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In all of the outraged fervor left in Wei Ying’s wake, Lan Wangji almost misses the look on his brother’s face. Lan Xichen has a hand pressed against his stomach, and his expression is one of discomfort. 

“Xiongzhang,” Lan Wangji murmurs, forcing himself to be still so he doesn’t rush after Wei Ying at once. “What is wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” his brother says. “Perhaps I ate something I shouldn’t have.”

Even in the moment, Lan Wangji can tell it’s a flimsy excuse. For cultivators of their caliber, something as trivial as food poisoning hasn’t been a problem since they were children. Even outright illness doesn’t touch them. But the yelling grows louder, and Lan Wangji is forced to turn his attention back to the crowd.

“He’s a danger to the public!” Sect Leader Ouyang declares. “We ought to hunt him down!”

At Lan Wangji’s side, Lan Xichen pushes himself to his feet, raising his hand for quiet. “I don’t think the situation is quite so simple,” he begins. “Surely we should not condemn anyone until we have the full picture--” His voice wavers momentarily. Oddly enough, this quiets the crowd like nothing else. They, like Lan Wangji, are used to a Lan Xichen who is nearly unflappable, even in the face of war. Nie Mingjue’s expression shifts from thunderous to concerned. 

“Er-ge,” Jin Guangyao says, stepping forward. “Are you quite alright?”

Lan Xichen summons a reassuring smile, but Lan Wangji can tell something is off. His skin is too pale; his posture is not as relaxed. Instead, his back is ramrod straight, as if he’s holding himself up by sheer force of will.  Lan Wangji stands.

“I’m fine, A-Yao,” his brother says. His voice is too quiet, too gentle. He says, “No need for concern--” and then his knees buckle beneath him.

Lan Wangji is at his side in an instant, lowering him to the ground. His brother is not unconscious, but there is a sheen of sweat over his pallid face, and he blinks dazedly up at Lan Wangji, propping himself up with an elbow.

“Xiongzhang,” Lan Wangji gasps. Even in the war, Lan Xichen was never injured so seriously that it wouldn’t heal by the following day. He hasn’t been this afraid for his brother’s life since just after the Wen attack on Cloud Recesses, when Lan Wangji’s leg was broken and his brother had fled. 

“Oh dear,” Lan Xichen says through ragged breaths. His hand returns to his stomach, pressing down as if to quell blood flow, but his blue robes are pristine. 

Nie Mingjue pushes through the crowd around them and forces them back. “Give him space!” he booms, and then kneels beside them. “Xichen, what’s going on? Are you injured?” 

“Was it Wei Wuxian?” someone whispers, easily audible in the hushed crowd. “Has he done something to Zewu-jun?”

It wasn’t, Lan Wangji thinks. It couldn’t have been. He’d hardly looked at Lan Xichen, and that aside, he hadn’t actually played his flute. 

“No need for all these dramatics,” Lan Xichen says weakly. He is paler still. “But -- my core.” Lan Wangji goes cold. “Something is wrong.”

“Jin Guangyao,” Nie Mingjue growls over his shoulder. “Healers, now.” He takes Lan Xichen’s free wrist, feeling his pulse, and glowers at whatever he senses there. He closes his eyes and begins to transfer qi to him. 

In Lan Wangji’s arms, his brother trembles, sinking back. He meets Lan Wangji’s eyes, and seems to calm at the sight of him. “Wangji,” he says. “It will be fine.” Even as his body grows heavier in Lan Wangji’s arms, even as Lan Wangji can feel him spasm slightly in pain, he seems sure. “It will.” He doesn’t say, I will . 

.

Lan Xichen is unconscious by the time the healers reach them. It’s probably a mercy, because they immediately pull out their needles. 

“To slow the loss of energy,” one of them explains, but Lan Wangji still has to avert his eyes from the way it sinks into his brother’s skin. He’s killed men before, many of them, and war has nearly erased any sense of squeamishness he had to start with. And yet. It is different when it is his brother. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Jin Guangyao asks, sinking to his knees beside them. His eyes are very wide, his hands tucked away in his sleeves. Nie Mingjue, still offering Lan Xichen qi, pays him no mind for once. 

The head doctor finishes examining Lan Xichen meridians and opens his eyes. “Poison,” he declares. Distantly, Lan Wangji registers the collective gasp from the crowd around him. He has spent so much of his life wishing to be left alone, and yet never more than in this moment. “A rare herb that, when ingested, begins to eat away at a golden core. The stronger the core, the more deadly the consequences.”

Lan Wangji swallows thickly. The only person he knows whose core is definitively stronger than his own is his brother. 

Nie Mingjue looks similarly shellshocked. “What can be done?” he demands. 

“The effects can be delayed,” the doctor says, nodding at the needles and then at the thin transfer of qi between Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen. “But not indefinitely. He has a day at most before the effects are irreversible. Likely fatal.”

Lan Wangji cannot breathe. All around him, the crowd mutters, “Poison? Was the food poisoned?” Voices raise. “Are we all going to end up like that? Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know who could have done this,” Jin Guangyao says dumbly. “We employ food tasters for every banquet.”

“That is the trick,” one of the doctors offers. “On a person with no golden core, this herb would have no effect at all.”

“Forget about how!” Sect Leader Yao exclaims. “Just tell us now, are we all going to die?”

The healer blinks up at him. “The herb is so rare that it would be unimaginable to poison all of you,” he concludes. “I myself have only ever read about it. Someone might procure enough for one, maybe two people, but the lot of you are not in danger.”

The crowd visibly relaxes. Lan Wangji has never hated them more. “There must be something,” he manages. The words are difficult to force out of his chest, burning on the way out. “A cure. Anything.”

“The herb is very rare,” the head doctor stresses. “There is not much scholarship on it.” His expression shifts. “If anyone were to know about it -- well --”

“Spit it out,” Nie Mingjue demands. 

“I know that Wen Qing has done much scholarship on golden cores,” the doctor admits. “If anyone were to know about it, it would be her. But I cannot imagine that is an option, since…”

Lan Wangji’s ears ring. Wei Ying had mentioned her. Was he with her? Was she nearby?

Jin Guangyao mutters to himself, “Who could have--? Who--?” and then his eyes clear. “Su She,” he says, turning to the Jin disciples at once. “Check the hall, then the complex. But I suspect he’s gone by now.” He meets Lan Wangji’s eyes. It’s strange, seeing him without any niceties slipped on like a mask -- his gaze is sharp and intense. “He resented you two for forcing him out of the sect. I saw him hand that wine to Jin Zixun. You didn’t have any. But Er-ge--”

“And Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji chokes. Wei Ying is not quite as powerful as Lan Xichen, but it must be close. Between Lan Wangji and Wei Ying in a match without talismans or tricks, it had always been a toss-up, and modesty aside, Lan Wangji is strong. If Wei Ying is not feeling the effects of the poison yet, he surely will soon. And why had he drank in the first place? To save Lan Wangji from the trouble of breaking the rules.

“What are you saying?” Jiang Wanyin demands, pushing through the crowd. He looks angry, but he’d looked angry during the three months they spent searching for Wei Ying together too. On his finger, Zidian sparks. “Wei Wuxian will fall ill too?”

Nie Mingjue has always been a man of action; he reaches out and pulls Lan Xichen’s slack body from Lan Wangji’s arms into his own. Lan Xichen’s head lolls without the support of Lan Wangji’s shoulder, and Nie Mingjue cradles it with surprising gentleness. “Go find Wen Qing,” he commands. It’s hypocritical, when he was condemning her for her inaction less than an hour ago, but Lan Wangji has no spare energy to resent him for it. “Now.”

It’s a familiar tone to Lan Wangji, after serving under him in the war, and easier to follow than not. Loathe as he is to leave his brother in this state, the healers had estimated a day -- long enough, perhaps, to find Wei Ying and Wen Qing. Lan Wangji’s heart clenches wildly at the thought of seeing Wei Ying collapse like this too, especially when he already seems inexplicably fragile. The fear tastes like blood in his mouth. He doesn’t bother bowing -- just stands, and strides towards the entrance. 

Jiang Wanyin follows him out, a deep frown line carved in his brow. “I’m coming too,” he says, already drawing Sandu. “We’ll cover more ground that way. They could be anywhere between here and Qiongqi Way by now. You take east, I’ll take west.”

Lan Wangji gives him a short nod, unsheathes Bichen, and goes.

.

The rain begins pouring down halfway through his search, forcing him to fly lower to the ground when his visibility decreases. Between the cold lash of the rain against his skin and his heart pounding hot in his chest, he struggles not to think about his brother, curled up in pain. That would have been Lan Wangji too, if not for Wei Ying. Should have been. At least if it had been Lan Wangji, it would have been a tragedy rather than cause for celebration among the sects.

He scours the paths, finding nothing as he gets closer and closer to Qiongqi Way, his chest growing tighter and tighter. What if Wei Ying took shelter from the rain and collapsed? What if he did not bring Wen Qing with him, and is suffering alone? 

He catches a glimpse of yellow Jin robes through the rain, and lands without preamble. The man, who had been busy scrambling down a muddy hill, slides to an abrupt stop. 

“Where are Wei Ying and Wen Qing?” Lan Wangji demands.

“Thank the gods,” the man babbles. “You must have been sent by our leader. They’re crazy, that man was crazy--”

“Where,” Lan Wangji snaps. 

The man points wordlessly behind himself and bows deeply. Lan Wangji brushes past him, feet squelching in the mud. Through the pouring rain, Lan Wangji spots them only moments before he reaches them, the horses shying to a halt in the clearing in front of him. There must be forty, fifty people behind him, although with the way they’re crowded two or three to a horse it’s difficult to tell. 

“Wei Ying!” he cries. Wei Ying’s hair is plastered to his face beneath his hat, and his eyes widen when he sees Lan Wangji, grip tightening on his flute.

“I hope you haven’t come to stop us,” he says. Lan Wangji gets the sense he means for both their sakes. 

Lan Wangji just shakes his head. “No,” he says. “There was -- at the banquet -- my brother --” Of all the times for his words to fail him, he hates himself most for this one. “Poison. My brother has been poisoned.” He searches Wei Ying’s face. In the dull light of the storm, his features are too sharp, but he shows no sign of imminent collapse. “The wine that Jin Zixun tried to give us, that you drank as well, was poisoned. My brother has collapsed and you are in danger. I have come to beg Wen-guniang’s help.”

“I don’t know if Wen Qing will want to help him,” Wei Ying says. “This is her family, Lan Zhan, do you see what they’ve done to them?” He’s trembling, but Lan Wangji has no idea whether it’s from anger or from the onset of the poison. 

Wen Qing, bundled into a wet wool blanket, sits up behind one of the men on horseback. She looks little like the proud woman he remembers. Her eyes are lost, her cheeks hollow. “I am a doctor,” she says hoarsely. “It is my duty to help people. But you cannot ask me to choose between my family and my duty.”

When he looks back to Wei Ying, his expression is shuttered, mouth flat in misery. “Those fucking guards,” he spits. Lightning cracks behind him, momentarily silhouetting him in white light. “Wen Ning was innocent.”

Lan Wangji almost doesn’t hear him through the thunder. “You found Wen Qionglin?” he asks.

Wei Ying gestures back at one of the horses behind him. Wen Qionglin’s face is almost unrecognizable between the bruises and the pallor, either unconscious or dead. Lan Wangji’s stomach tightens. 

“He’s half dead,” Wei Ying spits. “Thanks to the Jin. We -- we’ll go somewhere far away.”

“Wei Ying,” he says, because it must be said. “You are likely poisoned too. I do not know how fast the poison will set in, but--” He swallows. “It is of paramount importance that I bring you and Wen Qing back to Koi Tower for treatment.” His voice cracks, failing him again. 

“I don’t feel anything,” Wei Ying says, his proud jaw lifted. 

There’s nothing for it. Lan Wangji goes to his knees in the mud. “Please, Wen-guniang. I can grant you and your family asylum in Gusu.” He cannot bring himself to lift his gaze. “Whether you save my brother or not. If you try, I can make sure you are safe.” 

Perhaps he should be ashamed for how easily he is willing to bargain when it is his brother’s life on the line. But Jin Zixun’s dismissal of Wen lives had been wrong too, and now that he sees them, huddled in the rain, barely upright on their horses, he hopes he would have come to this conclusion anyway. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, shocked out of his stubbornness. He slips from his horse and sloshes through the dirty water to kneel in front of Lan Wangji, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Do you mean that?”

“My brother is dying,” Lan Wangji rasps. “Wei Ying. I cannot lose you too.”

When he meets his eyes, Wei Ying’s dripping face is still pale, but no paler than before. He cannot tell if the poison has already begun to set in. But surely it is only a matter of time. 

“We will come with you,” Wen Qing agrees before Wei Ying can speak, sliding off her mount and stumbling. “Even if this is a trick -- Wei Wuxian, we have no other choice.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Lan Zhan, you promise these people will be safe and free?”

Lan Wangji nods. If his brother survives, Lan Wangji will surely be able to persuade him to the side of the woman who saved his life. If not… Lan Wangji will be the leader of the Gusu Lan. Time seems to stand still as Wei Ying searches his face. You called me your zhiji this morning, Lan Wangji wants to tell him. Is that not enough? But whatever Wei Ying finds there makes him nod sharply. 

“If Wen Qing wants to, we will,” he says decisively. 

“Before we go,” Wen Qing says, twisting her hands together. “Hanguang-jun, would you lend my brother some qi? I’m afraid that otherwise he won’t survive the journey.”

“Of course,” Lan Wangji says, dizzy with relief. He lets her lead him over to Wen Qionglin, holding back a shiver at the feeling of his cold skin when he touches his wrist. “He’s--?”

“His spiritual cognition is gone,” Wen Qing says, nervously smoothing the cloak around him. “But his body -- I thought perhaps I could still --”

Lan Wangji has no time to question it. He closes his eyes and releases a concentrated burst of qi into Wen Qionglin’s stiffening meridians. Under his wrist, Wen Qionglin’s pulse strengthens. Wen Qing takes a ragged breath of relief. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

Privately, Lan Wangji is unsure that this will do much good; if his spiritual cognition is gone, surely the state of his body hardly matters. But this is not his question to answer. 

“We do not have much time,” he says. “Perhaps I should fly you and Wei Ying back first.” The thought of Wei Ying collapsing midair makes his stomach twist in fear, but it is a far better option than leaving him here. “I do not know when he will begin to be affected.”

“Tell me about this poison,” Wen Qing says, her eyes more focused than before. “The doctors asked for me specifically?”

“It is a core destroying herb,” Lan Wangji says, and sees the recognition on her face. Behind him, Wei Ying sucks in a breath. “They said that your expertise in golden cores might help.”

She nods. “I may be able to save him,” she says. It’s not a promise, but he can see the conviction in her face. 

Jiang Wanyin lands with a splash behind them. “Wei Wuxian!” he bellows, surveying the Wens on their horses. “What have you done?” He strides over and grabs Wei Ying by the arm, shaking him slightly. “How do you feel?”

Wei Ying tries to pull away and fails. Lan Wangji’s stomach tightens. He must already be growing weaker. “Jiang Cheng, let go,” he says. “Seriously, I feel fine. We’ve already agreed to bring Wen Qing back in return for the Wens’ safety, you don’t have to force me.”

Jiang Wanyin looks up to see Wen Qing watching him warily, and falters. But he’s still scowling with worry. “You don’t get to just brush this off,” he tells Wei Ying. “Let me feel your spiritual energy.”

“I’m fine,” Wei Ying insists, twisting away.

“Wei Wuxian,” he growls. “Do you know what this poison does? It destroys your core. I’ve been through it , let me save you the trouble. Please.”

Wei Ying, already breathing hard from his escape attempts, stops struggling. There’s a blank expression on his face that Lan Wangji has no idea how to read. He swallows once. “Jiang Cheng,” he says. “Just -- let go. If I’m poisoned, it hasn’t -- I don’t feel anything yet.”

Reluctantly, Jiang Wanyin does. Lan Wangji half expects Wei Ying to crumple just like his brother had, but instead he just draws himself upright. When he glances at Wen Qing, there’s a strange look on her face, a twist to her mouth. 

“Have you let your cultivation go that much?” Jiang Wanyin asks. “I thought you must be nearly as powerful as Zewu-jun by now.”

“It is a good sign he feels nothing yet,” Wen Qing interrupts. “We should go.”

“We must move quickly,” Lan Wangji agrees. “Jiang Wanyin, you take Wen-guniang and Wen Qionglin. I will take Wei Ying.” He could fly two people in a pinch, but he is already taxed from the flight earlier and lending energy to Wen Qionglin. If he needs to be ready to catch Wei Ying, then he would rather have his hands free. 

Jiang Wanyin nods sharply, although he clearly doesn’t like the idea of leaving Wei Ying alone. He unties a money pouch from his belt and tosses it at the older man sharing a horse with Wen Ning’s body. “Find an inn around here,” he says gruffly. “There’s a town twenty minutes down the hill. Send us a message in the morning and we’ll come get you. Don’t tell anyone your surname.”

The man nods. Jiang Wanyin turns to Wei Ying, and yanks him into a hug so tight it looks painful. “Promise me you’ll meet us at Koi Tower,” he demands.

“Lan Zhan is flying me,” Wei Ying says, already pulling away. “You know he’ll get me there.”

Jiang Wanyin grunts. “You could fly yourself if you brought your stupid sword,” he says. “Did you even bring it from Yunmeng? And what was the plan here, huh?”

“Jiang Cheng, go,” Wei Ying says. “There’s no time.”

Jiang Cheng harrumphs and pushes him back. Lan Wangji doesn’t miss the way Wei Ying stumbles slightly. He can feel his heart in his throat. He has known Wei Ying to hide his own injuries before, particularly during the war.

Wen Qing is speaking to her family, voice tight. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you before,” she says. “But -- I think this is our best chance.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” an older woman says, shaking her head. Lan Wangji notices belatedly that there is a small child clutching the front of her robes. He feels sick; was that child truly living here?

With some difficulty, Wei Ying and Jiang Wanyin maneuver Wen Qionglin into Jiang Wanyin’s arms. He hardly blinks at the weight, although balancing may be the tricky part. “Wen-guniang,” he says, and she turns to mount his sword behind him, although not without bowing to Wei Ying and Lan Wangji both. 

“Thank you,” she says, and with one last glare from Jiang Wanyin back at Wei Ying, they speed off into the rain. 

Wei Ying claps his hands together as Lan Wangji draws Bichen. “Do you folks know the way out?” he asks. At scattered nods, he scrounges up a smile. “I will see you again,” he says, more of a promise than he’d given Jiang Wanyin, and climbs up onto Bichen. 

.

The rain whips against them as they rise into the air. Between that and the darkness of night, Lan Wangji can barely make out where he’s going. He would bring them up above the clouds, except then if Wei Ying lost consciousness he’d have much further to fall, and also because the only way he can stay on course is by following the lights of Koi Tower.

Wei Ying is balanced on the sword in front of him, but after twenty minutes of flying, Lan Wangji can see him struggling to stay upright. When he puts an arm around his sternum, holding him steady, it’s immediately obvious that Wei Ying is on the verge of hyperventilating. 

“Wei Ying,” he says, tamping down his fear. “Are you in pain?”

He feels rather than sees Wei Ying shake his head. “I’m fine.”

The poison must be kicking in. Lan Wangji feels nauseous with his own helplessness. “I will land,” he says. “I can give you qi, to help counteract it.”

“No need,” Wei Ying insists, but Lan Wangji is already steering them down. He brings them under a large tree for shelter, since the lightning seems to have ceased. Wei Ying presses back into his arms as he does so, but stumbles off the sword as soon as they reach the ground. Lan Wangji can see his chest heaving even in the faint moonlight. 

“Let me help,” he says, but Wei Ying shies away when he reaches for his wrist. 

“Save your energy,” he says, but Lan Wangji can see him shaking. “Fuck, I’m just -- I’m so useless .” It’s hard to tell, with the raindrops still rolling down his face, but Lan Wangji thinks he might be crying. “We can go, it doesn’t matter.”

“Your wellbeing matters,” Lan Wangji says. It could hardly matter more.

Wei Ying’s laugh is bitter and wet. “Okay,” he says, dismissive.

“What is wrong?” Lan Wangji asks. “Is it -- can you feel--?” If he has to make the rest of this journey holding Wei Ying’s unconscious body, he will do it if he must. He itches to check his spiritual energy, but Wei Ying had not reacted well to Jiang Wanyin trying.

Wei Ying shakes his head, dislodging some of the wet hair plastered to his face. “It’s not the poison,” he says. “I just -- I haven’t flown that high since -- it’s so stupid .”

“Since?” Lan Wangji asks hesitantly.

Wei Ying mops at his face with a sleeve, smearing mud across his cheek. “Since Wen Chao caught me,” he says dully. “Since Wen Zhuliu pushed me into the Burial Mounds.” 

Lan Wangji can’t disguise the horror on his face. Wei Ying’s voice is low under the thrum of rain, the heavy drips through the branches onto their heads. He had heard rumors about Wei Ying’s time away, each more absurd than the last, and he had dismissed this as simply another falsehood.

Wei Ying glances up at him. “I know you wouldn’t do that,” he says, as if Lan Wangji was offended rather than frozen in retroactive terror. “It’s not logical. It just -- it reminded me of it. I’m sorry. We can keep going. I know we should.”

They should. Lan Wangji aches to return to his brother’s side. He forces himself to breathe. “Do not apologize.” Wei Ying seems -- so reluctant to return. Moreso than if it were simple disdain for Koi Tower or hatred for its occupants. Even when there is poison coursing through him that could kill him easily. He seems -- unconcerned. Although he is perturbed by flying, he shows none of the symptoms that Lan Xichen had. No pain, no weakness, no loss of consciousness. 

Since Wen Zhuliu… 

Wei Ying had not allowed Jiang Wanyin to check his energy. What had Jin Guangyao said? On people without cores, the poison would have no effect at all. 

Lan Wangji can feel water dripping through his hair and down the back of his neck. Wei Ying stares into the dark of the forest, not meeting his eyes, his knees pulled tightly to his chest. “Wei Ying,” he says faintly, and cannot figure out how to phrase what he means into a question that won’t hurt. Finally, he says, not a question, simply his guess, “The poison will not affect you.” 

He cannot tell whether it is worse to be right or wrong.

“No,” Wei Ying whispers. He clears his throat. “It won’t.”

Lan Wangji kneels in front of him. He reaches out and thumbs the wet streak of mud off of Wei Ying’s cheek, fingers tucked against his jaw. His skin is cool to the touch. Regulating body temperature is one of the first tricks cultivators in training learn. When Wei Ying’s eyes flick up to meet his, he seems resigned more than anything, his gaze tired and distant. 

“Jiang Cheng isn’t supposed to know,” he says roughly. He doesn’t move away from Lan Wangji’s touch; if anything, he tips his head into it, just slightly. He must be tired. If even Lan Wangji can feel the chill of the rain, he must be freezing. “But what am I supposed to do? I can’t just run, that would only make things worse.” His voice is in tatters. “No, I’ll have to go -- and I can’t just pretend to be sick.” He’s talking as much to himself as to Lan Wangji.

“Wei Ying,” he says, because no other words will rise to his tongue. 

“I don’t want pity,” Wei Ying says. They’re close enough that even in the moonlight, Lan Wangji can see the way his eyelashes have clumped together, with tears or rain, can see the individual hairs sticking flat to his skin. “But -- they’ll know sooner or later, won’t they.” His inhale stutters; his expression threatens to crumple. He pulls his legs even tighter to his chest and lets his head fall to rest his forehead between his knees. “I’m sorry,” he says, muffled by his own wet robes. “You shouldn’t have to see this.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji repeats, wanting to comfort him but absolutely lost as to how. He settles for smoothing a hand down Wei Ying’s back; some lost sense-memory returns to him of his mother doing the same when he cried. “It is not your fault.”

He’s having to abruptly recontextualize so many of their interactions during the war. All those times that Wei Ying had pulled away, every sneer in response to a demand that he pick up his sword again. He couldn’t . He can hardly swallow around the lump in his throat. Brother would know the right thing to do, he thinks guiltily. 

Wei Ying lifts his head to laugh, a whip crack sound snapping out of his chest. “Lan Zhan,” he says, stuffed up. “You’re funny.” He wipes his face off again. “We should go. Your brother.”

It’s alarming, how easily Wei Ying can slip back into quasi-normality. Lan Wangji can’t even begin to dissect why he’s so insistent that no one should know. But that is a conversation best saved for later. There are important questions, but they must wait until Lan Xichen is safe. Jiang Wanyin and the Wen siblings will arrive well ahead of them, but Lan Wangji does not want to stay away longer than he must. “Yes,” he agrees, standing to help Wei Ying to his feet. He has to restrain the urge to fuss, but he knows it will only make Wei Ying feel worse. “What will make flying more manageable?”

Wei Ying waves a tired hand. “It’s not a big deal--” he begins.

“What if you didn’t look down?” Lan Wangji asks. “Stand in front, face me.”

Wei Ying presses his lips together, a weak imitation of a smile. “You want me to gaze into your eyes for the next half hour?”

Lan Wangji shakes his head. “Just hold on,” he says. He draws Bichen and steps on. Hesitantly, Wei Ying climbs on, facing backwards rather than forward. When Lan Wangji tugs him forward, he gives in and puts his arms around Lan Wangji’s chest. Wei Ying is nearly as tall as he is, so he ends up simply dropping his head to Lan Wangji’s shoulder so he won’t obstruct his field of vision. 

Wei Ying is tucked close enough that Lan Wangji can feel the cool puffs of his breath against his wet neck. It’s hard to reconcile his relief that Wei Ying is not in immediate danger with the knowledge that he’s been without his core for -- if it’s been since he disappeared, then over a year. 

“Better?” Lan Wangji asks, wrapping an arm around Wei Ying’s back to hold him steady. He can feel that his breathing is slower, more calm, but that could be a sign of exhaustion rather than a lack of panic.

Wei Ying exhales heavily. Lan Wangji holds back a shiver. “Yeah,” he says, so quietly that if they weren’t pressed together, holding each other close enough that he can feel the vibration in his chest, Lan Wangji might not have heard anything at all. 

.

The night has only grown colder around them as they finally reach Koi Tower. Lan Wangji spares a thought for the rest of the Wens from the camp, who have hopefully reached somewhere warm and dry by now. Wei Ying shivers against him as they descend, but now Lan Wangji knows it is simply from the chill. 

The thought of Wei Ying hiding his weakness away from everyone has lodged a hook into his chest and tugs whenever a particularly painful thought occurs to him. How did Wei Ying survive the Burial Mounds? How on earth did he go out onto the battlefield without an ounce of spiritual power? And why didn’t he even trust his brother to know the truth?

A guard flags them down when they land, directing them to one of the suites near to the banquet hall with a deep bow. Wei Ying lags behind him as Lan Wangji strides down the corridor, but when Lan Wangji glances back at him, he just shakes his head. “Go see your brother,” he says. “Just give me a minute.”

There is a heaviness to him now, as if gravity has a stronger pull on him than the people around him. Either Lan Wangji missed it before or it was just another thing that Wei Ying hid away from the world at large. 

Lan Wangji can hear the murmur of voices before he reaches his brother’s door, but he can already tell that none of them belong to Lan Xichen. When he enters, Wen Qing is bent over his brother’s unconscious form, pouring liquid from a cup down his throat, her small hand supporting his head to keep him from choking. Despite her obvious exhaustion, there is an efficiency to her movements, even though she has neglected to change into dry robes and is dripping all over the fine sheets of Lan Xichen’s guest bed.

Lan Wangji hesitates in the doorway. His brother must be alive, or Wen Qing wouldn’t be doing anything, but there is something awful in the stillness of his body, the way someone has arranged his hands neatly at his sides. Lan Xichen has never gotten the hang of proper Lan sleeping posture; he falls asleep on his back easily enough, but inevitably rolls in his sleep to rest on his side. Now, he lays flat, his hands loose, face wan. Nie Mingjue dozes at his side, arms crossed and chin tipped forward. 

Jiang Wanyin has changed into dry robes, but his mane of hair has been scraped into a simple ponytail, still wet. For a moment, when his head snaps over to look at Lan Wangji, he looks much younger. “Where is he?” he starts to demand, and then Wei Ying emerges at Lan Wangji’s side, tense but upright. 

“Were you worried?” he asks, smiling at his brother.

Jiang Wanyin scoffs, but his shoulders relax. “Worried about you making the Jiang sect look bad,” he retorts. “You look like a drowned rat. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” Wei Ying says easily, then asks what Lan Wangji was too afraid to say. “How’s Zewu-jun?” The question stirs Nie Mingjue to wake fully, blinking around before his gaze settles on Wen Qing. 

“Almost stable,” Wen Qing says, without looking up. She adjusts one of the needles placed by the Jin doctors. “He isn’t out of the woods yet, but I do not think his life is in danger anymore. Whether the damage to his core can be repaired remains to be seen, but he’ll live.”

Lan Wangji sits down hard, dizzy with relief. His brother will live. Anything other than that is unfortunate, but ultimately inconsequential if he is alive. Whatever Lan Wangji can do to help, he will -- he will even offer to run the sect while Lan Xichen recovers. Anything, as long as he will live.

“How soon will you know?” Nie Mingjue asks gruffly.

Wen Qing glances over at him, her gaze softening. “He may wake as soon as tomorrow,” she says. “Perhaps a few days at most.”

Belatedly, it occurs to Lan Wangji that her brother is still suffering too. “How is Wen-gongzi?” he asks, voice hoarse.

Her eyes drop back down. “Still unconscious,” she says. “But thanks to your qi, his body seems to be recovering. He is with the Jin doctors a few rooms over.”

There is a soft knock at the door. Jin Guangyao enters and bows. “Wen-guniang,” he says. “Thank you for your good work. I’ve brought you a dry change of clothes, I hope they fit.” He turns to Lan Wangji. “Su She has been apprehended and confessed to his crimes. He was furious about his expulsion from the sect at the beginning of the war and wanted the two of you to suffer for it.”

Lan Wangji cannot stop his lip from twitching in disgust. “Thank you,” he says, and adds. “Wen-daifu says that Xiongzhang is going to live.”

The slight shakiness of Jin Guangyao’s exhale is the only thing that betrays him as more than politely relieved. “Thank the heavens,” he says. “And I am glad you are alright. Su She planned to poison both of you.”

Jiang Wanyin turns accusatorily to Wei Ying. “So you were poisoned,” he says. “Why did you have to drink that stupid wine?” His tone wavers to worry. “How do you feel?”

“Um,” Wei Ying says, eyes darting momentarily to Lan Wangji. “Cold?” 

“Excuse me,” Wen Qing says. “Respectfully, Chifeng-zun, Lianfang-zun, if you wouldn’t mind clearing the room. If I’m going to have a second patient, I need more space.”

The room, like every guest suite in Koi Tower, is plenty spacious, but Jin Guangyao, and even more surprisingly, Nie Mingjue, leave without complaint. Lan Wangji takes Nie Mingjue’s place at his brother’s side. Jiang Wanyin hasn’t stopped glaring at Wei Ying. 

“I don’t understand,” he says. “Even if you stopped cultivating during the war, even if you don’t practice now, your core was always powerful. How have you lasted this long?”

Wei Ying closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath in. “Jiang Cheng,” he says, and then stops. 

“Just let me feel your energy levels,” Jiang Wanyin says, starting out demanding and tipping fast into begging territory. “Don’t make me get Jiejie to guilt you into it. Wei Wuxian, you’re scaring me. If we know you’ve been poisoned, just let Wen Qing take a look at you before it gets bad.”

Wei Ying’s eyes dart to Wen Qing, almost pleading. “Ah,” he says. “Aha. About that.”

Wen Qing seems to take pity on him, her lips pressed together. She steps away from Lan Xichen, folding her hands in front of her. “Jiang-zongzhu,” she says. “Wei Ying will not fall ill. He has no golden core.”

It staggers Lan Wangji, hearing it said aloud so simply. Wei Ying almost cringes as she says it, his head dipping forward, shoulders curling in. The twin strands of hair dangle down either side of his face, dripping on his lap.

“What?” Jiang Wanyin says, disbelieving. “That isn’t -- no.” His voice rises and he grabs Wei Ying by the shoulder, who flinches violently and still doesn’t meet his brother’s eyes despite the stare boring into him. “Wei Wuxian, what the fuck is she talking about?”

“When I disappeared,” Wei Ying begins, voice low and even, but Jiang Wanyin makes a sound like Wei Wuxian had socked him in the stomach instead. 

“That was months ago!” he croaks. He must be thinking, as Lan Wangji is, about Wei Ying on the battlefield with no sword and no special healing abilities to speak of.

“Look on the bright side!” Wei Ying bursts out. “I’m fine, alright? I’m not going to get sick like Zewu-jun, I haven’t felt a thing. If you and Lan Zhan hadn’t come to find me, I would never have known that I had poisoned wine at all!”

Judging from the thunderous look on Jiang Wanyin’s face, it’s the wrong thing to say. “If we hadn’t come after you,” he says viciously, “you would be in the middle of nowhere, on a horse, with a bunch of prisoners of war, and no core . Did you even have a fucking plan, or were you just going to freeze to death in the woods so you could live out your hero complex fantasy?” His chest is heaving, and his grip on Wei Ying’s arm is so tight it looks painful. 

“Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji says firmly. 

Jiang Wanyin barely looks at him. “Did he know already?” he demands. “Your precious Hanguang-jun knew, but not me? You thought I couldn’t handle it?”

“He just found out,” Wei Ying snaps. “He realized when we were flying over here.”

Inexplicably, Jiang Wanyin calms slightly at the hint of frustration in Wei Ying’s voice, although his expression is still twisted and unreadable. “You have a lot of explaining to do,” he says. “Did you not -- do you not trust me?”

“That’s not it,” Wei Ying says, already shaking his head. “Jiang Cheng, no.” The fire bleeds out of him too. “I just -- I couldn’t --”

He stops talking when Jiang Wanyin pulls him into another hug, much more careful than the first one. Wei Ying’s finger’s dig into his back with how tightly he’s holding on. 

“I’m glad you’re not dying,” Jiang Wanyin mutters. “I am so, so angry with you.”

“I know,” Wei Ying whispers. 

“That fucking bastard,” Jiang Wanyin says. “I would have killed Wen Zhuliu even more slowly, if I knew.” He lets out a ragged breath. “You’re still soaked. You’ll--” He has to swallow. “You’ll get sick. Go change.” He pulls back, rubbing at his eyes. “I have to go talk to the other sect leaders. Clean up your m--” He cuts himself off. “Whatever.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying says distantly, and without any fanfare, he stands and goes. 

Jiang Wanyin rubs at his eyes again, this time with a sleeve, then stands and stalks off in the other direction. 

Lan Wangji is left, still stunned, with Wen Qing and his unconscious brother. Slowly, he reaches out to adjust Lan Xichen’s sleeve, folding it properly. A moment of silence grows between them.

Finally, she leans over to adjust another needle. “He’s recovering well,” she says. “You should rest, Hanguang-jun. He’s going to be fine.” Her shrewd eyes rest on Lan Wangji’s clenched hand around Bichen. “If I might be so bold, Wei Wuxian could probably use your company more.”

Lan Wangji clears his throat. “How did you know?”

“That’s his story to tell,” she says.

.

Wei Ying has already turned down the hallway by the time Lan Wangji steps out, but it’s easy to follow the trail of wet footsteps. He catches up to Wei Ying just as he’s about to go outside, to cross over to the pavilion the Jiangs are staying in. A flash of surprise and annoyance plays across Wei Ying’s face before it settles back into exhaustion.

“Lan Zhan,” he says. “I don’t need a babysitter.” 

Lan Wangji shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I simply…” He cannot find a way to phrase it. Wei Ying does not like when people worry over him, nor would he want Lan Wangji feeling sorry for him. “I thought your brother was unkind.”

Wei Ying huffs. “You ran after me for that?” He shakes his head. “It’s okay. He took it well, all things considered.” He starts to turn away.

“My quarters are just there,” Lan Wangji says, nodding at a door only a few steps back. He had only been there briefly this morning, to leave his things. “Don’t go back out into the rain. Come in. Warm up.”

Wei Ying’s shoulders slump. “I’m getting water everywhere, aren’t I,” he says. “Alright.”

It makes Lan Wangji unreasonably relieved. He opens the door and Wei Ying steps through without protest. Lan Wangji puts on water to heat up, then finds the pouch with his clothes and pulls out several layers of robes, both for himself and Wei Ying. They should fit him relatively well, given the similarity in their builds, although Wei Ying has been markedly less muscular since -- Well. Lan Wangji hadn’t made that connection. They had all lost weight in the war, but unlike most, Wei Ying seems to have hardly gained any back. 

Wei Ying takes the folded clothes and shuffles behind the screen to change. Lan Wangji undresses efficiently, trying not to listen to the squishing sounds of Wei Ying’s clothes falling to the floor. By the time Lan Wangji turns around, his wet robes have been draped over the top of the screen. A moment later, Wei Ying steps out.

Lan Wangji had given him his warmest layers, all simple white robes meant to go underneath something else. He hasn’t seen Wei Ying in white since he was a visiting disciple, and despite himself, he stares. 

“It’s not my color, I know,” Wei Ying says wryly.

Wei Ying looks good in anything, but he’s right that the pale fabric washes him out. It makes it obvious just how faded his complexion is at the moment. His hands have disappeared inside the long sleeves, and it makes him look swallowed up by the loose clothes.

Wordlessly, Lan Wangji holds out a teacup of hot water. Wei Ying takes it gratefully, sinking down to sit on one of the seats. “My fingers are wrinkly,” he says, staring down at his hands. “It’s like I’ve just been swimming for the last three hours.” 

“Mm,” Lan Wangji concurs, showing him his own pruny fingertips as he sits beside him. 

Wei Ying sips his hot water. His hair has a wave to it as it dries, and Lan Wangji wants to run his fingers through it, wants to smooth the tangles. A moment later, it occurs to him that that might actually be useful, since the back of Wei Ying’s robes are already starting to grow damp.

“Wei Ying,” he says. “Will you allow me to put your hair up?”

Wei Ying blinks at him, eyebrows furrowed, and Lan Wangji flushes momentarily. Perhaps his request is too bizarre, too personal -- and then Wei Ying says, “Alright? If you want to.” He plucks at it self-consciously. “Is it so knotted that I can’t be seen in polite society?”

“No,” Lan Wangji says, fetching his comb and settling down to sit behind him. “But it is still wet.” Wei Ying’s hair is a shade lighter than his own, very dark brown rather than pure black, and the strands are finer. More prone to tangling, he can tell already. Lan Wangji frees his leather hairpiece as gently as he can.

“I have had,” Wei Ying says tiredly, “a very strange day. And to cap it all off, Hanguang-jun is doing my hair. What has the world come to?”

“I am sorry,” Lan Wangji says. “For whatever it is worth.”

Wei Ying just shrugs. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “And you didn’t realize because I didn’t want you to. Didn’t want anyone to.” He twists around to glance at Lan Wangji. “Is that what this is? Misguided apology hairstyling?”

Lan Wangji shakes his head. Wei Ying looks at him for a long moment, gray eyes unreadable, and then turns back around. Lan Wangji returns to picking through a tangle as gently as he can. 

“I do not understand why you felt you could tell no one,” Lan Wangji says quietly, treading carefully.

“It’s complicated,” Wei Ying says. 

“You do not have to explain,” Lan Wangji says. His throat is tight, but tiredness has settled over him by now, numbing his inhibitions like wine. The reassurance that his brother will live has faded his terror to a mere dread about his brother’s future as a cultivator. The feeling of Wei Ying’s hair slipping through his fingers grounds him. “But I -- still consider you my zhiji. This does not change that.”

Wei Ying stills beneath his hands. “Lan Zhan,” he says. “Lan Zhan, you’re -- you’re too good.” In the silence of the room, Lan Wangji can hear him swallow. “Thank you for helping the Wens. I know you didn’t see the prison camp but -- it was wrong. They’ll be so grateful.”

“They will be grateful to you first,” Lan Wangji says. He has worked the comb up to Wei Ying’s shoulderblades by now, through the worst of the knots. “You found them.”

Wei Ying’s laugh is tiny. “I don’t know what I would have done,” he says. “Well, I do, but -- you wouldn’t have liked it.” He presses a hand over his mouth, but Lan Wangji, sat behind him, has no idea what his face is doing. “I was -- I was going to take them to the Burial Mounds.”

Lan Wangji stops, the comb halted somewhere around the nape of Wei Ying’s neck. When he grazes his skin with the teeth, Wei Ying shivers. 

“I know,” he whispers. “I know that sounds ridiculous -- but I lived there for three months, and I think we could have… survived, at least.” He takes a shuddering breath in. “You’ve made sure they’ll have more than that.”

“You would not have taken them to Yunmeng?” Lan Wangji asks.

Wei Ying scoffs. “And saddled Jiang Cheng with that political trainwreck? No, I wouldn’t.” He automatically tilts his head back to let Lan Wangji comb the hair from his temples. It strikes Lan Wangji all at once how terrifyingly breakable Wei Ying is; once, it seemed like Wei Ying could take any blow and bounce right back up. A younger, more naive, more angry Lan Wangji had fantasized about that -- what would it take to get Wei Ying to just stay still ? Now, Lan Wangji misses the chaotic energy of his flailing limbs. The version of Wei Ying here, in front of him, is so fragile. When Lan Wangji twists his sleek hair into a thick column and coils it atop his head, the sight of Wei Ying’s slender neck feels like an ultimate vulnerability. How can Wei Ying trust him with this?

“I know you’re wondering,” Wei Ying says quietly. He doesn’t turn around. “You must have questions. You can ask.”

Lan Wangji hesitates. He is plainly afraid to hear what Wei Ying went through, and yet surely whatever his mind will conjure up is worse. He doesn’t want to stir up bad memories for Wei Ying, and yet he does not want Wei Ying to think he doesn’t care. “How did Wen Qing know?” he asks finally.

Wei Ying sighs. “You’re a smart cookie,” he says. “Because she took it.”

His answer, said in an astonishingly straightforward tone, punches the air from Lan Wangji’s lungs. Not least because Wen Qing is currently treating his own brother. Fear squeezes his ribcage. “She--”

“I asked her to,” Wei Ying interrupts. His shoulders hunch as he talks. “She -- after Lotus Pier fell, she and Wen Ning took us in. But Jiang Cheng was missing his core, and he--” He breaks off. “It was awful. So I asked Wen Qing to give him mine.”

It seems Lan Wangji was wrong. What he was imagining was not worse than this. He doesn’t realize that he’s dropped the comb until Wei Ying twists around at the sound of the clatter. His eyes meet Lan Wangji’s and he blinks, as if taken aback by whatever he sees there. 

“Don’t tell Jiang Cheng,” he says. 

Lan Wangji takes a painful breath. “He doesn’t know?”

Wei Ying shakes his head. “I don’t want him to,” he says. “I was afraid that -- I thought Wen Qing might tell him. But I guess she wants it a secret as much as I do.”

Lan Wangji can hardly imagine. He wants to believe that he would be as selfless, except that such a thing would never occur to him. Even though his brother was on the verge of death only this evening. He would die to save Lan Xichen in a heartbeat, without a second thought. But he has never thought of carving a piece of himself out as a possibility. Let alone never telling him. 

Wei Ying’s jaw clenches in the face of Lan Wangji’s silence. “That’s the full story. Do you hate me now?”

“Hate you?” Lan Wangji echoes, taken so far aback that he barely understands the question. “ Hate you? Wei Ying, I could never hate you.”

Chenqing lies meters away on the side table beside the privacy screen, but Wei Ying’s hands clench in the skirt of his robes, knuckles going white. “I don’t understand you,” he says, trembling, tense. “Lan Zhan, I really don’t.” Faint traces of familiar black smoke peel away from his skin, wisping into nothing, Wei Ying seems more frustrated than angry, his frown carving lines into his forehead. 

“Did you think I would hate you?” Lan Wangji asks, afraid of the answer. “Wei Ying is too selfless for his own good, he is kind, he cares so deeply.” He dares to put a hand not on Wei Ying’s wrist or arm as he has in the past, but over his balled fist. “I can only strive to be as good as Wei Ying. I want to live up to the promise we made.”

The resentful energy curls around his hand, cold but harmless. He’s almost grateful to it, for providing Wei Ying with protection when he had no other options at all. Wei Ying drags in a breath.

“I remember,” he says hoarsely. He shakes his head. “I don’t have regrets. Not many. But I -- I am sorry I’m not your equal anymore. I thought -- I don’t know. A long time ago, I thought we could travel around with each other like Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen. Make the world a better place.” He lets out a shuddering sigh. “At least you know now. I spent so much time trying to keep people from learning the truth, and now it’s slipped out from under me anyway.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, aching. He still wants that, so badly he’s not even sure how to say it. “You will always be my equal, whether you wield a sword or not.” Wei Ying’s hand flexes under his. The resentful energy fades away. 

“I…” Wei Ying says. “It doesn’t bother you that I controlled Wen Ning’s body to stop the guards from killing more people? I know you hated seeing me manipulate resentful energy in the first place.”

Lan Wangji grimaces. “It bothers me there were no better options.” It’s true of too many of Wei Ying’s actions, in retrospect. “I understand your actions.” He strokes the back of Wei Ying’s hand with a thumb, desperate to reassure him somehow. “I must apologize, for passing judgement as I did. Wei Ying was doing what he had to do, and he won the war at cost to his own health.”

He doesn’t miss the way Wei Ying’s eyes widen in surprise before he looks down. It sends a frisson of guilt through him; this may be too little, too late. Lan Wangji might not forgive so easily, were their positions switched. 

Wei Ying ducks his head, shaking it slightly. “Hanguang-jun,” he says ruefully. “Too kind. I could never deserve you.”

Later, Lan Wangji will not know what possessed him. Both of them are numb with exhaustion, and Lan Wangji is still waiting to hear news of his brother’s health. Wei Ying has just bared his soul to him, and there is still a light air of resentment around him. But Lan Wangji, struck with a kind of temporary madness at the idea that Wei Ying might doubt the depth of Lan Wangji’s regard, leans forward and kisses him anyway.

In the quiet of his guest room, shielded by the thick stone walls of Koi Tower, Lan Wangji comes back to his senses just in time to hear the soft, wet noise of their lips separating with a kind of burning, breathless embarrassment. Wei Ying stares at him, mouth open just slightly. 

“I--” Lan Wangji says, shocked at himself, with absolutely no idea how to end that sentence.

“Do that again,” Wei Ying says, half order and half question, his voice trailing up at the end. “Lan Zhan, do that--”

He does. And again.

Wei Ying is still warming up from the chill of the rain, but his mouth is hot. Lan Wangji feels feverish from it, high on the reassurance that core or no, Wei Ying’s heart still pumps blood through his veins. He is thin but solid in Lan Wangji’s arms, and he clutches at Lan Wangji with just as much clumsy eagerness as Lan Wangji feels.

A younger Lan Wangji had once thought the act of kissing disgusting. It seemed so unsanitary, not to mention unnecessary. Just another way in which he’d been a young fool; this Lan Wangji holds every detail precious in his mind so he will never, ever forget, even the ones he might have found distasteful before. Wei Ying’s tongue is slick, his bitten-short nails dig into the back of Lan Wangji’s neck, he tastes like rainwater and mouth. Lan Wangji’s heart pounds. 

Wei Ying breaks away to laugh, and once he’s started, he doesn’t stop. The laughter spills out of him, wheezing and loud, filling the room, almost hysterical. He puts a hand up to his mouth, but it barely muffles the sound. Lan Wangji pulls him closer, pressing them forehead to forehead, nose to nose, and by the time the laughter quiets, there are tears streaming down Wei Ying’s cheeks and he’s out of breath.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says. 

Wei Ying hiccups. He bumps his forehead gently against Lan Wangji’s. “I’m sorry,” he says, sniffing. “It’s just -- this is not how I thought today was going to go.”

“Don’t be,” Lan Wangji says. He puts an arm around Wei Ying’s back and eases him up to cross the few steps to the bed. Wei Ying lets him, leaning heavily against his side as if drunk, although Lan Wangji knows the only alcohol he’s had is the one cup he drank from Jin Zixun. He sets Wei Ying down. When he stands up, Wei Ying just blinks at him. 

“Don’t -- go,” he says stiltedly. 

Lan Wangji just frees his hairpiece from his hair as efficiently as he can and unties his forehead ribbon, folding it carefully on the table. Then he slides into the bed beside him. “This is my room,” he reminds Wei Ying, and puts out the lights with a bit of spiritual energy. “I will stay.”

“Right,” Wei Ying whispers in the sudden dark. “Can I…?” He puts his arm tentatively over Lan Wangji’s middle.

“Please,” Lan Wangji says. It is easier to be brave with the lights off, easier to say, “I like when you are -- near to me.”

Wei Ying tucks himself closer. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “ Thank you , Lan Zhan.”

He falls asleep before Lan Wangji does, his body growing steadily warmer beneath the blanket and where he is pressed up against Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji takes a few moments to let his mind settle. He still worries about his brother. Lan Xichen will worry about the appearance of a sect leader with impaired cultivation, if he cannot recover fully. Lan Wangji will feel better once his brother is awake, but he can only wait, and hold Wei Ying in the meantime.

.

Lan Wangji does not know yet:

In the morning, they will wake up to Jiang Wanyin pounding on the door, frantic with worry when his brother couldn’t be found in his rooms. He will snap at Wei Ying and glare at Lan Wangji. Wei Ying, wearing Lan Wangji’s robes, still rumpled from sleeping in Lan Wangji’s bed, will act like his accusations of any untoward behavior are completely ridiculous, and despite himself, Lan Wangji will smile.

In the morning, Lan Xichen will wake, and he will be alright. His golden core is damaged, but not irreparably, and he has Wen Qing to thank for that. Sitting in his bed, in front of his sworn brothers, Jin Guangshan, and Jiang Wanyin, he will affirm to Wen Qing the promise that his brother made. The Dafan Wens will be safe in Gusu. 

In the morning, Wei Ying will pull Lan Wangji aside. “Isn’t there anything you want to ask me?” he will ask. Lan Wangji will look at him blankly. Wei Ying will scuff his toe against the floor. “Maybe this time I’d like to come back to Gusu with you,” he’ll say. 

There are many other things that happen after that too. Using a highly experimental new medical procedure (this is how it is explained to all the sect leaders), Wei Ying and Wen Qing will figure out a way to restore Wen Ning’s spiritual cognition. The story of Wei Ying’s corelessness, as told to his brother and overheard by the guards outside the door, will begin to spread among the people. Have you heard that Wei Wuxian bravely lead an army of ghosts from the Burial Mounds to win the war despite being too weak to pick up a sword? And Lan Wangji will meet a little boy among the Wen remnants who clings to his leg and he will be struck with the sudden and inescapable desire to keep him safe no matter what. Wei Ying will take one look at the two of them and say, “Can we keep him?”

.

For now -- Lan Wangji lets himself relax into the warmth and dryness of the bed. The mattresses in Koi Tower are softer than he’s used to, but for once he’s grateful for it. The dip in the mattress allows Wei Ying to curl up beside him even closer, the two of them sinking into the bed together.