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Wei Wuxian is writing a letter to Lan Zhan.

He’s not good at writing letters. His calligraphy is, frankly, atrocious, and his grasp of narrative voice is sketchy. He often finds himself starting with the punchline of a joke, or ending a story back where he started it. To make up for this, he puts little sketches in the margins – he’s much better at sketching. Cute plump bunnies with twitchy noses, delicate lotus flowers bobbing on their stalks, occasionally when he has the space a thin-lined profile of Lan Zhan reacting to his letter just to show he knows he’s terrible at this. His drawings of Lan Zhan are always his favourite, the long elegant lines of him, the perfect sweep of his cheek and mouth. So perfect he wants to keep the letters for himself, hoard them up under his bed because he’s never going to get any closer to him than that. Wei Wuxian sometimes thinks that Lan Zhan doesn’t really hear anything he says.

Lan Zhan is also not good at writing letters, but for entirely different reasons. Lan Zhan’s letters are infrequent and short. Very short. Just one or two lines, sometimes no more than a four-character idiom. No real news, no real information about how he’s doing in Gusu acting as his brother’s right hand. Just brief comments about something he observed or enjoyed. Plum blossoms in the moonlight, maybe, or Today clouds furled about the mountains like a cloak, hiding them from sight. High-brow, literary stuff. It’s terribly, terribly like Lan Zhan – distant and beautiful and incomprehensible. But the calligraphy is stupidly beautiful, the tapering of the lines so elaborate it makes Wei Wuxian’s heart hurt. Unlike his own detailed missives, he does actually keep Lan Zhan’s tucked away beneath his mattress.

He's stuck on today’s letter, because he spent all last letter complaining about Shijie’s terrible fiancé, and while he absolutely could fill another five letters at least with that, Lan Zhan probably doesn’t want to hear it. Lan Zhan’s brother doesn’t have a terrible fiancé; he doesn’t understand.

Wei Wuxian’s just considering noting that the lotus flowers are starting to open and maybe Lan Zhan should consider visiting – you said you’ve never been, Lan Zhan, shouldn’t you broaden your horizons? – when he hears heavy footsteps and the swish of silk from the hall outside his room.

A moment later the door is thrown open so violently that he drops his brush, ink splattering across the surface of his still-damp letter, and reaches for suibian.

The first lash of zidian catches his hand, stinging it numb. The second slices across his cheek so hard his head turns, blood following the flare of purple lightning.

“Wei Ying.”

He scrambles onto his knees in a position of proper deference, eyes huge, cheek aching. Madam Yu’s face is white except for two red marks over her cheeks, her eyes fire-bright. He has seen her steeped in jealousy, in disgust, in anger. He has never seen her look like this. She strides into the room and zidian lashes out again, ripping away the low table that sits before him, his letter shredded instantly. The next lick of the whip catches him across the back, nearly knocking him onto his face.

“Did you touch her?” Madam Yu’s voice is barely recognizable, the fury rough and raw as a saw blade.

He raises his head, only for the whip to strike him again, this time actually flattening him to the ground. “I don’t – what?” He spreads his hands against the floor, tries to push himself up. The whip cuts across them, dragging them out from under him. The next lash flays his back, and the next and the next and the next.

“Did you touch her?” demands Madam Yu again. She’s breathing heavily, her words choked; he doesn’t think it’s the exertion of commanding zidian that’s causing it.

His head is spinning, body burning with pain. He tilts his chin up to stare at her, her hair starting to slip from its severe pins, her lips thin as a blade.

“Touch who – what – I –”

“A-Li,” she spits at him.

He stares up, uncomprehending. He can’t make the words make sense. “I – I – what?”

She snaps the whip out, up and over one of the joists in the roof and then down to curl around him. Her next move yanks it back, dragging him into the air so he hangs, burning loops of purple lightning digging into his sides, his arms. Flickers of energy dance across his clothes; when they reach his skin they burn like the touch of scalding oil.

“Please – I don’t understand,” he manages, his chest compressed, barely able to suck in enough air to keep his sight from strobing.

“On pain of death, Wei Ying, tell me now. Did you molest A-Li?” She tightens her fist and zidian flares, agony slashing through him.

It’s nothing to the storm of shock and horror that is whipping up in his mind. From somewhere in the distance he hears someone else shout, but he’s having trouble focusing. He’s tangled in a snare of revulsion, shame, disgust. Molest A-Li, echoes in his mind, louder and louder, his body sweating and stewing and twisting. Someone thinks he touched Shijie, that he – he –

He heaves, abruptly, retches down his front and onto the floor. Madam Yu’s face turns, lip curling in repulsion.

“Mother, please,” says someone, says Jiang Cheng, in fact, who’s materialized out of nowhere. He’s reaching out to her, his face tight, scared. “He couldn’t – he wouldn’t – you can’t think –”

“Answer,” demands Madam Yu, not even acknowledging her son.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head, more a spasm than a controlled choice. “Never. Never. Never,” he chokes out, tears in his throat, his body hot and cold and sick. His hair has been pulled loose by the lashes, is falling in his face, sticking to his sweaty skin. Its touch is nauseating, and he swallows back another heave. His body is spasming, zidian sending pulses of pain into him where it’s coiled around his chest.

There’s blood in his mouth; he doesn’t know why. He feels it spill out over his lip, down his chin. Colour starts to drain out of the world, the purple and teal of Madam Yu’s robes becoming shades of grey.

“Mother, please, stop,” begs Jiang Cheng.

Without warning, zidian disappears. Wei Wuxian drops, heavy and limp, to the floor. There’s a strange sound in his ears, a distant humming like the wind in the Gusu pines. For some reason he can’t move, his body cold. He can hear voices, the thump of footsteps, but they make no sense, mean nothing to him.

There’s a face over his, a familiar one. It’s grainy, distorted, like looking into rippling water. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes, and lets the sound of the pines sweep him away.

***

Candlelight.

Wei Wuxian opens his eyes to the dim buttery glow of a single candle by his bedside.

He feels… he doesn’t have a word for it. It’s pain, and exhaustion, and weight, all wrapped into one. His body is insensitive, unresponsive. He looks around without moving his head.

Jiang Cheng is sitting beside him, reading something on paper. Or maybe just staring at it. His eyes aren’t moving.

Wei Wuxian wets his lips, and he looks up. “Wei Wuxian.” He puts down the papers, and Wei Wuxian recognizes them; Lan Zhan’s letters. He should be angry, should be furious. He isn’t. He feels cold; empty.

A moment later he remembers – Did you touch her? – and his body bucks, nausea and horror ripping through him. Jiang Cheng puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t. Don’t move.”

“Shijie,” he hisses.

“She’s okay. She’s fine, Wei Wuxian. No one’s said anything to her.”

He blinks, fear being overtaken by confusion. “But – what?”

“First, drink this.” Jiang Cheng picks up a deep bowl of water and raises it to his lips, tilts it until he has no choice but to accept it. He drinks all the water and finds himself thirsty, his throat parched. Jiang Cheng pours him a second bowl and he drinks that, too, before turning away slightly. “Good. Now, listen. Mother received a letter today. From the Lanling Jin. Very polite, but smeared with implications. They thought she should know what people were saying, before it ruins our reputation. About her daughter, and her ward. About you being in A-Jie’s room, alone. About how you follow her around and tease her and touch her. And more – disgusting things, crazy things. Father doesn’t believe it; I don’t believe it. But you know Mother…”

Wei Wuxian shudders, his fingers curling into his palms. “I can’t – who’s saying this? Do people think…?” he stares up at Jiang Cheng with naked fear, and sees it reflected there for a moment before Jiang Cheng clamps down.

“No. They don’t – Wei Wuxian – no one thinks that. She’s your sister – she loves you. It’s just the fucking Jin and their stupid superiority complex and their supreme shittiness.”

He turns onto his side; the effort it takes is immense, pulling a groan from him. “Madam Yu believes it,” he pants.

“I don’t think… I mean… she can’t really. She just… she needs to protect A-Jie,” says Jiang Cheng, miserably.

Wei Wuxian hardly hears it. “What can I do? How can I prove it’s not true? I have to prove it,” he says. He feels light-headed, like he’s not breathing right. He keeps breathing faster, trying to pull in more air, but it’s not helping. “I have to prove it. The rumours won’t die; people will keep talking, and Shijie will be ruined and…” there are sparkles of light popping in his vision, like snowflakes catching the sun. He feels sick and dizzy, head swirling with horrible, crude images and slanders.

“You need to rest,” says Jiang Cheng. “You’re a mess.”

He reaches out, catches Jiang Cheng’s wrist. “They can’t tell Shijie. She can’t know,” he says, desperately, squeezing his fingers. The idea of her hearing this, of her knowing what people are saying… he shudders. “I’ve gotta prove it,” he mutters. A cloud of darkness blossoms in his vision, strobing briefly to white, then black again.

Darkness.

***

Soft, warm light. Sweet air, a feeling of peace, tranquility.

Wei Wuxian opens his eyes and hears music. The tune is unfamiliar to him, but the hum of the strings – perfect tension, the throaty echo exquisitely controlled – is well-known from a year of night-hunts and conferences.

He turns his head and sees Lan Zhan sitting on the floor of his room, his qin on his lap. Lan Zhan, dressed in flawless white, Lan Zhan with a silken stream of hair slipping over one shoulder, Lan Zhan with his lovely face tilted downwards in contemplation. Sunlight is pouring over his back, picking out silver patterns in his robes, shining brightly in his hair. Beautiful, inexpressibly so.

“This is a nice dream,” says Wei Wuxian, softly.

Lan Zhan looks up, his fingers stifling the sound of the qin. “Wei Ying.” He vanishes the qin and stands, stepping over. The floorboards creak beneath his feet.

Not a dream.

The warm relaxation, the feeling of safety and comfort disappear instantly, like a candle being snuffed out. Lan Zhan is here. Lan Zhan, the only person in the world whose good opinion he would do anything for is here. Lan Zhan is in his room, in Lotus Pier, because he’s just been accused of raping his sister.

The nausea is overwhelming, his stomach contracting as if crushed by a fist, squeezing everything out. He rolls over and retches on the floor, his body suddenly hot and sweaty and unbearable. He brings up water, then some bile, then the remains of food he doesn’t remember.

Lan Zhan, here, now –

He folds and coughs, chokes, retches again. More bile, some liquid, then blood, wet and salty and bubbling in his mouth. Jiang Cheng appears out of nowhere, shouting, but Lan Zhan is kneeling beside him with his fingers beside Wei Wuxian’s forehead. He feels the cool stream of channeled qi, feels it flood his body and into his meridians. Feels it lock them, one after another, tamping down his body’s sensitivity, his reactions. The heaving slows. Lan Zhan locks meridian after meridian, and his stomach stops spasming. More qi, more cool control; the tension bleeds out of him and he collapses onto the bed, dull and drowsy.

Lan Zhan stops the qi flow and reaches out to gently brush his hair out of his face. He looks so… so… sad? Lan Zhan should never look sad. Wei Wuxian tries to smile up at him but he’s tired, he’s exhausted, and Lan Zhan’s touch is so sweet. He leans into it and closes his eyes.

Sleep.

***

He doesn’t think he sleeps for very long. When he wakes Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng are still there, speaking in low voices. The voices stop when he opens his eyes. They’re sitting on the floor beside him. The floor he was just retching on.

“I really hope you cleaned up the puke,” says Wei Wuxian. His voice sounds awful.

“Idiot, of course we did, what do you think of us?” says Jiang Cheng, his tone irritable but his face drawn.

“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan, and Wei Wuxian turns to look at him. He feels a pulse of cold despair flood through him, but the sickness has abated. It’s left just empty resignation in its wake.

“Why are you here? I mean – you shouldn’t be here. To see this.”

Lan Zhan reaches out and pours him some water; puts it to his lips and presses the bowl forwards until he has no choice but to drink. It’s cool and sweet and welcome. “Jiang Wanyin sent for me,” he says, as Wei Wuxian drinks. “He thought I could assist.”

Wei Wuxian frowns. “What? With what?”

“Proving your innocence.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes snap to Jiang Cheng, then back to Lan Zhan. “I don’t understand.”

Lan Zhan lays the bowl down and folds his hands carefully in his lap, his posture perfect as always. “You are familiar with the musical cultivation favoured by my clan?”

Wei Wuxian nods. “Yes, of course.”

“You are aware that, using the method known as Inquiry, we may speak with the dead.”

“Uh huh. Are you suggesting we kill me to prove I’m innocent?”

He’s genuinely surprised by the flash of pain that shows in Lan Zhan’s face before he controls it. “No. Inquiry may also be used to speak with those in a deep state of meditation. It is a method that speaks to the soul, not the mind.”

Wei Wuxian swallows. “Well, that’s great, but I’m not exactly an expert at meditation.”

“He’s a fucking incompetent,” says Jiang Cheng, more plainly. Lan Zhan looks slightly pained.

“It has also, on occasion, been used to communicate with those who are in a state of deep unconsciousness. It is likely that, with the aid of an appropriate sedative, I could communicate with you. Those who speak to me through Inquiry may not lie. They may choose not to answer, but they may not lie.”

Wei Wuxian thinks about it. “That’s… inventive. But when you communicate through Inquiry, you’re the one who interprets the responses, right?”

Lan Zhan bows his head slightly. “Correct.”

“Okay, but you’re my…” one crush/true love/soulmate “– friend,” says Wei Wuxian, voice slightly unsteady. “Who’s going to believe you?”

“Oh, don’t be dense,” snaps Jiang Cheng. “He’s already proposed it to Father. Lan Wangji’s reputation is unparalleled. And Lans don’t lie, everyone knows that. No one cares that the two of you mess around on night hunts, or are pen pals. They’ll believe what he says.”

They’ll believe a stranger, but not their own disciple. Wei Wuxian swallows that thought down. “Right. Okay. Okay. So you just… drug me and ask me questions? And I answer?”

Lan Zhan’s doing that thing again. Looking unaccountably sad. But he nods. “Yes, Wei Ying. Is that what you want?”

“If it will prove that this is incredibly fucked up and untrue? Yes, absolutely.”

Lan Zhan shifts slightly, his expression careful. “You will trust me to do this?”

Wei Wuxian looks up at him, honestly surprised. “Lan Zhan – I trust you with everything.”

Lan Zhan swallows. “Understood,” he says.

***

For the second time today, Lan Wangji is seated in the centre of the audience chamber of Lotus Pier, the seat of the Yunmeng Jiang. At the head of the room on a throne of wood carved in the shape of a blossoming lotus flower sits Jiang Fengmian, looking silent and morose. To his right is Madam Yu, who Lan Wangji has never seen before today. He knows of her, a little, from Wei Ying’s letters. Wei Ying, beneath the polite veneer of an adopted child, fears her and dislikes her.

He also knows her, of course, from the livid lashes covering Wei Ying’s body, and from the pink burns criss-crossing his pale skin. Jiang Cheng had been reluctant to allow Lan Zhan to help him change his brother out of his vomit-stained robes; at first he had taken this for modesty. He knows better now.

Sitting along both sides of the room are the most respected advisors and cultivators in the clan, here to witness their head disciple’s interrogation. At their head, closest to the throne, sits Jiang Yanli. Her face is very white, her eyes red. Jiang Wanyin had argued volubly against her presence, but after all this concerns her too. Her marriage, her position in society is at stake.

Lan Wangji sits at a low, long table holding his qin, the tassels falling over the side to brush against the polished wood floor. Also on the table is a single, deep bowl.

Behind him, he hears the sound of footsteps. What little chatter there was in the room stops, leaving only the whisper of water brushing against the pier. Lan Wangji turns carefully to watch as Wei Ying is escorted into the room.

He looks very fragile as he walks forward, his steps unsteady, Jiang Wanyin just behind him to steady his elbow. His hair is carefully washed and pulled back, his clothes fresh and clean. His face is white, except for a thin red cut on his right cheek. He looks around and sees his sister; he pauses, stumbling, and Jiang Wanyin catches his arm. For a moment Lan Wangji thinks he will speak, will protest. But he just swallows and looks down, and keeps walking.

Jiang Wanyin brings Wei Ying around to sit in front of his qin; he kneels with his back to Lan Wangji and folds himself stiffly into a bow of supplication towards his uncle. His back trembles at the stretch of his abused skin, his flayed flesh; Lan Wangji tenses every muscle in his chest, his legs, his stomach to keep from reaching out.

“Wei Wuxian,” says Jiang Fengmian, stiff rather than stern. “It is your choice to submit to this questioning. The accusations made against you do not come with proof, nor sworn witnesses. Both you and A-Li have denied them utterly. I will not ask you to do this.”

Wei Wuxian straightens and Lan Wangji, sitting just behind him, thinks he’s the only one who hears the tiny sound of pain. “I ask it,” he says, his voice very gritty. “Better to prove my innocence than live in doubt. This way, all the esteemed clan members can vouch for my reputation.” His bow to the witnesses on either side is not quite mocking, but it isn’t a real display of politeness either.

Jiang Fengmian nods.

Slowly, Wei Wuxian reaches down and turns himself to face the qin. The tendons in his neck are straining, sweat beading at his hairline.

Lan Wangji stands and comes to kneel beside him. He picks up the bowl of drugged wine, and hands it to him. Wei Ying smells it, and for just an instant quirks his mouth at Lan Wangji. “Finally giving me liquor, Lan Zhan?” he asks. He takes the bowl in two hands and raises it in a salute, as if receiving a gift from a superior.

Then, in one swallow, he drains the bowl.

Lan Wangji takes it from him, turns it over in front of the assembled audience to show that it’s empty, before putting it down on the floor. Wei Wuxian is frowning, looking at him. “Is it working? I don’t think it’s working. I feel… pretty…” his eyes unfocus and his mouth goes slack. Lan Wangji’s heart leaps into his mouth; he reaches out and catches Wei Ying as he slumps to the side bonelessly. He cradles his head, dark hair spilling over his wrist, Wei Ying’s eyes closed as if in sleep. Carefully, gently, he lays him down on the floor and checks his breathing. Slow; regular.

Lan Wangji looks up. Most of the room is watching him with patience or subtle interest. At the head of the room Jiang Fengmian looks like he has a bad taste in his mouth; his wife looks merely impatient. Jiang Wanyin has taken a seat beside his sister; they both have wide eyes and drawn faces, their backs stiff.

He stands and walks around the qin, taking his seat and playing the opening lines to Inquiry. The first question is the standard one:

What is your name?

The answer is immediate, strings plucked by spiritual energy. Wei Ying.

He looks up and meets Jiang Fengmian’s eyes. “He is here,” he says. “What are your questions?”

“Where are you?” asks Jiang Fengmian. Lan Wangji plays the question, and receives an immediate answer.

“The audience chamber of Lotus Pier,” he relays.

Jiang Fengmian nods. “What do you feel for A-Li?”

The answer is a single plucked note. “Love,” says Lan Wangji, his voice soft. Jiang Yanli trembles, her face soft, pained.

Jiang Fengmian swallows, then speaks, his voice rougher now. “Do you desire A-Li?”

The answer is immediate, the strike of the chord violent. “No.”

“Have you ever made an advance towards A-Li?”

A second, sharp strike, just slightly different in tone. “Never.”

“Have you ever touched her inappropriately?”

The same sharp, angry note. “Never.”

Jiang Fengmian, stiffly, glances at his wife. “Have you ever lain with her?”

The string is struck so violently that it snaps. Lan Wangji looks up, his gaze hard. “Never,” he says.

Jiang Yanli is crying, folded against her brother’s shoulder. Jiang Wanyin looks white, sick, furious.

Jiang Fengmian nods several times, his breathing harsh.

Lan Wangji pulls out a new string from his sleeve and re-strings the qin. With his eyes low, he takes the chance to look at Wei Ying. He’s lying untidily on the floor, legs half-twisted, hair puddled darkly beneath his head. Beautiful; betrayed. He returns his focus to the qin. When he has finished tuning the new string, he looks up again. “Is that all?”

“Is there someone you love?” asks Jiang Fengmian, startling Wangji so severely he nearly slices his finger on a string. He meets Jiang Fengmian’s eyes, gaze sharp. “Ask, please,” instructs the clan leader. Wangji takes a breath and asks.

Yes.

“Yes,” he says.

“Who?”

“Clan Leader Jiang, that is not relevant.”

Jiang Fengmian stares back, his face hard, old. “Ask, please, Lan-er-gongzi. So there will be no further question of Wei Wuxian’s intentions.”

Whom do you love? The chords of the question are sweet, simple.

The answer, when it comes, is just two notes. Ones he knows better than anything. He swallows and lifts his hands off the qin. “It is not Jiang Yanli,” he says. He pulls the qin back into his pouch, then stands. He comes around the table and bends. Reaching out, he lifts Wei Wuxian’s limp form from the floor and stands with him in his arms, his head lolling against Lan Wangji’s shoulder. His face is soft in sleep, but there’s a shadow of pain that lingers, lines in his skin that didn’t used to be there.

“Lan Wangji,” snaps Jiang Cheng, standing.

“I believe he could do with some clean air,” says Lan Wangji, his voice cutting.

He turns and walks out without looking back, taking Wei Ying with him.

***

A gently rocking motion. Warm sun on his face; the smell of nearby water and green plants. A soft, comfortable cushion beside him.

Wei Wuxian wakes up feeling languid and dozy, his face pressed against smooth white silk.

It’s not a cushion. It’s Lan Zhan, sitting beside him in a punt, holding him carefully up off the deck.

“Um,” he says, staring up. And then, mind slow and honey-thick and pitiably empty, “Mmmhii?”

His mouth tastes funny, like glue or maybe that weird Lan broth made from medicinal herbs instead of proper spices and meat. His body feels wrung-out, but in a good way. Comfortably relaxed where it’s resting cradled by Lan Zhan. Why is he in a punt with Lan Zhan? Inexplicable.

“I feel kinda weird,” he says, and finds his tongue a little numb. “I… did I screw something up?”

Lan Zhan’s face does something strange – shows not just emotion, but strong emotion. “No,” he says, firmly. “Wei Ying did nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”

He rests his head against Lan Zhan’s arm. “Oh. Good.” They rock in silence for a little while, Wei Wuxian tracing the planes of his face with his eyes, the sweep of his dark hair, the long slope of his shoulders. Lan Zhan is so nice to look at; the best.

“Wei Ying… do you remember the conversation in Inquiry?”

Wei Wuxian thinks about this. It doesn’t really make sense. What inquiry? “No?” he guesses. Lan Zhan seems confused too. At least they’re confused together, here in this punt on the lake. Around them, the new lotuses bob with the water. “Lan Zhan – this is your first time at Lotus Pier,” he says, the realization condensing slowly. Lan Zhan looks down at him, eyes bright. “D’you like it?”

“I like being with Wei Ying,” he says, slowly. Wei Wuxian nods.

“Smooth, so smooth. Lan Zhan is so smooth.” He rubs the silk of Lan Zhan’s sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, because that’s also very smooth. It feels nice. Sleek. Lan Zhan’s arm is warm beneath his temple, firm but also comfortable. He feels so comfy, tucked up here against Lan Zhan. “Smooth,” he whispers. “If I could talk like that, Lan Zhan would hear me, too.”

A soft shift, his cheek slipping against silk.

“I do not hear Wei Ying?”

“Nnh. Dunno – do you? I talk and talk and talk. But you stay home, in Gusu. S’far away.” He rolls his face. “But now Lan Zhan’s here. Here, in Lotus Pier.”

“Does Wei Ying like it here?”

Wei Wuxian blinks slowly. “Uh, what? Oh. Yeah. Yeah? It’s home. ‘S always pretty, ‘n the food’s good, and Shijie’s the best…”

Something uncomfortable niggles at the back of his mind. Something cold and tense, something that scares him. His fingers tighten on Lan Zhan’s sleeve, a quiet sound of uncertainty slipping out of his throat. Lan Zhan squeezes his shoulders. “Would Wei Ying like to come to Gusu? For a little while?” he asks.

“Gusu? You mean…” his mind works hard, putting together the pieces. “…go home with you?”

Lan Zhan nods, the sun spilling through the sleek strands of his hair. “Wei Ying is more than welcome.”

He closes his eyes. “That sounds nice. Going home with Lan Zhan.”

A warm hand brushes against his face, the touch tender. He snuggles into it. “Wei Ying may stay as long as he likes,” says Lan Zhan.

***

He wakes up back in his bed, candles all around. It’s dark outside, the air cooler.

Jiang Cheng is sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. Wei Wuxian looks at it. It’s a wall, the same wall as always.

“Jiang Cheng?” he says, sitting up.

The act of moving reminds him immediately what has happened. Memories of pain, of shame, of horror flood home and his fingers spasm on the blanket. He remembers the taste of liquor and sour herbs, then thick blackness. “Did it work? Where’s Lan Zhan?”

Jiang Cheng turns to look at him. He looks tired. “It worked. Lan Wangji is arguing with Father,” he says.

Wei Wuxian finishes sitting up and takes a moment to celebrate that victory. His abs are exhausted, maybe from being flayed, maybe just from retching up half the contents of his intestines. “What?”

“He wants you to go with him to Gusu.”

Wei Wuxian gapes a little, his heart lurching uncomfortably. There’s an ill-defined memory lurking in his mind of sunshine and warmth and white silk. Of contentment. There were words too, he thinks, but those are harder to remember. Something about Lotus Pier, about Gusu, about home? His head is aching dully. “Why?”

“He says you want to. He thinks we don’t deserve you,” adds Jiang Cheng, his mouth a crooked, ugly line.

Wei Wuxian frowns. “That doesn’t sound like Lan Zhan.”

“Oh he didn’t say it. Not like that. But it’s pretty clear what he thinks. That we… mistreat you.” Jiang Cheng’s face is strange – not outraged, not insulted. He looks like he did when they were seven and Uncle gave them both eggs to hatch into chicks, and Jiang Cheng dropped his. The way he had stared down at the ruined little thing, embarrassed and angry and sad.

“I don’t think that, Jiang Cheng. It’s – it’s complicated. My place, and Madam Yu, and… he doesn’t understand. Lan Zhan’s never even been here before, he’s never met your parents. He doesn’t know what I owe them.” He believes the words. He does; how could he not? They’re true.

It doesn’t mean they don’t hurt. Doesn’t mean the fact that this would never, ever have happened if Jiang Cheng had been the one accused doesn’t paint a taste like poison down his throat.

“A-Jie thinks you should go. She’s furious. With Mother, and with Jin Zixun.”

Wei Wuxian frowns. “Why him?”

“She recognized the writing in the letter. He’s the one who sent it. She thinks – she says there’s a woman in his branch of the family who’s been proposed as an alternative bride for the Peacock. This was all some dumb scheme to fuck over the engagement.”

He feels cold, empty. “Oh.”

Jiang Cheng frowns. “I thought you’d be pissed. I thought you’d be hopping on your sword to fly over there and disembowel him.”

“Yeah, I should,” he says, a little dully.

Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes. “Are you okay? Did Lan Wangji do something to you? Are you still drugged?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I just… I don’t know.” He looks down.

“Don’t know what?” prods Jiang Cheng, voice irritable.

He looks up. “How am I supposed to look anyone in the eye? Shijie? Madam Yu? Uncle Jiang? Everything’s fucked up. All it took was a stupid scheme from Jin Zixun – one single letter – to do this. To ruin me,” he says, quietly.

“I told you – no one believed it.”

“No. Madam Yu just came in here and beat me to shit because she resents me. Your father let me be interrogated in front of the court because I’m less important than maintaining family peace. All those old advisors sat there and watched because I’m some hotheaded orphan who could stand being put in his place.”

Jiang Cheng stands up, his face twisting. Through anger and shame and embarrassment and back to anger. It always ends there eventually; much easier to be angry than ashamed. “If you think no one here cares about you, if you think you’re the only one here who tried to fix this, then maybe you should go to Gusu,” he says. “Where Lan Zhan can take care of you.”

His chest tenses, sore, achy. “Jiang Cheng, it’s not like that.”

Jiang Cheng snorts.

“I know you did a lot. I know you sent for Lan Zhan. I know… it’s hard, for you. I do. Okay?”

Jiang Cheng crosses his arms and looks away. “Whatever,” he says. “If you want to go, go. Who cares?”

“I don’t – go where? Gusu? Lan Zhan’s just being nice; he’s obliged, it’s part of his role as the world’s most perfect man.”

“For fuck’s sake,” hisses Jiang Cheng. “You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t seen the fucking love poems he sends you? Sunlight pours like honey over apple blossom, tender shoots opening? Puke, Wei Wuxian. And anyway, Father made him ask you who you’re in love with. And he wouldn’t say.”

Wei Wuxian’s heart skips a beat. “What?” he whispers.

“In the interrogation. Father made him ask, to prove you weren’t – you know. And you answered, but he wouldn’t tell anyone what you said. And then he just fucking picked you up and carried you out. You think I don’t know what that means?”

He feels dizzy. Is he still breathing? He can’t tell. He feels momentarily encased in wax, numb to the world.

“Wei Wuxian?”

The wax cracks, leaving him feeling raw and soft. He swings his feet over the side of the bed and gets up, ignoring the way his head aches. “I’ve gotta – I’ll just – see you, Jiang Cheng.”

“Yeah you’re welcome,” shouts Jiang Cheng after him.

***

Lan Wangji is sitting, not in the large open audience chamber, but in a much smaller private room equipped with a table and cushions and a large window looking out onto a lantern-lit night. There is a tea set and cups on the table, a nice earthenware set. Serviceable, not luxurious.

The only other person in the room is Jiang Fengmian, looking tired.

Lan Wangji is not good at diplomacy. It is not his job. Being good with words is his brother’s job; killing things with a heavy sword is his.

“Let us set intention aside,” Lan Wangji is saying, “and consider fact. The fact is that Wei Wuxian was severely beaten on the strength of an anonymous accusation. The fact is that his word was not considered sufficient to refute said accusation. The fact is that his soul was put on display for your court, to vindicate him from a charge which never should have been considered.”

Jiang Fengmian refreshes his cup of tea. Lan Wangji is quite sure he would rather be drinking alcohol, but as Lan Wangji doesn’t drink that would be a breach of etiquette. He does not quite know how to point out that Jiang Fengmian is willing to abide by the rules of etiquette with him, but not behave with decency to his ward.

“Gusu Lan is known for its strict notions of righteousness,” says Jiang Fengmian. “That is well and good in Gusu. But Lotus Pier is not Gusu. Our situation is our own.”

“Do you believe he has been treated fairly?”

Jiang Fengmian looks up at him. “That is not an answerable question, Lan-er-gongzi.”

No. Lan Wangji knows that. His brother would never have asked such a dangerous question, but his brother isn’t here. Jiang Fengmian is too honest to answer yes, but too loyal to his family’s reputation to admit that his wife behaved outrageously. That he himself behaved with more attention to appeasing her than protecting his ward.

“In which case, will you not admit –”

“Careful,” cautions Jiang Fengmian, voice sharp-edged for the first time. “Careful, Lan-er-gongzi. I have treated you with respect due to your position, and your willingness to help resolve this issue. But I will not be lectured in my own home by a foreign disciple on a private matter.”

Lan Wangji takes a breath, frustration bubbling beneath the surface of his skin. “Wei Ying’s treatment is important to me,” he says, stiffly. “His happiness is important to me.”

“I applaud your advocacy for your friend. But your claim to him is minor compared to mine.”

The searing burn those words cause in his throat goes unacknowledged, his face carefully blank. “Will you permit him to come to Gusu?”

“For what purpose?” asks Jiang Fengmian.

“To visit a friend. To see my province. To leave behind the tongues that wag.”

There’s a patter of footsteps outside, then a knock on the door. Jiang Fengmian glances up. “Yes?”

“Uncle Jiang?”

Wei Ying. Jiang Fengmian calls him in; the door opens and Wei Ying is there, his colour a little healthier, his weight leaning against the door. He’s breathing hard, like he’s been running. He steps in and sits a little too hastily, breath punched out of him. “Jiang Cheng said,” he begins, then stops. He looks at Lan Wangji, his eyes wide, uncertain. “Are you asking for me to go to Gusu?”

Lan Wangji inclines his head.

“Oh. Oh.”

He seems curiously surprised by this, and Lan Wangji wonders if there has been a miscommunication. Wei Wuxian had seemed clearly interested before. Although perhaps he had been in a pliable frame of mind from the sedative. He had seemed unusually imperceptive. “Do you… not want to go?” he asks, carefully.

“No! I mean – no – I do. I’d love to see Gusu. But are you sure – I mean, you really want me to come? I’m not trying to, I don’t know, foist myself on you. You don’t have to be nice to me.”

Lan Zhan frowns a little. “Not being nice,” he says. “Wei Ying is welcome. Wei Ying is wanted.”

Wei Ying’s cheeks pinken, his words tumbling out. “Um, I mean – yes, okay. Caiyi was fun – there must be other fun stuff, right? Wait, I’m asking the wrong person. There must be other places of scenic beauty and literary significance, right?” His smile is so bright, unblemished by what has happened. Undimmed by insult or ugliness.

Lan Wangji’s gaze softens. “There are,” he says.

In his head, he still hears the refrain of Inquiry.

Whom do you love?

Lan Zhan!

“Okay,” says Wei Ying, still sounding a little breathless.

Jiang Fengmian puts down his teacup. “Wei Wuxian, Lan-er-gongzi suggests you might enjoy some time away from Lotus Pier. I can understand that sentiment. But I hope you feel that this will always be your home.”

Wei Wuxian immediately becomes serious; he turns to his uncle and bows. “Uncle Jiang, of course. I – I do not complain. My place –”

“Your place is as our first disciple. That will never be in doubt. The respect owed to our first disciple should also never be in doubt. If it has been, that is my error.”

Wei Wuxian bows again, a little unsteadily. Lan Wangji does not.

Jiang Fengmian rises. “I will leave you to organize your plans. I hope to receive updates on your travels; Gusu is quite lovely in the summer. Wildflowers and waterfalls. Very romantic,” he says, his voice a little sad, and slips out.

Wei Wuxian turns wide-eyed to Lan Wangji, a light dusting of colour in his cheeks. “I – uh – Lan Zhan… Jiang Cheng said that I kind of. Said. Something. Aboutmaybebeinginlovewithyou.” The words tumble out, chaotic and disordered.

“I should have refused to ask the question,” says Lan Wangji, his ears burning. “It was unnecessary, and unethical. I half expected you to refuse to answer. That would have been understandable.”

Wei Wuxian swallows, his pale throat bobbing. “I, uh… I don’t actually think that I could. Not answer you,” he says, the final sentence a whisper. “But I didn’t mean to make things weird or impose anything on you or –”

“Wei Ying,” says Lan Wangji. “It is not an imposition. It is welcome.”

Wei Wuxian looks at him, mouth hanging half-open. “Welcome?”

“It would be inconvenient if my feelings were unreturned,” says Lan Wangji.

“Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan. You – you – how are you so good? At everything? Unfair!” He’s trying to be indignant, but he’s laughing, the pain and the anguish disappearing from his face for the first time since Lan Wangji arrived at Lotus Pier.

“So you will come?” he says. “With me? To Gusu?”

Wei Wuxian smiles. “To see wildflowers and waterfalls?”

“Is that what Wei Ying would like to see?”

“Aiya, Lan Zhan. It doesn’t matter. Anything you like to see, or to do. Whatever you like will be perfect. Lan Zhan is, after all, quite perfect himself. I can’t believe he came all the way here for me.”

Lan Wangji puts down his own teacup and reaches out, takes Wei Ying’s fingers in his warm hands. Wei Ying stills, lips parting to take a breath.

“I would go anywhere for Wei Ying. Anywhere he asked of me. Without question or complaint. His word is enough for me. Always.”

Wei Wuxian swallows, his fingers squeezing Lan Wangji’s. “Lan Zhan…”

He bows his head and, very deliberately, presses his lips to Wei Wuxian’s knuckles. The intake of breath is, this time, much more audible. He looks up without moving his lips, his head low. “May I take you home?” he asks.

Wei Wuxian’s smile is warm as the sun, his eyes bright and wet and glad. “Lan Zhan, you…”

“I heard you call,” he says, and lets Wei Wuxian pull him up into a kiss.

END