Archive of Our Own

PART ONE

Quiet. Calm. Darkness.

Wei Wuxian drifts down through the dim lake water, descending back-first, his limbs stretched towards the distant dappled glow of the surface. The stillness feels ancient, undisturbed for an eternity by sound or movement or even light. He is being welcomed into its ageless embrace, his body loose and limp as he’s drawn downwards. There is something soothing about a world separated from time, a world without a need to count frantic heartbeats, every beat one closer to death. He lets that infinity surround him, pillow him.

It is cool, here, growing cold as he descends. The cold of ice against skin, drawing the heat out of his body. It is seeking to settle him so that he belongs here. Frigid, silent, breathless.

Tendrils of darkness twine around him, thick but tender, weaving a web with spiderous grace. Thicker, thicker, blotting out light, blotting out warmth with green-black ribbons. He can hear whispers in his ears, wordless murmurings. They grow clearer the deeper he drifts, speaking to him, welcoming him perhaps.

The black strings brush against his skin, heavy, slick as lakeweed and he feels the first shiver of dread, of wrong. They wrap around his arms, his legs, at his wrists and ankles edging beneath his water-soaked clothes to tighten against naked skin. The moment they touch him the voices clarify from a dull murmur to clear words: Please no / I don’t want to / I can’t feel my hands / No no no / This can’t be happening / Mother where are you / Make it stop!

He kicks, eyes opening, fear blooming like blood in the water.

It isn’t ribbon. It’s hair. Hair, thick and lank and streaming up from a sea of putrid, rotting corpses staring at him with white dead eyes.

Wei Wuxian opens his mouth to scream, and the hair pushes in, in, in –

White.

It splits the darkness like the moon banishing clouds, cuts through the web that’s nearly entirely cocooned him. A strong hand grabs his collar and pulls him up, while a silver blade sheers so close to his flesh he can feel the coolness of the steel, slicing him free. In his head, the chorus of voices starts to scream.

They rise, Wei Wuxian dizzy with horror, his body sick and starved of air. Panic boils inside him, the unnatural calm boiled off like beads of water on a griddle. He kicks, fights, but the strong grip on his robes doesn’t give and his chest is burning and the chorus is screaming, and…

And they break the surface. He’s ripped clear of the water like a fish on a hook, straight up into the humid summer air, sunshine streaking lazily down. He coughs, dangling awkwardly in the air. Above him, Lan Zhan looks down, his gaze cool. He’s holding him by the front of his robes.

Wei Wuxian’s head is spinning. The screams are gone but he feels strangely both full and hollow. His nose and throat are burning with dirty lake water. His spine is curved awkwardly by the angle of Lan Zhan’s grip on his front. He feels disoriented, dizzy, confused. It hurts to breathe, his chest pressed tight by the taut wet silk.

“Lan Zhan,” he gasps, between coughs. “Why are you holding my robes? I can’t breathe.”

“I do not touch unfamiliar people,” says Lan Zhan. He’s riding Bichen, Wei Wuxian realises vaguely; they’re flying towards the shore.

“’m not unfamiliar,” slurs Wei Wuxian, but it’s too hard to keep looking up, his head heavy, and in looking down he sees the dark twisting waters of Biling Lake beneath them. He feels an echo of the wet, slick touch of hair and he coughs harder, his stomach twisting itself into squirming, greasy knots. He groans and shivers, feeling strange – like his blood has thickened inside him, slowing his heartbeat, heavy as mercury. His vision is too dark, his hearing dulled. He thinks maybe Lan Zhan says something, but he’s too busy trying not to retch. He feels instinctively that if he does, here at this painfully upright angle, he will choke. His body is quivering with the need, his cheeks filling, his mouth disgustingly slick with spit. His legs start to tremble, then to kick.

They reach the shore, Lan Zhan releasing him as soon as his feet are above green grass. He falls to his hands and knees and vomits, bringing up lake water. Lake water that held corpses, rotting, decaying – he groans and leans forward, retching more violently, his fingers digging howes in the grass, earth gathering beneath his nails.

He empties himself until he no longer feels full, until all he feels is shaky and hollow. But every time he tries to stop, to swallow down the sickness inside him, to stuff it back into the darkness it came from, he remembers the wet sensation of hair in his mouth, trailing down his throat. Trying to fill him, trying to claim him. He sobs and coughs and brings up bile, tiny mouthfuls of sour green and thick saliva.

“Wei Ying. Enough. Enough.”

Lan Zhan lays a hand on his back. Flat, the palm pressed over the ridge of his spine, the weight of it very tangible. Somehow, it is more tangible than his horrific memories. He groans, and spits, and swallows. Then he tilts to the side and lets himself be pulled away on his knees from the pool of his own sick. Lan Zhan’s pulling him, his hands pressed to Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and side, and he follows the lead.

He’s tired. Very tired. There’s a tiny, dull note of alarm that sounds at his exhaustion, but he can’t interpret it. Lan Zhan kneels on the ground, a white blur in the limited spectrum of Wei Wuxian’s vision. He lets his legs fold beneath him and lies down where he falls, partially atop Lan Zhan, his side draped over his knees. Lan Zhan catches his shoulders, supporting him, the crook of his elbow pillowing Wei Wuxian’s head.

“Wei Ying?” He feels the smooth press of a hand against his cheek. Feels nice. Lan Zhan sounds distant, far away. Wei Wuxian is vaguely aware that he’s never been this close to Lan Zhan, that Lan Zhan has never allowed him to be this close, and wonders whether he’ll be dumped down onto the grass. But he isn’t; Lan Zhan’s arm is sturdy, crooked beneath his head, his hand holding his shoulder. “Wei Ying, open your eyes.”

He blinks upwards, his vision hazy. Lan Zhan is just a blur, white and black against blue. His voice seems to float down from the sky, from the mountains.

“Wei Ying, can you summon Suibian?”

Suibian. Suibian. The word echoes in his mind a few times, like the tolling of a bell, before he latches onto it. Suibian. He holds out his hand and concentrates, drawing on his qi to call the blade to him.

Usually, his qi is bright, warm, malleable as liquid metal to his will. Now it feels sludge-like and hot, too hot. Red throbs in his vision, filling his sight, as he pours more and more energy into summoning his blade. This heat, this red thickness presses down on his chest. His ribs seem to grind beneath its weight as it encircles him, crushing him tighter and tighter. He pants, distressed, but he can’t abandon Suibian.

His vision is entirely shades of red, crimson and vermillion and burgundy and a deep dark colour like old blood pooling beneath the skin. His head is pounding violently, his pulse tearing through him.

Finally, Suibian cuts free of the water, skimming over the grass and stopping, hilt-first, to rest in his hand. He clutches it tightly and, with giddy relief, stops calling it. His vision dims from red to grey and he drops back against the solid shape that is Lan Zhan, the heat and the pressure and the throbbing in his head gone as though they never were. He feels boneless, empty.

“Wei Ying?”

He shivers. He’s wrapped in wet robes, weighed down by an ancient frost, a hunger filled with voices. He looks to the side, the lake glinting. He makes a low noise, tightens his grip on Suibian; Lan Zhan’s fingers dig tighter into his shoulder.

“Wei Ying?”

His eyes slant closed.

***

Wei Wuxian wakes briefly to the sound of voices. Familiar, terse, but he can’t quite place them.

“ – from near-drowning.”

“What the actual fuck. He’s the best swimmer in Lotus Pier – don’t tell me –”

“The aqua demon was drawing him to the bottom. He was conscious, and aware, when we breached the surface. He brought up copious amounts of water, after. He may simply require rest.”

Wei Wuxian feels himself shifted, his body jerked, manhandled. Then, that familiar voice again, soft this time. That softness sounds wrong, like the sun rising in the west. “Wei Wuxian?”

He makes a vague noise, and rolls his head against a solid warmth. Darkness.

***

“– Wuxian. Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian blinks, heavy-lidded, into consciousness. His body is throbbing dully, like it’s been out in the sun too long. Hot, unwieldly. His mouth is paste-textured, his tongue stuck to his upper palate. There’s a low thrumming noise in his ears, like the whine of a distant beehive. He turns his head; so heavy. His vision bleeds a little at the edges as his eyes track across the room. “Nnh?”

He focuses on the sight of Jiang Cheng. He can tell it’s Jiang Cheng from the dark colours – nothing like the pale hues of the other clans. He knows it must be purple, is definitely purple, but in his tired eyes it just registers as dark. Jiang Cheng’s face is… there. Familiar, but fuzzy. He can’t interpret the expression on it, his mind failing to do the work necessarily to piece together the slant of the mouth and the angle of the eyes and the tension of the jaw. Faces are hard. He never realised.

“It’s time for breakfast. Are you getting up?”

Up. He rolls, slowly, over onto his side and pushes himself away from the mattress. His hair slides limp off his shoulder, his head aches. His vision throbs darkly, in time with the pounding rhythm in his temples, a hot sloshing sensation.

“…food will be gone,” Jiang Cheng is saying.

Food. He feels hollow, smooth and round as a porcelain bowl. Nothing within him to yearn, to want. He shakes his head. “Not hungry,” he grunts. And then, a monumental effort of thought: “I’ll meet you at lesson.”

“You didn’t eat dinner,” says Jiang Cheng.

Wei Wuxian remembers, a sensation more than a thought, the feeling of emptying his stomach over and over on the sun-warm grass. “Stomach hurt,” he says. “It’s fine. It’s fine. Is A-Cheng worried?” He shoves the light cover away and drags his legs over the edge of the bed.

Jiang Cheng says something in a harsh tone, and walks out.

He sits for a while, trying to remember what he’s supposed to do and in what order. Wash, dress, meditate? Meditate, dress, comb hair? It all sounds exhausting.

Eventually, he gets up and sheds the light sleeping robe he’s wrapped in, pulls on his clothes one piece at a time. The fabric feels stifling against his skin; he feels each single hair on his arm scratch against it as he pulls on the sleeve of his undershirt.

It’s hard. Each layer he adds seems to press inwards against his lungs, binding him, ensnaring him. He feels trussed, feels trapped and sweaty and sick. He ties his belt as loose as he can, stomach clenching at the feel of the silk wrapped around his waist.

Wei Wuxian stumbles over to the wash basin and pours water with trembling hands. He splashes it on his face, cool, comforting. He’s shaking, he realises, can’t tell if he’s shivering or trembling. He feels hot, but his teeth are chattering. He tries to feel his face, but he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. His skin is damp, clammy, water still dripping from his chin. Is that right? He doesn’t know.

Wei Wuxian dries his face and only just remembers to tie his hair up before he leaves; it’s lank and difficult to bind. His head starts to spin when his hands have been held high for a while, fighting with it. He ties off the knot as best he can and leaves it, leaning against the doorframe until the spots stop flashing in his vision.

He tries to straighten his shoulders, and heads for the lecture hall.

***

Despite not eating breakfast, he’s one of the last disciples to file in. The room is filled with blurred shapes in light colours. He navigates to his desk more by memory than sight, finding the empty space between a tall white form and a dark one. He can’t seem to see colour properly, and that’s strange and probably means something but he’s already in such a fog that he just can’t concentrate on it. He slumps at his desk and waits for the lesson to begin.

Lan Qiren arrives and launches into the lecture. He drones on and on, his words a background hum. Wei Wuxian slowly slants forward, his wrists resting on his desk, then his forearms, then his elbows. He wants to lie down, wants to curl up and sleep, drift down into darkness, cold water welcoming him… ancient… icy…

“ – Wuxian. Wei Wuxian!”

His head snaps up, vision running like wet ink. Lan Qiren is calling him. He struggles to his feet, so hot in the heavy robes that are clinging to him, sweat-drenched and sticking to his skin. He feels like he’s outside his body, standing behind it and trying to manipulate it like a puppet, all skin and sawdust.

“Lan-xiansheng,” he murmurs. Lan Qiren repeats his question, his voice sharp, snapping.

Wei Wuxian tries to answer. He knows the answer. But he can’t seem to line up his words, start with the right one and finish with the next. His mind keeps drifting, listening to the memory of voices echoing underwater, and he stutters and stumbles.

“Enough,” says Lan Qiren, his voice whip-like. “You’re a disgrace. Sit down and be quiet.”

Wei Wuxian’s knees fold gratefully and he sits, pulse thrumming so strongly in both sides of his neck he feels that it may break free like a river overflowing its banks, burst forth and drown him.

There’s a whispering in his head, in his ears. It’s calling his name. His name, slipping out of a cool fog, voices in the mist. Wei Wuxian slowly slumps forward, and loses himself in grey blankness.

***

He’s pulled out of his stupor by a burst of sound and motion. All around him the world is moving, pale shapes fluttering like spirits in all directions. He looks around, vision blurring, as blobby faces drift past. Several voices call him, the sounds smearing together like ink beneath a child’s fingers.

“Wei Ying?”

“Wei Wuxian – what’s wrong with you?”

“Wei Wuxian.”

He looks up, up, up at the long figure in white standing in front of him. He’s so pale he seems to strobe in Wei Wuxian’s vision, strange, unnatural.

“Stand when addressed by a senior,” snaps a harsh voice. He should know it, it’s familiar, but he’s far away, so far, staring down at this scene from a distance as though they’re nothing but specks, drifting.

“Shufu – please – he isn’t himself. Something happened –”

Wei Wuxian slowly pushes his palms against the desk and stands. Colour is already gone from his vision, but somehow now shade bleeds out, leaving only strange outlines, like shadows in the fog. Like dark shapes underwater, empty eyes.

“There are corpses in the water,” he says, very clearly.

Then he faints.

PART 2

If Lan Wangji is expecting anything from Wei Ying when he arrives at morning lesson the day after the incident in Biling Lake, it’s a sloppy smile and an air of overconfidence. A full, bubbly report of his experience, highlighting his prowess but also perhaps his mistakes. Wei Wuxian’s pride isn’t like Jiang Wanyin’s, which is brittle and rigid; he acknowledges mistakes and accepts correction, albeit often with pleas and protests. Also, often, with a smile.

(Lan Wangji does not understand this, because a mistake is a demonstration of inadequacy and inadequacy is not amusing and to think it is is either ignorant or pathetic. And yet… to be able to laugh off a misstep or a misdeed is in its own way intriguing.)

Lan Wangji is shocked, therefore, to see Wei Ying trail in at the tail end of the disciples, his shoulders slumped and his face the colour of gruel, his hair limp and badly-tied. He slouches to his seat without saying anything, without acknowledging Nie Huaisang’s wave or Jiang Wanyin’s hissed questions. His head hangs low, the ridge of his spine visible through the tight pull of his thin summer silks.

Lan Wangji briefly considers dragging Wei Ying out of class, grasping that bony elbow and laying a guiding hand on the smooth curve of his back and manhandling him out of the lecture hall to be seen by their healer. He imagines, briefly, Wei Wuxian looking up at him with wide, dark eyes and a pink mouth that conveys so many emotions with such shocking freedom. But by this time Shufu is starting the lesson, and to act would be to humiliate Wei Ying in front of their entire class. He stills himself, and tries to turn his mind to his uncle’s words.

He is not very successful. He is, in fact, unsuccessful. His eyes continually slant to Wei Ying, who is slowly tipping forward, propping more and more of his weight against his desk. His eyes are heavy-lidded, the thin dark line of his lashes often fluttering against his too-pale cheek. Lan Zhan is used to pale skin, the Gusu Lan living in a cool climate and keeping to the shadows in the height of summer, their clan favouring ivory complexions. He has never been to Yunmeng, but Wei Ying’s bronzed skin, the warm glow of his cheeks, makes him think of all sorts of improper things. Of fishing bare-shouldered on long piers with the sun beating down, of swimming unclothed in clear blue lakes. It is alarming, how quickly he’s come to appreciate the tone of Wei Ying’s skin and how easily his mind is able to catalogue the many gradations that lie between it and his current sickly hue.

Lan Wangji sees Jiang Wanyin shooting him concerned glances, his attention clearly divided between trying to pay attention to the lesson and determining what’s wrong with his sworn brother. Lan Wangji feels nothing but irritation for him – he was the one who was supposed to be minding Wei Ying. Lan Wangji turned Wei Ying over to Jiang Wanyin to look after, as was proper – Lan Wangji is not a relative, not even a friend. Clearly that was a mistake.

He realises after a while that his fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles are starting to ache. He forces himself to relax his fingers, watches his white skin slowly blush back to a warmer tone. Wei Ying’s spine is curved at an ugly angle, too round, like a cat’s humped back.

Shufu, ever vigilant for anything that breaks the Lan aesthetic, snaps a question at him.

The slow rise of Wei Ying’s head is agonizing. It speaks to dullness, or perhaps to exhaustion – things Lan Wangji has never associated with Wei Ying who is colour and vibrancy and life, who blazes bright as the sun and raises heat with his smile. And that is irritating and it is unharmonious but like a creeping vine Wei Ying has begun to work his way into Lan Wangji’s life, bringing cuts and bruises and flowers and fruit. It is unexpectedly painful, to see him diminished.

Lan Wangji watches as he blinks, like a man waking from a dream. He stands to reply, his posture slouched, slumped.

As he speaks, Lan Wangji realises that something is truly wrong. This is more than exhaustion, more than the effects of an early lesson on a late sleeper. Wei Ying, for all his teasing and his stroppy mouth, is clever. Perhaps the cleverest among them. But his response now is slurred and rambling, without coherence, without critical thought.

For a second time, Lan Wangji half-straightens, intending to take him to the healer. But Shufu dismisses him and he sits down so quickly, his pulse fluttering in the hollow of his neck, his mouth slipped open to take in a grateful breath, and Lan Wangji stops to give him time to recover.

Watching Wei Ying now, he sees sweat beginning to bead along his hairline, his fingers trembling against the polished wood of his desk. The shapely line of his jaw is slack, his mouth without expression, which is somehow distressing. Wei Ying is never without a smile, or a smirk, or on rare occasions a pouting frown. Once again, he slowly slumps forward, inexorable as the sun drifting to meet the horizon, until most of his weight is propped against the desk. Some of his hair tumbles forward in a heavy spill – it is thick, matte today, not smooth and silken as usual – and Lan Wangji catches a glimpse of the bare nape of his neck.

For some reason he feels a flush of heat at the sight of it, a pang of tenderness trilling in his chest. There is something intimate to the back of his neck, a smooth line of pale skin never usually shown. He feels a sudden urge to sit Wei Ying up, cover this intimacy from the rest of the room.

Which is foolish. Utterly so. Wei Ying has made it entirely clear that he has no shame when it comes to his body, nor yet to flirting with anyone who so much as smiles at him. Including Lan Wangji, which is outrageous, obviously.

But right now his actions seem to be without conscious choice. This is not shamelessness. This is something much worse, something that makes Lan Wangji’s ribs creak against his heart. He waits for the lecture to end with growing tension, each breath seeming to wind his body tighter, his impatience flaying him like a whip.

Finally – finally – Shufu dismisses the class. Disciples stand and stretch, chatting to each other and making their way out of the room. Lan Wangji rises and crosses to Wei Ying in a swift movement; on his other side, Jiang Wanyin is already there, looking concerned.

“Wei Ying?”

“Wei Wuxian?”

Lan Wangji is about to suggest that they bring him to the infirmary when a flash of white in the corner of his eye catches his attention. Shufu is here, striding over to stop in front of the desk looking down at Wei Ying with a curled lip. “Stand when addressed by a senior,” he says, his voice stiff as a switch with insult.

Lan Wangji steps forward. “Shufu – please – he isn’t himself. Something happened –”

He sees Wei Wuxian raise his head. His eyes are glassy, his shoulders rising and falling visibly with too-deep breaths. He pushes himself up, the movement uncoordinated, his limbs heavy. He looks slowly from Lan Wangji to Shufu, making no sign of seeing either of them. “There are corpses in the water,” he says, apropos of nothing. His voice is emotionless, empty.

What little colour there is drains from his face, his skin blanching. Then his eyes roll up in his head and he falls. Lan Wangji snaps forward, catching him around the chest and kneeling with him held tight, his head pillowed against his shoulder. Wei Ying is trembling, his breathing rough. His skin is covered with a sheen of sweat, his mouth hanging partially open. Lan Wangji presses the back of his hand to Wei Ying’s forehead – searing.

“He is very feverish,” he says, picking him up easily in his arms. Even at this age Wei Ying is a better cultivator and a brighter student than the senior Lan disciples, excluding himself and his brother. But physically he is lean, lanky, his limbs long and his body wiry. His strength lies in talent rather than muscle. His weight is not a strain. The feel of his limp form, his limbs dragging downwards and his head lolling against Lan Wangji’s shoulder, makes something very angry curl within him, a caged beast pacing behind iron bars.

This time, he does not hand him off to Jiang Wanyin.

“How can he have a fever – his golden core should prevent that. Unless he is aberrant enough to have neglected it,” says Shufu. Jiang Wanyin bristles.

“He is not,” says Lan Wangji. “He was pulled into Biling Lake by the aqua demon. Its power may have polluted his core.”

He thinks of Wei Wuxian bent bow-backed on the grass, bringing up lake water, then food, then bile. Thinks of the way he lay shivering against Lan Wangji even in the hot summer sun, unable to support his own weight. Curled so helpless, so unprotestingly in Lan Wangji’s lap. He should have known then that something was wrong – should have insisted that Jiang Wanyin take him to the healer. Instead he held back for entirely selfish reasons, wanting not to seem invested, to seem concerned about the loud-mouthed boy in his arms, the boy whose needlings and teasings he has refused over and over to acknowledge.

Prideful, foolish. Unforgivable.

They reach the infirmary, a free-standing building close to the training hall. Most of the long space is taken up with the airy sick ward, although there is also a small room for the healer to sleep in if necessary, as well as an apothecary and a well-organized medical library.

Only one of the five beds is currently in use, by a disciple who returned from a night hunt with a broken ankle. He watches, wide-eyed, as Lan Wangji carries Wei Wuxian to the furthest, most private bed. Lan Yufei, the clan’s head healer, appears from the apothecary. He’s an older man, crabbed by arthritis, his hair greying but his eyes sharp. He takes up his station on the far side of the bed as Lan Wangji lays Wei Wuxian down, his body folding to stay where it’s put. The stillness is alarming – Wei Ying is never still, he is a flame, a firework, in constant motion. Behind him, Jiang Wanyin makes a small noise like he’s been punched in the gut.

Lan Wangji explains in more detail than he had to Shufu the events of yesterday afternoon, while Lan Yufei takes Wei Wuxian’s wrist and conducts a qi and core investigation. Neither the explanation nor the examination takes very long. Lan Yufei lays Wei Ying’s wrist down on the pristine mattress and looks up. “His core has been tainted by resentful energy from the aqua demon. It is potent, and harsh. It is preventing him from accessing his qi to quell the fever. If left unchecked, it will continue to overtake his golden core, and then his entire qi system.”

And then he will die. The words go unspoken; they all know what complete qi contamination means.

“Can you stop it?” asks Jiang Wanyin, his voice harsh. His face is very white, standing beside Lan Wangji, his eyes wide as he looks down at Wei Ying’s limp form.

“Yes. It is possible to strip out the resentful energy. But it is not a quick process, nor a peaceful one.”

“Is there another option?” asks Jiang Wanyin.

Lan Yufei looks up at him, quietly certain. “No.”

Lan Qiren, standing at the foot of the bed, looks to Jiang Wanyin. “It is your decision, Jiang Wanyin. You are your father’s heir; he is your head disciple.”

Lan Wangji wants to protest at this. Wei Ying is the senior here, and Jiang Wanyin has already proven to be a poor caretaker. The decision should fall to Lan Yufei; no one else is qualified. That much is clear. He opens his mouth to say so, but Jiang Wanyin is already speaking, voice terse.

“It’s not a decision at all, though, is it? If you don’t strip it out, he’ll die. Right?”

Lan Yufei nods. Jiang Wanyin’s jaw works, his face dark. “Then do it,” he grits out.

Lan Yufei stretches his wizened hands, the knuckles knobbly and the veins plump and prominent. He no longer has the dexterity to perform surgery or acupuncture, skills now taken care of by his apprentices. But when it comes to qi manipulation and apothecary cures, he is unparalleled. Moving with care, he unfastens Wei Ying’s black silk belt, drawing open the layers of his robes and then untying his inner shirt to lay bare his chest.

Lan Wangji feels like a voyeur, like a delinquent, standing here staring at Wei Ying’s naked skin. This is an invasion of privacy, a dereliction of his own inner commitment to uphold the ideals of honesty and respect. He should leave, should remove himself – he is trespassing on Wei Ying’s vulnerability. But his feet remain firmly rooted to the floor and he can’t help but trace the smooth, firm lines of Wei Ying’s chest. The delicate taper of his collar bones, the flat sheen of his pecs graced with dark nipples, the sight of which makes Lan Wangji’s throat close up. He can barely breathe as he takes in the flat stomach and the slight ripple of ribs beneath the surface of his smooth skin, present without being prominent. Lower, a thin dusting of dark hair trails down coyly beneath the waist of his trousers; the waistband lies just beneath the topmost jut of his hips, and Wei Ying is unconscious and without any choice in this whatsoever and he knows that but somehow that hint of hipbone and the shallow furrows that trace alongside them looks wanton.

These thoughts are dirty, they are wrong, he is shaming both himself and Wei Ying with them. Lan Wangji knows he should go, now, but Lan Yufei lays a hand atop Wei Ying’s belly and creates the qi connection to his core.

And Wei Ying starts screaming. His back arches, his waxy face contorted with agony.

Beside him, Jiang Wanyin snaps forward, reaching for Wei Ying. “What the fuck – what are you doing to him?”

Without thought, without consideration, Lan Wangji pushes past him and establishes his own qi channel. He feels immediately the molten heat of Wei Ying’s core, its brightness diminished by tendrils of acrid shadow burrowed like briars throughout the swirling heart of his power. Lan Yufei is using his qi as a hook, ripping the dark tendrils loose thread by thread, leaving them to shrivel to nothingness without the power of Wei Ying’s qi to sustain them. Each one is viciously barbed, tearing against Wei Ying’s unguarded inner core as it’s stripped out. It is like pulling out dozens – hundreds – of arrows from skin and muscle and bone.

Lan Wangji can’t do anything to help with the removal of the resentful energy; it’s precision work, and he doesn’t have the training required. What he can do is use his qi to numb the majority of the channels conducting sensation from Wei Ying’s core. It’s a little like blocking meridians, but on a larger scale and with a lighter touch.

Wei Ying groans as he expands the reach of his qi, but the wire-tight tension in his back relaxes, his body sliding back down to rest against the bed. He’s panting against the pain, but quieter, no longer screaming.

Jiang Wanyin steps back, a rough noise catching in his throat. Lan Wangji ignores him. He is not important. He focuses on easing Wei Ying’s pain, making the process of stripping out the tainted energy bearable.

***

At some point, Shufu disappears. At some point Jiang Wanyin sits down on the bed behind them, muttering what might be threats or maybe pleas, Lan Wangji neither knows nor cares.

Until recently he had thought Jiang Wanyin the more reliable of the two Yunmeng Jiang disciples. But it has been Wei Ying who has answered Shufu’s questions with precision and insight, Wei Ying whose sword work is not just competent but boldly brilliant. Wei Ying who noticed the lake spirit clinging to Lan Wangji’s boat, Wei Ying who was dragged down into the water in the process of aiding a Lan disciple.

He wonders now how he could have been so mistaken.

The shadows are lying long on the floor when Xiongzhang arrives in the infirmary, a calm presence by his side. He says nothing; asks no questions and makes no comment on Lan Wangji stepping in to act as sick-nurse to a boy he has done nothing but scorn since he arrived in the Cloud Recesses.

The swirling brightness of Wei Wuxian’s core has grown cleaner, more than a hundred threads of cursed energy weeded out. But there is still darkness lingering, a creeping hunger remaining untouched.

Lan Yufei sighs, and cuts his connection. Lan Wangji looks up, startled. “Lan-daifu – he is not –”

“There is a limit to how much can be done in one day. By me, and for him.”

Lan Yufei looks down at Wei Ying, and Lan Wangji follows his gaze. For the past two shichen he has been focused on his own hands, on the slow rise and fall of Wei Ying’s stomach. But he sees now that his face is soaked with sweat, his hair damp and his head thrown back in fretful pain. His lips are bitten, swollen and bloodied.

Lan Wangji’s stomach clenches. “I have not done enough,” he says.

Xiongzhang speaks in a low voice. “Wangji. You’ve done more than anyone could have asked. You aren’t trained for this, and –”

“You will resume tomorrow?” asks Lan Wangji, of the healer.

Lan Yufei nods.

“Good.” He straightens and sways, finding his own core much drained, feeling suddenly lightheaded as he releases his intense focus. Xiongzhang takes his elbow for a moment, steadying him. Lan Wangji draws in a breath, then another, forcing himself to equalize his thready qi output. There’s a steady throbbing in his temples, a distant pain.

He looks down at Wei Ying. One of Lan Yufei’s assistants has come in with a basin of cool water and is washing his forehead and temples, cleaning away the sweat. He watches a bead of water trickle down Wei Ying’s cheek, skirting the line of his jaw to slip down against the sharp curve of his throat.

Lan Wangji wants, very much, to reach out and brush it away. Wants to feel Wei Ying’s warm skin beneath his thumb, perhaps a shiver as he soothes him. Wants to experience the heat of him, the brightness he brings when he steps into a room, like the sun rising over the mountains. But that is selfish, and also shameful.

Instead he allows his brother to walk him back to the Jingshi. “You should rest, Wangji,” says Xiongzhang, ushering him to his bed.

I have failed in my duties, he wants to say. I left him unwell, uncared for.

But he has no duty of care to Wei Ying, no responsibility beyond that of a reasonable host. Certainly no requirement to act as guardian or nursemaid or healer.

And yet, he feels it all the same. With as much weight, as much certainty as if he had broken a clan edict. I have failed.

“Rest, Wangji,” repeats Xiongzhang, his hands soft on his shoulders. “He will be well. You need not fear for him.”

“I…” says Lan Wangji, looking up. His brother’s face is tender, softly concerned. His mouth tightens; he does not want sympathy. Sympathy implies he cares; he has no reason to care. “I do not fear for him,” he says, stiffly. “He is not my responsibility.”

Xiongzhang inclines his head, his stare penetrating, knowing. “It is not wrong to care for a friend,” he says. “It is not wrong to have friends, Wangji. Wei-gongzi is very likeable.”

“He is not,” says Lan Wangji. His voice is tight, brittle. “He is loud, and ill-mannered, and shameless. He has no respect for our rules. He never stops talking.”

But he has, now. Has stopped talking, stopped smiling, stopped moving. He is lying, still and silent, alone in the darkening infirmary. At his side, Lan Wangji’s fisted hand trembles.

Xiongzhang squeezes his shoulder, just gently. “Wangji. It’s alright.”

It is not alright. Xiongzhang is correct – he does not need to fear for Wei Ying. It is neither necessary, nor appropriate. And yet, in the face of propriety and reasonableness, he does. His mind is haunted by the image of Wei Ying stretched out on the mattress, head twisted in pain, blood smeared at his lips and sweat at his throat.

Nothing is alright.

PART THREE

Someone is screaming.

Blades are digging, rusty, red, into his stomach. He can feel it, each dirty scrape as they peel into him. This is how Shijie peels lychee for them at home, her sharp little knife slicing out the pits. Over and over and over. Pits tumbling to the bottom of the boat. Blood in the water. Lumps of organs, of fat, carved out to glisten in the scorching summer sun.

The screaming is loud, so loud.

Without warning, the sun sets. The sky darkens, soft, cool. A silvery moon shines down, its touch tender. It draws him in like the tide, tugging him towards its light. He can feel it filling him, painted through him with a careful brush. Silence falls; peaceful. The knives are gone, replaced by fatter, blunter fingers kneading at him. Tender, uncomfortable, but no longer slicing him apart. The moon is sweeter than the sun; he’s always known that. Lotus flowers look best by moonlight.

He drifts through the darkness, pushed and pulled by the silvery light. He lets it nudge him, lets it wash through him and cool him. It feels nice. Familiar. Something he’s seen and reached for, but never touched. The moon is distant, always. He wonders what made it descend from its perch.

The moon is impermanent, though. Eventually, it slips away. Without its chill touch, heat rises. The heat of a spark, then a flame, then the sizzling summer sun. Burning in beneath his skin, boiling his blood where it lies thick and tarry in his veins. Coating his skull in hot liquid wax, slick and searing.

He twists, tries to roll out of the glare, the heat. He can’t, his body weighed down, drawn down. Strangled, snared, wet ropes twist over his wrists, ankles. Around his waist, tugging at him, gliding tight and slick over his stomach.

Hot water brushes against his cheeks, his lips. He’s submerged, sinking, his hair a long black trail above. The light is fading, this heat the heat of the earth’s core, sweaty and dank. The water is thick, foul. It’s in his nose, in his mouth, muddy on his tongue.

In the shadows below, rows and rows of dead heads swivel to stare at him, their eyes lychee white.

His mouth won’t move. It’s tied, jaw wired shut, stitched together by thick strands of hair. Inside his own skull, his screams echo.

PART FOUR

The sun rises at the start of mao shi in the summer, golden light knifing over the sharp Gusu mountains.

Lan Wangji is already dressed and crossing the Cloud Recesses’ main compound as it sweeps away the shadows, tidying them off behind buildings and carefully trimmed trees. He does not bother with breakfast, nor with greeting his brother. His brother is wise; he will know where Lan Wangji has gone.

It is quiet in the infirmary when he steps in, but not silent. There’s a soft, shuffling noise, like river water sloshing over rocks. It’s Wei Ying, he realises, muttering to himself.

The Jiang clan boy is still in the same bed, in the same robes, now done up over his lean chest. But they are no longer neat. They’re wrinkled, tugged loose by his tossing and turning. He’s shaking with fever, limbs shifting and jerking without intention, silk and naked skin whispering over the rush mat mattress. His skin is shiny with sweat, fully wet with it, his thick hair soaked to his skull like a river wraith. His eyes flicker open and shut, glassy, sightless.

As Lan Wangji comes closer, he can make out the words, muttered by chapped, scabbed lips. “Melting… wax… no… stop sewing… get out… eyes, white… mud… please… not my mouth… let go…”

In the bed beside Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng is sprawled, asleep. His face is drained, pale, his hair still tied in its formal coif but with strands slipping free. He doesn’t notice Lan Wangji’s approach, doesn’t notice his brother’s distress. Lan Wangji turns his back on him, looking to Wei Ying.

There’s a deep porcelain bowl on a small table beside the bed filled with water, a cloth lying at the bottom. He picks it up and wrings out the water, then begins to wash the sweat from Wei Ying’s skin. Even through the soaked hemp fabric, he can feel the unnatural heat pouring off him. More feverish than he was yesterday; dangerously so.

Cultivators do not catch fevers, except in rare circumstances. But as a junior disciple Lan Wangji occasionally travelled to Caiyi or the more outlying towns of Gusu with Lan Yufei to bring herbs and medicines. He has seen men and women and children laid down with fever. He has seen them die of it.

Wei Ying is not dying. Not yet. They go quiet, before they die. They seem to shrink in their skins, the bones of their faces prominent, eyes sunken. Dry, bloodless lips parted to rasp in air, a last struggle to survive. He closes his eyes, and turns his thoughts elsewhere.

The first passes of the cloth produce no change, but when Lan Wangji wets it again and begins to press the cool fabric to Wei Ying’s heat-flushed jaw and throat, he stills a little. His head turns to the side, mouth falling open so he can pull in slower breaths. The flickering of his eyes calms, the mutterings becoming softer, slurred sounds.

Lan Wangji wets the cloth again and brings it back to Wei Ying’s forehead, his temple. Wei Ying’s lashes lower; he leans into it like a cat tilting into a touch, sighing. Lan Wangji’s fingers tighten so much he thinks he may rip through the flimsy fabric, shred it in his palm. A tear, or perhaps just a bead of water, builds at the corner of Wei Ying’s eye. He reaches out and catches it on his thumb, strokes it away.

Wei Ying makes a sound that may be Let Me or may be Lie Down or may, very remotely, be Lan Zhan.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, draws the bowl of water into his lap, and while the world outside slowly grows brighter proceeds to try to wash the fever from Wei Ying’s burning skin.

***

It’s nearly a shichen before Lan Yufei appears, his greying hair pulled up neatly by a simple jade pin and his robes clean. They’re a darker blue than is usual in the Cloud Recesses, a colour the less pristine elements of his job are less likely to stain. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of Lan Zhan perched on the bedside, but says nothing as he lays aside the bowl of water.

“His fever is higher,” says Lan Zhan, as Lan Yufei comes to stand on the far side of the bed. The old healer inclines his head.

“His body was weakened by the high level of spiritual exertion, and by inhaled water from the lake. The sickness is strong; without the full strength of his golden core it will continue to intensify.”

“Can he be cured today?”

Lan Yufei establishes his spiritual connection, the blue flicker of his qi like bottled lightning between his hands. “The resentment has multiplied overnight. It has not grown back to its full strength, but there is still a substantial amount to be removed. I would not have expected it to spread so quickly. And his resiliency is much reduced.” He frowns.

“What does that mean?” snaps a sharp voice. Lan Wangji glances behind him; Jiang Wanyin scrambles down off the bed, rubbing a hand over his eyes and crossing over to stare down at Wei Ying. “Does that mean you can’t cure him?”

“It means we must be careful, how far we push. But if we do not push far enough, the pollution will overtake our progress.”

Jiang Wanyin’s face contorts; pinched, pale. “Wei Wuxian isn’t some puny half-rate cultivator. He’s Yunmeng Jiang’s first disciple! He can take it – just get that stuff out of him.”

Lan Wangji looks down at the boy on the bed. The delirium is starting to creep back, his earlier calmness burning away like mist beneath hot morning sun. His mouth starts moving, just little jumps, as if he were nibbling on something. Nibbling on nonsense words, fever dreams. His eyes are darting beneath his eyelids, sweat building on his brow.

If they spend days stripping out the aqua demon’s corruption, the fever may overtake him. Weak from days of agony and exertion, he may be unable to fight it. Here in the Cloud Recesses, one of the most impressive young cultivators of their age may die of a common fever.

No.

Wei Ying – who is vibrancy and laughter and life – may die of a common fever.

“Jiang Wanyin is correct,” he says, grudgingly. “We should attempt to remove it all today. So that he may recover from the fever.”

Lan Yufei sighs. “Either way could be the right one. Or the wrong one. You know him better, Hanguang-jun, Jiang-gongzi. We will try your way.”

Lan Wangji nods, and with fingers that feel clumsy pulls apart Wei Ying’s robes to reveal his lean chest. He closes his eyes and forms his connection, dampening Wei Ying’s ties to his core before Lan Yufei begins working this time. Still, he feels Wei Ying stiffen as Lan Yufei begins to first isolate, then rip out the dark swirling threads of resentful energy. A small sound of pain escapes his lips.

It takes four shichen. Lan Yufei has to call in his lead apprentice to support him, his hands starting to shake from the unrelenting use of focused energy. As the sun nears midday Jiang Wanyin steps in to feed qi directly into Wei Ying’s traumatized core, too weak and battered to protect itself from beginning to tear apart under what is effectively an assault.

By the end Lan Wangji is losing control, the numbing he’s able to provide weakening further and further as his qi becomes too diffuse and shivery to effectively block out the pain. Wei Ying, who has suffered in silence for so long, starts making wordless noises of hurt. He’s crying, too delirious to control himself, and Jiang Wanyin is crying too, and cursing – maybe at himself, maybe at Wei Ying, maybe at the world. Lan Wangji draws on the last of his strength, the dregs of his spiritual energy, to try to make the pain go away.

He thought… for some reason, he thought when it was over, when Wei Ying’s core was fully cleared of the spiritual pollution and growing bright again, everything would go back to normal. Wei Ying would open his eyes, and wipe the sweat from his brow, and smile up at them. Smile up at him, Lan Wangji, and say something foolish like, Look at you, all worried for me. Lan-er-gege, such a softie.

But when the work is finally done and they break their connections Wei Ying is still crying, head tossed high against some pain still inside him – real or imagined. He’s hurting, and Lan Wangji doesn’t know how to make it better. The world is all dark and throbbing at the edges, strangely muffled. He tries to reach out, tries to do… something. He is not good at comfort. He has never been good at comfort. But for the first time, he wants to be.

His hand stretches towards Wei Ying’s arm, and somehow misses, his fingers passing through empty space. He blinks, confused, and hears someone say something. The words don’t make sense. Around him, the world tips, and the floor rushes up to meet him.

Darkness.

PART FIVE

Sunset.

Wei Wuxian wakes to long shadows and dimming light, a lazy red sun drifting beneath the horizon. It takes with it brightness, and warmth. That’s alright. His strange, twisted memories are full of scorching heat, of sunstroke and sweat. He looks out the window as twilight gathers, the colours of the evening shifting from red to purple to blue, cool shades the colour of snow shadows. The window opens to a long, deep valley; he watches night draw over it like a shroud, darkness erasing it from sight. It’s easy to watch, his body heavy, his mind weary. He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to know. Not yet, not for a while. There’s a divide in his mind, soft as silk, keeping the memories and the thoughts away. As soon as he touches it, they’ll push through and crush him. He can feel them there, just the bulky shape of them, big and heavy and unstable.

For now, he watches the darkness fall. Until, slow as a lotus flower closing for the night, the moon begins to rise. It’s nearly full, bright and silvery. Cool streaks of moonlight pour down through the window, the light so much softer than the sun’s.

Wei Wuxian turns, his body strangely heavy, to follow the long stretch of silver as it spreads over the floor. His eyes flicker through a long dark room. Over shadows, over pots that glint and wood that glimmers. Over the white-robed figure stretched out on the bed beside his, still in the dark room. A smooth, beautiful face, lovely silken hair, white ribbon glowing softly around his forehead.

“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, entranced.

Dark lashes flutter, then slip open. For a moment Lan Zhan stares at him, unseeing. Then he blinks into wakefulness and sits up. “Wei Ying!” He swings off the bed, takes one rocky step, and catches himself on Wei Wuxian’s bed. He practically falls into it, only just holding himself upright on the sturdy wooden frame.

Wei Wuxian grins lopsidedly. “Aiya, Lan-er-gege is so glad to see me.” He doesn’t know why he is. Just at this moment, it doesn’t matter why. Lan Zhan has never been happy to see him before.

“Ridiculous,” breathes Lan Zhan, staring down at him. He swallows and straightens, slowly, carefully. “How… do you feel?” he asks.

“You know me, Lan Zhan. I’m always good.”

“I would prefer the truth,” says Lan Zhan, and for some reason his tone isn’t coldly insulting, it’s… coldly concerned?

Wei Wuxian looks past him, at the line of shadows that can only be beds, at the shelf with a row of herbal pots and medical tools, and realises where he is. Where he must have been for… a while, at least. The last thing he remembers is… the classroom? Lake water? A feeling like knives, washed away by moonlight? He lets out a soft breath. “Ah, Lan Zhan. Were you worried about me?”

“It is not my responsibility to worry about you,” says Lan Zhan.

“Does that mean you weren’t? Do not tell lies!” he reminds, promptly.

Lan Zhan closes his eyes. He looks tired. Wei Wuxian wonders how long he’s been here. He wonders how long either of them has been here. “Answer my question, and I will answer yours,” he says, eyes slanting open again. “How do you feel?”

Wei Wuxian lets his head fall back against his pillow. “Heavy,” he says. “My mouth tastes like glue – even worse than your Gusu Lan broth. I smell gross. My core’s all… throbby. Like when you talk too much and your throat goes all funny and weird. I guess that’s probably never happened to you,” he adds, raising a sardonic eyebrow at Lan Zhan.

“Mn,” says Lan Zhan.

“Mn,” echoes Wei Wuxian, back at him. “So?” he prompts, when Lan Zhan makes no answer.

“It… is not my place to be concerned about someone who is neither a member of my clan, nor a close associate,” says Lan Zhan, slowly.

“Close associate? The word is friend, Lan Zhan. And we are!”

Lan Zhan quells him with a look. “Nevertheless,” he continues. “I admit that Wei Ying has value, and it is wasteful to permit something of value to be lost.”

Wei Ying tilts his head to the side slowly. “So you’re saying… you did worry about me,” he says, grinning.

“That is not what I said.”

“I think it is. Tell me how it isn’t. Mm? How isn’t it, Lan Zhan?”

“I will inform Jiang Wanyin you are feeling better,” he says, icily, beginning to turn away.

Wei Wuxian makes to sit up, abruptly disappointed, and feels the inside of his abdomen flare like it’s been shredded. The pain catches him off guard and he flinches, falling back.

Beside him, Lan Zhan snaps out his hand and catches his arm. They stare at each other, wordless in the moonlight. Then Lan Zhan lets him go, and steps back. “I will find Jiang-gongzi,” he says, his voice quiet. “Stay here. Rest.” He turns, soft as a cloud, and drifts towards the door.

“I – Lan Zhan!”

Lan Zhan pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

“You stayed. With me. Right?”                                                                    

Lan Zhan inclines his head, his face just a little too tight to be expressionless. It’s the mask he wears when he’s trying not to show how deep Wei Ying’s gotten under his skin.

“So – thank you.”

Lan Zhan’s mask slips, just for a moment, his eyes wide. And Wei Ying knows, for the first time, that there’s a whole other person beneath the mask of ice. Someone soft as moonlight, and just as lovely.

“Mn,” says Lan Zhan. And then he’s gone. Wei Wuxian lies back and closes his eyes.

PART SIX

Outside, the sky is black above, the air cool but not cold. Lan Wangji stops in the shadow of the infirmary and leans back against its solid wall. The memory of a smile is etched across his vision, refusing to be blinked away. Lan-er-gege is so glad to see me. He presses a hand over his eyes, until he feels the giddiness of joy – bright and sunny and so hot in his heart – fade.

Then he straightens his robes, smooths his face, and goes to find Jiang Wanyin.

END