.

Wei Ying doesn’t complain, still watching him with wide eyes as he lets Lan Wangji arrange him and push him into place.

“Rest,” he orders once he’s content with his positioning. He doesn’t have to ask to know that Wei Ying likely slept not at all during the night. It is perhaps wise, with the monster still lurking nearby, for one of them to be awake at all times. It is Lan Wangji’s turn to keep watch.

“So demanding,” Wei Ying mutters, still looking like a startled animal. But he also slowly curls into his side, his flailing not making a reappearance. He tentatively leans his head against Lan Wangji’s shoulder as if waiting to be pushed off. “Is this really okay?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says. Why would he have made him sit there otherwise?

“Alright, alright,” Wei Ying says, laughing slightly. He turns his face into Lan Wangji’s shoulder, words muffled against his sleeve. “I like you so much.”

Lan Wangji feels his body flush with warmth, his heart beating out a startled little dance. He considers that while it is perhaps obvious at this point, maybe stating the obvious is not always wrong. When it comes to Wei Ying, specifically. “I like you very much as well,” he says, trying the words out and finding he does not mind them at all.

Wei Ying twitches, letting out a soft sound of complaint against the fabric of Lan Wangji’s robes. “Lan Zhan, have mercy.”

“Rest,” he orders again, because Wei Ying apparently needs to be told things more than once. He will do his best to remember that.

“Yes, yes,” Wei Ying mumbles. “This one will obey.”

Surprisingly, he actually does. It doesn’t take long for him to doze off, speaking loudly to his own exhaustion and how much he has been taking care of Lan Wangji instead of himself.

While Lan Wangji is more than tempted to just watch Wei Ying soft in sleep, he instead takes advantage of the silence to slip into a light meditative state. Just deep enough to organize his thoughts, to find equilibrium. He listens to the soft cadence of Wei Ying’s breath, the distant drip of water, the static rumble of a lifeless cave.

Hunger is now a dull ache in his stomach, but nothing he is not capable of enduring. It may become more significant as time passes. Depending on how long they need to wait for rescue. Lan Zhan feels out the edges of the sensation, acknowledges it, and then sets it aside. Just like the lingering pain in his leg.

Dealing with physical hardship has always been simple. More complicated is the deep well of fear and sadness roiling deep inside of him, his worry for his home, his family. The shame of what the Wen Sect did to them. His rage at Wen Xu and Wen Chao, the part of him that wishes revenge. He examines each one in turn before setting them aside. Honoring them for what they are, but not letting them overwhelm him.

Through it all, he is aware of the space around him, the warmth of Wei Ying against his side. Trusting him to watch over him. Returning his desire, turning toward him and not away. I like you so much.

It is all he has never dared to let himself want.

Another emotion that must be acknowledged. No longer run from.

He carefully holds that truth inside him, turning it gently this way and that in his mind before slotting it gently into place.

Opening his eyes, he watches Wei Ying sleep.

Chapter Text

iii.

“I’m bored,” Wei Ying predictably complains sometime in the evening.

They have been waiting barely more than a day. They spent the afternoon talking about the beast at great length, what it might be, and how long they can hope to hide from it. It had been an exhilarating and enlightening conversation. After, Wei Ying prowled around the space, collecting more wood, poking about for another exit. Lan Wangji had used the time to carefully stretch his body as best he could, working out the stiffness of being still for so long. Making sure he is ready should he need to fight.

Having finished, Lan Wangji rearranges himself back against the wall of the cave just in time for Wei Ying to make his declaration.

“Bored,” Wei Ying repeats, settling back into Lan Wangji’s side, leaning heavily into him, limbs akimbo, one elbow catching him in the ribs. “So, so, so bored.” He draws each word out like a childish moan.

Lan Wangji doesn’t dignify it with a response.

“Lan Zhaaaan,” Wei Ying says, tugging on his sleeve. As always, hating to be ignored.

And as usual, Lan Wangji is imprudently curious to see what Wei Ying might do, what new level of shamelessness he might reach for in the face of continued outward indifference. In the beginning, he had ignored Wei Ying in hopes he would grow bored and go away. Wei Ying never had. Now Lan Wangji pretends to ignore him for a different reason entirely.

Wei Ying is undeterred, squirming more before saying, “I would suggest practicing sword forms, but your leg probably can’t take that.” He accompanies this observation with a finger sliding down Lan Wangji’s thigh.

He doesn’t shiver, but it’s a near thing. Only a day ago, such a touch would have sent Lan Wangji reaching for his sword in a surge of anger, so sure he was being mocked, so uncertain of this feeling in his chest. Of course, a day ago, even Wei Ying would not have been quite so brazen.

It’s hard to imagine a Wei Ying who is even more free with physical touch, what that might be like. Lan Wangji is suddenly desperate to know.

Wei Ying props his chin on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. Whatever he’s about to say will no doubt be provoking and shameless. “I suppose there are other skills we can practice.”

Lan Wangji is certain he knows exactly which skills Wei Ying is referring to, even without the completely unsubtle nudge the statement is accompanied with. He keeps his face blank. “If you like,” he says mildly, hoping the pounding of his heart is not audible. 

Wei Ying gives a satisfyingly shocked gasp, his fingers pinching at his side. “Lan Wangji. So insatiable.”

With effort, Lan Wangji folds his hands carefully in his lap, leaning away from Wei Ying. “If it is excessive, I will refrain.”

Wei Ying lifts his chin to look at him more directly, eyes narrowing, and Lan Wangji forces his face as still as possible despite the writhing feeling inside of him. Nervous, he thinks. Excited, perhaps. Anticipatory. After all, this is not something he has done before. To actually play into Wei Ying’s teasing, to dare to give back.

He seems to be allowing himself all sorts of things now that he never has before.

“You are bullying me,” Wei Ying says slowly, sounding not completely sure, but very suspicious.

“Do not bully the weak,” Lan Wangji immediately replies.  

“Weak!” Wei Ying predictably shrieks in outrage.

Lan Wangji ignores his theatrics. It only increases Wei Ying’s agitation. Lan Wangji feels a smile tug at his lips and fights to keep his face smooth as Wei Ying swings around up onto his knees, leaning into him, all bright light and sharp indignation.

Lan Wangji feels his breath catch in his throat, a hook under his ribs like Wei Ying’s clever little binding talisman tugging tight against his wrist.

He is so beautiful.  

Wei Ying seems unaware of the effect he is having on Lan Wangji, simply badgering on. “Lan Zhan. Do I have to remind you that you have yet to best me with a sword?” He pokes at Lan Wangji’s chest, rings of heat radiating outward from each touch like a ripple across a still pond. “No matter how many times you have tried? Hmmm?”

Lan Wangji does not respond, caught in the memory of dueling with Wei Ying. He has rarely felt as challenged and surprised as the few times they have crossed swords. He very much wishes to do it again. There is a momentary pang as he thinks of Bichen, rage simmering right underneath.

Wei Ying yelps in complaint, bringing Lan Wangji’s attention back to the present. “You can’t even stand right now! Who dragged you back here and saved you from the evil monster? Who survived a night locked in the Wen’s dungeon with an enormous demon wolf?” He shudders as if at the memory, his voice going tight and high, and Lan Wangji’s hand clench with remembered helplessness. “Lan Zhan, I insist you take it back! I am not weak. I demand you admit it right now. Or I’ll—I’ll—”

He doesn’t immediately come up with a consequence, one long, graceful finger tapping at his lips as he struggles. Lan Wangji stares, mesmerized by the movement, simultaneously wanting his mouth on those lips and that finger.

“You will what,” Lan Wangji says, very nearly goading, no longer able to keep himself from pushing back against every angle of Wei Ying’s assault. The thing in his chest is expanding, demanding more. He will need to spend more time meditating to keep his baser impulses under control if he hopes not to bring humiliation upon himself.

Wei Ying’s eyes swivel back to him, something sharper lingering under his usual warmth as he leans in, now impossibly close. “Oh, trust me, Lan Zhan. It will be something truly terrible.”

Lan Wangji’s blood hums in response, energy vibrating through his limbs in the face of this challenge. Considering his response, he gauges the exact level of exertion it will require. Taking care for his injury, he shifts in one smooth motion, grabbing Wei Ying’s poking hand. He twists and lifts until it is pinned back against the wall, high enough above Wei Ying’s head to pull at his shoulder as Lan Wangji leans into him hard.

He had thought about it, in the library those long afternoons, of just shoving Wei Ying up against a wall, holding him there. Forcing him to be still. To stop teasing and mocking. To mean it.

Just as he might have hoped all those long months ago, Wei Ying is startled into silence by the move, body immediately tense and poised for action. Trained for response.

“You will what,” Lan Wangji repeats, pulse thundering away in his ears. Almost like the adrenaline of a fight. Of a test of his skills and limits. His training. Only much less governable, this time. A rising storm.   

Wei Ying’s hand clenches almost reflexively, the tendons of his wrist sliding under Lan Wangji’s grip. Testing the hold he has on him, pushing against it. Lan Wangji tightens his grip in response, leaning further into it, his knee sliding up between Wei Ying’s thighs. He watches the shift of Wei Ying’s muscles with something deeper and sharper than hunger in his stomach. Wei Ying could probably break free, if he really wanted. But he would have to work for it. And maybe only because of Lan Wangji’s injury.

He half wants him to try, is filled with the foolish whim to wrestle around on the floor with him like a willful child he was never allowed to be. It’s like something is breaking open in him. It leaves him breathless and feeling the need to apologize. To retreat. To find a way to pretend this is anger and not something much more treacherous.

He doesn’t want to.

Especially not when Wei Ying looks up at him, eyes bright and calculating, as if he’s trying to parse exactly what is happening but is excited to figure it out. His free hand lifts to Lan Wangji’s chest, pressing firmly into the steady bulk of his body. Judging his intent.

Lan Wangji stands firm, refusing to budge, to relinquish the stillness that feels like the only thing holding him together.  

“You’ve caught me,” Wei Ying says, fingers curling into the fabric of his robes. No longer pushing away. His head tilts to the side, curious. “What will you do with me?”

For once, this isn’t a flippant tease. Wei Ying’s eyes are dark and intent, chest swelling with his breath as if in anticipation. A challenge met and answered.

Wei Ying’s lips part, the tip of his tongue just visible beyond and Lan Wangji’s brain threatens to go fuzzy and blank.

But this is a contest he refuses to lose.

Tightening his grip on Wei Ying’s wrist, Lan Wangji tugs it higher, the red underrobe pulling open at the neck in response, revealing the long line of his collarbone. Wei Ying sucks in a breath, the hand on Lan Wangji’s chest spasming, pushing and pulling in rapid succession as if scrabbling for purchase.

“Lan Zhan—” he starts to say.

Lan Wangji ducks his head, pressing his open mouth to the jumping pulse at the base of Wei Ying’s throat.

“Ah,” Wei Ying exclaims, followed by a stuttered series of syllables without discernable pattern of sense within them.

The noises become only more nonsensical as Lang Wangji sucks gently, pulling the skin into his mouth, following the pressure with the flat press of his tongue against the flutter of Wei Ying’s pulse.

“Oh, ah—Lan Zhan, I—” Wei Ying says, flustered and stumbling, and Lan Wangji feels the fierce satisfaction of setting a worthy opponent on their back foot.

“Are you still bored?” he asks, face still turned into the warm skin of Wei Ying’s neck.

Wei Ying lets out a breathless, shaking laugh, one Lan Wangji feels reverberate down into his own flesh. “You have never, by any stretch of the imagination, been boring, Lan Zhan. And are only less so by the moment.”

Lan Wangji makes a soft hum in response, and then allows himself to start nosing his way up Wei Ying’s throat, tasting as he goes.

Wei Ying tilts his head back, eagerly providing greater access. “Fuck,” he breathes, sounding shaken. “I’m the boring one, remember?”

“Ridiculous.”

Wei Ying grins. Lan Wangji can’t see it. But he can feel it in the tightening of the tendons of his neck, the movement of his jaw against the side of Lan Wangji’s face. He could never have imagined it, getting to feel Wei Ying’s smiles and not just watch them from afar.

He does not know what he is doing, is very much aware of his ignorance, only able to chase his impulses and Wei Ying’s reactions. He is still doing nothing more than using his mouth and tongue on Wei Ying’s neck, discovering the soft space beneath the angle of his jaw. And yet Wei Ying begins to shift restlessly under him, his free hand finding the end of Lan Wangji’s hair, twisting insistently into it. Tugging. Demanding. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, a constant noisy refrain, breathless and whiny .

It is so much, the movement and the shift of Wei Ying’s wrist under his grip, the pull of fingers so close to his trailing ribbon, and the scent of Wei Ying’s skin, the taste of it. Invading every one of his senses. The sheer breathless freedom of having this. 

So much touch and closeness when he is very much used to distance. Solitude.

It is completely overwhelming, so much that excitement and panic become too close to untwine.

In desperation, Lan Wangji’s free hand finds Wei Ying’s hip, feeling the hard jut of bone before pushing forcefully down in hopes of finding some small reprieve. That this might give him a moment to breathe and regroup. Wei Ying gasps, growing only louder in response. Closer. Tugging and pushing and demanding. 

The impulse barely flits across Lan Wangji’s brain—wanting Wei Ying to still long enough for his mind to clear, to be able to think, wanting to hear him, wanting this to stop and never stop—before he is setting his teeth to the juncture of Wei Ying’s shoulder and neck. Frantically biting down. Hard.

Wei Ying lets out a yelp of surprise, his whole body jerking. “Lan Zhan,” he cries, voice sharp.

Lan Wangji feels it like a slap, the realization of what he’s just done. What he allowed to happen. He feels shame flood his body at once.

There is a reason, Lan Wangji is painfully reminded, that he has always retreated—into silence, into violence, or running away—whenever Wei Ying pushed him too close to the edge. Because there is something vast and writhing inside of him that Wei Ying only makes more ungovernable.

A vice, surely. Like pride and fear and sadness and anger. The very things he has spent his entire life gaining control over, never letting break into his surfaces or rule his actions. And yet those are also the things he has had to look at straight on in order to understand, to learn the contours of in order to contain. But this other writhing thing inside him, the one Wei Ying relentlessly swirls into a raging inferno, he cannot even dare look at it. Cannot risk giving a name. Knowing it to be so vast, so uncontainable that it will surely consume him. Or show him something unredeemably shameful about himself.

And so it has.

He tries to pull away, to retreat, to find some way to hide from this. To apologize. He can do none of these things, finding himself frozen in place.

“Lan Zhan. You bit me! I can’t believe you did that. How merciless you are. Are you so hungry that you’ve decided to eat me bite by bite?”

Yes, Lan Wangji thinks wildly. Maybe that is exactly what he wants to do. Wants to consume him.

Surely not a righteous impulse. And definitely something Wei Ying can never know.

Wei Ying is laughing. At him, as always. But isn’t Lan Wangji something worthy of being mocked? Hasn’t he proven that yet again?

Lan Wangji turns his face away, feeling the painful burn of his ears and chest. He reaches up with a shaking hand to pull Wei Ying’s hand free of his hair.

“Hey. No. Where are you going? No, no. You can’t do that and then just—” Wei Ying breaks off, a long, considering silence stretching between them. His hand touches Lan Wangji’s face, gently turning him towards him.

Lan Wangji allows it, but cannot bring himself to meet his gaze.  

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, horribly soft.

Lan Zhan’s gaze settles on the deep red mark on Wei Ying’s neck, the ridges of teeth clear even as the skin hasn’t broken. Even worse than horror, the thing in his chest just feels satisfied. He closes his eyes.

“Hey,” Wei Ying says, fingers tugging at his hair. “What if I admit it? Hm? Then will you look at me again?”

Lan Wangji is trembling now, his hand still tight around Wei Ying’s wrist even as his arm shakes. He cannot see a way forward. Any way to retreat.

Wei Ying leans into him, mouth near his ear. “I love it when you bully me, Lan Zhan. There. I admit it. I liked it. I like anything you would do to me. I didn’t know I would. But I do.”  

Lan Zhan loses control of his throat, a pained whine escaping.

Wei Ying only hums in response, his nose brushing against Lan Wangji’s cheek. “If you don’t do it again, I’ll decide you really do think I’m weak.”

“Wei Ying is not weak,” Lan Wangij says, knowing the truth of it. He’s strong. So strong. So bright and powerful that it frightens him.

“So you admit it at last,” Wei Ying says, sounding pleased. He wraps his free hand against the back of Lan Wangji’s neck, pulling him closer. “Kiss me.” He jiggles his arm a bit when Lan Wangji doesn’t immediately comply. “Come on, Lan Zhan. Kiss me already. I’ve been waiting so patiently.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t allow Wei Ying to pull him closer, still not trusting himself with this. Instead, he reaches out and carefully fixes Wei Ying’s robe to cover him properly.

“What? Nooo,” Wei Ying complains, trying to roll his shoulder as if to shove the cloth back free.

Lan Wangji only tugs more firmly, nonsensically trying to hide the mark from sight as if that might erase it. The mark is too high to be properly hidden. It would be seen by anyone, were there anyone here to witness. He refuses to be thrilled by the idea.

“You are the worst, Lan Zhan. An absolute monster. I am not going to stop talking until you come up here and shut me up. I mean it, I’m going to—”

Lan Wangji has no idea what possesses him to do it, still half wild and barely holding on, but he presses his thumb down into the bruise left by his mouth.

Wei Ying breaks off, gasping. “Okay, yes, do that again.”

“Demanding,” Lan Wangji retorts.

Wei Ying nods in agreement. “I’m very needy, Lan Zhan, you know this about me. I’m a vast, bottomless cavern.”

Good, Lan Wangji thinks fiercely. Hoping that can somehow be true. Please.

“You’ll need to work very hard, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, hand once again pulling, palm of his hand hot and burning even through the thick drape of his hair. “Be incredibly dedicated.”

Lan Wangji allows himself to be tugged closer at last, to let Wei Ying guide his mouth to his, to kiss him deeply and recklessly, to risk pouring himself into something he can only hope never overflows.

Chapter Text

iv.

The next morning in the cave, Lan Wangji once again wakes to see Wei Ying kneeling near the fire. Not damp from a swim this time, and fully clothed for once. Wei Ying holds a stick in one hand. He’s using it to absently poke at the flames, not with intention so much as meditative repetition as he stares off into the middle distance. His eyes are narrowed, body curved in on itself in elegant disarray. Relaxed, but poised for action.

Beautiful.

For once, the thought does not have Lan Wangji immediately spiraling into a tangle of embarrassment and anger and confusion. Instead, he simply sits with the thought, feeling the inescapable truth of it. The rush of it takes him in a different direction, something light and foggy in his brain as if he has flown too high into the clouds.

He takes a carefully measured breath in an attempt to dispel the sensation, focusing instead on Wei Ying and the slight furrow of his brow that gives off a sense of deep concentration.

While most of Lan Wangji’s earliest encounters with Wei Ying impressed upon him the man’s frivolousness, his hedonistic pursuit of fleeting pleasures and mischief without any care of consequence, Lan Wangji has also never forgotten the very first time he laid eyes upon Wei Ying. The first words he heard spoken from those lips—lips he has now felt on his own, lips he has kissed. More than once.

His next breath is not quite so steady.

Lan Wangji forces his mind back to the first time he saw Wei Ying, peering at the body of a fallen Lan disciple, eyes intent and intelligent as he casually made an observation that betrayed the brilliant mind hidden underneath. An early glimpse of a core truth: Wei Ying is not one to be distracted by surfaces and assumptions, but rather is very much able to get to the heart of things underneath, no matter how improbable they may be to others. It had been enough to make Lan Wangji pause and look back at the new visiting disciple again. In curiosity. In surprise.  

Little did Lan Wangji know that this ability might be turned against himself so devastatingly, that Wei Ying might be one of the few people to see past Lan Wangji’s impenetrable surface. Lan Wangji thinks he can be forgiven the fear and panic that caused him, even if his behavior cannot be as easily excused. Wei Ying is indeed capable of being outrageously annoying, impertinent, and reckless with his well-being. But Lan Wangji has also seen the way Wei Ying takes the important things very seriously, how his levity never distracts from the vows he has dedicated himself to.

Lan Wangji first glimpsed this in the Cold Water Cave, but still did not quite believe it until he heard Wei Ying speak his vows during the lantern ceremony. Their search for the yin iron only proved it time and again. And here now in this dank cave, he sees the set of Wei Ying’s shoulders, the scrunch of his face as he thinks intently about something and Lan Wangji realizes he is confident that they will find a way through this, that Wei Ying’s boundless mind will find a solution. That Lan Wangji would not wish to be in this situation with anyone other than Wei Ying.

He should perhaps be horrified by the realization, embarrassed, but instead he feels strangely calm. Settled.

One of Lan Wangji’s most childish ways of dealing with the onslaught of Wei Ying’s presence had been to call him boring. A bold-faced lie. For while Wei Ying’s increasingly outlandish antics were unsettling and bright and frightening in a way he could not understand or hope to control, they were far from boring. Wei Ying is quicksilver, shifting from laughing and joyous to serious and intent to creative and intelligent with barely a ripple between. The treacherous shift of the ocean with storm and tides, the dazzling bright warmth and glitter of sunlight on the waves.

Lan Wangji feels he could watch Wei Ying for an eternity and never grow bored.

He watches him until the stick stops moving, Wei Ying’s lips pressing together as he gives himself a small nod, like he’s decided something. Settled upon an action. Lan Wangji wishes to know what that is.

“What is it?” Lan Wangji asks.

“Ah,” Wei Ying says, turning quickly. His face softens, some quiet new smile Lan Wangji has never seen before but very much wishes to see again and again, painfully embarrassing warmth flooding through him in response. “You’re awake at last. Good morning.”

Lan Wangji is not certain what his own face is doing, but Wei Ying absolutely beams in response. “Good morning. What were you thinking?”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Wei Ying admonishes, pushing to his feet. “First things first.” He strides closer, dropping down on his knees next to Lan Wangji with little care for his own comfort.

Lan Wangji reaches out to steady him, hand wrapping around his bicep.

Wei Ying sways in closer and kisses him, slow and soft.

Lan Wangji’s eyes slide back shut in reaction, the sleepy warmth of his body seeming to expand.

Wei Ying pulls back with a soft laugh. “I still can’t believe you’re letting me do that.”

Lan Wangji blinks up at him, trying to bring his mind back into order. “What were you thinking?” he repeats, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

Wei Ying smiles brightly at him. “So persistent!” He flops down next to him, knocking their shoulders together. “I’m thinking…” He pauses dramatically, hand gesturing up towards the ceiling as if in pronouncement. “We’re going to have to kill that thing!”

Lan Zhan has been considering this as well, though the risk is high in both attacking and ignoring. But if Wei Ying has set his mind to it, there is no way Lan Wangji will let him face it alone.

He nods his agreement.

Wei Ying folds his arms across his chest. “Not to mention that when Jiang Cheng gets back, we can’t risk letting it eat him. Think of the poor Xuanwu’s indigestion! It’s probably never tasted anything that bitter before.”

Lan Wangji choses not comment on the incomprehensible relationship between Wei Ying and his brother.

Wei Ying levels a serious gaze on Lan Wangji, agile fingers tapping the knee of his injured leg. “How is your leg?”

Lan Wangji takes a moment to assess. With each hour, the wounds heal, but also drain his energy. And they will both only grow weaker without food and water.

If they are to face the beast, it must be soon.

“I am prepared,” he says by way of answer.

Wei Ying hums, unconvinced. “It won’t be easy.”

He had not assumed it would be.

“What?” Wei Ying protests. “Am I not allowed to want you safe?”

Lan Wangji blinks against the strange conflict in his chest. He is not used to being fussed over in such a manner. Not even Xichen, for all his care, would try to hold him back from a task that truly mattered. If his abilities are being questioned, he does not like it at all. But something in the way Wei Ying is looking at him makes this feel like something different. Something unexpected.

“We will be safer with it dead,” he says stiffly.  

“Certainly,” Wei Ying agrees, quickly enough to dispel any lingering indignation.

There is another stretch of silence as Wei Ying’s mind works through the problem, his breathing steady and sure.

“Tomorrow, then,” Wei Ying decides with a firm nod of his head. “If no one comes for us by then, we kill it.”

Leaving them with the rather more complicated question of how.

They spend the rest of the day talking it through, Wei Ying picking up ideas and throwing them away nearly as quickly. Lan Wangji tries to keep up, offering commentary, or asking questions. Which only drives Wei Ying in a dozen new directions, but he seems very pleased with this, praising Lan Wangji for his brilliant questions, when surely they are nothing more than practical.

Still, a plan eventually begins to form, one they pick over endlessly, working out each and every detail, debating the finer points. For Wei Ying this seems more an excuse to argue and stave off boredom than concern for consequence.

As for Lan Wangji, he finds satisfaction in the way they work well together, wishes his previous confliction had not made it impossible before as they had searched out the yin iron together. Perhaps even then he had already sensed it. He had simply been unable to understand it, let alone accept it. He will do better this time.   

Plan settled, they collect the supplies they will need to execute it, risking the beast in order to gather bows and arrows from the shore of the underground lake.

Lan Wangji makes Wei Ying rest after, the two of them barely speaking as they switch places many hours later. They should both be as rested as they can be.

In the morning, they pick up their collected supplies and begin to build their weapons for the confrontation. Wei Ying falls into concentrated silence as they prepare, the two of them working seamlessly, breaking down the bows and bundling the arrows, passing materials between them. There is no hesitation in Wei Ying’s movements, just complete, focused confidence.

Lan Wangji catches himself watching rather than focusing on his own task, and shakes his head in self-recrimination.

The bow strings woven suitably into a functional shape, Lan Wangji stands and tests his technique, feeling the line flow and move through his hands, perfectly under control. The arrowhead strikes rock and holds.

Wei Ying watches him, a smile of satisfaction curling his lips. He gives him a brisk nod. “So impressive, Lan-er-gongzi,” he coos.

Lan Wangji musters a glare, just enough to provoke a smile from Wei Ying—a generous reward for his efforts.

They are ready.

“That just leaves one thing then,” Wei Ying says, brushing his hands off on his thighs before rolling to his feet. His body is coiled and elegant with unbending focus as he strides towards Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji watches him approach, trying to suppress the heat flooding his body, the shiver under his skin, reminding himself that it is merely time to cast the spell to connect their thoughts so they may communicate without rousing the beast. He tries and fails to pretend this is simply the rush of adrenaline for a coming fight. There are more important things to focus on.

Lan Wangji lifts his hand as Wei Ying nears, preparing to cast the spell. Unsettled at the idea of having Wei Ying inside his head and yet hungry for it.

Wei Ying catches his fingers, pushing his hand to the side. Instead of allowing him to cast the spell, Wei Ying leans in and kisses Lan Wangji. Takes with an assurance that he will be welcome, and Lan Wangji feels himself threatening to melt beneath it—Wei Ying’s certainty. This, Lan Wangji wants. This he prefers to Wei Ying’s smiles covering up doubt. He wants every ounce of arrogant competence poured into him. Needs to know that Wei Ying wants him just as badly.

His body flares with the heat of it, the dangerous, roiling want that is never far beneath the surface.

Once Wei Ying has thoroughly kissed him, Lan Wangji’s mind blissfully blank of anything other than Wei Ying, he pulls back. Studying Lan Wangji’s face, Wei Ying is clearly pleased by whatever he finds there.

“For luck,” Wei Ying says, eyes flinty and cock-sure, even as his lips curve into a smile.

“Luck is irrelevant,” Lan Wangji says and then dives back into him, arm wrapping firm around Wei Ying’s waist to drag him hard against his body.

Wei Ying lets out a low chuckle that breaks off into a gasp as their bodies press together, knee to knee and hip to hip and chest to chest, perfectly matched in this as in all things.

Lan Wangji brings their mouths back together. They should perhaps save all of their energy for facing the beast. And yet this current state might be…distracting. Besides which, Lan Wangji wants this. Wants so much. Too much, likely.

Kissing is no longer enough, not close enough, and so Lan Wangji pivots, pushing Wei Ying back against the cave wall. It feels almost like fighting Wei Ying on a moonlit rooftop, strength matching strength, Lan Wangji pressing forward only to be met and parried. Wangji pushing and Wei Ying grabbing back. A touch to a hip met with a hand on a cheek.

They are plastered against one another now, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. Lan Wangji shifts, body aware of each and every point of contact between them and—oh.

Wei Ying is…aroused. That much is very clear, firm and insistent against Lan Wangji’s hip.

Lan Wangji is no different, his control not what it should be, splintering only further when Wei Ying wiggles closer, his thigh sliding between Lan Wangji’s, breath leaving him in a shaky rush at the friction, the distracting throb as he hardens further.

“Mm, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, mouth barely separated from his, lips shining and slick. Not appalled or surprised, but looking deeply, deeply pleased.

This is what you do to me, Lan Wangji imagines saying.  

Wei Ying seems to know without the words, smiling slyly at him and then reaching for Lan Wangji’s hips, holding his close as he deliberately moves against him.

They both let out low sounds, their eyes closing. It feels good. It feels so good.

Lan Wangji pulls at Wei Ying’s collar, cursing that he bothered to dress at all, for once not flouncing about in only his underrobe. He wants his hands on Wei Ying’s skin. He has to settle for the feel of hard, firm flesh beneath layers of cloth, and that is a lot even on its own.

Wei Ying arches and rocks against him and Lan Wangji twines his hand in Wei Ying’s hair, pulling so his neck is exposed. He kisses and licks and nibbles his way up his throat, chasing whatever impulse rises in him.

“Oh, fuck, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, endlessly babbling now that his mouth is unobstructed again. “That’s amazing. You’re amazing. It feels so good.”

Wei Ying is so loud and obvious but that just means Lan Wangji doesn’t have to think about anything at all, worry about if this is okay, if he has gone too far.

Wei Ying’s hands are also on Lan Wangji, everywhere, so much that he can barely follow their path, process the touches more than wanting more, the points of heat and pressure and blinding craving. He wants to be present, wants to be able to memorize each touch, but he can’t, everything in him feeling like it is pulling tighter and tighter, like it might all fall in on itself—

Lan Wangji gasps as Wei Ying’s hand brushes his hip, very, very close to where they are now rutting and shifting against each other in a way that is surely disgraceful but instead just feels like not enough.

Wei Ying stops just short of contact. “Can I?” he asks. “Is it okay? I’d like to—”

Lan Wangji isn’t sure how to answer without betraying himself horribly, sucking in a breath and ducking his head, lowering it to Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, now sounding concerned.

He is failing, even at this, being too strange, too much, too unable to process what is happening and what he should be allowed to want, what he should be able to take. He fears himself in these moments. What he could become.

“Let me take care of you,” Wei Ying whispers against his ear.

Lan Wangji feels tears pricking at his eyes and is horrified by it. Is horrified by the thought of letting someone else do this to him, to put himself into someone else’s care. He has relied entirely on his own self-regulation for so long.

The lightest sensation of touch, a brushing of fingers through cloth. “Lan Zhan?” he asks, and Lan Wangji knows for once Wei Ying will go no further until given permission, that he will not press relentlessly forward if he is not welcome.

It only makes it all worse, somehow. Because if Lan Wangji wants it, he will have to admit it. Ask for it.

He wants it. He wants it so very badly.

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, closing his eyes against the embarrassment of how needy he sounds, the rush of heat up the back of his neck. “Please.”

Wei Ying doesn’t make him say anything more, doesn’t tease or refuse, just immediately pulls at his robes, parting the cloth and then loosening his trousers. And then his hand is wrapping tight around Wangji’s arousal, the most intimate and vulnerable part of him.

A sound erupts from Lan Wangji’s throat that he hadn’t know he was capable of making. It just feels… It feels…so inexplicably good. But also out of control—frightening in the way his body has taken over for his mind, but Wei Ying is there, free arm wrapped tight around his back, holding him tight and secure.

Wei Ying is still speaking, and Lan Wangji struggles to listen, to focus on them, wanting to hear, needing something to cling to. “Lan Zhan, you feel so good, you’re so beautiful, I want to make you feel so good, Lan Zhan. Does it feel good?”

It’s shameless. He’s shameless, every word out of his mouth provocative and barefaced and dirty, and it flows over Lan Wangji like a chattering brook, like the riotous tumble of spring waters breaking through the hard winter’s freeze, equally comforting and agonizing, chipping away at his restraint as he tries not to thrust up into Wei Ying’s hand, wary equally of his leg and his dignity.

Wei Ying doesn’t seem concerned with either, his own hips still shifting, seeking friction against Lan Wangji’s thigh. It’s lewd and inelegant and absolutely perfect. Lan Wangji grabs his hips with both hands, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he shifts his knee to offer more pressure.

Wei Ying keens, mouth falling open, their movements stuttering and faltering between them as they try to do everything all at once. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his hand moving once more with relentless purpose, tight and twisting, “Does it feel good, Lan Zhan? Tell me it feels good. Tell me that you like it.”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji somehow manages to choke out, too overwhelmed to do anything other than speak the truth. “Wei Ying feels good.”

Wei Ying makes a high-pitched sound of protest and then brings their mouths together, freeing them both from the need of saying anything else. Lan Wangji can only pant into Wei Ying’s mouth, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his ass as he finally gives in and rocks up into Wei Ying’s grip, chasing what he needs.

After that there is only friction and heat, a furious tug and slide, and the ground underneath Lan Wangji is quaking and falling away as it all reaches a rushed, fumbling crescendo. He is only peripherally aware of Wei Ying’s sharp cry, the stutter of his hips, feels instead only the tightening of Wei Ying’s hand, the drawn out pleasure of release. Lan Wangji’s whole world whites out, his mind and body connected and quiet and wiped clean in a way that is almost meditative.

He comes back to himself to find them once again on the ground, tangled together and gasping.

“Oh, fuck,” Wei Ying says, his head resting against Lan Wangji’s shoulder, his body half in Lan Wangji’s lap. “Oh, wow. So that actually happened. I can pretty much die happy now.”

Lan Wangji makes a sound of disapproval, his hand tightening the grip he somehow has on the back of Wei Ying’s thigh.

Wei Ying pulls back with a laugh. “Not that we’re going to!” He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to Lan Wangji’s temple, his cheek, and, improbably, the tip of his nose. “I have far too much to live for.”

Wei Ying deliberately wiggles a bit in Lan Wangji’s lap, and in response he can’t do anything other than kiss Wei Ying. In this, he is rewarded with another type of kiss to catalog and memorize, one languid with the calm and closeness of shared release. Smooth and unrushed, going nowhere and content for this lack of direction. Almost liquid.

When the kiss slows and ends, Wei Ying spends a moment resting his forehead against Lan Wangji’s before he says, “What do you say we go kill this thing?”

“Mn,” he agrees, frowning slightly at the increasingly less pleasant sensation of cooling stickiness in his clothes.

Wei Ying laughs as if he knows exactly what he is thinking. “Yes, perhaps not the best timing, but I am in no way complaining.”

Neither is Lan Wangji.

“Well, at least once we kill it, we’ll have access to the water again.”

Lan Wangji huffs under his breath. Reaching up, he touches his finger to Wei Ying’s forehead, connecting their thoughts with a flash of cool, blue magic. A layer of intimacy that no longer seems quite so daunting. He lets his fingers trail down his cheek afterwards.

“I’ll try not to think anything too scandalous,” Wei Ying says with a smile that clearly promises the exact opposite.  

“Lying is forbidden,” Lan Wangji says, feeling his lips twitch.

Your smile is the best thing I’ve ever seen, Wei Ying thinks, voice warm and close and filling up every empty crack.

Shameless, he thinks back.

Wei Ying laughs.

Together, they help each other back to their feet and creep out to face the monster.

Chapter Text

v.

After, there is a moment of such resounding silence that Lan Wangji fears he has been struck deaf.

The quiet is not from the cave—the brackish lake water still sloshes alarmingly, the beast’s last life leeching away with deep reverberating groans, rocks tumbling against one another under Lan Wangji’s feet as he scrambles towards the water, nearly falling more than once.

There is sound everywhere.

The silence is in his head where Wei Ying’s voice had only moments ago been so loud. Fractured and distant and distorted by overlapping screams, but still there, reaching a crescendo as every sword and arrow from the floor of the lake shuddered and flew straight up into the beast’s throat. Dragged upwards by an inexplicable power.

The rope in Lan Wangji’s hand had snapped then, and both Wei Ying and the beast were falling.

And now there is only silence.

The splash of water is loud as Lan Wangji plows into it, intent on nothing but reaching Wei Ying. He must find him. He must be okay. For a moment there is no sign of him, like the long, falling head of the beast might have landed on top of him, dragging him under.

Another shallow, ragged breath and Lan Wangji sees black and red robes bob up to the surface. Wei Ying is face down, hair billowing outward from his head like an ink stain.

The water is not deep, Lan Wangji able to set his feet as he wraps his arms around Wei Ying’s torso and heaves him up, head rolling back against Lan Wangji’s shoulder. He drags them both to shore, their robes soaked and heavy with water, but it is nothing against the importance of this task, just like the insignificance of the pain in his own leg and hands.

On shore, Lan Wangji lowers Wei Ying to the ground, taking quick stock of the paleness of his cheeks, the stillness of his body. He isn’t breathing.

He isn’t breathing.

Rolling Wei Ying onto his side, Lan Wangji thumps him hard on the back, pushing a small amount of spiritual energy behind it.

Wei Ying coughs in response, putrid water mixed with blood spilling from his lips. His body shakes and shakes as he heaves, liquid pouring out in spurts between rasping breaths.

Once Wei Ying has settled somewhat, his breathing rough, but regular, Lan Wangji rolls him to his back, reaching for his wrist. Beneath the comforting thud of Wei Ying’s pulse, Lan Wangji prods deeper, assessing his spiritual power. There is something dark and rancid inside him, laying over the bright light of his core, diminished by the effort of their fight. 

It’s only then that he notices the sword still clutched in Wei Ying’s hand, despite his lack of consciousness. Lan Wangji reaches to pull it away, only to hiss as the sword bites back at him, something dark and resentful warning him away.

Wei Ying, he thinks, pressing his hand instead to Wei Ying’s cheek. Wei Ying!

Here, comes the distant voice—a pale whisper.

Lan Wangji lets out a sound close to a sob, quieting himself quickly to be able to hear Wei Ying, as far and faded and distant as he feels.

It’s so loud, Lan Zhan. You feel so far away.

He pulls Wei Ying up onto his lap, bodies as close as they can get as if that might help, and pours a steady trickle of energy into his body. I am here. I am here.

It is a while before Lan Wangji feels stable enough to carry them both back away from the shore, back into their alcove with its meager supplies. Where he can build back up the fire in hopes of keeping Wei Ying warm.

He pulls off his own exterior layers without much care or thought, spreading them flat across the rocks to dry before returning to do the same for Wei Ying.

Gathering Wei Ying’s hair in his hands, Lan Wangji carefully squeezes to remove the excess water.

The startling contrast of this way of touching Wei Ying—intimate, but static, Wei Ying limp and unresponsive, offering nothing for Lan Wangji to work against—is stark.

He hates it.

He carefully arranges Wei Ying to be comfortable, near the fire, head resting in his lap, even as he still clings tenaciously to the repulsive sword.

It is fortunately not long until Wei Ying stirs, eyes slowly blinking open. “Lan Zhan?” he slurs.

“Here,” Lan Wangji says, leaning down over him and touching his face.

Wei Ying frowns, neck twisting as he tries to see Lan Wangji’s palm. “Your hand.”

“Unimportant,” Lan Wangji says. He spent what energy he could spare towards closing the wound from the ropes, if not healing it entirely, knowing that Wei Ying will need him well enough to care for him.

“Lemme see,” Wei Ying insists, stubborn and ridiculous as always.

Lan Wangji allows it, watching as Wei Ying lifts his hand close to his face, his eyes struggling to focus on it.

Wei Ying presses a soft and sloppy kiss to the heel of his hand. Warmth seems to rush up Lan Wangji’s arm in response, almost painful in comparison to the frigid cold.

“Wei Ying,” he breathes.

Wei Ying blinks up at him, eyelashes still clumped together with dampness. “It’s dead, right, Lan Zhan? It’s dead?”

He nods, throat too tight to speak.

Wei Ying relaxes, his eyes closing once again. “Good. That’s good.”

He drifts off, once again unnaturally still. Lan Wangji must doze himself, somewhere between meditation and unconsciousness, next roused by the shift of Wei Ying’s body against his.

He’s shivering, body trembling.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, reaching for his face. He hisses as his palm makes contact. Wei Ying is radiating heat. His every breath wheezes softly, as if there is still water in his lungs. Bad enough on its own if the water weren’t also despoiled and resentment-laced. Meaning that Lan Wangji also cannot use the water to cool Wei Ying’s skin, can do nothing, really, other than hold him and offer what meager streams of energy he has left.

To complicate matters further, the brand Wei Ying took for Luo Qingyang also becomes infected, like all of Wei Ying’s natural defenses have been compromised with his depleted core and the lingering malignant energy. Perhaps if Lan Wangji had his guqin with him, he might be able to help. Or his sword to fly them out of here.

Anything.

He has nothing. Nothing but his own depleted core, a frigid cave, bloody water, and a repellent sword he cannot even get Wei Ying to let go of.

It threatens to crush him, the agonizing helplessness, the hollow silence Wei Ying had banished from his life. What good has any of it been? His years of dedication, his uprightness, his carefully cultivated strength? Wei Ying’s body is still failing.

No.

Lan Zhan will not allow it.

He grabs Wei Ying’s wrist and pours more energy into his shivering body.

“Lan Zhan?”

Lan Wangji opens his eyes, the simple gesture feeling nearly impossible, lids sticky with fatigue. He has lost track of time, now. Of how long they have sat here together. Hours. Days. The fire has long since died. Their meager supplies depleted.

“I’m here,” he says, voice barely a rasp.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, shivering and shifting in his arms, movements sluggish and soft. Worn.   

Lan Wangji lowers his face, pressing a kiss to his forehead, skin burning against his lips.

Wei Ying makes a soft noise, leaning into the touch. “Feels nice,” he slurs.

“Mn,” is all Lan Wangji can say in response, lips moving to his temple, his cheek. Perhaps, if he must die, this is not the worst way to do it. Drifting off, with Wei Ying in his arms.

Wei Ying’s lower lip pushes out, an exaggerated pout. Ridiculous and improper and so endlessly lovely. “Won’t you sing for me, Lan-er-gege?”

Anything.

Lan Wangji starts to hum, releasing out into the world his love for Wei Ying, wrapping them both up in it. Letting it hold them both for as long as it can.

The sound of tumbling rocks rouses Lan Wangji from a state somewhere between death and sleep. Sliding his gaze downward, he looks at Wei Ying, still curled up against his chest as if he has always belonged there. Always will.

He’s no longer shivering. He’s no longer moving at all.

“What the fuck did you do?” echoes Jiang Wanyin’s voice by way of arrival. “Did you actually kill that thing?”

Lan Wangji’s breathing goes quick and shallow. Have they truly been rescued at last? He shifts as best he can, Wei Ying’s head rolling senselessly with the movement. Unconscious? Or…?

It cannot be too late. It must not be too late. He opens his mouth, tries to call out.

“Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Wanyin bellows.

Lan Wangji swallows, throat dry. “Here,” he manages to call, barely a rasp. He tries again. “Here.”

“Lan-er-gongzi?” another voice calls.

He can do little more than mouth the word ‘yes,’ having no energy left for anything. Barely enough for breathing. He has probably given too much of his spiritual energy to Wei Ying. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

Jiang Wangyin falls to his knees in front of them, suddenly there like he teleported. “Wei Wuxian,” he says, face red with anger, hand reached out, shaking.

“Help him,” Lan Wangji rasps.

He knows no more.

Someone is giving him energy, a thin stream that is too bright and harsh, like sunlight glinting off of jewelry. He doesn’t like it.

He tries to pull away, only for someone to hiss in complaint. “Lan-er-gongzi,” a voice says. “Stop fighting me.”

He frowns, eyes still closed, and tries to shake them away again. “Wei Ying. Help Wei Ying.”

A loud sigh. “I told you. Jiang-gongzi is helping him. Now let me help you.”

Wei Ying is getting help. That is good.

The stream of energy resumes, and Lan Wangji forces himself not to shift away from it, letting the darkness take him once more.

Lan Wangji opens his eyes and shuts them again almost immediately as light sears straight into his skull and down the back of his neck. He swallows back a groan, the reverberating pain compounding and building. His body and mind are in shocking disarray, breathing rough and uneven.

Calm yourself, Wangji.

He forces himself to take stock of the sensations around him, focusing on each one by one, rooting himself in his body. First the warmth of sun on his skin, then the softness of earth under his back. The smell of air open and no longer drenched with the heavy scents of blood and decay and death. Instead, dirt and greenery and somewhere nearby water. The trickle of sound comes next, water over rocks, low voices interweaving with the soft susurrus of wind through trees. He allows each in, one at a time, the shredded confetti of ripped paper settling and coming back together.

He slowly opens his eyes again, letting them adjust to the vibrant violence of mid-day light after the gloom of the cave.

The cave.

Wei Ying.

He sits up, far too quickly, his head swimming. He breathes in and out slowly, equilibrium returning and there Wei Ying is.

He lies nearby on a patch of grass.

Wei Ying’s face is pale, wiped clear of grime, limbs arranged straight as he lies on his back. The black sword still clutched in both hands lying on his stomach. He looks almost like a statue, like a rigid body waiting for a shroud, and Lan Wangji feels panic surge up his throat.

Wei Ying, he thinks, mouth moving soundlessly.

Wei Ying makes a small snuffling sound then, nose scrunching and lips pressing together as he shifts in his sleep. Sleep then, not unconsciousness, not worse, and Lan Wangji feels a rush of such relief he is nearly light-headed with it.

When he can, he shifts closer, nearly crawling on hands and knees to Wei Ying’s side. He settles close enough to easily touch, folding his legs under him. He watches the rise and fall of Wei Ying’s chest, matching his own breathing to his and only then drops into much needed meditation.

There is food and water by his knee next time he opens his eyes. He glances at Wei Ying, reaching out his hand to touch his shoulder. He is still warm to the touch, but not shivering with cold or twisting with delirium. Merely resting. Lan Zhan eats the food and then settles back into meditation.

There are voices around them from time to time, people moving closer to tend Wei Ying, but Lan Wangji does not move, sitting sentinel, waking only long enough to check on Wei Ying and eat.

He recovers long before Wei Ying wakes, his leg and hands and lingering soreness finally soothed with his recovered energy, his core spinning warmly. He is not surprised Wei Ying is still not awake, but neither is he pleased to see it. The malignant energy of the sword still clutched in his bloody fingers must be interfering with the healing and yet no one has been able to remove it from his fingers. Lan Wangji can feel it across the distance like a scrape against his skin, a shudder in his core.

It’s disquieting, and yet Lan Wangji suspects it was the power of the sword, called upon by Wei Ying, that saved them. They likely would have died without it. He remembers the sheer force of it, as Wei Ying’s battered body went from limp rag doll to rigid, flowing strength, black clouds of resentment swirling his form. Following his command.

A dark, dangerous power somehow made sinisterly beautiful by Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan stills the shudder that seeks to slide down his spine, keeping himself perfectly rigid and upright. Instead, he runs through all he has learned of methods for purging a body and spirit of corruption. Wei Ying must be brought back from this.

Jiang Wanyin comes to check on Wei Ying, giving Lan Wangji a blunt look. “Back with us now, Lan-er-gongzi?”

Lan Wangji nods. “I am sufficiently recovered. Thank you for your care.” He lifts his arms and bows properly.

Jiang Wangji’s face twists as if fighting off a rude expression, and bows back with jerky motions. “Thanks for keeping my stupid brother alive,” he says, sounding sullen.

Lan Wangji does not see the need to respond to that, eyes once again dropping to Wei Ying, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, finding himself matching his breathing. He does not stop himself from reaching out and touching Wei Ying’s shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of it under his palm. Wei Ying, he thinks, I am here, even as he knows the connection between them has long since faded.

“Well,” Jiang Wanyin says, refusing to be forgotten. “I’m sure you have somewhere to be, Lan-er-gongzi.”

It jolts through him, the sudden urgency. For there are places he should be.

His home burned. His people scattered. His family unaware of his fate, as he is unaware of theirs. Any news of them is more imagination than true facts at this point, only having the whispered cruelty of Wen Chao to build upon. The fate of his home and his sect is ultimately unknown. Had the Wen stayed and occupied the Cloud Recesses even after promising to leave if Lan Wangji gave himself and the yin iron up? Would they be waiting to capture him again? Have their actions here against Wen Chao doomed his home yet again?

He will not know until he returns. Which he must. As soon as possible.  

And yet.

He takes another careful breath, matched perfectly to Wei Ying’s. And then he pulls his hand back, folding it carefully into his lap with the other, fingers folded tight as if to keep hold of the warmth there.

“I will stay until Wei Ying wakes,” Lan Wangji says, letting his eyes close rather than observe Jiang Wanyin’s reaction. His thoughts on this matter have no significance.

“Look,” Jiang Wanyin says, tight with an emotion Lan Wangji does not care to identify. “Thanks for keeping the idiot alive and all, but I’ve got my brother now. Don’t you have your own brother to worry about?”

Lan Zhan feels a twist in his gut at that. He knows he needs to return to Gusu as soon as possible. To see what is left to rebuild. To find his brother and see how his uncle fares. But he also cannot leave. Not yet.

He wonders if he would have been able to if he did not have the memory of Wei Ying’s teasing laughter against his own lips. His hands. His skin.

Let me take care of you.

“I will stay until Wei Ying wakes,” he repeats, just as flat and implacable. He feels no need to explain himself to Jiang Wanyin of all people.

Jiang Wanyin lets out a rough sound of annoyance and stomps away. Nearby, Lan Wangji can make out the softest huff of amusement, attributing it to Jin Zixuan.

“And they say I’m not good with people,” he mutters.

Lan Wangji ignores him.

He will not leave this place until he sees those laughing eyes again, until he knows nothing dark is lingering.

Chapter Text

vi.

Wei Wuxian is surrounded by water. Not the silted warmth of a lotus pond, but a deep fathomless lake, colors cutting towards deepest blue until it is nearly black. There are no garbled and soft sounds of burbling life, but rather sharp keens and groans, the world above a distorted dance of distant light, murky and slow.

Wei Wuxian.

He twists, trying to see behind and around, and pain streaks down his arm, arcing from his palm to his core. His core—no longer an inferno of light and power, but a flickering like a guttering candle. It’s so cold. He feels so cold, pressure squeezing around him, lungs burning.

Wei Wuxian.

Somehow, he is not alone down here. There is something here with him. Within him. He can’t shimmy away from it, no matter how much he wants to, how much he doesn’t like it. Does not want it.

The pain spikes again, like a deliberate punishment. The something angry, always so angry.

You called us. You used us. You think you can just set us aside so easily? You think we will let you go? You belong down here. You will die down here.

Hands grab at him, thousands of them, spectral and white in the cloying dim, pulling him down.

Join us.

Down, down, down, Wei Wuxian’s back slamming into the rocky lakebed. A trickle of bubbles spew from his lips, precious air escaping, and how long has he been down here? How much longer can he possibly last?

He needs to…there is something he needs to do.

A-Xian.

Wei Ying.

A vibration shudders through the ground, starting soft like a hum but only building, building, building.

Come back.

The hands release him. Curling his feet underneath him, Wei Wuxian pushes off as hard as he can, face lifted towards the distant surface, the distorted light growing brighter and brighter. His lungs are bursting. He won’t make it, he won’t—

He wakes with a gasp.

The dream clings to him, for a moment, as if to drag him back down, and then begins to fade, like a fog dissipating. A fading memory quickly overwritten by the arc of trees above him, the golden light filtering through the green leaves. The life.

A first full breath of air.

He isn’t sure where he is. The last thing he remembers was…the cave.

Lan Zhan.

He turns his head, searching, heart thumping in his chest—

Lan Zhan is right there. Right there, posture perfect as he sits meditating, the daylight streaming over him, illuminating his funerial robes like a shining immortal, almost too bright to look at head on.

Wei Wuxian might doubt the reality of him if it weren’t for the rips and tears in the stained robes. From the cave, from the beast. The memories rush back to him all at once. Being held. Lan Zhan…singing?

He nearly splutters, so certain this must have been a fever dream. Because there is absolutely no way he and Lan Zhan really…? Holy shit. Did he dream that up too? Would he dream that up?

Fuck, true or not, now he can’t stop thinking about it. Lan Zhan pressing him back against a cave wall, his thigh pressed between Wei Wuxian’s legs.

Lan Zhan holding him, close to his chest. I’m here.

“Wei Ying.”

He jumps, biting back a hiss at the pain that radiates down his body even as he keeps staring at Lan Zhan. Staring long and close enough that he catches it, blink and you’d miss it, Lan Zhan’s face softening, just the slightest bit. While looking at him.

“Lan Zhan?” he says, though it comes out more like a croak.

Lan Zhan reaches for him, hands on his shoulders and he helps him sit up, dispelling any last chance that this is all a hallucination of some sort. Lan Zhan is real and Lan Zhan is touching him. Holy shit.

That all happened.

“How do you feel?” Lan Zhan asks, still right there, still touching him.

“Me?” Wei Wuxian says, a strange buzzing energy building like pressure in his chest. “I’m fine.” The pain isn’t nearly enough to kill him, after all. Probably.

Lan Zhan’s eyes narrow slightly, and then he’s reaching out and touching the back of his fingers to Wei Wuxian’s forehead. After a moment, Lan Zhan’s shoulders relax almost imperceptibly. “The fever is gone.”

“See?” Wei Wuxian says, torn between wanting to shimmy closer to Lan Zhan and pull back away to give his stupid thundering heart a chance to calm the fuck down. “Totally fine.”

Lan Zhan just hums in a skeptical way, but doesn’t look away, letting his hand fall back to his lap.

Wei Wuxian follows the movement, eyes caught on the dried bloodstains on Lan Zhan’s robes. His leg. The bite! “Is your leg better?”

Lan Zhan nods, making a small sound of agreement. “I have recovered.”

“Can I see?” Wei Wuxian asks.

Lan Zhan pauses, still staring blankly, but Wei Wuxian gets the impression his mind is churning through something. So for once, he just waits. After another long moment, and a quick glance around as if to see if anyone else is watching, Lan Zhan pulls his robes up over his knee.

This, he is not used to. A Lan Zhan who indulges him.

It’s only then Wei Wuxian becomes conscious of the sword clutched to his chest, as he tries to reach out and touch the puckered, healing skin on Lan Zhan’s calf. He stops, looking down at how bloody his hand is, fingers feeling cramped as if held in one position too long. “Oh,” he says.

Lan Zhan releases his robes, letting them settle back around his ankles. “The sword.”

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian says, frowning down at it. It feels somehow inert now. In a way it had not previously. Cold. Heavy. He remembers it thrumming in his hand. Burning. “That was pretty unexpected.”

Lan Zhan reaches out as if to touch it, and Wei Wuxian jerks it back out of his way. He doesn’t know why. He just doesn’t want Lan Zhan to touch it. Doesn’t want it to hurt him, certainly, but there is also a strange feeling of…ownership? But not quite. It’s nothing like what he has with Suibian. A partnership, a feeling of trust and belonging.

Mine.

He doesn’t know if this means the sword belongs to him or if he belongs to the sword.

It’s an unsettling thought. 

Lan Zhan is watching him as he slowly pulls his hand back.

“Sorry,” Wei Wuxian says, trying to force his shoulders to relax. “I didn’t—it doesn’t—You just shouldn’t touch it. I don’t want it to…” Hurt you, he thinks but doesn’t say.

It’s possible Lan Zhan figures it out anyway. “Can you let go of it?”

“I—” He thinks about it. Tries to loosen his grip. It’s difficult. “I’m not sure.”

“Is it still…loud?”

“What?”

Lan Zhan slowly reaches out towards him again, as if not sure if he’ll pull away. Wei Wuxian holds himself still as Lan Zhan touches his temple lightly with one finger.

“Oh,” Wei Wuxian says, wanting nothing more than to lean into the touch. He smiles. “Nah. Just my normal loudness up here.” He nudges Lan Zhan’s leg with his elbow, something inside him loosening at the contact.

Lan Zhan’s hand falls to his shoulder. “It harmed you,” he says, eyes searching.  

Wei Wuxian’s hands tighten around the sword, feeling inexplicably defensive. “It saved us.”

Lan Zhan nods in agreement, but not like he is happy about it. After a moment, he pulls a spirit-trapping pouch from his sleeve, the same sort they had kept on hand to contain the yin iron fragments.

Wei Wuxian takes it, loosening his grip on the sword enough to slip it inside the pouch, closing up the string, sealing it inside.

He instantly feels lighter. “Oh, wow. That’s better.”

Lan Zhan reaches out, not towards the pouch, but towards Wei Wuxian’s wrist. “May I?”

He’s ready to laugh it off, push Lan Zhan back, but then Lan Zhan lifts his gaze, looking straight back at him. Wei Wuxian melts a bit, having Lan Zhan’s intense gaze on him. The unmistakable warmth of it. Ugh, how he had ever in his stupidest moments thought of Lan Zhan as cold, he will never know.

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian says, embarrassingly breathless. “Sure.”

He lets Lan Zhan take his wrist, feeling him search the edges of his meridians with his cool, soothing energy. It feels nice. Really nice.

“I have read of musical scores that might help,” Lan Zhan says. His brow furrows, probably remembering that he doesn’t have an instrument with him. That the texts he read might now be burned to little more than ashes.

Lan Zhan is just too much, he thinks fondly.

Wei Wuxian smiles at him. “I’m alright. I promise.” He reaches out again, just wanting to touch Lan Zhan, but his hands are still absolutely covered in blood.

“I’m a mess,” he says with a laugh.

“What else is new,” Jiang Cheng says, appearing above them looking super grumpy.

“Jiang Cheng!” Wei Wuxian says, trying to get to his feet and stumbling. “You came!”

Jiang Cheng grabs him, looking disgusted but still holding Wei Wuxian upright as he regains his equilibrium. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

There’s another voice then. “We’re still in enemy territory, in case anyone else has forgotten.”

Wei Wuxian turns to see Jin Zixuan, noticing a few other Jin disciples a bit further off near a fire. “You’re here too, huh?”

Jin Zixuan huffs, looking away. “I didn’t come for you.”

Lan Zhan is standing now, giving Wei Wuxian a pointed look of disapproval.

Alright, alright. So Jin Zixuan had come back for them. Maybe the peacock isn’t all bad. Just mostly.

Wei Wuxian bows the best he can, only slightly playing up his illness as an excuse, giving Jin Zixuan the formal thanks be deserves for helping out another sect. Next to him, Lan Zhan does the same, only with far more precision and grace.

Once he’s done, Jiang Cheng grabs his arm. “Come on,” he says, and drags Wei Wuxian off towards the stream.

Wei Wuxian happily lets Jiang Cheng fuss over him in his usual gruff way, going down to the water to wash off his hands and face, drinking and eating whatever Jiang Cheng hands him. He still keeps one eye on Lan Zhan, as if waiting for him to disappear.

Jiang Cheng, clearly eager to get on the road, digs his toe into Wei Wuxian’s thigh when he stares a moment too long. “Finish eating and then we’re going.”

Wei Wuxian nods, knowing Jiang Cheng and the Peacock have a point. They are still in Wen territory, and it’s not inconceivable that Wen Chao would return to gloat over their dead bodies. Well, he’ll be in for a surprise, the asshole. The only dead thing here is the false-Xuanwu. Wei Wuxian hopes he chokes on the insult of him and Lan Zhan doing what Wen Chao could never dream of achieving, not even with a whole army!

Wei Wuxian stuffs food in his mouth just as a shadow falls across him and Jiang Cheng. It’s Lan Zhan. He doesn’t seem to be walking with any sort of limp, but then he’s good at hiding it.

Jiang Cheng stands, stepping across Lan Zhan’s path, cutting him off from Wei Wuxian.

“Well, thanks again, Lan-er-gongzi,” he says, far more pointed than gracious. “I’m sure you need to be off.”

Wei Wuxian frowns at Jiang Cheng around his mouth full of stale bun.

“I do,” Lan Zahn agrees placidly as if Jiang Cheng isn’t being horribly rude to him. He turns to look at him. “I will speak with Wei Ying first.”

Jiang Cheng looks pissed, but he’s definitely not going to say no to Lan Zhan. Not that Lan Zhan made it sound like a request in the first place.

“Right!” Wei Wuxian says, shoving the last of his bun in his mouth and jumping to his feet. He sways a moment.

Both Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan reach for him.

“I’m fine. I’m fine!” Wei Wuxian says, waving them off and blinking a few times to clear the spots in his vision.

Jiang Cheng glares at everything all at once, apparently content to be pissed at the whole world all at once. He’s so funny.

Once Lan Zhan seems more certain of Wei Wuxian’s ability to walk, he leads them further away out of sight, hand hovering right behind his back. That probably looks pretty strange to everyone else, but Wei Wuxian doesn’t particularly care right now.

“You have to go. To Gusu,” Wei Wuxian says as the trees swallow them from sight. Part of him is honestly surprised Lan Zhan hadn’t already left. The rest of him is trying to squirm away from the thought that Lan Zhan stayed for him.

Lan Zhan nods, something the tiniest bit pinched between his eyes.

Wei Wuxian nods back, ignoring the twist in his chest at the thought of Lan Zhan going away. “I wish I could go with you. Help you find your brother.” Keep Lan Zhan safe and near. There is far too much brewing on the horizon right now and Wei Wuxian doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like not knowing the next time they might see each other. What if Lan Zhan needs help and he isn’t there?

“I wish you could as well,” Lan Zhan says in that low, serious voice of his.  

“Yeah?” Wei Wuxian asks, stepping closer, still not sure how much of any of that was just…the cave. Or if it might be…more? He tilts his head to the side, incapable of not teasing Lan Zhan. Just wanting…something from him before they have to say goodbye. “Actually wanting my company now, are we?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, like it costs him nothing to admit it. “Always did.”

Wei Wuxian feels his eyes widen in surprise. Is this the way it is going to be from now on? This relentless sincerity? He’s going to die from it.

Sighing, he plucks at the front of Lan Zhan’s robes. “I can’t be away from Lotus Pier. With everything happening.”

Lan Zhan looks back at him, clearly already knowing this.

“I wish you could come with me though. I still really want you to see it. Show you around.” He wonders if he could get Lan Zhan to do anything as undignified as swimming.

Lan Zhan lowers his eyes, almost demurely. “I would like that.” 

Wei Wuxian grins, thinking back to the last time he invited Lan Zhan to Lotus Pier only to be solidly rejected. What a moron he’d been. “See all the pretty girls?” he says, pressing shamelessly close.

Wei Wuxian is almost certain Lan Zhan actually rolls his eyes—rolls his eyes!!—but is more immediately distracted by Lan Zhan gripping his chin and leaning in and kissing him. No segue, no easing in, just fully going for it. It’s bruising and possessive, Lan Zhan’s tongue absolutely owning his mouth, like claiming some sort of territory.

Fuck, Lan Zhan’s relentless, and it’s not like Wei Ying is willing to back down or give way either, like he even wants to because it’s the absolute best thing he’s ever felt. If they wouldn’t have starved or gotten eaten by a monster, he really could have stood a few more days in that damn cave, figuring out how to get Lan Zhan off every way possible. To break through that perfect composure over and over again.

How is any of this real?

Wei Wuxian winds his fingers into Lan Zhan’s hair, tugging sharply, just because he wants to, wants to hear the way Lan Zhan gasps and see the way his eyes intensify. Lan Zhan immediately retaliates, his teeth closing down on Wei Wuxian’s lower lip in response, sharp and painful, a low growl in his throat.

Heavens, Wei Wuxian thinks absently, they really need to duel again someday. He just wants to spend every day setting his skills against Lan Zhan’s. Swim around in this heady rush, this understanding that there really is nothing too far or too much when they are together. That even Wei Wuxian is not too much for once. That Lan Zhan can handle it. Can handle him.

And, fuck, maybe as much as he wants to crack Lan Zhan open, he’s just as tantalized by the idea that Lan Zhan could do the same to him. Wants that.

“Wei Wuxian!” comes Jiang Cheng’s bellow, fortunately from far enough away that he won’t have seen them like this, bodies plastered together, hands groping, breathing ragged. Wei Wuxian isn’t sure which of them his brother would try to kill first.

“Fuck,” Wei Wuxian says, uncomfortably aware of how hard he is. How wrecked Lan Zhan looks. Staring at his lips, Wei Wuxian absently wonders what Lan Zhan’s mouth on his dick might feel like, and that is a thought that is going to keep him awake at night. “Let’s go find another cave to get trapped in.”

Lan Zhan lets out a soft hum that sure sounds like agreement to him.

Wei Wuxian drags his thumb up Lan Zhan’s neck, pressing into the softness just under the hinge of his jaw. “This one with lots of food and no monsters and a really comfy, really sturdy bed.”

Lan Zhan actually closes his eyes then, just saying his name in a strangled way that confirms that he isn’t in much better shape than Wei Wuxian is at the moment. That maybe he wants Wei Wuxian’s mouth on him too. Wow, he might like that idea even better.

He leans in close to Lan Zhan’s ear, breathing deep. “I would definitely suck you off right now if I didn’t think Jiang Cheng would find us and murder us immediately.”

Lan Zhan’s only response is to make a noise that surely mortifies all ten thousand rules monitoring his behavior at any given moment that makes Wei Ying even harder with want.

“Tell me I’m shameless,” he says, practically hanging off Lan Zhan now, pushing, pushing, pushing and still amazed that Lan Zhan isn’t stopping him. “Just one last time for the road.” 

Lan Zhan grabs his chin again, kissing him rough and unforgiving, his hips pressing wantonly into his. “Shameless,” he hisses.

Wei Wuxian is so happy he could burst. 

“Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Cheng’s voice demands.

Much closer now.

Lan Zhan leans his forehead against his, his hand curling tight in Wei Wuxian’s hair. “Be well, Wei Ying,” he says, voice still the slightest bit ragged.

“Write me letters,” Wei Wuxian says impulsively. “Let me know you got there okay. And how things are. How much you like me.”

Let me know this is actually real.

And because Lan Zhan is too good for words, he nods agreement. “I swear it,” he says, pressing another kiss to his lips, this one tender and fleeting, and somehow only the more devastating for it, and then he is striding away, up the path and away.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t look away until the pale sweep of his robes is lost completely to the trees, ignoring the repeated shouts of Jiang Cheng.

“What the fuck are you doing just standing there? Going to pass out again?” Jiang Cheng frowns, looking him over. “Why do you look like that? What the hell were you doing?”

“Uh,” Wei Wuxian says, brain still not completely functioning as he absently checks that his robes are hiding any evidence of just where all his blood flow is collecting.

“Never mind!” Jiang Cheng says, waving his hands in front of his face. “I really don’t want to know. Let’s get moving!”

Reluctantly, Wei Wuxian turns and follows after Jiang Cheng.

He spends the first hour of their journey worrying the far too quickly healing welt on his lower lip with his tongue, the last solid piece of evidence of Lan Zhan pressed into his flesh. He wishes he had more. Wishes there was something solid to hold on to that means this whole thing wasn’t just a fever dream or an elaborate fantasy he came up with. That he hadn’t maybe just died in the cave and this isn’t real at all.

Of course, Jiang Cheng also complains about Lan Zhan almost the entire way. How inflexible he is. How arrogant. How he had the nerve to hover over Wei Wuxian like he had fuck all to do with him.

“He saved my life, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian defends.

“He hates you,” Jiang Cheng scoffs.

That burns somewhere in Wei Wuxian’s chest, like a lingering, dark whisper. He rubs at it, reminding himself that it isn’t true. No matter how much he might have suspected that himself not too long ago. Whatever Lan Zhan feels for him, it certainly isn’t hate.

Lust at the very least, he thinks smugly.

Only then he remembers Lan Zhan humming a song. Cradling him into his chest. Wei Ying. The fear on his face.

He’d stayed, too. Waited for Wei Wuxian to wake up, even with his brother missing and his sect in disarray. He’d stayed long enough to say goodbye.

He takes a breath, and then crashes his shoulder into Jiang Cheng’s. “You saved me too.”

Jiang Cheng makes a harrumphing sound, clearly pleased but not wanting to show it. “You’re lucky I bothered.”

Wei Wuxian nods solemnly. “Very lucky.”

Wei Wuxian is soon once again nearly delirious with exhaustion and the sluggish feeling of wrongness in his veins, the fever burning back into his flesh. He touches the qiankun pouch at his waist, the dark sword tucked inside there.

The rest of the walk seems to swim away into darkness, not even realizing he’s falling until the ground rushes up towards him.

Chapter Text

vii.

Considering everything, Wei Wuxian isn’t all that surprised to find himself waking in his own bed. What a luxury, really. The soft mattress underneath him, the warm blankets, either of which he would have done anything to have on hand in the cave, even if just to make Lan Zhan a little more comfortable.

He blinks his eyes open, heart doing a little sideways twist. The first thing he sees are the two little kissing figures he’d carved into the bedframe when he was younger, trying to imagine his parents, trying to remember how they were. How he hoped they were. Not what people said, insinuated, and whispered.

Only now, with Lan Zhan at the forefront of his thoughts, do the two nondescript figures seem to morph into something else. He finds himself smiling at the carving before he can stop himself.

It all still seems unreal. The indoctrination. The cave. The kissing.

Oh, well, and killing the Tortoise of Slaughter too.

Wow! They killed the Tortoise of Slaughter. Together.

That will likely be enough to make a name for Wei Wuxian for the rest of his life, but that high is almost nothing next to having done it with Lan Zhan. That their names will be intertwined now forever as the story spreads. That makes him feel a particular way he can’t quite put a name to.

Also! Shijie is here. With soup! It’s the only thing that could possibly make all of this even better somehow.

She fusses over him and he leans into it, doing his best to be as ridiculous as possible to ease that line of worry on her face. For a while, it seems to work, and everything is great.

Of course, it all goes to shit as soon as Uncle Jiang tries to congratulate him, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t get the praise he deserves for saving Wei Wuxian. He tries to smooth it over, to redirect the focus to Jiang Cheng’s hard work, but Yu-furen just crashes in like a storm and makes everything a thousand times worse.

It takes a few days for it to all settle again, Wei Wuxian doing his best to calm Jiang Cheng and avoid Yu-furen.

He can’t avoid her entirely though. They still have family dinner each evening. Which is its own sort of balancing act.

Wei Wuxian’s been awake a little longer than a week and finally feeling recovered when Jiang-shushu comes to dinner with a letter in his hand.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes latch onto it immediately, even as he tells himself not to get ahead of himself. Jiang-shushu gets a lot of letters. There’s no reason to think it has anything to do with him. Only then Jiang-shushu holds it out to Wei Wuxian with a small smile.

Wei Wuxian has to stop himself from snatching it from his fingers. He instead reaches out calmly and takes it like it’s no big deal. He’d wondered if Lan Zhan would actually do it, write to him. Which is silly. I swear it. But now that he has it in his hand, his heart is pounding strangely.

Lan Zhan made it home okay. That must be what this means, right?

“Who is it from, A-Xian?” Shijie asks as she fills Jiang Cheng’s bowl.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, willing himself not to flush. What is wrong with him?

Next to him, Jiang Cheng scoffs. “Must have found more rules for you to copy.”

Wei Wuxian sticks his tongue out at Jiang Cheng.

“Are you building a friendship with the Second Jade of Lan, A-Xian?” Jiang-shushu asks. He sounds pleased and proud.

Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, but Yu-furen gets there first.

“What are the Lan?” she cuts in with a huff, voice dripping with condescension. “They can’t even protect themselves.”

Wei Wuxian does not let the smile fall of his face, knowing he has to let those words just roll off him. He carefully tucks the letter into his robes for safety, wondering what Lan Zhan found when he got home. If he’s heard from his brother. If is his uncle has recovered.

He forces himself to wait to indulge his burning curiosity, not wanting to risk drawing any more attention to it at the table. That doesn’t mean he resists taking off at a run the moment he is out of sight after the meal finally ends. At first he heads towards his room, but that feels too exposed. Like he’d be easy to find. This letter is his, he rationalizes. It really isn’t anyone else’s business.

And so he runs out until he’s in the trees, climbing up into the branches. There, that feels…safer. He pulls out the letter, only spending a moment or two looking at his name in Lan Zhan’s perfect calligraphy. He carefully opens it.

The words are rigidly proper and poetically formulaic, as one might expect from the Second Jade of GusuLan. Nearly impersonal. But Wei Wuxian has had the time to learn the contours of Lan Zhan’s expressions by now and somehow this doesn’t feel any different, reading between his polite and stodgy words and clever four-character idioms. He can find warmth beneath them and even convince himself he isn’t just making it up through wishful thinking or fever-induced hallucinations. Especially when in the middle of a recitation of the work being done on rebuilding the Cloud Recesses and before the formal closing salutations Lan Zhan simply writes,

I think of you often. I hope you are well.

I miss your presence. It is very quiet.

What an asshole. Wei Wuxian likes him so much. Wants to squish his cheeks to see if he could get away with it without getting attacked with a sword. Either way would be a win, because even dueling with Lan Zhan now would no doubt be a huge turn on. Maybe always had been. And that might lead to other activities after.

But Lan Zhan’s letter isn’t quite finished with him yet.

At the very end, because Lan Zhan is nothing if not honorable when it comes to fulfilling his vows, is a single line:

I like you very much, Wei Ying.  

Wei Wuxian is going to die. Just keel over and melt into the forest floor right here and no one will ever know what happened to him.

And because he is just as shameless as he pretends to be, Wei Wuxian jerks off that night to thoughts of Lan Zhan, reviewing each and every moment between them over and over again as if to enshrine them in his mind. Tries to pretend he doesn’t think about I like you very much, Wei Ying while he does it, because he is horny, not a sentimental fool.

God, he’s completely weak for Lan Zhan’s awkward affection.

Shijie sees through him immediately, of course, but it isn’t until Lan Zhan’s letter arrives that she figures it out specifically. She’s smart enough not to tease him in front of Jiang Cheng, though.

Between training and his other duties, Wei Wuxian tries not to think too hard about it during the day. About Lan Zhan. About what happened between them. Except the letter makes it feel all the more real. And along with it, the sheer impossibility of…whatever the hell this is. He is Head Disciple, his life pledged to Jiang Cheng and Lotus Pier. The son of a servant. And Lan Zhan is…well, Lan Zhan. The Second Jade of GusuLan, an indelible part of the Cloud Recesses. Peerless. Perfect. What are they supposed to do, get married?

He nearly laughs out loud at the thought.

He can’t imagine Lan Zhan here anymore than he can imagine himself in the Cloud Recesses.

He thinks of those days on the Yin Iron hunt together though. Thinks of many night-hunts by Lan Zhan’s side. It’s a fantasy, sure. But a nice one. Really nice.

Maybe somehow night-hunts and occasional sneaky hand jobs might be enough to hope for. It’s certainly more than he has the right to.

Yeah, so he tries not to think about it.

“Your painting is lovely,” Shijie says, coming up behind him where he sits on his favorite pier.

Wei Wuxian resists the urge to cover it up. It’s just a painting. Of a lotus pond. Hardly a love declaration. Right? Because that is definitely not what this is.

Wait.

Who even said anything about love?

“Is it for Lan-er-gongzi?”

“Shijie,” he complains, even knowing his cheeks are flushing. How embarrassing.

She beams back at him. “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” he grumbles, but not meanly, because no one is allowed to be mean to Shijie.

She bops his nose with the back of her finger. “Happy.”

Wei Wuxian covers his face with a groan. He’s going to throw himself into the lake at this rate. “Where’s Jiang Cheng? I need someone to be mean to me right now.”

Shijie, because she is the absolute best, just laughs and folds her knees under herself to sit near him. “Tell me about him.”

“You’ve met him. You know,” he says, trying to squirm away from this even as he is dying to gush. “What could I possibly add to your own observations?”

“I want to know how you see him.”

There’s so much to say and he’s so full with it, he kind of doesn’t know where to start. “He’s so great,” is all he manages, his voice embarrassingly earnest.

Shijie’s smile widens.

He can’t stop himself. “And he likes me very much. He said so in his letter!”

“It’s good that someone else appreciates A-Xian,” she says.

Jiang Cheng stomps up behind them. “Who would be that stupid?” He groans. “Please tell me he isn’t still going off about Lan Wangji.”

Shijie’s eyes are kind. “I think it’s cute.”

“No, it’s disgusting,” Jiang Cheng says. He turns on Wei Wuxian. “What exactly happened in that cave that you managed to extort him into tolerating you?”

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says, hand pressed to his chest with mock affront. “A virtuous gentleman would never speak of such things!”

Wei Wuxian ends up in the lake after all, but has just enough time to shove his painting to safety in Shijie’s hands before he hits the water.

An almost perfect day.

(Seeing Lan Zhan again would have made it perfect.)

Wei Wuxian dunks himself back under the lake to hide his burning face.

Cloud Recesses smells of char and smoke.

Cool winds still curl through the mountain peaks, mists laying low on the stone paths, occasionally offering a brief reprieve from the lingering smell of destruction. Most buildings are still in ruins. They can afford little more than temporary housing, focusing more on the removal of the remains of their knowledge from the ashes. Each precious surviving piece is sent to the Cold Pond Cave for safety. An acknowledgement of the unspoken assumption that while the Wen have left them alone for now, it will likely not last.

Many things that once seemed safe and certain no longer feel so.

Attempting to rebuild the library now might only bring the Wen’s wrath back upon them more quickly.

Lan Wangji bristles underneath it. Each rough, painful breath of ashy air. Each gutted building. Every missing disciple.

Uncle runs the sect from his bed, still recovering from his injuries—ones the healers do not seem to think he will ever fully overcome. Lan Wangji serves as his hands and eyes and legs. His mouth too when needs be, though nowhere near as proficiently. Lan Wangji’s own injuries are little more than an occasional ache. They do not interfere. He does not allow them to. His body will not falter.

Lan Wangji’s thoughts, on the other hand, are much more unruly. A roiling mass of rage and sadness and worry for Xichen. Grief for his fallen elders and peers. The creche—protected at all costs—newly full of a generation of orphans.

Perhaps it is only in defense of this that his mind so constantly returns to Wei Ying. To his smile, the warmth of his body curled into Lan Wangji’s side. The scorching heat of his mouth, slick and open and demanding.

Lan Wangji closes his eyes, forcing the visceral sense memory out of his mind. It is…not appropriate to think such things. Certainly not in the open as he completes his duties. As he serves as the Acting Sect Leader’s proxy.

He had hoped fulfilling his promise and writing his letter to Wei Ying would be enough to settle this thoughts, but it has not.

He redoubles his focus on his meditation and being of service. The sword practice no one needs remind them may all too soon be needed again.

And so weeks pass.  

It’s nearly a month since Lan Wangji last saw Wei Ying—last kissed him and held him and acted completely without decorum—when a letter arrives in response to his own.

It is placed in his hands by a disciple, Uncle eyeing it with dry scrutiny. Lan Wangji nods his thanks and slips it into his sleeve. As if it is nothing of importance. As if it is not burning against his skin.  

He forces himself not to read it until he has finished every duty he already planned for the day. It’s a ploy to convince himself he is still in control of his emotions. That he is not being swayed by worldly concerns.

It’s a rather thin conceit.

He retreats to his rooms as soon as he can, carefully putting away his things from the day. He makes himself tea and settles behind his desk. Only then does he finally pull out the letter, heart thudding loudly at the sight of the familiar, careless characters.

Lan Zhan,

Thank you for your letter! It’s a relief to know you made it home safely. I’m sorry there’s still no word from Zewu-Jun. Hopefully very soon. I know that must be really difficult. But your brother is strong and nearly as stubborn as you are so I know he will be fine. I believe that.

As for me, I lazed about in bed for a while after getting back, but I had your letter to wake back up to, so that was great. Shijie stuffed me with soup before she and Uncle Jiang traveled to Lanling for reasons you have no doubt heard of relating to the Yao Sect. Now it’s just me and Jiang Cheng and doing my best to avoid Yu-furen. I think we’re going to take the junior disciples out to shoot kites soon. That’s always a lot of fun. I’ll try not to make everyone look too bad. It would be better if you were here, to give me an actual challenge.

Ha! I can see your face right now. You are certain you could beat me. Don’t be so sure! I might do something shameless to distract you. It’s not cheating. It’s using all your resources wisely. But even without that, I think I might be able to impress you. I’m excellent with a bow. Don’t you want the chance to try and best me?

I still can’t quite believe it sometimes, Lan Zhan. That I found you. Someone who is my equal in all things. And yet so different! But I know you will always keep me challenged and that I will always need to work very hard to keep up with you. I like that feeling. A lot.

Someday I really want to go on another night hunt with you. Just the two of us. We could wander for weeks and weeks and see what we could find, what contests we might be able to face together. After the Tortoise of Slaughter, they might all feel tame! Also, there are certain things I am not able to practice without you, and it would be irresponsible not to be a diligent student in all things. Don’t you agree? I like to think that you definitely agree with me on this point in particular.

In the meantime, don’t get too used to the quiet. I will find a way to see you soon. Somehow. No matter how messy everything is right now. Attempt the impossible, after all, right? And what better use to put it to than finding a way to see you. But since you cannot come here right now, I’ve enclosed a painting to give you a little taste of Lotus Pier. Just to let you know what you have to look forward to.

I hope you continue to think of me often and that I left enough of an impression to linger.

Your Wei Ying

It is, without a doubt, the most shameless letter Lan Wangji has ever read. He has never been happier.

He feels like he might combust on the spot, bouncing between the beautiful dream Wei Ying has painted of the two of them together on the road and the shameless references to the ways they might touch each other, might bring each other pleasure. That Wei Ying wants all these parts of him. Even the awkward, shameless, hungry parts of him. That Wei Ying has not been put off by his own stiff and boring letter where he could not find a way to say even a sliver of what bubbles relentlessly up in his chest. That Wei Ying still seems to want him, no matter how short he falls.

He must write back. That is certain. Even as he has no idea how to even begin to answer in kind.

He looks at the beautiful painting Wei Ying had enclosed with the letter.

Lan Wangji cannot paint, certainly not as well as Wei Ying. It would be a paltry offering indeed. He could attempt poetry, but for once even that seems insufficient to communicate what matters most. The thought of penning a response to the letter alone is overwhelming. He made a promise though and has every intention of keeping it.

Music, however, has always been his most faithful language. It is a place to start.

He is working on a copy of the score of the song he wrote for Wei Ying when a disciple knocks briskly on his door despite the late hour. Lan Wangji himself should not be awake. He rises from his desk and crosses to open the door.

“Lan-er-gongzi,” the disciple says, bowing. “You are needed.”

Lan Wangji asks no question, does not run through the halls, even with no one to see it, but walks quickly, heart thundering in his chest.

He steps into his uncle’s study, light blazing within. His bow is automatic, the result of a lifetime of repetition, but this time he stops midway as he sees the second unexpected person in the room.

“Xiongzhang,” he says, heart in his throat.

“Wangji,” his brother says, wading through Lan Wangji’s immobility to clutch his forearms in relief and welcome. He looks Lan Wangji over. “You are well?”

He nods, his own eyes hungry as he looks over his brother for any injury. He wants to know where he has been, what it means that he is back.

“The Wen are coming. They are setting up Supervisory Offices in all of the regions. They have already done so in the Unclean Realm. They will be here soon.”

Qinghe occupied, the Cloud Recesses burned.

“Lanling,” Uncle asks.

Xichen shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Yungmeng Jiang?”

Xichen hesitates, just barely, but more than enough for Lan Wangji to notice, his stomach cramping hot and painful with fear. “Lotus Pier has fallen.”

Lan Wangji is certain he doesn’t move, but the whole world seems to sway around him.

Xichen looks at him, concern on his face.

Lan Wangji breathes. It feels impossible, but he must. “When?” he asks.

“Three days ago.”

Three days. Three days. Even as he read those precious, scandalous words from Wei Ying, he likely already—

No. No. He cannot accept that.

“If this is so,” Uncle says, “it is no longer safe here for you either, Wangji.”

Xichen nods. “All of the disciples who fled the indoctrination have been branded traitors. A few of the minor clans have been wiped out entirely. Wen Chao has claimed the legendary kill himself.”

Xichen, Lan Wangji notes absently, it very well informed for having been missing for so long.

“Wangji,” Xichen says, voice pitched in such a way as if he does not think Lan Wangji is taking the threat to himself seriously enough. “As the one who actually slayed the beast, he wants to make an example of you.”

“And Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, the words painful as they leave. There is no need to say that this particular revenge might already have been achieved. That Wen Chao wanted to destroy Wei Ying for daring to lift a sword against him, let alone slaughter his kill in his own clan’s territory.

Would Lan Wangji know, somehow? If Wei Ying had died? If such a bright light had been taken from this world? Shouldn’t the world feel different, if that were true?

He should have stayed. Should have stayed and protected him, not sat here waiting and repairing books. Died with him, if needed.

His brother, as always, sees too much. “Wangji,” he murmurs, a question there.

He has no answer he can afford to give.

“It’s clearly just an excuse, as was the indoctrination itself,” Lan Qiren says. “Wen Ruohan’s bigger plan is complete domination of the sects. There is no avoiding it.”

Lan Xichen nods, turning back to their uncle with a firm gaze drawn tight over his fear. “It will be war.”

War.

Lan Wangji is not even certain he understands what that means, to be at war. Just knows the low heat of anger in his limbs, the urge to no longer sit and wait, but to act. Lotus Pier has fallen.

Uncle nods. “You must not be here when they arrive. Take every able-bodied fighter with you.”

“Uncle,” Xichen says, distressed at the thought of leaving their elder behind yet again to face the Wen.

“We will submit,” Uncle says. “They will find us as cowed as they believe us to be. Neither of you are known to be here, and we will let them think they killed more of us than they have. They will have no reason to suspect.”

What is coming here is not a fight they can win. But it is also not a fate they can accept.

“And when you can,” Uncle continues, looking them both in the eye. “You will return and free us.”

They both bow in acceptance of this sacred duty.

“We will go to Lanling,” Xichen says. The one last place still yet untouched by Wen violence.

“Yes,” Uncle agrees.

It makes sense, and yet Lan Wangji doesn’t want to go to Lanling. He wants to fly towards Yunmeng, to find Wei Ying. To rip the countryside apart if he needs to.

Xichen touches his arm. “Any survivors will go to Lanling as well.”

A hollow thought, but more than he has standing here in the shattered remains of his childhood home. His childish complacency.

He is child no longer.  

“We will return,” Xichen promises their uncle. The Cloud Recesses with be freed again. One day.

Lan Wangji bows his pledge of this promise as well, burying it deep into his heart.

They leave within the hour, every able-bodied disciple slipping away with them into the countryside, in search of allies and a battlefront to make their stand.

Lan Wangji walks away with the unfinished letter and music score tucked into his robes, and painful hope trembling in his chest.

Chapter Text

viii.

Koi Tower stands tall and blinding and completely untouched. Knowing the fate of Lotus Pier and having spent the last month walking the burned-out husk of the Cloud Recesses, the sharp luxury of Koi Tower hurts Lan Wangji’s eyes. It is good, though, he tells himself. This is strength, a sign that not all is lost. There is support here. There is hope.

He sheds that layer of naivete soon enough, sitting through meetings kneeling beside Xichen as Jin Guangshan prevaricates and attempts to downplay the occupation of three of the great sects, the undisguised aggression of the Wen, and his own sect’s forces each in turn. The last, Lan Wangji cannot but uncharitably think might actually be true: the Jin disciples so poorly trained or led as to be useless. He immediately reins the thought in, assigning himself punishment for the transgression of such uncharitable thoughts against a potential ally. Not the falseness of the sentiment, but his own weakness in allowing the pettiness.

Jin Zixuan, sitting silently below his father, clearly struggles to remain perfect—miniscule winces marring his haughty visage at the most outrageous of his father’s statements. He had gone out of his way and risked much to help Lan Wangji and Wei Ying in returning for them in Muxi. Here, that sign of righteousness means less than nothing, as Jin Zixuan never so much as opens his mouth.

Lan Wangji has always had great patience—outside a few memorable instances, almost all in direct relation to Wei Ying. Wei Ying who is not here. And yet still at the forefront of his thoughts, no matter how painful. As visceral as the gaping absence of anyone at all from Lotus Pier. The lack of clear information on that point, or any information at all. The material point being, Lan Wangji does not want to be kneeling in these gaudy, barbed spaces right now. He wishes to be flying towards Yunmeng, and short of that, to be striking back at the Wen. Driving them from Gusu.

Lan Wangji thinks of Wen soldiers even now setting up a Supervisory Office in the burned-out husk of his home and vibrates with rage.

Xichen’s own urgency is carefully withheld, his surface placid and admirable as he flawlessly meets Jin Guangshan’s posturing and patronizing with perfect politeness and gentle insistence. A skill Lan Wangji could never hope to develop as well as his blunt silence. It at least serves now to let him disappear into the background rather than offend.

At the end of the first week, they are yet again being put off with a pointlessly luxurious meal when the servants announce the arrival of Jiang Yanli. Lan Wangji isn’t even aware of moving until his brother’s hand lands on his arm, holding him in place where he kneels.

Lan Wangji forces each muscle in his body to relax one by one, even as his eyes never stray from Jiang Yanli.

She is pale, leaning on the arm of Song Lan in a way that is not quite appropriate, but clearly necessary. When had she come across Song Lan? Where is his partner Xiao Xingchen? Song Lan seems unbalanced, the absence at his side pulling the world askew.

Lan Wangji feels his heart thump away in his chest at the sight of this man who once roused unrecognized before longings of what another life might look like. A partnership he hadn’t thought to imagine. But where is his other half? Why must this be the way of things, Lan Wangji allows himself to complain in the privacy of his own mind, far too aware where his petulance stems from.

It is only his need to hear what Jiang Yanli might impart that refocuses his mind, forcing Song Lan and his absent partner from his mind.

Song Lan bows. “Jin-zongzhu,” he says. “Greetings. I was tasked by Jiang-zongzhu to escort his sister here to safety.”

There are whispers in the hall. Jiang-zongzhu’s sister, not daughter. Confirmation at last, to hear Song Lan speak of Jiang Wanyin as clan leader. Jiang Fengmian is truly dead.

Jiang Yanli steps forward, bowing with more than her fragile state would seem to allow, and speaks slowly and haltingly, but not without passion, of the fate of Lotus Pier—her parents, her sect brothers and sisters. Confirming the rumors and assumptions of an entire sect destroyed in one brutal sweep. Lan Wangji collects the details greedily, hand tightening around nothing but air, no sheath to press for comfort, no answering hum, rather only blunt nails cutting his palm. Ineffective. Useless.

But where is the fact he needs more than air?

“Where is Jiang-zongzhu now?” Jin Guangshan queries, for once asking something useful.

Lan Wangji returns his hungry gaze to Jiang Yanli.

“My brother was gravely injured and was being cared for in Yiling. But I do not know…” She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. It suddenly seems cruel, to make her do this here, so very publicly.

“He is alone?” Xichen asks. The best brother anyone could ask for.

Some thought at last seems to bring Jiang Yanli some measure of calm. “No. No, my brother…Wei Wuxian is with him.”

There. There at last.  

He survived. Wei Ying is alive. Or was, as of three days ago. Lan Wangji tries not to think of how much can shift and fall away in as little as three days.

Wei Ying.

Lan Wangji closes his eyes, overwhelmed. The release of the fear holding his body taut for so long is disorienting, threatens to knock him sideways.

Wei Ying.

Hearing Jiang Yanli’s words is not the same as having Wei Ying here before his eyes, in his grasp, maddening smile pressed against his throat, but it is a brutal fate stayed for at least one more moment. A chance.

Wei Ying.

“They are safe?” Xichen ask, still serving to speak what Lan Wangji himself cannot.

“My brothers are among friends,” Jiang Yanli says. “Though I do not know for how long… They did not share with me…” She sways, body unsteady.

Xichen rises to his feet, perhaps feeling the cruelty of this display as well. “Might we find a place for Jiang-guniang to rest?”

Jin-furen crosses over to her, sweeping up to wrap an arm around Jiang Yanli, pulling her away from Song Lan. “It is right that they sent you to safety, A-Li.”

Jiang Yanli shakes her head, but allows herself to be taken from the room.

Lan Wangji watches her retreat, not removing his gaze from her, this last person to see Wei Ying. Her eyes lift towards him once, catching and holding, and he almost rises to his feet again. But then she looks away and disappears.

“Surely with this now confirmed,” Xichen says, turning towards Jin-zongzhu in the following silence, “we have little choice but to take Wen aggression seriously.”

Jin Guangshan speaks long and still says nothing.

Lan Wangji stares out the door after Jiang Yanli.

Another week passes in excruciating uselessness, mired in the endless stream of doublespeak and politics.

The Cloud Recesses, Lotus Pier, and the Unclean Realm have all be conquered and occupied by supervisory offices. Their heirs branded traitors and outlaws for resisting this new order. The Yao clan decimated, and others absorbed brutally into Qishan.

And yet Jin Guangshan prevaricates. Speaks of misunderstandings. Speaks of the possibilities of peace.

Jiang Yanli’s arrival proves to change nothing.

Lan Wangji kneels in the gilded, untouched halls of Jinlintai and seethes.

The only break in the endless stalemate is the arrival of Nie Mingjue fesh from the battlefield—fierce and disinterested in politics as a whole.

“There is nothing to be done here, Xichen,” Nie Mingjue says to them as they dine in private that afternoon. “Nothing but wasting more time we do not have. We must strike back. The Jin are not going to dirty themselves with this. And allowing them to keep us here, mired in this endless doublespeak will only weaken us. For all we know, that is his aim!”

And so they decide, three weeks after the fall of Lotus Pier, to bring the fight to the Wen on their own, with little more from the Jin than some feeble financial support and a promise to keep their dependents safe.

Lan Wangji is preparing to leave the next morning when a Jin servant comes to his door, informing him that Jiang Yanli has asked to speak with him. This is unexpected, but not unwelcome.

He follows the servant to another set of gilded quarters attached to a private garden where Jiang Yanli sits at a table, tea and bowls of snacks in front of her. She rises to bow at him, gestures uncertain beneath their grace.

“Lan-er-gongzi, thank you so much for coming.”

He shakes his head, bowing back before gesturing for her to retake her seat. “It is no trouble,” he says, filled suddenly with the wish for Jiang Yanli to think well of him. He so rarely cares what people think of him that it comes as a surprise to him. If only he were not so woefully deficient in this particular skill.

She gives him a tremulous smile and sits once more, offering him the seat across from her.  

It is not quite proper for them to speak in this way, a young master and an unmarried daughter of another sect, even as the Jin maid hovers nearby. He sits anyway, too eager for whatever she might say. What more he might hear of Wei Ying.

Jiang Yanli serves him tea. “You are well?” she asks.

He nods, accepting the cup. He is not at his best in these sort of situations, especially something so far off the normal prearranged interactions. He is not certain what she wants of him. What to say to a young lady of her station. He only has the thousand questions crowding in his own throat, yearning to come out.

Was Wei Ying injured in the conflict? Had he even fully recovered from his previous injuries? How did he deal with the fate of Lotus Pier? Did he…need Lan Wangji?

The last, he knows, is more wishful thinking than anything. But the nagging fear that Wei Ying might have needed him while he sat here doing nothing…

Lan Wangji takes a careful, slow breath, and forces his attention back on the woman in front of him. Wei Ying’s dear sister he loves more acutely than any other. There is a lingering paleness of her skin and dark smudges under her eyes. She does not appear well.

“And you?” he manages to find the words to say.

She smiles at him with a genuineness that transforms her face into something kind and inviting, almost like Xichen. “I am recovering.” She looks away. “I only wish I were not quite so weak. That I might have—” She cuts herself off, jaw tightening.

Lan Wangji considers how hard it would be, how hard it has been, to sit in this luxurious cage while people they love are out in the world in danger, while those who have transgressed against them in the most base and vicious ways are still unchallenged.

Jiang Yanli recovers herself admirably. “I had only thought to speak with you before your departure. That we might have a moment together. I hope you will forgive my selfishness.”

It is true they have never spent time together outside the crowd of the classroom that one year that seems so long ago now. But Lan Wangji is grateful for the chance, as if being near her might somehow bring him closer to Wei Ying.

“It is no trouble,” he says again. It comes out stilted and cold rather than comforting, but Jiang Yanli does not seem offended.

She pushes forward the bowl with snacks, and he takes one so as not to offend her further. “I did not get to thank you for caring for my brother during the indoctrination.”

He feels he did very little to care for Wei Ying during that time. That Wei Ying instead was the one to care for all those around him. No matter how little Lan Wangji allowed himself to accept it from him.

I will carry you.

It had seemed so important, at the time, to keep his distance from Wei Ying. To keep any similar suspicion from falling on Wei Ying if he were to be seen as an ally of the Lan, certainly. But also in defense of the feelings he aroused in Lan Wangji. The confusion.

How foolish he had been. How much time he wasted. Even with everything happening around them, he had little notion of how precious those hours would be in hindsight.

Jiang Yanli’s smile softens as her gaze shifts to the garden. “He was so proud of what you’d done together. So full of praise for your skills and your kindness.”

Lan Wangji can’t speak, simply shaking his head. Wei Ying had been the one to slay the beast. Wei Ying is the one who is kind. It rises up in his throat and he can only be thankful that his stony face will hide it well.

Or perhaps not, as Jiang Yanli reaches out and touches the back of his hand that has curled into a fist without his permission.

He stiffens under the touch, but manages not to pull away.

Jiang Yanli does not press for more, simply patting his fingers like he has seen her do to her brothers. How she can be so kind in the face of losing so much, he does not know. She’s like Wei Ying in this way.

“I was not there,” he chokes out, half-apology, half-complaint. Nonsensical, unhelpful words he should have been good enough to leave unsaid.

Jiang Yanli hums, tilting her head to the side as if she can see much, and he wonders if this is what it means to have an older sister—so familiar and yet different from his own elder brother. “It is difficult. To know those we care dearly for are far away from us and in danger. Yet I must ask, Lan-er-gongzi, if you had been there, what could you have done? What could any of us have done against such ruthless aggression?”

He knows she speaks truth, but Lan Wangji’s heart has no place for such logic.

Jiang Yanli pulls her hands back into her lap, staring down at them with something too delicate to be called a sigh falling from her lips. Lan Wangji is reminded all at once that she will be left behind yet again while the rest of them leave for war. It is better that she stay here, the correct action, but it must feel impossible all the same.

Lan Wangji drags the tattered remains of his composure back around him. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you,” he says, knowing he owes Wei Ying this at least. This person so dear to him. This person with no family or sect of her own left to shield her.

She smiles at him, sad and gentle. “Please take care of yourself. I know how much that matters to A-Xian.”

His ears burn, suddenly desperate to know what Wei Ying may have said to her. Did he tell her of how they were together? No, surely not. It would be wildly inappropriate. But perhaps something of his feelings?

It is silly to think of right now.

“And if you see my brothers, tell them to take care. Tell them to come back to me.”

He nods. “I will.”

As he rises to leave, she presses a parcel of food onto him for the journey. “I know you will be busy, but if you ever find yourself with the time and means, I would appreciate hearing from you to know you are well, if it is not too much of an imposition.”

Again, not strictly proper, and yet it warms him, as if somehow an acknowledgment of some connection to her through Wei Ying. As if there is something real, tangible, that binds them all together. He is no great letter writer, he knows, thoughts going to the still-unfinished missive to Wei Ying. He has been remiss in fulfilling that promise already. He will not fall farther behind in it. Nor in this new task.

“I will,” he agrees.

He bows to her in farewell, parcel clutched to his chest.

At dawn the next morning, Lan Wangji leaves with his brother and their surviving disciples. The time for waiting and wondering is over.

The battles are bloody and endless.

Lan Wangji is certain there are those who would say he is being stubborn, not picking up a non-spiritual sword to replace his own. But to do feels wrong. Feels like a capitulation. A sacrilege. And he will not do it.

Without Bichen, Lan Wangji depends upon his qin, quickly mastering the battle chords that had once only been theoretical, something to write of on an exam, practice in a classroom. Now he strums power through the strings—blasting into earth as easily as through bone and flesh. Kills instead of liberating. A task that becomes simple and familiar far too quickly.

The weeks bleed into months. Gusu is slowly liberated, one installation of Wen soldiers dispatched at a time. For all the danger, the days have a sameness to them. Scouting and sleeping in tents and pushing forward and disappearing back into the trees. Conserving energy and manpower and supplies. Hiding in barns of local commoners.

There is still much waiting. For a new piece of intelligence. The return of a scout. Of resupplies. Waiting that leaves too much time to think. Too much time to count the lives of each of the fallen. Of each life taken.

Lan Wangji uses this time to write letters to Wei Ying that he has nowhere to send. He writes things he would never consider saying to anyone else. He imagines pressing them into Wei Ying’s hands when next they meet. A whole stack of them. Of saying, I have kept my promise.

Because they will meet again. They will.

Every two weeks he also writes a brief missive to Jiang Yanli to be sent back to Koi Tower, merely stating that he is still in good health, that he has not seen either of her brothers, but that he will not stop looking.

And look he does. Somehow in all of this, Lan Wangji wanders. He is searching, he knows, as far as he is able despite there being no reason at all for Wei Ying to be here in Gusu, or even in the eastern parts of Qishan and Moling when they press that far. He wanders and finds nothing but people in need of help and most days that feels close enough to being with Wei Ying—Wei Ying and their vow they took together—to make carrying on feel possible.

Thus Lan Wangji gives over every moment not spent weakening their enemy to the commoners being run over by this war. There is no one left to complete nighthunts in a land that is increasingly unsettled with violence and resentment. It is one of the few things that can keep his mind quiet, keep the fear lodged back behind his teeth. He ignores the whispers and accolades that start to follow him with each new nighthunt completed, no matter how small. Tries not to see the relief in the eyes of the commoners at a cultivator coming to help rather than steal more food and spill more blood.

They do not know just how much blood Lan Wangji spills as well. Too much of it. Never enough.

He becomes adept at removing blood from white robes. Sewing up tears and slashes in fabric. Meditating away the day’s hurts and losses and rising again the next dawn to do it all again.

He does not fall to rage or sadness, but clings to his cold surety. It’s simple. Easier.

He loses count of how many men he has killed. Doesn’t pause to think how foolish he has been to spend his whole life learning a craft he thought he would never have to turn against the living. Meant to end resentment, not create it.

Tries to remember what it was to be young and foolish and stupidly aroused.

Two months of killing and night hunting and letter writing and they are able at last to retake the Cloud Recesses. Lan Wangji is there side by side with his brother when they fulfill their promise, bowing low before their uncle on the soil of their birthplace.

There is much more to be done, a line to be pressed further as the Wen pull back and stumble. A war far from won. Lan Wangji leaves his brother behind in the Cloud Recesses and takes his small contingent of cultivators into Qinghe to join Nie Mingjue’s forces.  

They are regrouping in a rough encampment outside Langya when he hears someone shout his name.

“Lan Wangji!”

Lan Wangji turns on his heel, tracking the voice to find Jiang Wanyin striding aggressively towards him across the compound. Lan Wangji’s eyes eagerly search the spot next to him, then behind, skimming across the disciples following him. Each face accompanying him not the one he longs to see.

“Where is he?” Jiang Wanyin demands, coming to a stop in front of Lan Wangji without pausing for so much as a nod of his head. “That asshole. He made me wait for him in Yiling for ages. But of course, he’s already here with you. Probably didn’t wait five minutes before running back to your side. I’ll kill him, I swear it. Leaving me to track down our surviving disciples and conscript new ones on my own. All so he could flirt and be unbearable around you.”

“Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji says slowly, feeling things begin to spin. “Wei Ying is not with you?”

Jiang Wanyin scoffs. “Of course, he isn’t. He’s here, isn’t he?” He looks past Lan Wangji, as if expecting to see his brother at any moment, a spot of black among white. Like Wei Ying would naturally never stray far from Lan Wangji’s side.

If only that were true.

Jiang Wanyin refocuses on Lan Wangji. “Tell me he’s here,” he growls, like Lan Wangji is somehow hiding him somewhere.

Lan Wangji shakes his head, trying to quell the panic threatening to rise in his chest. “I have not seen Wei Ying since Muxi.”

“What?” Jiang Wanyin snaps. “That’s impossible. He’s—”

“Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji says, only partially aware that he is leaning in towards Jiang Wanyin in his urgency, his hand tightening painfully into a fist. “Where is Wei Ying?”

Jiang Wanyin stares off into space, several varying emotions dancing across his face in dizzying succession. “I have to find him.”

With that, he strides back off, leaving all of Lan Wangji’s questions unanswered.

The next morning when Jiang Wanyin leads his disciples out of camp, Lan Wangji follows.

Chapter Text

ix.

Lan Wangji has never experienced silence as loud as Jiang Wanyin’s.

Certainly, Wei Ying’s rare silences were never quiet either. They were filled with movement, an inescapable presence like the riotous tumble of water over stones. Fluid, mesmerizing, inescapable. Beautiful. Even if irritating, just at the beginning, due to its unfamiliarity. Due to Lan Wangji’s foolishness.

But where Wei Ying’s energized silences, whether a rare moment of true concentration—his fingers still twitching, knee bouncing as he sat sprawled in elegant disarray—or of imminent mischief—sly looks and dancing eyes—always felt like sunlight, like pulsing life, the imminent movement between seasons, something that cannot be fought or resisted, Jiang Wanyin’s silence is like a threatening storm.

Sitting next to Jiang Wanyin is like being at the shore of a deep ocean just as willing to drag one down and drown them in the depths as to bash them open upon the rocks. Jiang Wanyin says nothing, and yet every line of his body, every expression and rigid gesture speaks of rage and ill-temper and disapproval.

It is deeply unpleasant. Lan Wangji tolerates it, as he must.

They sit at a small fire across from one another, their disciples in two distinct groups a short distance away. Close enough to hear any order, but far enough to offer respect. Lan Wangji is quite used to this deferential isolation, prefers it in fact. Jiang Wanyin seems less at ease. Any attempt to appear unaffected is largely unsuccessful.

From what little Lan Wangji has witnessed so far, he is forced to admit that Jiang Wanyin is an effective leader. He manages people well and does not yell nearly as much as one might assume. But it is also as if the weight of it has settled hard and harsh on him. Heavy.

Still, he had not turned Lan Wangji away. For that Lan Wangji can only be grateful. In fact, Jiang Wanyin has only once addressed Lan Wangji’s unasked for presence.

“This is my mission,” Jiang Wanyin had said while Lan Wangji braced himself to assert his intentions. Intentions that remain largely unspoken. Lan Wangji does not speak of things that are obvious.

Not unless it is for Wei Ying, he thinks, remembering his promises to himself in a dank cave. To never look away from Wei Ying again. To speak the obvious and say things twice, if it seems that is what Wei Ying needs. For Wei Ying he is willing to labor through the difficulty of words.

But not for Jiang Wanyin.

But rather than telling Lan Wangji to get lost, Jiang Wanyin’s face had merely scrunched up, his chin and shoulders lifting. “You will follow my orders.”

Lan Wangji believes he controlled his face, did not show his surprise nor betray a flash of disbelief. Jiang Wanyin was correct, after all. This is his mission. And he is, by title, now Lan Wangji’s superior, even if not of his clan. Lan Wangji’s age and greater skill are no longer the measure of their relationship.

It matters naught to Lan Wangji. And so he’d bowed the exact height a Clan Heir would owe a Clan Leader and said, “Of course, Jiang-zongzhu.”

Jiang Wanyin twitched in response, though whether in irritation or discomfort, Lan Wangji could not ascertain. Did not care enough to try.

Jiang Wanyin then glanced at the small force of Lan disciples hardened by months of war and nodded his head in acceptance. “Right. Good talk. Which guy is your best scout.”

And that had been that.

Ever since they have moved through Wen-occupied Qinghe in uneasy coordination.

Officially, Jiang Wanyin’s sanctioned mission is to disrupt supply lines for the Wen forces currently occupying the Unclean Realm, to harass their rear line to soften the way for Nie Mingjue’s forces. Unofficially, there is zero doubt that Jiang Wanyin will be searching for information about his missing brother.

Not even Nie Mingjue, Lan Wangji thinks, would be foolish enough to try to tell Jiang Wanyin otherwise. A mark in Jiang Wanyin’s favor, this unmoveable dedication to Wei Ying, even if not quite enough to make his company tolerable.

Equally, neither Nie Mingjue nor Jiang Wanyin would be enough to stop Lan Wangji from going along.

Wei Ying is missing and they will find him.

The possibilities painted by Wei Ying’s extended absence primarily point in an unwelcome direction. Missing for so long without word, in an area overrun by Wen forces… The best hope is that Wei Ying has hidden himself away for some prolonged reason that Lan Wangji struggles to identify. Then again, his imagination has never been that strong. Capture is far too reasonable an assumption. As for the worst-case scenario—

No. Lan Wangji does not allow his mind to go in that direction. Would not accept it anyway, short of irrefutable evidence.

And so, the search.

They move at night and sleep in shifts during the day, Jiang Wanyin grumbling something uncomplimentary about Lan actually being flexible in something for once, as if war and preservation of life do not countermand any rule. As if night-hunting does not often require their sleep patterns to shift.

Lan Wangji ignores the insult as meaningless, but tallies the grievance all the same.

Two days later they are resting a short distance from a Wen patrol, waiting for full darkness before they attack. Lan Wangji supposes there was a time he would have found such tactics unsavory, waiting for his enemy to be asleep and unaware. But he has seen far too often the way these occupying forces treat the commoners. Has the smell of his own home burning bright in his nostrils. The memory of Wei Ying limping out of the Wen dungeons.

He does not question the necessity of these tactics. It is what he has been told to do by his seniors. His commanders.

And yet, in the fading evening light when Lan Wangji writes his daily letter to Wei Ying, he asks the questions he has no one else to ask. Doesn’t dare speak or linger on even in his own mind. Is Lan Wangji becoming vicious? Would Wei Ying still recognize him? Is this what war truly is? Trying so desperately not to become the one you are opposing?

He cannot let such things drive him or influence him. Cannot let it make him hesitate. And so he does not.

There is righteous action and there is unrighteous action.

Wen Ruohan has killed indiscriminately. He has taken up an unholy power. Turned his back on righteous cultivation. Therefore he must be stopped. It is a simple delineation. With each rule and pattern set aside for the necessity of war, this truth sits sturdy as his sole foundation.

He sets aside his letter to Wei Ying, and with it, his doubts.

This evening is also the time that he should write to Jiang Yanli. In the last two weeks he has news that she would most certainly wish to hear, even if he will not be able to send it right away. Still, he writes salutations, of his continued health, and in a break from all the past letters, is then able to tell her that at least one of her brothers has been found.

He renews his promise to continue to search for her other brother.

Writing this reminds him of another promise made to Jiang Yanli. He glances at Jiang Wanyin across the fire where he scowls at the flames. Taking a slow breath, Lan Wangji resigns himself to the necessity of speaking with Jiang Wanyin about something more than logistics.

He remembers Jiang Yanli’s kind smile and Wei Ying’s love for his siblings.  

“I spoke with Jiang-guniang in Lanling,” Lan Wangji says, perhaps the most words he has spoken to the other man since they left Langya.

Jiang Wanyin’s face lifts with a jerk, his intemperate emotions an assault as always. “What? You saw A-jie?”

Lan Wangji merely stares past Jiang Wanyin’s shoulder. He has just said he had.  

“Lan Wangji,” he growls. “You can’t just say shit like that and then shut back down into your best wall of ice impression. How was my sister? Is she being cared for?” He breaks off a moment, face creasing with some additional negative emotion that makes him look child-like. “Was she pissed off?”

Lan Wangji breathes through the barrage of questions, relieved not to be burdened by an amount of regard that might have him struggling to actually answer each one. He only need repeat Jiang Yanli’s specific words.

He has still, apparently, been silent too long, Jiang Wanyin’s hand tightening around his sword as if considering violence. “Lan Wangji!”

Lan Wangji takes another long moment to gather himself, some part of him determined to demonstrate what patience and moderation look like. “She asked that you take care and return to her.” He looks to the side, his letter to Wei Ying just visible out of the corner of his eye. “Both of you.”

Having dispatched his duty, he once again picks up the letter to Jiang Yanli, even though there is nothing left to be added. He can only hope Jiang Wanyin takes this as the signal that their conversation, such as it was, is now at an end.

His message must be clear, as Jiang Wanyin curses under his breath, still loud enough for Lan Wangji to hear himself being called a string of very unflattering names before shoving to his feet. “Have your guys ready to go in half an hour, Lan-er-gongzi,” he snaps and then storms off like a child.

A short distance away, the Lan disciples who have accompanied Lan Wangji since they first fled an occupied Cloud Recesses, give each other silent looks, but do not say a word, too well disciplined to make a comment about a Clan Leader’s behavior, no matter how childish.

The Wen patrol is dispatched with bloody efficiency that threatens to become commonplace. Lan Wangji’s disciples kill with the minimum of fuss, the Jiang disciples doing their best to follow their example, but still betraying the newness to the acts of war for some.

It is just stark enough of a difference to make the familiarity of violence once again abhorrent.

Lan Wangji kicks out to the side, impacting the chest of one Wen soldier before grabbing the wrist of a second, disarming him with a quick twist of a wrist. Out of the corner of his eye, Lan Wangji sees another Wen soldier coming up behind Jiang Wanyin’s unprotected back. He throws the sword, the soldier taking it in the chest, the momentum carrying him back and away, falling still on the ground.

Jiang Wanyin spares only a moment of attention to note the now-dead soldier, eyes darting to Lan Wangji, but Lan Wangji is already moving to retrieve the sword and find his next opponent.

In the end, only one Jiang disciple takes an injury to their arm, blood dripping down and off their fingers. They have suitably surprised the small Wen patrol, it seems. Though Lan Wangji cannot help but also note the age and relative inexperience of the Wen soldiers in this patrol. Beyond the one senior that Jiang Wanyin has subdued rather than killed, the others seemed…ill-prepared.

Conscripts, Lan Wangji suspects and tries not to feel any particular way about. He has his orders.

Once certain that the area is clear, Jiang Wanyin ties the bleeding patrol leader to a tree with Zidian, the purple ropes sparking and sizzling against cloth.

Jiang Wanyin asks sharp questions about the locations of other patrols, the supply train, and nearby villages, the smell of burning flesh growing stronger as Zidian burns through cloth. One of the Jiang disciple takes careful note of everything the man reveals in his agony.

Only once the questions of importance to their official mission are asked, does Jiang Wanyin ask about prisoners. About Wen strongholds where they may be kept.

“Where is Wei Wuxian?” Jiang Wanyin grinds out at last, the strands of Zidian tightening further to judge from the choked scream the patrol leader fights and fails to hold back.

Lan Wangji tries not to feel the sound of Wei Ying’s name like a sword to the chest, looking on as impassively as he can.

“Dead,” the Wen soldier manages to spit out.

“Lies,” Jiang Wanyin says.

The man just smiles, blood on his teeth. “I hear he begged, in the end.”

Jiang Wanyin lets out a guttural shout, Zidian tightening relentlessly. The clearing fills with the sound of bones breaking and the man breathes no more.

One of the Jiang disciples, little more than a child (yet no more than two years younger than Lan Wangji himself, he is honor-bound to admit), vomits into a nearby bush, face wan under a splash of blood across his face. Not his own, it seems, but an enemy’s.

Lan Wangji takes a careful breath and then gestures for his disciples to begin gathering the bodies into a pile for burning.

They are within their rights to burn the bodies and scatter their ashes as a final act against their enemies. Those who have violated them in turn. But even more prevalent in Lan Wangji’s mind is the suppression of resentment. Even if they did not rise again, if these men had calming ceremonies, to leave them to the scavengers risks rot and sickness for the land and the commoners who live here. Cremation is the most preventative choice. It can still be done with enough care to offer some protective passage this far from home. They need not scatter the remains, but burn quickly and then bury as properly as possible.

He tries not to think of the incongruity, killing one moment and being comforted by the rigid guidelines of caring for the dead in the next. The task he has been trained for.

Jiang Wanyin scowls, but doesn’t countermand the order. Even going so far as to provide some rather cleverly devised talismans to hasten the burning without drawing attention to their location by light or smoke.

Lan Wangji cannot help but suspect the true origin of these talismans.

Jiang Wanyin stays silent through it all, until someone approaches the collapsed and mangled body of the patrol leader.

“No,” he barks. “Leave him.”

The Lan disciples pause in their task, looking back at Lan Wangji.

“I said,” Jiang Wanyin repeats, each word spit like an arrow. “Leave him.”

“For what purpose?” Lan Wangji asks.

“So others will know.”

It is unlikely any other Wen patrol will pass this way. And if they do, it will only alert them to the presence of their infiltrating force. The only other people who might one day come across the mangled remains would be commoners in these lands, exposing them to a resentful menace they could have no hope to handle.

“That is unwise,” Lan Wangji says.

“Not your call to make,” Jiang Wanyin snaps and then strides away.

Lan Wangji leaves the body, but still sits in the clearing and pulls out his qin, playing the souls to rest. Snapping whatever thin threads might still be holding them to this place.

It is all he can do.

They do not linger once the task is complete, once more slipping into the darkness, towards the outpost location betrayed by the patrol leader before his death. As the sky begins to lighten, they stop at a cliff face, the rock curved above enough to offer slight protection.

They settle, the disciples quietly making a quick meal that some of the Jiang seem too unsettled to eat.

Jiang Wangji is agitated, even more than usual. It is possible he is embarrassed by the reaction of his men, as if they themselves hadn’t been pampered and unprepared children mere months before. The Lan disciples are perhaps better at hiding it, but Lan Wangji finds no shame in the honest reaction to unfamiliar brutality.

Or perhaps, to judge from the gruff yet not unkind way Jiang Wanyin claps his hand on his still-shaken disciple’s shoulder and orders him to eat, it is not that at all. Jiang Wanyin’s emotions have long been beyond Lan Wangji.

Once again left sitting apart with each other, Lan Wangji sits and eats his portion, doing his best to ignore the volatile energy emanating from Jiang Wanyin.

“Why are you even here?” Jiang Wanyin bursts out when their bowls are near half-empty.

Lan Wangji has apparently been far too premature in assuming Jiang Wanyin had accepted his presence. Using the excuse of his food, he ignores the question, not particularly interested in having this conversation, or any other.

Jiang Wanyin lets out a harsh scoff. “What, you can’t even say his name?”

Lan Wangji does not point out that his motives must be perfectly clear, or Jiang Wanyin would not be able to so easily narrow down on the most salient point enough to mock him with it.

Wei Ying.

Lan Wangji does wish to say his name, speak it out into the world, and yet cannot do so knowing the quick echoing response of his own name will never come in turn. That there is no Wei Ying to dance up into his space, press close and not slip back away. Say “Lan Zhan” in that teasing drawl.

“I thought you couldn’t stand him,” Jiang Wanyin states as if a fact, some long held truth scribed onto bamboo and polished with age.

“Do not spread lies,” Lan Wangji bites out, hands tightening on his bowl.

“Then what is he to you?” he asks, something of a challenge there.

Lan Wangji owes Jiang Wanyin neither explanation nor the secrets of his heart. They are Wei Ying’s alone.

Jiang Wanyin looks away, his lips twisting with distaste. “He would never shut the hell up about you. Do you know that?”

Lan Wangji cannot know if this is meant as a blow, but feels it land all the same. A sharp spike in his chest.

Wei Ying, Wei Ying, where are you?

Jiang Wanyin seems to grow more and more angry as Lan Wangji doesn’t respond, refuses to be provoked.

“Tell me something. Have you just been fucking around with him? Or did you ever actually intend to do right by him? Because if you don’t think he’s good enough for you or whatever—"

“Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji says in sharp warning.

“What?” he shoots back. “You’re the one who invited yourself along. I think I’m owed at least a little explanation.”

“No.” He owes Jiang Wanyin nothing.

“He’s my brother,” he says, refusing to have the decency to withdraw. “He’s—” Jiang Wanyin’s voice cracks and he looks away, furious and also something of a frustrated child.

Lan Wangji thinks of the patrol leader’s words.

Dead.

No. No, Wei Ying cannot be. Lan Wangji will not believe it.

Taking a careful breath, Lan Wangji bends just enough to provide the one most important truth. “I will not stop until I find him.”

And once he does, he will never let him go again.

Jiang Wanyin sits in his terrible loud silence, struggling with what Lan Wangji could not begin to understand. And then he stands abruptly.

“He isn’t yours to find,” he snarls. “He’s Yunmeng Jiang. And don’t you forget it.”

With that, he turns and stalks away into the lightening dawn.

They overtake another Wen patrol, this one having settled semi-permanently in a small village. It is little more than a collection of half a dozen homes and one community space where the soldiers have displaced the families into as they lived off the fat of their larders. The signs of brutality are everywhere, in the broken furniture, piles of trash, and the battered and drawn faces of the villages as they creep cautiously out to see the Wen bodies now lined in the dirt street.

The villagers are not relieved by this sudden liberation so much as wary. As if they might simply be replacing one occupying force with another. The young women, Lan Wangji notices, are either missing or hidden away.

He turns to Lan Qichang, getting his attention before glancing at the bodies and then the village head who is standing a few feet ahead of the rest of the people.

Lan Qichang nods and then moves to the bodies of the Wen soldiers, removing whatever money and goods can be found on them.

It would be better to burn them with their belongings, to make it more proper than merely punitive. But that is not what Wei Ying would do, Lan Wangji is certain, eyeing the starving and maltreated villages. A sight far too familiar in Lan Wangji’s wanderings these last months.

It is not plundering the dead when it is returning stolen property.

Jiang Wanyin watches nearby. It is hard to tell what in his silence is annoyance or disapproval. Or if it is just his normal state of anger. He says nothing though, so Lan Wangji carries on with his tasks.

The disciples hand the money and goods over to the villagers, and only then do they start to slightly relax.

“Were they holding any prisoners here?” Jiang Wanyin asks the village head.

“No, gongzi,” he answers, bowing deeply and seeming anxious to have to deliver such an answer.

Jiang Wanyin questions them further, asking details about how long the men had been here, what kind of messages they received, if they ever had reinforcements.

After this is done, one villager is brave enough to step closer, to mention some supernatural disturbance to the east that has been impacting their waterways and ability to fish.

With all the Wen have clearly taken from them, this source of food is no doubt needed.

“I will see to it,” Lan Wangji says, noting the exhaustion on his disciples’ faces. He instructs them to complete the burnings and burials and then follow any additional orders from Jiang Wanyin.

He turns and walks out the village to the east.

He comes across a single walking corpse on the way, stuck between the trunks of a bifurcated tree. It is easily dealt with and then he is able to continue to the stream in question. There he finds two water ghouls in the deepest part of the water. Not quite strong enough to begin dragging others into a shared fate, but on the verge of being a large issue for the small village.

It would perhaps have been wiser to rest and meditate after the earlier taxing fight rather than coming straight here. But Lan Wangji does not anticipate the ghouls being difficult to deal with. He is physically able.  

His mind, however, is not as ordered as it should be and he cannot help but be haunted by the sudden memory of Wei Ying’s shining, beautiful face.

We Yunmeng Jiang have a lot of experience with water ghouls!

The memory of Xichen’s ill-concealed amusement at Lan Wangji’s turmoil.

But Wei Ying is not here. And neither is Xichen. So Lan Wangji is left to face the ghouls on his own.

It is the work of half a day to subdue the creatures and cleanse the river of any lingering malice. The villagers will be free to fish here once more.

His body is heavy with fatigue by the time he returns, mind still tormented by thoughts of Wei Ying, his brother, the things outside of his control. He is pleased to find that his disciples are all asleep, having found places in the community center to bed down now that the villagers have been able to return to their homes.

Jiang Wanyin sits at a table, a map spread in front of him and a plate of food at his elbow.

“What was it?” Jiang Wanyin asks by way of greeting.

Lan Wangji takes a breath and refuses to be provoked. “Water ghouls.”

Jiang Wanyin nods. “I suppose you handled it.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t see the need to respond.

Jiang Wanyin scoffs. “Sit. Eat.” He pushes the plate across the table.

Trying not to show any surprise, but knowing food to be a good idea, Lan Wangji sits. It is simple fare and he is grateful for it. He nods his head in acknowledgment and begins to eat, aware of Jiang Wanyin’s continued scrutiny as he does.

“You know what they’re calling you,” Jiang Wanyin says.  

Lan Wangji does, in fact. Has heard it whispered from time to time. And more recently even on the tongues of fellow cultivators.

Hanguang-Jun.

Jiang Wanyin sneers at him, gesturing at his robes. “That’s what you get wandering around in pure white like a maiden in mourning.”

They both freeze and stiffen, the words hanging horribly between them.

Some days Lan Wangji finds it very hard not to hate Jiang Wanyin.

Another week and they finally come in range of the supply train at the core of Jiang Wanyin’s mission. It is a long, lumbering line of wagons defended by a large force of cultivators and common soldiers, some on horse and others ranged out on either side on foot.

A larger force than expected. Much larger.

Lan Wangji can only assume the Wen patrol leader’s body Jiang Wanyin left ‘to make a point’ has done exactly that.

“Oh, fuck off,” Jiang Wanyin says in response to Lan Wangji’s pointed silence. But his neck is also a little red, so perhaps the nature of his blunder is clear even to him.

They follow at a distance for a day, two of their disciples ranging much further ahead to make sure no reinforcements linger nearby.

It will be a difficult task, but one made unexpectedly easier when a portion of the forces avail themselves of the liquor portion of their cargo. The logistics of maintaining an occupying force in a foreign land already ravaged by war is not insignificant. Lan Wangji has heard Xichen and Nie Mingjue discuss the endless challenge of enough rice and salt meat, not to mention enough fresh food to keep illness at bay. It does not surprise him to see such a large portion of the supplies here dedicated to alcohol. A boon for them, for sure, as a full third of the forces drink themselves into a stupor.

“Well, that will help,” Jiang Wanyin notes grimly. “Enjoy your last drink, assholes.”  

Lan Wangji shoves down the unhelpful thought that he would so much prefer to be back at the stream subduing water ghouls.

The lives of their own men must be preserved, both because it is Lan Wangji’s duty to them but also because this war they must win, the side of good, of righteousness, cannot afford to lose even one soldier.

He nods, not allowing anything else to intrude.

And so they are able, in the latest hours of night before dawn, to slip into the camp and quietly slit the throats of enough men to even the numbers.

As Lan Wangji moves from sleeping form to sleeping form, he tries to think only of the starved and maltreated villages, the way Wei Ying limped coming out of the Wen dungeon, the smell of burned wood and paper. Of burning bodies. Cultivators with white eyes and crawling black lines, damned to a living death.

The very least he owes the men whose lives he takes is to treat the act with the solemn control it deserves.

He never feels less like Hanguang-jun than in that moment.

The quiet does not last, and soon enough the fight is brought out into the open.

There is no space left to think about anything but survival.

By dawn, the Wen are defeated at the cost of two Jiang disciples and one Lan. Two others have serious wounds that should not cost them their lives but will require medical attention. No one is left unmarred by some small injury at least. It was a hard fight.

Lan Qichang attends to the injured, having the greatest training in healing among them, while Jiang Wanyin sends two of his healthiest disciples to search the tents for any hiding soldiers or any prisoners. It is unlikely that a prisoner would be carried into the occupied areas, but Lan Wangji still understands the impulse.

Other than the unarmed drivers and servants who surrendered immediately, only two Wen soldiers still live. Jiang Wanyin himself questions them and Lan Wangji forces himself to attend.

They learn nothing of Wei Ying, but are told that Wen Chao sometimes keeps prisoners in the Indoctrination Site that his father granted him supervision over. His own little fiefdom. That when he isn’t in Yunmeng, he’s there. Playing. Just out of reach of his father’s growing instability.

Lan Wangji thinks back to those days of Wen Chao attempting to lord over them from the stairs of the Indoctrination Site. His cowardly behavior in the cave. The thought of Wei Ying in his hands is not a pleasant one.

No less pleasant than the stories of Wen Ruohan’s growing powers. The fear these men seem to hold for their leader.

Jiang Wanyin completes his interrogation, and this time does not stop Lan Wangji from adding the bodies to the others in preparation for burning.

“Zongzhu!”

They turn, and a Jiang disciple is hurrying over to Jiang Wanyin.

“Report,” Jiang Wanyin says.

“In the tent, Zongzhu,” he says, looking winded and perhaps a little flustered.

“What is it? What did you find?” Jiang Wanyin demands, taking an eager step forward. “Prisoners?”

The Jiang disciple starts to nod, only to shake his head and then stop again, clearly not certain how to answer the question.

Jiang Wanyin rolls his eyes. “Just show me.”

Lan Wangji follows behind, heart in his throat as they cross over to a tent near the temporary paddock holding the horses and livestock for pulling the wagons.

Jiang Wanyin flips back the tent opening to reveal…

Women.

They are varied in age, quite a few too young to be rightly called women at all. Some clutch each other near the back of the tent, clearly frightened. A few more sit staring as if at nothing, not even noticing their sudden intrusion. The rest seem to be staring back at Jiang Wanyin and Lan Wangji with assessing gazes.

Women, not soldiers. Not even cultivators. Packed in together just as tightly as the bags of rice and boxes of liquor. Supplies like any other.

Lan Wangji’s jaw tightens, turning his eyes deliberately away from them.

One of the women near the front is the first to react, standing gracefully with a smile on her face that Lan Wangji assumes is likely meant to be inviting. Perhaps even enticing. She peers up at Lan Wangji, but refuses to look at her straight on. She steps closer to Jiang Wanyin next, eyes lowering so that she is peering up at him through her lashes.

“Oh, gongzi,” she says, voice slightly breathless. “Have you come to rescue us?”

Jiang Wanyin blinks back at her, looking, for once, completely lost. “Um,” he says.

None of the women are dressed in Wen red, nor in the manner of cultivators. Some wear the thin gauzy layers that Wen Chao’s mistress had worn, like the one currently speaking to Jiang Wanyin, but the rest are in simple village homespun. Lan Wangji considers the missing women from the last village.

The woman sidles another step closer and reaches out to touch Jiang Wanyin’s chest. “Can this lowly one repay you in some way?”

That finally seems to push Jiang Wanyin back into motion, grabbing her hand and lifting it away from his body. “Hey. Knock that off. We aren’t—You’re not—” He breaks off, face beginning to turn red. “Just stay in here and don’t cause problems.”

With that, Jiang Wanyin drops the tent door closed again and strides towards where most of their disciples are waiting.

Jiang Wanyin appears to struggle a moment before turning on them with narrowed eyes. “If any of you even think about touching them, I will personally remove the thoughtless parts of your body. You got me?”

“Yes, zongzhu,” his men immediately respond.

Jiang Wanyin nods, glancing briefly over at Lan Wangji before looking away again.

Lan Wangji is not certain what it is he wants of him in this situation.

Jiang Wanyin tells one of his men to watch the tent and then strides off to assess the supplies.   

It is enough, of course, to feed an army, as it is intended to. Vital supplies the occupying Wen forces rely upon to keep their hold of the region. The question now is what to do with it.

“It would be easiest to just burn it all,” Jiang Wanyin says.

They are too few to safely transport it back to their own army, and yet the thought of this food being wasted in such a way sits ill with Lan Wangji.

“What?” Jiang Wanyin snaps, though Lan Wangji has not said a word. “If you have a better idea, feel free to share.”

Their options are very limited.

“What would Wei Ying do?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Jiang Wanyin gives him a swift look. “Cause as many problems as he could, probably.”

Lan Wangji stares back at Jiang Wanyin with his most unimpressed expression.

Jiang Wanyin sighs. “We’ve already got prisoners now to handle, not to mention all the women.”

“The village,” Lan Wangji says.

His brother, or Wei Ying, would understand if they were here. Jiang Wanyin just stares at him. “What about it.”

“The women,” Lan Wangji grudgingly adds.

Jiang Wanyin stares back at him. “What.”

Lan Wangji is truly beginning to wonder if Jiang Wanyin is lacking some fundamental intellectual capacity. Or perhaps Lan Wangji himself has made a base miscalculation. “Do you mean to keep them?”

“The women?” Jiang Wanyin says, voice high and scandalized. “Of course not! What use would I have—” He cuts himself off abruptly. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as if in pain. “You’re saying you want to take them back to that village.” His eyes snap open. “You think some of them were taken from there?”

It is possible. Though not likely that all come from there. But they cannot leave the women here alone. And the village is already struggling to feed its current population. Food and livestock might go a long way to making the women’s presence acceptable. Maybe even allow them to return to wherever they came from.

“Okay, so we load up one of the wagons with the women, and as much supplies as we can get on there, including all the fresh stuff and take them back to the village,” Jiang Wanyin summarizes, finally catching up. “That still leaves us with a lot of stuff!” He looks around. “Though, if our army moves through this region, it would really help. We make a cache with the rest?”

It would have to be hidden well enough to ensure the Wen do not get their hands back on it.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agrees.

“Great,” Jiang Wanyin says, and gestures to get the attention of one of his disciples. “Have everyone refill their personal supplies and enough for the prisoners.”

It takes most of the day to get the women and the supplies for the village set in two wagons, and the prisoners and bodies of their fallen disciples in another. Lan Qichang returns in the afternoon having found a suitable site for the supply cache.

By dawn, they have everything organized. Their mission accomplished.

And yet, the most important task still remains unfinished.

Jiang Wanyin is staring into Qishan, his arms crossed over his chest when Lan Wangji approaches him. “Where the hell is he, Lan Wangji?”

Lan Wangji takes a moment to breathe, to find a way to speak around the tightness in his chest.

Wei Ying.

“The Indoctrination Site,” Lan Wangji says, the only option left in front of them.  

Jiang Wanyin turns to look at him, movements quick and startled.

It is close to Nightless City. Far too close. But it is the only logical location. The only possible lead they are left with. One Lan Wangji is not willing to let go of.

He would have to be very careful, move mostly at night. To find Wei Ying, he will do it.

“Chifeng-zun hasn’t cleared that,” Jiang Wanyin says, finding joy in saying the obvious. “Those weren’t my orders.”

They would be, technically, moving without orders. Jiang Wanyin and his men were to return to Langya for further instructions.

“I had no orders,” Lan Wangji says.

“What,” Jiang Wanyin snarls. “You’ll go on your own?”

He will, of course. Has he not already told Jiang Wanyin? He will not stop.

Jiang Wanyin curses, looking back over at the carts of food. “If you think I’m going to let you go search for him without me…”

“The supplies,” Lan Wangji reminds him.

“My men could escort the supplies back to Langya after dropping off the women. Report that the mission has been completed. There’s enough of them that they could keep it safe. With those carts slowing them down, we could probably even catch back up with them before they made it all the way. Especially if we got our damn swords back.”

All of that is true, though contingent on many conditionals.

“The Lan Clan would be honored to have your support,” Lan Wangji says in his most formal tones.

Jiang Wanyin glares at him sideways at this reminder that he would be joining a Lan contingent, rendering him a guest, not a commander.

Lan Wangji is not quite petty enough to return Jiang Wanyin’s words back on him--this is my mission. You will follow my orders—but Jiang Wanyin seems to hear it all the same.

“Oh, fuck off, Lan Wangji,” he says.

Somehow, for once, he sounds more amused than angry.

With the bulk of the Wen army in Qinghe trying to hold on to that territory under the command of Wen Xu, and Wen Chao still occupied in Lotus Pier, they are able to slip through the Qishan countryside with relative ease.

The fight at the Indoctrination Site itself is not difficult. The place seems poorly protected, and Lan Wangji is not certain if that is over-confidence on the part of the Wen, or merely their close proximity to Nightless City—the sheer recklessness of this foray such that no one would expect it of them.

No doubt Chifeng-zun will berate them both for taking the risk.

Lan Wangji will take whatever punishment assigned but will not regret it.

The most difficult part of the entire foray is the information provided by their captured Wen prisoners. Tales of Wei Ying being caught by Wen Chao. Being thrown into the Burial Mounds. For all the Wen soldiers seem to believe it, it must be gossip. Hearsay.

No one could survive the Burial Mounds, not even their soul. It is a damnation far beyond death, beyond the sparse if not respectful cremations they have done for their own enemies.

Who, even in this endless brutal conflict, could be that cruel?

It is an abomination that Lan Wangji will not accept, not just a life without Wei Ying in it, but an soul extinguished for all time, for all lives.

He will not allow it to be true.

As Lan Wangji stands, looking out over the flow of lava and breathing the irritating sulfur air, waiting for his heart and mind to settle, his disciples return, arms full of swords.

They hand him Bichen, the power of sword reaching back to him almost as greedily. The earth, it feels, finds some solidity it has lacked for longer than Lan Wangji can even pinpoint. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and sinks himself into the familiar, cherished feeling of his sword in hand.

Letting Bichen fall back to his side where it belongs, Lan Wangji lifts his head once more. Lan Qichang holds out another sword, this one nearly as familiar. Nearly as beloved.

Wei Ying’s sword.

Lan Wangji’s whole body freezes, caught out by the unexpected sight. In his moment of hesitation, Jiang Wanyin gets there first, reaching out to take it in hand.

He’s not yours to find.

Lan Wangji can’t look away as Jiang Wanyin holds the sword in front of him, reaching for the handle and pulling the blade free. He studies it for a long moment before sliding it back home with a snap, the sound harsh and final.

Lan Wangji flinches.  

This hated, horrible place settles with a miasma of quiet devastation, like a sickening fog.

“We won’t stop looking,” Jiang Wanyin says.

Lan Wangji meets his gaze and for once there is nothing of rage or annoyance or roiling agitation, just calm surety matching Lan Wangji’s own.

He nods in agreement.

They will never stop.

They fly far enough to be near the border of Qinghe, the sheer joy of having Bichen once more at his side battling with the despair threatening to choke Lan Wangji.

At dawn, they land and risk a campfire to cook. In the moment of immobility as they wait, Lan Wangji finds his eyes tracking Wei Ying’s sword, still tucked close into Jiang Wanyin’s side.

Jiang Wanyin definitely notices, but doesn’t say anything, almost deliberately looking away. It is an obvious and bullish move that is kind in its own way and Lan Wangji can’t help but appreciate it.

Understanding the implicit permission, Lan Wangji reaches over and picks up Wei Ying’s sword. The wood grain is warm and textured against his palm. It is wild and unexpected and unconventional, just like Wei Ying. Holding it is as if holding part of his soul, this sword he loves so well.

Lan Wangji rubs his fingers over the characters carved into the swirling grain of the wood.

Suibian.

It’s an inappropriate name for a spiritual tool. Insolent. On the edge of disrespectful. Willful. And yet unrelenting and carefree and a declaration of the way Wei Ying moves through the world. Unapologetically. Instinctively.

Wrapping his hand around the hilt, Lan Wangji gives in to the urge to pull the blade free, some instinctive urge to be closer to Wei Ying.

His hand jerks to a halt.

The sword does not open.

He pulls harder a second time, hard enough for Jiang Wanyin to give up the pretext that he is not watching.

“What? It’s sealed itself?” he shouts, getting to his feet.

It doesn’t necessarily mean that Wei Ying has died. Lan Wangji knows this. It could just as easily mean that Suibian is deeply loyal to Wei Ying and refuses to be wielded by anyone else. But the fact that it was not sealed just hours before is damning. Horridly damning. How could Wei Ying’s bond with the sword have changed when he isn’t even here? What could have happened in so short a period of time?

We threw him into the Burial Mounds!

Reaching over, Jiang Wanyin tugs at the hilt, the sword sliding free without complaint.

Lan Wangji lets out a shaky breath.

Jiang Wanyin gives Lan Wangji a confused glance. Sheathing Suibian once more, he holds it out. Lan Wangji wraps his hand around the hilt and pulls.

Nothing.

It is possible it only refuses to budge for Lan Wangji himself? Something deep inside Lan Wangji roils at the thought. At what it could mean.  

“What?” Jiang Wanyin snaps in disbelief, tugging the sword back.

“Perhaps it is just particular?” Lan Wangji ventures, trying not to sound like his heart is trying to climb up his throat. “You are his brother.”

Jiang Wanyin gives him a look like acid. “But it won’t let you handle it? The way Wei Wuxian never stopped mooning over you—” He breaks off, words choking him as his face pulses with sadness. He loudly clears his throat. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“If it is just me,” Lan Wangji says, no matter how much it hurts.

Jiang Wanyin holds it out across the fire to Lan Qichang. After a brief glance at Lan Wangji, he reaches out and attempts to draw the sword, but Suibian does not pull free, staying stubbornly in place.

Lan Wangji’s anxiety melts back into confusion.

Jiang Wanyin moves through the camp, demanding every person attempt to draw Suibian. Person after person, no one else can unsheathe it.

Jiang Wanyin holds the bare blade out now, firelight glinting off the steel. His face is still set in a perpetual frown as he studies it, his mind no doubt traveling unfathomable twists and turns. After another long moment, he sends a surge of qi through the sword, the blade singing in response, powerful and bright and strong enough for Lan Wangji to feel it like a warm pulse in the air. Almost familiar.

This is not mere acceptance. This is ownership.

Lan Wangji does not understand.

Jiang Wanyin seems similarly stunned. “But…why?”

Lan Wangji cannot account for it. Even Shuoyue, if it deigned to let Lan Wangji wield it, would not react in such a way.

To judge from the slow dawning horror on Jiang Wanyin’s face, this unprecedented reaction does start to make sense to him.

“You asshole,” Lan Wangji hears Jiang Cheng mutter as he stares down at the sword, one hand pressed low to his stomach. “You absolute asshole.”

There is no heat to the words though, just the shocked paleness of his cheeks. Something like devastated love underneath.

Lan Wangji is given no explanation.

A few hours later, they break camp, heading for Langya. Suibian is tucked into Jiang Wanyin’s belt, his face wan and determined, looking as if he has not slept at all. Strangest of all, it feels somehow as if his silence is still and quiet at last.

Lan Wangji finds he likes it even less than his normal noise.  

“We must return,” Lan Wangji says.

He is not capitulating, but they have been gone long and they have no next step. And these swords they now carry could help turn the tide of the greater conflict. They both know this.

Jiang Wanyin simply nods his head, strangely agreeable. “Let’s go.”

Together, they set their backs to Qishan, their quest still unfulfilled, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

They lift up into the sky.  

Chapter Text

x.

Everything is completely fucked.

Jiang Cheng can’t even begin to list all of the things that are wrong, mostly because if he starts he’s gonna end up curled up on the ground crying like a stupid idiot and that certainly won’t help anything.

The only positive is the smooth glide of Sandu under his feet as he flies and even that sucks in its own way because there is also the persistent, annoying, irritating, nonsensical, impossible to ignore vibrating warmth of Suibian on his back and that is another thing he refuses to think about.

Fuck everything.

Lan Wangji glares over at him with that judgmental stick-up-his-ass look of his like he can somehow sense that Jiang Cheng is swearing in the privacy of his own mind, and you know what?

Fuck that guy too.

What a prick.

Just as Jiang Cheng predicted back in Qishan, flying on their swords they are able to catch back up to his guys escorting the wagon back to Langya. He’s not completely surprised to see that while most of the women are gone, successfully delivered to the village, three of them remain with the disciples, likely choosing to follow the army.

Whatever. So long as his men have kept it to themselves, it’s none of Jiang Cheng’s business what the women choose to do.

Though getting to see Lan Wangji glance at the gauzily dressed women as he gives them a solemn, polite bow without ever actually looking at them is pretty hilarious. Wei Wuxian would probably—

Nope. Nevermind.

They get to Langya less than a day later to hear that Nie Mingjue has pressed his attack while they were gone, the bulk of the army having moved into Qinghe.

It only takes a glance at Lan Wangji to get a nod in response. They all take back to the sky, hoping to provide backup to the attack.

They don’t get the chance. By the time they arrive, it’s to find the Unclean Realm liberated at last, Wen Xu’s head hanging from the gates. Some good fucking news at last.

A-jie’s stupid ex-fiancé is here too, Jin Guangshan finally seeing enough progress to let his son come and bring a laughably small contingent of men to the front. Only not, as it turns out Jin Zixuan isn’t exactly here with permission. He’s supposed to drop A-jie off and then return.

Of course, Jiang Cheng doesn’t give a fuck about that because A-jie is here. She’s here. He wants to argue and send her back to Lanling, but she’s got that stubborn look on her face and it’s not like anyone’s ever been able to tell A-jie what to do when she gets like this.

Not even her clan leader, apparently, and fuck if that isn’t a kick to the face still. People calling him Jiang-zongzhu and bowing to him and looking at him like he has a clue what the hell he’s doing.

He doesn’t know if having A-jie here makes that all more bearable, or if it feels too much like his older sister watching him play dress up and knowing it’s all make-believe.

She just looks…kind of proud, honestly, once she stops crying over Wei Wuxian.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t tell her his suspicions. What he thinks that stupid asshole has done. Where he might actually be.

Dead in a ditch somewhere, because how could anyone survive that, why would anyone do that, that fucking asshole, if he isn’t dead already Jiang Cheng’s going to break every bone in his body and dump him in the fucking lake—

He takes a deep breath, Zidian crackling at his wrist.

He can’t think about it. He can’t fucking think about it right now, Suibian a familiar weight at his back. Too familiar. Too light. Ready to take any command. It makes Jiang Cheng feel like he might drown.

Lan Wangji is still here too, for some reason Jiang Cheng can’t fathom, but he gave up understanding anything about that rock slab a long while back. A-jie looks pleased to see him though, so whatever. At least she isn’t crying anymore.

“Lan-er-gongzi,” A-jie says, taking his hands in hers. “I am so pleased to see you well.”  

Lan Wangji manages to be a normal human for about five seconds and doesn’t shake A-Jie off, which is good because it means Jiang Cheng doesn’t have to murder an ally and then listen to Wei Wuxian complain about it forever. Not that A-jie should be holding Lan Wangji’s hands in the first place. It’s highly inappropriate and yet exactly something A-jie would do to either of her little brothers.

Oh, fuck. Has she adopted Lan Wangji of all people? This is the worst.

Lan Wangji gently retrieves his hands to give A-jie a proper bow, maybe aware that people are staring. “I hope you are well, Jiang-guniang.”

She smiles at him, stopping his bow with her hands, which is even worse. “Your letters brought me such comfort.”

Jiang Cheng looks sharply at Lan Wangji. He’s been writing his sister letters? That is completely inappropriate! Does he have no shame?

But A-jie is the one treating Lan Wangji like he’s Wei Wuxian’s betrothed or something.

Oh, heavens, that is something else he is definitely not thinking about. What has he done in his past lives to deserve this?

Lan Wangji finally manages to free himself from A-jie’s touch in a way that isn’t complete rude, stepping back. “It was no trouble,” he says.

“I hope you will share a meal with us,” A-jie presses, clearly not done fussing over Lan Wangji.

“I thank you for your care,” Lan Wangji says. It isn’t a yes or a no, which means Jiang Cheng can still do his best to avoid it.

“Come on,” Jiang Cheng says, taking his sister’s arm. “Show me our rooms. I’m sure Lan Wangji can find his own.”

He pulls A-jie away, and for once Lan Wangji takes the hint and fucks off.

His respite of Lan Wangji-free time doesn’t even last long enough for Jiang Cheng to eat any of his sister’s food, Nie Mingjue calling them in for a report. One would think he had more pressing issues to deal with, just having retaken his home after months of occupation. But whatever.

He immediately grabs his two least exhausted guys so he will look leaderly enough to have people to boss around and be at his beck and call and crosses the palace to the reception hall.

Lan Wangji is already there, of course, still in his prissy white robes and without any guys at all, which just makes him seem even more self-sufficient and certain of himself.

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth and jerks his chin for his guys to stay outside, suddenly feeling like a stupid peacock in need of sycophants. He’s fucking well not!

Nie Mingjue greets him, one sect leader to another, and Jiang Cheng tries not to show how unnerving that is. Fortunately, they are both on Nie Mingjue’s territory and he is the accepted leader of their efforts, so Jiang Cheng doesn’t have to pretend some kind of equality, or force himself to demand it.

Jiang Cheng gives Nie Mingjue a quick rundown of the mission, where the cache of supplies is hidden, and what they saw at the indoctrination site. Nie Mingjue’s eyes light up at news of the missing spiritual swords. It certainly can’t hurt the war effort to have properly armed allies. It’ll definitely help morale as well.

Lan Wangji hands over the swords they still haven’t managed to restore to their owners. Some of whom may be dead already.

“Good work,” Nie Mingjue says, not yelling at them for going so off-course. He seems to think it showed some sort of initiative or something. Which, great. Much better than the alternative.  

“Any sign of Wei Wuxian?” Nie Mingjue asks, almost like he cares rather than it’s the polite thing to do to keep his allies happy. As if Jiang Cheng is an ally worth having with his handful of guys and a missing head disciple.

“No,” Jiang Cheng says, keeping his voice even. He doesn’t mention the outlandish rumors they were told by the Wen soldiers and Lan Wangji doesn’t speak up to share it either. Not that he’s said much of anything at this point.

Which is why it’s startling when Lan Wangji suddenly strides forward and bows to Nie Mingjue. Just bald-faced asks for another mission like they haven’t just gotten back from one and haven’t even slept yet.

“Chifeng-zun. I request a battle assignment.”

Jiang Cheng scrambles to catch up, bowing and doing the same, because fuck everything if he’s going to let Lan Wangji run off after Wei Wuxian without him. Because he doesn’t even have to ask to know that that’s what this is about. Because apparently Lan Wangji is just as obsessed as Wei Wuxian is with him. Gross.

Still. He’s not going to be left behind. That’s his brother.  

With Lan Xichen off clearing out the last of Gusu, there are only two supervisory offices left at this point.

Yunmeng. And Yiling.

When Nie Mingjue asks where they want to go, Jiang Cheng doesn’t even have to look at Lan Wangji to confirm.

“Yiling,” he says.

Yiling is close to the Burial Mounds. If there was any truth in what they were told…

I will not stop until I find him, he hears Lan Wangji say in his head.

Only fucking right, if Lan Wangji really has been messing around with his brother and weaseling his way into his A-jie’s good graces.

He can fight him about that after they find Wei Wuxian.

The Yiling supervisory office, when they arrive at it, is a graveyard.

A strange miasma hangs in the air, thick with blood and resentment. And everywhere, bodies.

Hanged. Burned. Drowned. Poisoned.

Every last Wen-dog dead, seemingly at their own hand. These soldiers who have gleefully murdered their way across the Jianghu. Killing down to the youngest shidi and most helpless servant. This is an ending they have earned.

Lan Wangji looks deeply disturbed. There have been rumors, of course, about the unholy things Wen Ruohan has gotten up to, but this seems on a whole different level. And done in their favor.

Jiang Cheng isn’t about to complain about it. One more supervisory office gone, and not a single one of their own harmed or killed. It’s a welcome victory.

Inside, things aren’t much better. They find Wang Lingjiao hanging from the rafters, face and bare feet covered in blood, broken pottery and furniture strewn about.

A horrifying end that she deserved.

Back out in the hallway, Jiang Cheng finds Lan Wangji studying one of the talismans fluttering on nearly every surface. A sign, maybe, that they’d all gone paranoid before they’d gone suicidal. Just what menaced them here?

“What is it?” Jiang Cheng asks as Lan Wangji just continues to stare at the piece of paper like it contains the secrets to the universe.

“Additional strokes.”

Jiang Cheng waits, but when this is all the explanation he gets, he sighs and snatches the talisman. He glances it over, and sure enough, it’s a normal protection talisman, except there’s more strokes than there should be.

“It has been reversed,” Lan Wangji says.

“Reversed? What does that mean?” Who the hell would do something like that?  

Lan Wangji walks the length of the hallway like a lecturer at the front of a classroom, speaking about a talisman that could draw spirits towards it rather than protect against them. Jiang Cheng has never heard of anything like that.

Lan Wangji seems to go even more stiff as he stares at it. “It is unorthodox.”

Meaning forbidden and very possibly evil. Yet pretty fucking effective. Jiang Cheng isn’t interested in debating orthodoxy or morality at the moment.

“Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng turns to see Geng Yan bowing at him from the top of the stairs. He’s Jiang Cheng’s most steady guy, and even he looks a mix of satisfied and nauseous.

Jiang Cheng nods at him to report.

“There’s someone in the dungeon,” he says.

Jiang Cheng’s heart flies into his throat. Next to him, Lan Wangji makes an aborted movement.

But. No. Geng Yan knows Wei Wuxian. Is one of the few surviving disciples who’d been away on a night hunt when Lotus Pier fell. He knows they are out here chasing. He would have said something.

“Who?” Jiang Cheng asks. 

“A Wen,” Geng Yan says.  

Lan Wangji’s attention wanders back to the talismans on the walls. “I will supervise the burials,” he says and then turns and walks away, apparently having no interest in a Wen prisoner. Or what Jiang Cheng might do to them.  

Jiang Cheng descends into the dungeon on his own, prepared to do whatever he has to to get answers.

He isn’t prepared to find Wen Qing of all people. She’s being shoved roughly to her knees by two Jiang disciples, and Jiang Cheng makes a noise of protest, crossing quickly to her side. He’s got one hand supporting her elbow, helping her back to her feet before he can even think about it.

He rips the chains off her wrists and ankles, tries to ignore the bruises on her skin and the burning press of the comb still tucked in his robes against his chest. Because, yes, he’s still carrying it around like a complete fool.

Wen Qing.

Looking at her, it’s suddenly all so clear.

Wen Qing.

He dismisses his guys with a quick jerk of his chin. He knows they won’t go far, but the last thing he wants is an audience for this.

Wen Qing stands silently, eyes down and fingers rubbing at her far too thin wrists, as if those delicate fingers aren’t capable of doing things more people wouldn’t even dream of.

“It was you, wasn’t it.” He grabs her arm, pulling her around. He squeezes hard. “Baoshan Sanren?” he spits.

She sucks in a quick breath, not looking so much surprised as resigned. “He begged me.”

Jiang Cheng scoffs. “And that’s all it took? You just caved in? Too eager to see if you could do it, huh? To prove that you’re quite the genius doctor they all say you are?”

She doesn’t dare deny it, looking up at him with cool rage matching his own. “Wei Wuxian would do anything for his brother. So would I.”

“Yeah? So where’s Wen Ning then?”

There’s no satisfaction in seeing the brutal strike land true. He’s always had perfect aim when it comes to this.

“They found out we helped you,” Wen Qing says. “They took my brother and beat him for information about you. Which he didn’t share despite what they did. And then they took him away. I haven’t seen him since.”

It goes unspoken that she blames them for this. Perhaps blames herself for being weak enough to help them.

“Where is he then?” she asks, looking behind him. “Where is Wei Wuxian?” Like she wants to check on her patient. As if she gives a flying fuck about Wei Wuxian’s well-being.

Jiang Cheng lets go of her abruptly, wishing he could feel pleased to see her stumble. “I don’t know. When I got back to Yiling he was gone. They say Wen Chao threw him into the Burial Mounds.”

The look of complete horror on Wen Qing’s face only makes it feel even more plausible. “What?” She shakes his head. “If that’s true…”

“If that’s true what?” He’s never known her to be one to mince words.

She looks up at him, not bullshitting him at all, and that used to be one of the things he really liked about her. That and the way she never backed down from him, never seemed bowled over by his temper.

That all seems so long ago now.

“He was weak,” she says. “He would have needed weeks to recover. If he was able to at all.”

What the fuck. “So you’re saying…”

Her chin lifts. “I’m saying that if you haven’t seen him in three months, he either succumbed to his wounds or died in custody. Wen Chao wouldn’t let him live.”

It goes unspoken that if Wei Wuxian had been really thrown into the Burial Mounds, he couldn’t have survived that either. Even a powerful cultivator with a functioning core would die within hours.

And yet.

And yet.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t know if it’s wishful thinking at this point or just an inability to accept that his brother might very well be dead…but Wei Wuxian breathes the impossible. Nothing can kill that asshole.

At the very least, one would think his spite for Wen Chao would keep him going.

Jiang Cheng looks around the dungeons just so he doesn’t have to look at her anymore, noticing the fluttering talismans down here as well. The one on Wen Qing’s cell door is not like the others. It hasn’t been changed. It would have worked perfectly.

“Tell me what happened here.”

She shakes her head, not so much in denial as in uncertainty. “A few days past, everyone started acting strangely. Like they weren’t getting sleep. Paranoid. There were screams at night. And then last night…”

“What,” he presses, not the least bit comforted to see her not sure how to put it into words.

“There was a flute playing music unlike anything I’d ever heard. I haven’t seen anyone since.”

Jiang Cheng nods. “Everyone is dead. They all killed themselves or each other. Wang Lingjiao hung herself upstairs.”

She looks unsurprised but no less horrified by it. “Wen Chao?”

He shakes his head. “We didn’t find his body.”

“Or Wen Zhuliu’s?”

Jiang Cheng gives a sharp shake of his head, refusing the indulge the bile crawling up his throat at the man’s name, the memory of a hand burning his core from his body.

“Lan Wangji thinks it’s these weird talismans we found everywhere. Someone modified them to draw in spirits.” He regards her. “Except the ones down here.”

Overlooked, or left deliberately?

Wen Qing’s brow furrows in thought. “Because they didn’t know I was down here? Or because I’m a prisoner? Which would seem to make me an enemy of the Wen?”

“Or because they knew you and didn’t want to hurt you.” Jiang Cheng isn’t even sure what he’s trying to say. Why that seems so fucking important. It just does.

Who would tear through the supervisory office, mutilating everyone here, but leave Wen Qing untouched? Who would give enough of a shit to differentiate between one Wen and another? Who would take such care to give Wang Lingjiao the death she deserved?

Does that mean something? Is that just wishful thinking?

Wen Qing squints up at him. “You think…he did this?”

He lifts his chin, waiting for her to tell him he’s being ridiculous. Chasing at shadows. Being blinded by grief.

She says none of that.

“Am I your prisoner?” she asks instead, hands folded and head lowered. A meekness that rises rage in his throat, though whether at the falseness of it or the fact that she feels the need to play at it, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know. It’s a reasonable question after all. He still hates it.

“Where would you go if you weren’t?”

“To find my brother. To see if I can get him out. And the rest of my family.”

Jiang Cheng thinks of the village in Dafan, her family, all turned into living puppets by Wen Chao. By her own blood.

“Back to your uncle?” he says with a sneer.

“I have to try,” she says in a way that tells him she knows it is likely useless.

Wei Wuxian would do anything for his brother. So would I.  

He huffs. “You’ll try. No matter what other people might choose. Your choice is all that matters.”

“That choice saved your life,” she snaps back.

He laughs humorously. “I was that pathetic, was I?”

Did Jiang Cheng not make his own choice then, to save his own brother? To instead be forced to have his own sacrifice thrown back in his face? For his own suffering to mean nothing if his brother just died anyway? What fucking choice is that?

He sucks in a breath, straightening his shoulders. “We will win this war,” he says. She might think she can save them all, but she can’t. Probably not even if Wen Ruohan did find a way to stomp them all out.  

“Maybe,” Wen Qing says.

Wen Xu is already dead. Wen Chao won’t be alive much longer if Jiang Cheng has anything to say about it. The odds aren’t great in their favor, but they are fighting to survive. For the right to exist. They will win. They have to.

And when they do…

All the members of the Wen Clan are going to be executed by this blade, Nie Mingjue had sworn.

It all hangs heavy between them.

He doesn’t want to let her leave, the comb tucked carefully into his robes burning a hole in his chest. The things he might have offered her once. Or maybe even now, if he didn’t know about what she’d done.

But he has a brother to find, just like she does.

They part ways.

Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji follow the trail left by Wen Chao and his few surviving retainers. They are clearly not the only ones doing so. Their mysterious ally remains one step ahead of them, leaving a path of mangled bodies for them to find.

Lan Wangji frowns and looks somehow even more severe than usual, clearly disgusted by the means of this brutality if not the blood itself. Jiang Cheng has seen Lan Wangji slit too many throats to think him squeamish over death.

Jiang Cheng doubts he has any suspicions as to the identity of the perpetrator. After all, Lan Wangji thinks the Burial Mounds a fabricated rumor meant to demoralize as much as everyone else does. Lan Wangji doesn’t know what Wei Wuxian has given up. Doesn’t know why Jiang Cheng can wield Suibian as if it were his own.

He knows nothing, and Jiang Cheng has no intention of telling him.

Lan Wangji must just see a demon. An unnatural force wielded against the Wen.

Hanguang-jun. Who would likely stop this entire war just to cleanse the land of monsters, regardless of who they hunted.

What a self-righteous prick.

All Jiang Cheng sees in this trail of mangles bodies is a glimmer of hope. Of a war turned in their favor. Of justice satisfied. Of an impossibility.  

It’s not even a full day later that Jiang Cheng finds himself sitting on a roof watching his no-longer-missing brother play a flute and wield a ghost against Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu. His coreless brother who supposedly spent the last three months trapped in the Burial Mounds if he wasn’t somehow in a Wen prison.

He looks terrifying and somehow healthier and cleaner than anyone should have the right to after what he’s likely been through and he’s still powerful, playing with the two men like a cat with a cornered mouse. Like he’s not at all afraid of them. But it’s hard to tell, too, whether this is arrogant assurance or a willful lack of self-preservation. That, at least, is familiar. The same as always.

Even as Wen Zhuliu reaches his cursed hand towards Wei Wuxian’s unprotected chest, he still doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t so much as move to avoid the attack.

You can’t take what isn’t there, after all. Because his core is here, nested under Jiang Cheng’s ribs, vibrant and alive.

Next to Jiang Cheng, Lan Wangji gasps and then is slamming his hand down, the roof breaking apart under the assault. They fall to the floor below, Jiang Cheng barely finding his feet before wrapping Zidian around Wen Zhuliu’s throat, feeling the satisfying crack of the monster’s neck as it breaks, the possibility of anyone else suffering under his touch dying with him.

His body hits the ground with a satisfying thud, and Jiang Cheng turns to his brother.

Wei Wuxian looks mildly astonished, which would be hilarious under any other circumstance

Suibian burns at his back, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t give him the sword. Instead, he strides forward and pulls Wei Wuxian into a bone crushing hug. Maybe a bit too bone crushing as Wei Wuxian lets out a small sound that seems involuntary. Right, Jiang Cheng reminds himself, and adjusts his hold, hugging him as he would A-jie, refusing to let go.

After a moment, Wei Wuxian lets out a breath that could be a laugh in another life, one of surprise as his hands slowly lift to pat Jiang Cheng’s back.

Fuck. He’s alive. His brother is alive.

Jiang Cheng pulls back. “Where the fuck have you been?” He almost reaches out to punch Wei Wuxian, but holds himself back at the last moment.  

“It’s a long story.”

“They said you were cast into the Burial Mounds.”

Wei Wuxian smiles and looks to the side. He walks over to a bench and sits down. “If I was thrown in the Burial Mounds, how could I be here now?”

“You tell us,” Jiang Cheng says.

“No one could survive that,” Wei Wuxian deflects with a huff and an empty smile.  

“You could,” Jiang Cheng says, staring at the evidence right in front of him. Only Wei Wuxian could get himself thrown into the Burial Mounds, coreless and beat to shit, and somehow crawl out only more powerful than before.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t want to believe it. Doesn’t want to believe a lot of things. But where the fuck else could he learn something like this? Where else would he learn to control ghosts and drive people to suicide? “You did, didn’t you?”

The deflecting smile comes a moment too late, the empty look on Wei Wuxian’s face like Jiang Cheng is the crazy one. He isn’t buying it. He isn’t fucking buying it.

Wei Wuxian also doesn’t deny it and that is telling enough.

Lan Wangji finally moves then, sweeping forward to kneel by Wei Wuxian. He reaches out for Wei Wuxian’s hand, clearly wanting to assess him in light of this disturbing news. Jiang Cheng sees Wei Wuxian jerk back from the touch, but also the way his fingers tremble. The way he isn’t looking at Lan Wangji for perhaps the first time in his entire life.

Lan Wangji is clearly startled by it, leaning back away and seeming to curl in on himself. “The demon path—” he starts to say, face cold and blank.

“Stuff it, Lan Wangji,” Jiang Cheng snaps, not having the patience for his sanctimonious bullshit right now.

Lan Wangji turns to him, glaring. “Jiang Wanyin.”

Jiang Cheng might take pride in actually getting a rise out Lan Wangji if the situation weren’t so fucked up. “Lan Wangji,” he says back, matching his tone.

Wei Wuxian lets out a laugh, sounding like it’s been punched out of him. He looks between them, his hand nearly white where it grips around his flute. “Did I?” he asks, voice small, so incongruous with how he’d been only minutes before when facing Wen Zhuliu.  

“Did you what?” Jiang Cheng demands, annoyance at Lan Wangji still bubbling under his skin.

“Survive?” Wei Wuxian asks.

For a moment he looks lost and haunted and it begins to settle in for the first time what that would mean, spending three months in the Burial Mounds, a place no one should be able to survive for an entire minute, let alone weeks.

Jiang Cheng reaches out and punches Wei Wuxian in the shoulder, remembering to pull back his—his brother’s, his brother’s—spiritual power at the last moment. Wei Wuxian still rocks back under the contact, like a collection of bones rattling around in a sack.

Lan Wangji lets out a hiss of displeasure, but fuck that guy, because Wei Wuxian is touching his shoulder thoughtfully, like the sensation is anchoring him back in place. Jiang Cheng knows his brother.

“This is real, asshole,” he says, voice gruff.

Wei Wuxian nods, and Jiang Cheng can see it, the way Wei Wuxian gathers up all his sharp edges and buries them back inside, posture smoothing into something liquid and dangerous. Like the lost man from before never existed.

He looks down at the flute.

“Wei Ying, take your sword,” Lan Wangji says pointedly, eyes sharp on Jiang Cheng as if to demand it.

Wei Wuxian’s gaze is hard and nearly empty when he finally meets Lan Wangji’s gaze. “And if I refuse?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says again, something almost desperate there. “There will be a price for learning wicked tricks. There’s no exception throughout history. These tricks harm your body and your heart more.”

Wei Wuxian looks away, letting out a dismissive huff he usually reserves for people he considers beneath him. “And what do others know of my heart?”

Jiang Cheng thinks he’s spent too much fucking time with Lan Wangji because even he can see the shock and hurt there now, the fear, the way it burns as cold, righteous fury. More emotion than he’s ever seen on him other than the times he’s looked down on Wei Wuxian’s sword like it might break him.

“Okay,” Jiang Cheng says, not having time for Lan Wangji’s bullshit. “Knock it off, both of you. We don’t have time for a lover’s spat right now.” He turns to Lan Wangji. “And you. For fuck’s sake. Can’t you just say you missed him like a normal person?”

Jiang Cheng’s aware of the hypocrisy, but this touchy-feely shit is for other people, not him. At least he had hugged his brother. If Lan Wangji is going to wander around the world searching for Wei Wuxian and getting all moony-eyed as he claims to never stop looking and wearing white like he’s mourning a dead lover, he can do better than yelling at Wei Wuxian once he finds him.

Lan Wangji’s eyes close, and now it’s his turn to tremble like a fucking maiden as his body curls in on itself. But as ridiculous as that is, it still seems to shake Wei Wuxian free of that terrible blankness, and it’s a relief to see something of his stupid brother still under the sharp new angles and creepy powers, even if it’s just his complete inability to not feel like it’s his responsibility to manage the emotions of absolutely everyone around him.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, hesitating only slightly before reaching out and touching the other man’s shoulder.

Lan Wangji sits like a block of stupid stone, but his hand also lifts immediately to cover over the top of Wei Wuxian’s. “Wei Ying,” he says, like this is a complete statement in a language Jiang Cheng’s not privy to. Which, thank the heavens. He does not want to know more about this than he minimally has to. 

“Hey, hey,” Wei Wuxian says in response like it was an outburst rather than just his name, leaning closer.

Their foreheads touch, resting against one another, and then Lan Zhan is reaching for the back of Wei Ying’s neck, just holding him there. His voice is barely a rasp when he speaks. “I didn’t—I could not find you.”

Wei Wuxian lets out a long breath. “I’m here,” he says, but he sounds just as uncertain as before.

The rest of the heartwarming, disgusting display is interrupted by Wen Chao’s pathetic voice calling out for Wen Zhuliu.

Wei Wuxian pulls back from Lan Wangji with a jerk, face back to that haunting, insouciant mask as he pushes to his feet and glides towards Wen Chao, like his feet are barely touching the ground.

“Now, ChaoChao. Did we give you permission to speak?” He leans over, tilting his head to the side as he looks down at the whimpering mess. “Hm?”

Wen Chao immediately starts babbling and kowtowing over and over again.

Jiang Cheng wants nothing more than to run Wen Chao through with his sword. Except he also kind of wants to wrap Zidian around his neck and tighten it until Wen Chao’s head leaves his pathetic excuse for a body. Or drown him in a lake. Or take him up to height and let him fall and see the end coming.

Instead, he turns to his brother and says, “Show me.”

Wei Wuxian turns to look at him, and it feels like there’s a moment where he almost struggles to focus on Jiang Cheng. To see him. “What?” he asks.

“Whatever the fuck this is,” Jiang Cheng says, waving at his brother’s whole new look, the new spiritual tool gripped in his hand. Whatever the hell he has managed to cobble together without a golden core. What kind of power is he still capable of? A shit ton if this trail of dead bodies is really because of him.

He needs to know what he’s working with here after all. Or if he’ll need to find a way to send Wei Wuxian back to Lanling with A-jie. Make them both think they are doing it for the benefit of the other or something. It could work.

But first. He needs to know.

“Show me.”

Wei Wuxian glances at Lan Wangji, clearly hesitant to do anything in front of him. Which, considering how inflexible he’s been already, isn’t a huge surprise.

“This is an internal matter, Hanguang-Jun,” Jiang Cheng says.  

Predictably, Lan Wangji looks to Wei Wuxian, something of pleading on his face if he were capable of expression.

Wei Wuxian drops his eyes to the floor, offering him no reprieve. It doesn’t quite feel like the victory Jiang Cheng would have thought it would be. For Wei Wuxian to pick Jiang Cheng, for whatever claim Lan Wangji seems to think he has put second.  

Lan Wangji has no choice but to retreat. Or be unforgivably rude. Which Jiang Cheng wouldn’t put past him. But after another long moment of looking like a kicked puppy, Lan Wangji’s posture grows impossibly stiff as he turns and walks out.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t miss the way Wei Wuxian’s eyes linger on Lan Wangji as he goes.

What a fucking mess.

Wen Chao has the audacity to pull at the bottom of Jiang Cheng’s robes, pleading for mercy. Jiang Cheng kicks him off. “Would you just do it already?” he says to Wei Wuxian, feeling choked and nauseous each moment this pile of trash gets to keep on breathing and his parents and shidi don’t.

There’s a moment of unnatural stillness in Wei Wuxian’s body, only then he seems to pull himself up, the shadows around him wavering. He slides his eyes to the side, face once more relaxed and uncaring as he approaches the man curled up in the floor. “Hey, Wen Chao,” he says, twirling the flute between his fingers. “I’m still smiling.”

Though he isn’t really. It’s more the painful stretch of lips across teeth.

Wei Wuxian looks back at Jiang Cheng one last time, as if asking for permission.

Jiang Cheng nods and Wei Wuxian lifts the flute to his mouth.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t vomit, but it’s a near thing. His brother’s power is horrifying, but it is doubtlessly what has kept him alive, so Jiang Cheng’s in no place to judge it. He can leave that to Lan Wangji.

When it’s finally done, minutes that stretch like hours, they finally leave the cursed building, the smell of blood and vomit and viscera clinging to the very wood. Jiang Cheng tries not to look like he’s grateful for the fresh air, breathing slow and deep to quell the nausea in his stomach.

Lan Wangji and his guys are out there, putting the dead to rest. It seems like Wei Wuxian might protest for a moment before he shrugs, still twirling his flute and decidedly not looking at Lan Wangji.

The Jiang disciples are all hanging out by the compound doors. Jiang Cheng grabs Geng Yan, dragging him off far enough so that no one can overhear them. “Hey. Take one other guy. Find Wen Qing. She can’t have got far. Bring her back to Qinghe. Don’t harm her, but don’t let her go either. Tell her we found Wei Wuxian.”

He glances back at his brother, still standing there like nothing in the world can touch him, but Jiang Cheng had also seen the tremble in his fingers once he’d finished with Wen Chao, the trail of blood from his nose that he’d swiped away just a moment too slow. Whatever the fuck this is, they’ll need her.

Jiang Cheng pauses, thinking of her in that dungeon, chin held high, determination in her eyes. “Tell her that in exchange, I’ll do what I can for her brother.” He sighs. “And her family.”

Geng Yan bows in acceptance.

“Okay,” Jiang Cheng says, giving him a little shove. “Go. And be careful.”

By the time Jiang Cheng rejoins the group, the Lan have finished doing their thing. He looks over at Lan Wangji. “You got it covered?” he asks, both to see where his head is at and because there’s only one logical place to go next. They’ve learned they work best this way, saying as little as possible to each other.

Lan Wangji nods, selecting two of his guys and one of the few Jiang cultivators who survived the sacking of Lotus Pier with little more than a flick of his wrist. Together, the three disciples slip off into the trees.

Wei Wuxian watches this entire interaction with a slight frown on his face, still not really looking at Lan Wangji straight on. “What are you planning?”

Jiang Cheng grabs his brother’s shoulder, trying to ignore the way Wei Wuxian flinches under it. The way his bones stick prominently out under skin. There will be time to deal with that later. They have time.

“You ready to take back Lotus Pier?” he asks his brother.  

It’s time for them to go home.

Chapter Text

xi.

Lan Wangji stands outside the walls of the outpost and listens to Wen Chao’s screams, punctuated by the shrill cry of a dizi that raises the hair on the back of Lan Wangji’s neck. He has studied musical cultivation his entire life, is considered by some a prodigy in the field, but he has never heard nor felt such power before.

And it is Wei Ying who is doing it.

Wei Ying. Who is alive. Wei Ying who is alive and is here. Everything should feel righted once more, steady under Lan Wangji’s feet, and yet everything is only more treacherous.

Wei Ying is here, and yet instead of the bright, righteous, kind man he remembers, there is only hurtful words and a heretical path no different than Wen Ruohan’s.

Lan Wangji feels his breath quicken, his fingers tingling. How can that be true? How can it be right?

How is Lan Wangji meant to continue on? How is he to know what to do?

He feels panic crawling up his throat.

Everything these long months since their parting has been about finding Wei Ying. His one central focus, the one keeping him steady and moving despite the growing challenges of a chaotic world. But these methods. These things Wei Ying has done. They are wrong. They are fundamentally opposed to all Lan Wangji has ever been taught, all he has aspired to be. Indistinguishable from what they have been fighting against.

How can Wei Ying be a thing they are fighting against?

How can Wei Ying put himself on the path walked by Wen Ruohan? The man who destroyed both their homes?

Another blood curdling scream rips out of the building, and Lan Wangji cannot help but flinch visibly.

His disciples are looking at him, unspoken questions about what is going on inside, his break in discipline visible to all.

He stares straight ahead, having no answers for them.

It ends, eventually.

Jiang Wanyin walks out first, face grey and grim, hand clenched tight around his sword, looking sick, but determined.

Wei Yin emerges from the shadows next, the Jiang disciples breaking out into noisy whispers in response. Dashixiong, Lan Wangji hears murmured in various levels of surprise and excitement, as the old Jiang disciples fill in the newer on the man’s identity.

Wei Ying smirks, but otherwise does not acknowledge the stir he has caused. His face is contained and distant in a way that chills Lan Wangji’s heart. Gone is the restless coil of energy and movement, his body instead moving fluidly with a sort of sinuous grace that speak of patience and calm, all the more sinister for it. He does not look like someone who has just tortured someone to death.

Wei Ying, Wei Ying. What has happened to you?

Lan Wangji tries to remember the moment of Wei Ying’s hand warm under his, foreheads pressing lightly together, just breathing. It slips away under the weight of everything else.

Wei Ying does not approach him, and Lan Wangji cannot bring himself to cross the distance either. Every choice seems wrong, right now.

They move through the night towards Lotus Pier with only a few breaks for rest along the way.

Wei Ying does not stray from his brother’s side, does not so much as look in Lan Wangji’s direction.

Lan Wangji himself rarely looks away. He wants to, to stop what feels like a strange sort of self-flagellation, but cannot. Trapped both by his fear of Wei Ying disappearing again and the promise he made back in that accursed cave. It hurts to even think of, those long days spent with Wei Ying. They almost feel unreal now, made distant and maddening by the darkness in Wei Ying’s gaze. The hardness of his smile.

But Lan Wangji told himself, promised himself that he would never look away, that sometimes it is okay to state the obvious, as it is not always obvious to others. That sometimes Wei Ying needs to be told things twice. That he can hide his own pain.

That was Wei Ying then. Who is this now?

Everything in Lan Wangji wants to run, to pull back from this, and it’s almost like those early days when he first met Wei Wuxian. When he did not know how to act or what to do in the face of a person who made everything that had been solid suddenly feel tilted sideways.

It was only Wei Ying, the thought of him, the steady surety of Wei Ying’s goodness that has kept these last months from becoming and inescapable quagmire under his feet. Lan Wangji feels a child now, as if his fancifulness has gotten away with him. As if his mind has gone feeble and mislead him.

Like somehow this, at last, is the painful turn he has always expected. Wei Ying pulling back and declaring it all a joke.

Did you really think I meant it? Did you really think any of that was real?

A lark. A passing fancy. A prank drawn out long past humor into the burn of cruelty.

And yet Wei Ying has never been cruel. That has never been Wei Ying.

But is it now? It feels as if the Wei Ying he has held in his mind, in his heart, his arms, was a different creature all together. One who walked the path of righteousness. One who once swore to protect the innocent.

What do others know of my heart?

Has he lost Wei Ying entirely? Is this just a husk? A monster wearing his beloved’s face? Something to be vanquished? Liberated?

The letter and the painting sit against his heart as always, and he is tempted to pull them out, read the words again, look for proof that it was real. That Wei Ying truly felt something, that it was not all just Lan Wangji’s wishful foolishness.

He can’t bring himself to do it, like they might fall to ashes the moment he tries to touch them again.

So instead, he takes position at the rear of the group so he is able to easily watch, even as each moment is like a knife piercing his flesh.

Wei Ying never once looks back.

Lan Qichang and the other scouts meet them on the edge of Lotus Pier. The village itself, nestled up against the sect grounds in a way that Lan Wangji cannot imagine living with, is quiet. Though more accurately, empty.

It is unclear if the townspeople have fled, been killed, or if they are simply in hiding. Each prospect is its own kind of grim.

“The sect grounds are quiet,” Lan Qicheng informs them. “Lightly guarded.”

Jiang Wanyin grunts in response, perhaps considering the same explanations as Lan Wangji. Wen Chao’s forces have been depleted, slaughtered group by group. While news of Wen Chao’s death could not have reached so far so quickly, his undignified flight from the region might have led others to abandon their posts. Perhaps only the most stubborn holding to their positions.

Whatever the reason, the numbers have certainly shifted in their favor. It will not be easy, but retaking Lotus Pier is within their ability.

“You up for this?” Jiang Wanyin asks.

Lan Wangji looks up, realizing the question is being asked of Wei Ying.

Wei Ying merely smirks in response. “Hey, I’ve been ready. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Jiang Wanyin rolls his eyes, elbowing Wei Ying in the ribs. As he turns towards him, Lan Wangji can see the line of Suibian, still tucked in at the small of Jiang Wanyin’s back.

Lan Wangji has to master the impulse to rip it free and press it into Wei Ying’s hand, like some panacea. Like Wei Ying simply holding the sword, this tool of the righteous path, would somehow put things to rights again. Put them all on a clear path. A sign that not all of Wei Ying is lost.

Lan Wangji breathes through it, having learned when pushing Jiang Wanyin will do no good, but also not eager to be faced with Wei Ying’s scorn again. Perhaps soon, with some time, his equilibrium will return. Perhaps then he will be able to find his words again. To trust his own actions.

“You stick close to me,” Jiang Wanyin says to Wei Ying in that tone of his that is rude and barbed and yet somehow affectionate.

It is Jiang Wanyin’s right, Lan Wangji reminds himself, even as he long to keep Wei Ying near his own side.

What do others know of my heart?

Wei Ying is telling Jiang Wanyin to stop fussing. There is an expression on Jiang Wanyin’s face that Lan Wangji does not understand, eyes glancing sideways and down Wei Ying’s body before snapping back away.

Does Wei Ying have an obvious injury Lan Wangji has missed? He has been watching so closely it does not seem possible.

“Hey, you okay?” Wei Ying asks. The question is for his brother, and Lan Wangji is equally disappointed and relieved, knowing he’d never be able to answer such a query himself.

Jiang Wanyin shoves him, but with a strange sort of care that does nothing for Lan Wangji’s lingering concern. “Of course, I am. What are you on about? Let’s get this done.”

Jiang Wanyin takes the lead on creating a plan, as is appropriate considering his familiarity with the battleground. It does not stop Lan Wangji from offering alternatives when appropriate, falling back into the careful routine they have crafted, something Lan Wangji never thought would provide comfort.  

“Wow,” Wei Ying says, only barely glancing at Lan Wangji out of the corner of his eye. It still feels like a blow. “When did you two become so cozy?”

When you disappeared, Lan Wangji thinks. When our love for you became enough to overcome anything else.

“Shut up,” Jiang Wanyin says, and steers them back to safer topics.

In the end, it is a simple fight. They approach the walls in the dark, strategically organized to enter through lesser-known paths. The few soldiers awake on patrol fall quickly to their swords.

There are more, of course, tucked up in their beds. How many they cannot be quite sure.

The answer comes when an alarm is inevitably raised, figures flooding into the halls.

There are many, it turns out. Perhaps too many.  

They strike down as many as they can, the fight spilling out into the lotus-carved courtyard, quiet a thing of the past as swords clash and voices call out in fear and pain and triumph.

Wei Ying this whole time has remained near Jiang Wanyin’s side, nothing but his flute to block strikes. Lan Wangji’s gut tightens with worry over how vulnerable Wei Ying seems.

Only then, in a slight break of space, Jiang Wanyin nods to Wei Ying.

Wei Ying nods in return, only hesitating slightly before lifting his flute to his mouth, a slow melodious song rising in the night air, echoing strangely off the wooden docks and wide stretch of the lake water. Despair rises from the ground like mist, thick against Lan Wangji’s skin and throat. The dead of Lotus Pier, he realizes, being given space to cry out their grievances.

He thinks of the classroom, the executioner and his victims and Wei Ying’s brazen theory. Now made flesh.

Wei Ying.

Lan Wangji himself is caught, ensnared, and Wei Ying at last lifts his gaze across the bloody field and meets Lan Wangji’s gaze straight on. There is a flicker of something indecipherable to Lan Wangji, who has unknowingly found comfort in the obvious, too large expressions of Wei Ying’s emotions, so easily deciphered even by Lan Wangji. Everything now feels like quicksilver, obscured by a layer of distance or fog. Subtle and complicated and too fast to catch.

Then Wei Ying’s chin lifts, expression hardening, flute letting out a sharp trill like a taunt.

What are you going to do about it, Lan Wangji?

Ahead, a few Wen turn to flee in terror, heading for the gates. Lan Wangji lifts Bichen and rejoins the fight, feeling the cold of the resentment settle in his flesh.

Lotus Pier is retaken by dawn. Jiang Wanyin and Wei Ying disappear into the family shrine together. Lan Wangji hopes it has not been disturbed by the Wen. That they may find some comfort there, in letting the ancestors know that they have returned. For now at least. Perhaps a promise for more.

For while Lotus Pier is liberated, Jiang Wanyin does not have the forces to hold it. They will have to leave it abandoned as they return to join the push against the Wen. Now that Wen Ruohan has lost both of his sons, it is hard to know what he might do in response.

Time will tell.

Lan Wangji oversees the collecting and burning of the Wen bodies. Once it is finished, he sends the disciples to find sleep and food. Lan Wangji will ask what Jiang Wanyin prefers first before completing any rituals for the still roiling souls of his clansmen tied by brutal death to the grounds.

Lan Wangji meditates for a short while, but finds very little peace in it. As night once again falls over Lotus Pier, Lan Wangji is unable to stop himself from searching out Wei Ying. Along his search, he pauses as he hears two of the Lan disciples speaking, voices barely audible over the incessant lapping of water that is endemic to Lotus Pier.

“Did you see what he did?” one of them hisses.

“I could feel it,” the other responds.

“It’s horrible. I don’t understand how Lan-er-gongzi and Jiang-zongzhu can allow it.”

Lan Wangji steps around the corner, the two disciples startling. Their hands fly to their swords, as they should, but then up on realizing just who has come upon them, they step to attention, shooting each other worried looks.  

Lan Wangji merely stands unmoving, face hard with icy disapproval. He wishes to tear into them, but what can he really say? Can he really disagree that Wei Ying’s methods are horrible?

The two disciples belatedly bow their apologies and then depart. Lan Wangji watches them go. He turns and wanders closer to the lake, feeling greater and greater urgency to find Wei Ying.

He eventually finds him standing at the end of a pier, drinking from a bottle of wine.

Lan Wangji comes to a stop where he is, taking in the sight of Wei Ying. Trying to steel his heart. He presses a hand to his chest, hearing the soft crinkle of paper inside his robes. As fortified as he can be, he takes another step forward, not quieting the creak of the wood underfoot.

Wei Ying lets out a little sigh, as if resigned to the fact that he can no longer avoid Lan Wangji’s unwanted company. Still, he does or says nothing else until Lan Wangji has drawn even, the two of them standing side by side at the end of the dock staring forward out over the water.

Unbidden, Lan Wangji is struck with the visceral memory of the last time he stood this close to Wei Ying, the feel of him clinging and warm and begging for letters and words of affection. Speaking of things they might do to each other in search of pleasure.

“Sorry you never got to see it before,” Wei Ying says.

Lan Wangji is dragged back into the present like being plunged into cold water. Lotus Pier. Wei Ying speaks of his earlier promise, to show Lan Wangji Lotus Pier. He thinks again of the painting, the one he carries with him.

“Wei Ying,” he says, everything bubbling horribly up inside him. The words to tell him he is so grateful to have him back, to find him alive, stick in his throat.

I missed you.

Wei Ying won’t look at him. But his hand lifts, like he might touch Lan Wangji’s sleeve, but stops at the last moment, fingers curling back into his palm.

“I really did want to show it to you.” Wei Ying shrugs, another one of those hollow smiles on his face, thrown into high contrast by the moon. “No matter.”

Show me now, Lan Wangji wants to demand. Look at me, the way I always feared before. Please. Just look at me.

Lan Wangji somehow finds it in him to reach out where Wei Ying could not, just the very tips of his fingers brushing against the tips of Wei Ying’s where he holds the wine bottle.

I am here now, he wants the touch to say for him.

Wei Ying tenses, but does not pull away.

They stand there for a long moment, nothing but the barest contact between them. It is everything.

“It was a nice dream,” Wei Ying eventually says, his fingers trembling slightly under Lan Wangji’s as he stares out over the lake. He sucks in a breath, something straightening in his posture, like some decision has been made. “But that’s the thing with dreams. At some point, you always have wake up from them.” 

Lan Wangji feels his heart become a sudden, sharp thing, pressing up into his throat. “Wei Ying,” he says, alarmed.

Wei Ying’s free hand moves, pressing Lan Wangji’s fingers between his own. For a moment, Lan Wangji feels hope climbing his throat. Thinks of drawing Wei Ying close, bringing their mouths together, the way that always seemed to make things easier, before.

Wei Ying’s hand curls around his fingers, surprisingly gentle. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Then he pulls Lan Wangji’s hand away, letting it fall into the empty space between them.

Without another word, Wei Ying turns and walks away, leaving Lan Wangji standing alone on the dock.

Every last word still trapped in Lan Wangji’s throat turns to ash. He closes his eyes, listens the fading sound of Wei Ying’s footsteps, and tries to remember how to breathe.