Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It is late afternoon by the time Lan Wangji touches down outside of Moling, and the wind is just beginning to pick up. Clouds have been rolling in from the sea since morning, so he counts himself lucky to have reached his destination before the storm. With a bit more good fortune he may have time to do a preliminary investigation of the affected area before the downpour begins—but he must secure a room in the inn first, and he is careful not to ask the heavens for too much favor. Particularly now. He does not need any more than he has, and one must not ask in excess.

The town is largely unchanged from his last visit scant weeks ago: the colorful stalls in the market, the way people bow in greeting as he passes. They have learned to respect and welcome him as a friend, as a protector, and a more capable one than their previous patron at that. In fact the innkeeper, when he speaks with her, tries to refuse his payment in thanks. He insists, with the suggestion that she put it toward the room and board of the next wandering cultivator who passes through.

It is what he says every time, on these regular sweeps across Jiangnan, from Moling to Tingshan. He hopes it benefits someone in need. If that someone is specific in his mind, well. A good deed is a good deed, regardless of selfish intent. Or so he tells himself.

Each visit for the past year and a half has been the same.

This time, however, the innkeeper brightens.

“I won’t even have to put it on the books to remind myself this time,” she says. “Hanguang-jun is not the only cultivator in town this evening.”

Lan Wangji feels his entire body pause, as if for an instant time has stopped. The halt is total, but very brief. He knows better, after all these years, than to expect any sort of serendipity. His blessings were exhausted the moment he heard the first shaky notes of an out-of-tune bamboo flute on Dafan Mountain, over a year ago.

His mind returns to the present, and he remembers his manners. “Am I not?”

“Indeed no,” the innkeeper says, and nods toward a corner table. “That one blew in on the wind not long before you.”

Lan Wangji braces his needlessly tripping heart and turns to see the person she has indicated. But no amount of bracing in the world could have prepared him for the sight of Wei Wuxian laughing, bathed in lamplight—here, alive, in the present, in the very same room in which Lan Wangji currently stands. After all these months with only a few cramped, hasty characters on crumpled parchment as evidence of his continued existence, now faced with the reality of him, time does stop. Or rather it slows, caught in the amber of bittersweet, joyous surprise.

It is a physical shock, to see him. An unexpected blow. The rushed, goal-oriented nature of their initial reunion over Jin Guangyao’s crimes and Nie Huaisang’s machinations did very little to peel away the deeply-entrenched layers of grief, of longing, of missing that had been lacquered over Lan Wangji’s bones by sixteen years of nothing but echoes. Echoes of laughter, of too-casual touches, of sunlight glowing in smiling brown eyes.

Memories which, like the last time, now collide with reality. Two Wei Wuxians slowly merging, as the man himself glances up from his conversation. As he catches sight of Lan Wangji standing pale and still as a ghost in his shock. As he brightens, sudden as tinder catching a flame, just as he used to when he was alive. As he does again now, because he is alive once more.

Lan Wangji takes a very conscious breath. It is one thing to know it, and another to see. One thing to know of oases in the deepest desert, and another to drink.

He watches as Wei Wuxian opens his mouth and forms the beginning of his name, then stops, excuses himself from his companions, and rises. It is a swift movement, all lithe, unselfconscious grace. Lan Wangji has missed it. He watches as Wei Wuxian hurries over to him, weaving through busy people making their way back and forth between the tables. Cannot take his eyes off of him, off of eyes which likewise do not leave his own.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian calls, impatience winning out when he is still half the room away.

Lan Wangji feels long-held tension relax at the sound. He knows he is smiling, now. He could not stop it if he tried.

“Wei Ying,” he replies, inevitable, when he is finally before him. “You are here.”

Wei Wuxian grins. “And so are you,” he says. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“It is routine,” Lan Wangji replies, uncertain how Wei Wuxian always manages to skip past niceties, straight to the point. It is so refreshing, so familiar, he feels a strange rush. “Every other month, Jiangnan is swept for disturbances, as the sects at Moling and Tingshan are no longer capable of doing so.”

Wei Wuxian raises his eyebrows, considering. His arms are crossed, Chenqing nowhere to be seen. Lan Wangji’s ceaseless, effervescent happiness at having found him dims somewhat as he wonders if he must keep his spiritual tool hidden away to pass through the world untroubled.

“That’s a nice way of saying those sects were destroyed beyond all hope by the events of the last few years,” Wei Wuxian says, an amused glint to his eye. “Still, is this a job for Hanguang-jun? Don’t you have more important affairs to attend to?”

“There are no affairs more important than the safety of the people.”

The room seems to quiet, then, as Wei Wuxian’s face drops all traces of bravado, of teasing. His expression softens, his eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners.

“Of course,” he says. “Well.” He pauses for a moment. Lan Wangji does not know how to fill the silence, so he waits. Soon, Wei Wuxian brightens. “You’re staying here tonight, Lan Zhan?”

Lan Wangji nods.

“Join me? There’s a nighthunt not far away, let’s hunt yaoguai and be roommates, like old times.” At some point during this speech, he has reached out and grasped Lan Wangji’s arm. It is the same point at which Lan Wangji began to struggle to keep up with his words. Thankfully, he pauses. But then the smile drops reluctantly from his face, and he lets go of him. “Ah, but I can take care of it myself—you have so many more places to go, Lan Zhan.”

There is not enough air in the room. It stifles Lan Wangji’s carefully measured breaths as he orders his words for an appropriate response. A fleeting feeling akin to that of falling from a great height is still rushing through his joints, and he must take care to remind himself that they are very good friends. That Wei Wuxian thrives on physical touch, and initiates it with most everyone he meets. That touch is merely a token of his general affection.

The mechanisms of this reminder are well-used but rusty with disuse.

He has been so very careful not to burden Wei Wuxian with the tiresome weight of his constant, unseemly desires. But perhaps, if Wei Wuxian wishes company. If he can disguise his bottomless hunger for nearness as a mere offer of such. Perhaps...perhaps just a bit more time with him would not be too terrible to ask.

“There is no hurry,” he says, once he has decided. “I will join you. After which, if you wish, you may join me.”

Wei Wuxian blinks. “Join you?”

Lan Wangji’s eyes fall to Wei Wuxian’s elbow, for fear of revealing too much. “For Tingshan. Or as far along that way as you like.”

In the silence that follows, he does not give in to the urge to repeat himself, nor to look up at Wei Wuxian’s face. He waits.

“Alright,” Wei Wuxian agrees, a smile in his voice. Lan Wangji does look, then. It is so wide it curves his eyes into shining crescents, and Lan Wangji feels very warm. “We’ll see how long it takes you to get sick of me.”

Lan Wangji does not address the utter lack of such a possibility. Oasis found, he could drink for months, for years on end and never slake his thirst. But that is irrelevant to this conversation. He asks instead after their shared business in Moling.

“Where is this yao?”

They pick their way through the underbrush, stepping carefully over near-dry streambeds as they make their way through the forest. The place about which Wei Wuxian’s new, local friends had spoken, an abandoned mill house, is not far from the walls of Moling. Lan Wangji watches the sky above them darken with intent as they go. Rain will not affect him, but without a core, Wei Wuxian is vulnerable to illness. They will need to be vigilant.

“Lan Zhan, you really come out here every other month?” Wei Wuxian asks him, the first question after a series of short, amusing stories from his travels. Lan Wangji has been listening closely, hungry for more images of Wei Wuxian out in the world to hoard away. He will need them as reminders when he is once again alone.

“Mn,” he replies, hoping to let this line of conversation die. His habits are uninteresting. He would much prefer to fill out his threadbare imagination with truth, with the facts of Wei Wuxian’s new life.

“Why you, though?” Wei Wuxian persists. “You’re so busy, and these are just nighthunts. You could send anyone.”

“I enjoy feeling useful.”

“Going where the chaos is,” Wei Wuxian says, grinning, bumping their shoulders together.

Lan Wangji looks at him sharply, wondering if he knows why such an epithet was earned. If he has any idea that so much of what he has done was largely an unceasing search in the stubborn hope of finding him while he was gone.

“Not enough chaos in the Cloud Recesses these days?” Wei Wuxian goes on.

Their shoulders are still touching as they walk, the press of them unsteady with the counterpoint of their steps. Lan Wangji leans into it, just a little. Not enough to be detectable. If they are to spend more time together, he hopes to work himself up to more substantial contact, but he must go slowly enough not to arouse suspicion. And slowly enough not to overwhelm himself. Which, if he considers it honestly, will be the more difficult task. Wei Wuxian is a physical being who seems practically to subsist on touch. He is unlikely to grow suspicious of more of it. Lan Wangji, however, is nearly overwhelmed by something as inconsequential as this.

“There is plenty, of a different kind,” Lan Wangji says after a moment. He does not wish to speak too much of his toiling boredom, of his staunch determination to do the work he set out to do, no matter how dull, and be done with it as soon as possible. “Xiongzhang is capable of dealing with it, in small doses.”

“Oh,” says Wei Wuxian, tripping over a root. Lan Wangji reaches out to steady him automatically, only to be met with the jolting memory of another night in another place, a wrist wrenched out of his grip. But Wei Wuxian only turns to look at him. “He’s—is he well?”

The answer to this is complicated. Lan Wangji must let go of him in order to think how to condense it. “The work we have done has been favorable for his state of mind.”

“Ah, he helped with all that? I’m glad to hear it.”

Lan Wangji takes a moment to absorb the fact that Wei Wuxian is aware of the changes he has made to the Cultivation world. He assumed him to be staying out of such circles of information entirely. It seems this was incorrect. He nods, confirming.

“So you...nighthunt. Traveling. Every other month?” Wei Wuxian repeats.

Lan Wangji stares at him. They have established this. Wei Wuxian clears his throat. It is harder to see his face fully in the gathering dark, but it looks almost uncertain.

“What do you do in between?”

“Guide the sects. Teach. Cultivate.” He does not mention the time spent researching in various libraries, nor the countless more spent at his qin, playing, remembering, trying to forget. Nor still the way time spent on any of these things drags hopelessly, devoid of Wei Wuxian’s company.

“Ah,” says Wei Wuxian, walking on, nodding. “Busy, busy, like I said.”

“And you?” Lan Wangji prompts, seeing his opening. “You have been traveling for many months. These are not the only stories you have to tell.”

Wei Wuxian waves a lazy hand as he carefully moves aside a low-hanging branch for both of them to pass. “Oh, you know. Nighthunts mostly tend to bleed into each other after a while.”

“Have you visited your nephew?”

Even in the dimness of the evening, he can see Wei Wuxian’s grimace.

“That brat. Yes, I’ve visited. More than once. He’s a work in progress, but I have to admit...he has promise.”

Lan Wangji knows this. Has worked with young Jin-zongzhu toward a common goal. He is hot-headed, like both his uncles, but intelligent and compassionate. In fact, Lan Wangji has nearly managed to forgive him for the stabbing incident. Nearly.

“I am glad you have found the time to visit him,” he says. Only belatedly does he realize that perhaps such a sentiment expresses more vinegar than intended. “Family is important,” he adds.

Wei Wuxian makes a non-committal sound. “It should be just up ahead,” he says, effectively changing the subject. Lan Wangji allows it.

“What other information have you gathered about this yao?”

“Ah, that it’s nasty? And it almost killed a washerwoman at the creek last week.”

“It is strange that it is so near to the city proper,” Lan Wangji says. He does not like the implications.

“Yeah, but I think there’ll be a reason it came here. There’s a cemetery not far upstream. Probably some small, festering resentment attracted it.” He glances back at Lan Wangji with the ghost of a grin. “Don’t worry too much until we check it out.”

Lan Wangji nods, assuaged. It is...heartwarming, to have another person here with him. To have Wei Wuxian here with him. He takes it in, allows that warmth to suffuse him. He will hold onto it for as long as he can, once the source has gone. It will be more than enough, he tells himself.

The sound of running water reaches them just before the trees begin to thin, and soon they break out onto a wide, fast-moving creek. It is cheerily loud, but the water is dark, plagued with ominous bubbles. Resentment is thick in the air.

“There,” Wei Wuxian says, tugging his arm and pointing upstream to the millhouse. “Time to pay our respects, eh Lan Zhan?”

With a nod, Lan Wangji follows him, keeping an eye on the water to their left. He does not like the way it feels. When Wei Wuxian forcefully kicks in the door of the little building, he manages despite long-past precedent to reach out, to place his hand very briefly on Wei Wuxian’s elbow.

“Careful,” he says.

His attention is caught and held ruthlessly by the confident smile and nod he receives in return.

He tears it back just as a large, writhing shape darts out of the water toward him. He blocks the first assault with Bichen, and prepares to do battle just as Wei Wuxian rushes back to him.

“An eel?” Wei Wuxian shouts, throwing a talisman at it. “How did it get so huge?”

Wondering much the same, Lan Wangji deflects another blow, then leaps to block it as it attacks Wei Wuxian. It is larger than a man and absolutely seething with resentful energies. Spinning, Wei Wuxian slams two more talismans in its direction. This time they stick, and it shrieks. Lan Wangji flinches at the horrible, grating sound. A few steps away, Wei Wuxian covers his ears.

“Lan Zhan, distract it,” he shouts.

Lan Wangji nods and streaks across the thing’s field of vision, slashing out with spiritual energy through his sword. It follows him, and Lan Wangji whirls, deflecting but not wounding, drawing it farther up the bank. Just beyond, Wei Wuxian nicks his finger and writes furiously on a slip of talisman paper, then throws it, his aim true. The eel yao shrieks once more, its head rising as it recoils. Lan Wangji takes his chance and rises into the air, jabbing Bichen up through its jaw and clean through its head. It jerks once and goes still, falling to the ground as he pulls his sword free. Great, sluggish gouts of blood spill into the soil.

Lan Wangji summons his qin to play Rest, and then Cleansing, so as not to give rise to some other monstrous thing. Chenqing’s high clear notes join him, and he feels something shift and settle into place in his chest as they weave their slightly differing melodies together, soothing the bitterness in the air. Slowly, it diffuses, leaving only the sharp scent of the oncoming storm in its wake.

Before the song finishes, Chenqing falters and cuts off. Lan Wangji turns just in time to see Wei Wuxian’s eyes slip shut, his flute falling to the ground.

He rushes over, heart in his throat, barely catching Wei Wuxian before he, too, hits the earth. Lan Wangji cradles his limp body, panic ricocheting against all of his bones in a sudden, furious cacophony. Wei Wuxian is so pale. Blood drips down from his nose, staining his upper lip. A sheen of sweat turns his skin clammy.

Several other memories surface and bleed into the present, multiplying Lan Wangji’s blank fear. He clutches him tightly, unable for a long moment to do anything else. There is something else he should be doing. There is action to be taken. But he can only hold him. It is a cruel twist of fate that he should indeed be destined to hold him this way, but only when he has fallen.

“Wei Ying,” he says, jostling his shoulders lightly. Thunder crashes in the distance. “Wei Ying.”

He does not stir. Finally, Lan Wangji remembers himself and checks his pulse. It is light, unsteady, but there. Still there. He has exhausted himself past the bounds of his coreless body, which is not a fatal mistake—at least, not if committed rarely. Lan Wangji suspects this is not the case.

He slides his free arm beneath Wei Wuxian’s knees and stands. He can only hope against hope that he makes it back to the inn before the storm hits. He walks quickly, Wei Wuxian just a little bit too light in his arms, and cradles him carefully, keeping his head from lolling back, from causing him future pain. He carries him all the way back to that same lively inn, past the stares of strangers, up to the room for which he paid earlier.

He lays him out on one of the beds, careful, careful. Mops his brow. Monitors his pulse and that thread of energy, both normal now. Like any other non-cultivator’s. There is no longer the gaping emptiness which, from brief glimpses, Lan Wangji had woefully written off as mere exhaustion so long ago. But neither is there the cultivated core that would allow him to perform the skills necessary in an arduous nighthunt without severely overtaxing.

Hence, Lan Wangji sits beside him, and he waits. He is nervous, which is a feeling to which he is unaccustomed. The topic he is about to broach is not a simple one, and he had not expected to be required to speak on it when he left home, nor even when he had met Wei Wuxian in the inn. He had only seen the opportunity, the necessity, whilst carrying him back. Regardless, he has the scroll hidden away in his pouch, always ready. Just in case. He has thought it through, in theory. But it is another thing altogether to speak of it.

Wei Wuxian stirs.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji murmurs. He does not touch him. Not now.

With a discontented grunt, Wei Wuxian shifts and opens his eyes. They focus on Lan Wangji and sharpen to alertness. “Lan Zhan,” he says, voice cracking.

Lan Wangji pours him a cup of water and helps him sit up to drink it, then moves back, a careful distance away. Not touching. Wei Wuxian looks mildly embarrassed. He rubs the back of his head.

“You didn’t carry me all the way back, did you?”

Lan Wangji does not reply. The answer is obvious, and there is no reason to drive home his discomfort.

He asks instead, “How do you feel?”

“Ah, you know,” Wei Wuxian says, though Lan Wangji does not. He has never been in his precise position before. “I’m alright.”

“Does this happen often?” He must know, though it sends a queasy tendril of fear through him to picture Wei Wuxian unconscious in the wilderness, alone.

“No,” he says, too slowly. “Not often.”

Lan Wangji’s stomach sinks. He should not have let him—but there. He is not in a position to let him do anything. Wei Wuxian’s choices are his own. So it is time to give him another one.

“Wei Ying,” he begins, uncertain though he is. The last time, in Wei Wuxian’s previous life, that Lan Wangji had brought up such things, it had not ended well. “I do not wish to begin a painful or unwanted subject, but for your well-being I must tell you this: I believe that if you wish it, you could reform a golden core.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him blankly. “Lan Zhan, I’m too old. My body couldn’t generate—you know how it works as well as I do. Why are you saying this?”

Lan Wangji looks down at his own hands, steadying himself. It is easier to think clearly when he is not looking into Wei Wuxian’s eyes. He takes the scroll from his pouch.

“Research has uncovered a method,” he says. He does not mention the forbidden nature of said research, nor does he elaborate on the method itself. He will not venture to speak it aloud. He hands the scroll over.

Wei Wuxian looks at him for a long moment as he takes it, and Lan Wangji holds his breath, waiting for him to decide. Waiting to see if he is at least interested enough in the possibility of a new core to read it. To see if he cares enough about his health, his life, about staying in this world for good, to look at it.

He is. He does. It lifts a heavy weight from Lan Wangji’s chest. But the anxiety remains for what must come next.

He watches Wei Wuxian scan the page. Watches as he registers the ancient nature of the story it contains, the tale of a cultivator who fell in love with an ordinary person and devised a way to help him form a core as a grown adult. The particulars of the dual cultivation and meditation involved. Wei Wuxian blinks rapidly, then sets the scroll down.

“Ah,” he says, still looking down. Not at Lan Wangji. “This is…” He pauses, his cheeks pinking. “I have to be honest, I don’t see how this helps me.”

This gives Lan Wangji pause. He does not understand. “It would potentially work for any healthy adult. Your knowledge and experience of the core-forming process put you at an advantage.”

Wei Wuxian sighs. “Yes, but it requires—I don’t have...I wouldn’t be able to ask anybody for this kind of help.” He holds the scroll up with a small, sad smile. “He was lucky.”

A deep, well-known pain sings through Lan Wangji’s veins, though he understands the reason for such a conclusion. He should have been clearer from the start.

“I would help you,” he says. It is simple and true, but it feels uncomfortably close to a confession, which is the last thing this situation needs. He struggles to keep the constant, raging brushfire of his feelings smothered. They do not belong in so delicate a conversation.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, his face twisting. “I couldn’t ask that of you. Especially not you, you’re—”

Lan Wangji braces against the coming pang, forcing himself to think objectively, forcing himself to wait.

“You’re too good,” Wei Wuxian finishes.

“It is your decision,” Lan Wangji says. “You need not ask. I have offered in the hope that you will consider it.” After a pause, he adds, “It would particularly benefit you in moments such as these, before your core begins to take shape. I did not wish to withhold information that could immediately ease your recovery.”

He glances up to find Wei Wuxian staring at him. He gathers himself and stares back, trying to exude confidence and certainty. Neither of which he feels.

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Wuxian begins, and Lan Wangji can see the hope beginning to take root. Can see the struggle between his desire for this opportunity, and his hesitance to burden Lan Wangji with the undertaking of it. “I…”

Lan Wangji waits. Watches something harden and shutter behind his eyes.

“I know you have regrets,” Wei Wuxian says. “You don’t owe me this, or anything. I don’t want your obligation, Lan Zhan, I only ever wanted your friendship.”

It takes a moment for the new burst of hurt to dwindle.

“I do not offer out of regret for the past,” he says at length, “but out of hope for the future.”

It is a meager sliver of what he means. Of the depth of his devotion, of his fear, of his years of mourning and his desperation not to repeat them. Of his dedication to Wei Wuxian’s ongoing wellness and freedom above all else. He prays it is the correct amount.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes go wide, but then his brows furrow, and his expression softens into rueful disapproval. “Ah, Lan Zhan, you…” he trails off. Sets the scroll to the side. Looks away. “I used to dream—ah, don’t listen to me. I’m grateful. That you would...give up...would give…”

“I am giving up nothing,” Lan Wangji insists, vehement. “Helping you is entirely selfish.”

He feels his ears go hot at the insinuation, at the sudden, brutal honesty of it. But Wei Wuxian does not seem to have heard those things. He shakes his head with a huff, then sobers.

“Alright, Lan Zhan.”

There is a beat of silence. Lan Wangji’s entire body goes simultaneously hot and cold. He has been so focused on his presentation of the facts, on carefully molding his words into shapes least likely to stoke old conflict, that he never once considered the possibility of his actually accepting the offer.

“If you...if you’re certain,” Wei Wuxian goes on, “then I...I’d be. I’d be grateful.”

It is evening, now. They have not eaten, and such a thing as dinner would be a useful excuse to delay. For Lan Wangji to gather his suddenly scattered wits. But Wei Wuxian’s current need is the reason he spoke up in the first place. He swallows down his unseemly cowardice and nods, then stands.

“May I help you?” He keeps his eyes on the edge of the bedframe.

“H..help?”

Lan Wangji does not hesitate, does not stutter. He forces the words out neatly, one after the other, as if they are easy and natural. “With the removal of your robes.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath. “Ah, no. I...can do that. I’ll…”

Wei Wuxian turns, slow and painstaking, and levers himself up. He wobbles, and Lan Wangji catches his arm. Their eyes do not meet. Lan Wangji feels his ears heating once more.

“I’m alright,” Wei Wuxian murmurs. Lan Wangji releases him, watches him make his slow way over to the changing screen.

Behind it, Wei Wuxian is undressing. He is undressing so that—

Lan Wangji carefully removes his guan. His thin outer robe. His belts. The wraps on his wrists. Belatedly, he places his boots at the end of the other bed. His bed. His hands are shaking by the time he unties his remaining middle layers. He is doing this all out of order. There is an order to these things. He cannot recall it.

Wei Wuxian emerges from behind the screen, his head bowed, casting furtive glances at him. He is wearing only his inner robe, the deep red of it stark against his pale skin. He was once tanned and glowing, blessed by the sun and something else, something burning bright from within. Lan Wangji reminds himself that their purpose now is to help him get that back.

The sound of a throat clearing startles him back into the moment.

“Should...should I...how should…” It is entirely unlike Wei Wuxian to stutter so. Lan Wangji feels a sting of sympathy for his unease.

“However you will be most comfortable,” he replies.

For Wei Wuxian must have more knowledge, more experience with these things than Lan Wangji. Surely. He does not think him truly shameless, no, but it would stretch the imagination to think that his easy familiarity and undeniable magnetism have gone entirely unrewarded thus far. But Lan Wangji does not think of it. He works hard not to think of it, in fact, as difficult as it is currently becoming.

Wei Wuxian casts him a swift, unreadable look, and then lies face down on the bed, his forehead pillowed on his arms. Standing beside him, Lan Wangji painstakingly uncurls his fists. He retrieves a jar of mild cosmetic oil from his pouch and sits beside Wei Wuxian’s hip. He reaches out, and then stops.

“I must—uncover—”

“I know,” comes Wei Wuxian’s muffled voice. “I know what you have to do, it’s alright. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

He has not. He will not. He delicately pinches the red fabric and pulls it up, exposing Wei Wuxian’s calves, his pale thighs, and then—he does not falter, does not wish to seem uncertain—the slight curve of his behind. He almost closes his eyes. He should not be seeing this. It is not for him. But he rallies. He tells himself to consider himself in the position of a healer. To stay detached, objective.

He opens the jar of oil and uses it to coat a finger.

“I am going to touch you now,” he says, his voice far too soft.

Wei Wuxian nods, so he forges on. He thinks that perhaps simply touching him...there. Would be too startling. He rests the back of his hand against his thigh, and Wei Wuxian flinches, bared muscles shifting and holding the flex in anxiety.

“Try to relax,” Lan Wangji says. He knows this to be important, if only abstractly, from illicit books.

A soundless nod is the only response. Lan Wangji frowns, but moves his hand higher, telegraphing his movements, giving fair warning. The rising and falling of Wei Wuxian’s back is deep and even. Deliberate. So he presses his finger in, between, and pulls it down the deep crease between his legs.

He can see no change in Wei Wuxian’s state. He is still tense, but not in any visible distress.

“Please inform me if it hurts,” Lan Wangji says, something in his throat fighting to say different words entirely. “Or if I should move more slowly. Or stop.”

Wei Wuxian nods against his arms once more. Lan Wangji presses his finger against the round ridge of muscle, and pushes gently. It opens to him, only somewhat reluctant, an odd unfurling give. The oil allows him to slide deeper, his progress slow and intentional. When half his finger has disappeared, he pauses. Tries to calm his wildly beating heart. He thought to be objective, methodical. But a part of him is inside of Wei Wuxian, hot, and tight, and slick, and he has spent so many years willfully not imagining it that he is entirely unprepared for the reality.

And then, Wei Wuxian shifts. It is a small movement, but a pointed one, his hips flexing, pushing back against his hand. Lan Wangji’s breath catches, heat igniting in his face, between his thighs, as his finger sinks deeper, and Wei Wuxian’s shoulders go taut. Lan Wangji fights the urge to say something, to apologize, to ask if it is alright, and instead moves his hand in gentle attempts at soothing motions which nevertheless manage to be entirely obscene.

His face is on fire now, as are his ears, his neck, his chest. He is equal parts aroused and ashamed of his arousal, aware that no matter his intention he is undoubtedly taking advantage. His mind whirls with it, dizzy, imagining a world in which this could be real instead of base mimicry, a genuine act of mutual desire instead of necessity. He clenches his teeth and forces himself to focus, to prepare his own energy, to ensure Wei Wuxian will not be hurt. That is all that matters. Not his own misplaced desires, not his pitiful melancholy.

Carefully, slowly, with utmost care paid to the way the muscle eases and gives, he adds another oil-slick finger. Wei Wuxian buries his head down below his arms. Lan Wangji pauses, wants to ask—but Wei Wuxian has promised to tell him if there is a problem. And he does not, at this point, think that he could muster clear speech.

He presses deeper, and Wei Wuxian shifts again, reflexive. Lan Wangji bites his tongue. He moves his fingers out, then in again. And again. Wei Wuxian’s thighs move as if to begin to draw up, apart, but then abruptly stop. Lan Wangji can see his back heaving with silent breath. He does not...he does not know what it means. He does not know anything, other than the burning need and the cold, sickly guilt twisting and twining together in his gut.

Wei Wuxian pushes back on his hand suddenly, and Lan Wangji startles. The realization that this cannot continue, that he must do more than just this, washes him in ice. He thinks...tries to think. Tries to consider the most chivalrous course of action, and settles on efficient haste.

He reaches down with his free hand, beneath his own trousers, and does close his eyes at the muddled embarrassment of it all, at the quiet sounds that are impossible to misconstrue. His fist and his fingers move in time, and Wei Wuxian shifts almost imperceptibly with the same rhythm, eventually letting out a sharp, audible breath. It could signal discomfort. Some primitive instinct tells Lan Wangji this is far from the case. He finds that he, in turn, cannot breathe at all, his lungs arresting with a flush of adrenaline. He does not look at Wei Wuxian, tries to forget how he is touching him, but it is impossible. Impossible not to know with every fiber of his being what exactly they are doing. He endures this until he knows he is very close to climax. Close enough that he need not impose on Wei Wuxian for very long.

He does not know which is worse. Removing his trousers to expose himself to the room, to this act, or the vulgar inelegance of clambering over him, of holding himself above Wei Wuxian with unsteady arms, trying not to touch him, unable to avoid the shocking contact of warm skin and fabric against his inner thighs. He forces himself to breathe. To center himself, as in meditation. To tap into his ready core, to anchor himself.

He refrains from reminding Wei Wuxian to think of the scroll. It is ridiculous to think that he would need such a reminder. There is no other possible reason for this to be happening.

The delay stretches out too long. He is stalling. Such selfishness is inexcusable. He guides himself down against the entrance to Wei Wuxian’s body, fragile and sacred as it is. He lowers himself, pressing down, pressing in. Slow, slow, maddening heat, shocking tightness that makes his head pound with the effort of not sheathing himself in it directly. He breathes, and shifts his hands on the bed, and perseveres.

One of Wei Wuxian’s hands stretches out, fumbling, and grips the bedframe, knuckles white. Lan Wangji wants to ask. Needs to ask.

“Is—” his voice is unrecognizable, breathy and strained, “is it alri—”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian says, a soft, cut-off sound not unlike a moan.

Lan Wangji twitches inside him, and they both gasp.

It feels. It feels. It is too much. His throat is constricting his air. Wei Wuxian’s body accommodates him, opens to him despite the tension in its every line, despite the way his head has curled even farther down. He lets out a low, inexplicable sound that makes Lan Wangji’s hips stutter, and then does it again. It seems involuntary, but far from pained. Lan Wangji wants to speak to him. Wants to reassure him, to praise him, to beg forgiveness. He wants to be allowed to love him.

His hips meet softly rounded flesh. His body wants to keep going, to sink against it, to press as close as physically possible. Suddenly, the long tail of his ribbon slips down the back of his arm, and when he catches sight of it, he forces himself to stop. Restraint. Moderation. This is enough. It is more than enough.

He has never felt anything like this.

Perhaps at last his tendency toward physical reservation, toward self-denial, has found its use. It will not take much more to finish this. He rises up, still slow, as slow as his trembling body can move him, then presses back in. He bites back a groan, terrified of accidentally giving voice to the wild, shameful thing beating against his ribs, only for Wei Wuxian to voice the selfsame sound. Lan Wangji does it again, and this time Wei Wuxian’s hips rise up to meet him, burying him deeper than he’d aimed to go. At their twin exclamations of shock, he comes, opening his core to the sudden flow of energy, allowing it to pour out freely into the thirsty well of Wei Wuxian’s meridians.

He is not prepared for the weightless, extended moment of pure connection. The physical and the spiritual together, binding them into one being for the length of several labored breaths. He gasps, and gasps, and distantly hears Wei Wuxian moan softly, feels tears of awe pricking at his own eyes. It is intense bliss, unlike anything he has ever known, to be one with Wei Wuxian.

When it ends, he comes back to himself with an unpleasant jolt. Back in his own depraved body, alone, separate once more. Quickly and carefully, he lifts himself off of Wei Wuxian, who does not move save for his still-rapid breaths.

“Meditate,” Lan Wangji makes himself say, gently covering him with his robe. “Then bathe, and sleep.”

Wei Wuxian nods quickly, his breaths deepening, his body relaxing visibly beneath thin red fabric. Lan Wangji hurries to wipe himself clean and pull his trousers back on. He will bathe after. He retreats to the opposite bed, and settles in to meditate himself, to regain the energy he has expended. He is strangely tired, between the fight and...this. It is difficult to fully attain the peace necessary to cultivate. His fingers itch for his qin, but he does not wish to disturb Wei Wuxian.

At length, he manages only an incense stick’s worth of true meditation before Wei Wuxian stirs. Lan Wangji’s eyes snap open at the sound, desperate for some sign of his physical and mental state.

Wei Wuxian rises slowly. He rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms, then catches Lan Wangji’s eye. His smile is small: a delicate but genuine thing. He opens his mouth and half turns toward Lan Wangji, then pauses. Lan Wangji’s eyes are drawn to a dark stain on the front of his robes. For a moment he is confused, but then Wei Wuxian grips the fabric at his hips, bunching it to hide the spot, and makes for the bath behind the screen in the corner.

“Lan Zhan, I’m sorry,” he starts, low and quick. “I haven’t ever...been...intimate with another person. And y—well. I’m sorry.”

He sounds worried. There is a frenetic undercurrent to his words that Lan Wangji has not quite heard before.

Lan Wangji, through his blank shock, still maintains the reflex to reassure him. “There is nothing to apologize for,” he says.

“Alright,” says Wei Wuxian, sounding unconvinced. “That’s...good.”

The silence that follows is only broken by the gentle noises of displaced water. Lan Wangji sits very still, a stark contrast to the raging whirlwind in his mind.

Wei Wuxian had...he had...or rather, his body had reacted. In such a way. To…

The tone of his voice suddenly connects with the correct interpretation in Lan Wangji’s brain. He sounded ashamed.

Ashamed.

Wei Wuxian. Not merely embarrassed, but ashamed, almost afraid with the depth of it. And Lan Wangji made him feel this way.

His heart pounds painfully in his chest. He cannot accept this. He cannot bear this. He never wanted—never meant for this to be a hardship for Wei Wuxian. He strove to make it simple, to cast off any unwanted meaning and yet this, this is the thing that hurt him. In trying to separate himself, in trying to spare his own excessive feelings, he has—

Wei Wuxian has never been intimate with another person before. And Lan Wangji has reduced it to this. Has turned it to shame.

It hits him in waves of confusion, of remorse, of desperation. He cannot let this fester. He cannot let Wei Wuxian bear this—this humiliation at his hands. He feels ill. Imagines that, perhaps, so does Wei Wuxian.

That, perhaps now, or in time, Wei Wuxian will feel ill at the very sight of him.

He must make this right.

He does not know what to do, or to say, when We Wuxian emerges, damp and clean and wrapped in a sleeping robe. He takes his turn in the bath, his mind churning, his heart sick. He thinks of Wei Wuxian, and the way he carries himself, the way he has always been so at home in his body, even when he was at war with it. He thinks of the way Wei Wuxian seems to subsist on touch, to hunger for it such that it disappears into his every interaction. And he thinks of the way Wei Wuxian trusts him. The way Wei Wuxian trusts him with this. With his body, and with touch. The way Lan Wangji is entirely unqualified for such a precious thing.

When he himself is clean and dry, Wei Wuxian appears to be sleeping across the room. Lan Wangji watches the way his side rises and falls with deep, steady breath, the way his dark hair spills across his pillow in the moonlight from the window above his bed. He has always wanted to run his fingers through it. To comb it carefully, to plait it, to tie it up out of his way when he works.

That may not be his. But he must take care of the thing that is, however temporarily. The future of their friendship depends upon it, and that is something he cannot lose. He cannot. He lies in his bed, and feels a deep, dark sleep pulling at him immediately. Just before it takes him, he decides: He will do better. He will be better. For Wei Wuxian.

Chapter Text

Lan Wangji wakes.

It happens abnormally slowly. The tiredness in his body is familiar but lately uncommon—it has been long years since any activity has drained his energy to such a degree that he was not able to quickly recover it. For a short, blissful moment, he does not remember why he feels this way.

He sits up. His eyes fall on the opposite bed. It is empty.

In a single, sick rush, the previous night floods his mind.

And now Wei Wuxian has gone.

Suddenly he is standing, bracing himself on the bed as he tilts. He is making his way to the door. Perhaps, if he could just find him—

Or. He pauses, his insides suspended before the fall.

Was Wei Wuxian ever here at all?

No. No, he—

Of course not.

He bends violently at the waist, curling in on himself in a flash of pain. His stomach is empty, which is a small mercy, but his lips have gone numb and his legs buckle. He does not feel it when his knees meet hard wood.

He forces his lungs to fill slowly, steadily, deeply. He forces them to empty just the same. Every time he forgets and then remembers, he gets better at this, but it is never easy. Never. But he knows what to do, how to drag himself back from the realization, all over again, that Wei Wuxian is dead. He breathes, and relaxes his tensed muscles, and reminds himself in repeated, familiar phrases, almost like poetry. Wei Ying is gone, but I am still here. I am still here, though Wei Ying is gone.

It is not the first time. But it is the first time such a dream has been so...unimaginably vivid. He tries to think past it, to his real purpose here in this inn, to regain his footing in reality, to—

His eyes catch on a large swath of deep red. An inner robe draped over the privacy screen in the corner.

He sits down hard.

What is real and what is not shift around him once more. Wei Wuxian is alive. Lan Wangji’s throat, ragged from the harshness of his breaths, fills with a hard lump. He tries to swallow it down, but cannot. He fumbles for water on the table beside him, nearly spilling it. It is too hot in his strangely cold mouth, but he manages it. He manages. At least this time, the reverse realization has not come from the casual words of another, out in the world. At least this time, he has a moment to gather himself, alone.

In the main room, the door slides open.

Lan Wangji turns away and hastens into a proper seat, slipping behind his customary posture like a mask. A shield. His breaths are even, his back straight. He wipes carefully at his face, just in case. His hand comes away damp. He clenches his jaw.

Behind him, Wei Wuxian clears his throat.

“I brought breakfast,” he says, coming around to set a tray on the table.

Lan Wangji keeps his eyes down, disguising the remnant shaking of his hands with the process of brewing tea.

“Mn,” he says. It is perhaps rude. But it is the best he can presently do without incident.

Neither of them speak as they set out the dishes, the chopsticks, the cups. With each moment Lan Wangji settles more firmly into the present, into the rhythm of being here, being with Wei Wuxian. The layers of confusion, of panic, of loss all abate, and the off-kilter queasiness in his stomach takes on its proper meaning. He makes himself eat what he can despite it, to ground himself further in his body.

It is at that point he realizes he is still wearing only his sleeping robes. He experiences another brief, residual flare of panic, which he washes down with fresh tea. It helps nothing. Wei Wuxian is here, and Lan Wangji is unspeakably thankful. But Wei Wuxian is also sitting across from him, solemn and small and too quiet, and Lan Wangji knows he is the reason. He cannot continue to appear so withdrawn. It will only worsen the situation. He clears his throat as silently as he can, testing its reliability.

“How do you feel?”

At the edge of his vision, Wei Wuxian goes still. “Fine—good—I feel. Ah, better than…thank you.”

Lan Wangji fights the urge to crumble at the horrible, awkward gulf between them. He has done this. This is what he has made of all of their impossible additional chances. He is aware that actually looking at Wei Wuxian would help alleviate some sense of distance, but he is afraid of what his eyes might betray. He weighs one fear against the other. In the end, he looks up.

“I am glad,” he says.

It is inadequate. Wei Wuxian is hunched down, curled in on himself, eyes down on his bowl. Lan Wangji places more vegetables in it, and Wei Wuxian startles. Glances up.

“Eat more,” Lan Wangji says, as gently as he can. “Forming a new core requires fuel.”

Wei Wuxian looks away again, and nods. Still, he does not eat much more than what Lan Wangji gives him. It goes on like this, painfully silent, until the meal is finished and Lan Wangji rises to dress himself at last.

"It would be wise to meditate once more before leaving," he says, as he comes out from behind the changing screen.

Wei Wuxian nods and settles into lotus pose on his bed. The sudden longing to sit beside him engulfs Lan Wangji, simple but stifling. It is true that he has resolved to try to reach across the distance he unwittingly created, but this seems too invasive a first step. Unwelcome, so soon after...after. With a pang, he sits at the table instead.

He wishes he could play for him. It would undeniably accelerate his progress, but Lan Wangji needs this time to fully recover his own energy. Yet another way in which he has failed Wei Wuxian.

While he settles things with the innkeeper, Wei Wuxian goes out to the stable to prepare Little Apple for the next leg of their journey. In the lobby, the quiet, mundane comings and goings of life settle Lan Wangji. It is freeing, to get out of their room and back into the world, where things go on as normal. It is easier to breathe, and to remember what they are to each other. Zhiji. Two people who have chosen each other amongst the sea of millions.

By the time he has finished and followed Wei Wuxian, he has mustered the confidence to lay a hand on his shoulder. Wei Wuxian startles slightly, and turns his head to look at him. He wears an expression Lan Wangji knows, but wishes he did not. It is a reminder of past failures. It says, this is a tipping point. It is fragile. We are fragile. How will you treat us?

Lan Wangji presses gently, allowing the love he contains to overflow just that much. Just enough to speak in the language Wei Wuxian understands best. With care.

“Onward,” he says then, in what he hopes is a reassuring voice.

Wei Wuxian nods. It is a start.

Later, as he leads Little Apple along the muddy road into the next village, the sky brightens. A brilliant, vivid blue shows between white, fluffy clouds; the flattened gray shadows of the morning deepening to an afternoon of color and contrast. Wei Wuxian, too, has livened somewhat, playing song after meandering song on Chenqing. They have not spoken often, but Lan Wangji has done his best to treat him with exceptional physical care. To speak through brushes of his arm against Wei Wuxian’s knee, or a hand upon his wrist. It should not be as thrilling as it is. But Wei Wuxian soaks it up silently, a drooping vine watered.

The town is large and busy, missing only the guarded walls and gates that would name it a city. Lan Wangji guides them first to his contact there, hoping the elder will direct them to a respectable inn for the night. He has never tarried here on his own, making several stops in a single day and delegating the smaller, easier hunts to junior disciples to be dispatched at his instruction. This town has never yet required his personal attention. But this journey is different. He is taking it at a donkey’s pace, and conserving his own energy as they go. He will not be flying his sword day in and day out. It will take weeks, at this rate, but he has informed his sect of this change in pace, as well as the barest details he could spare as to why. He is certain, with the preparations and mechanisms he has left in place, that it will not be a problem.

His hand on Wei Wuxian’s elbow is sure and unwavering as he helps him dismount outside the elder’s modestly elegant house. Wei Wuxian casts him another unreadable look, but allows it. In fact, Lan Wangji almost imagines he feels him lean into it before turning to rummage in a saddlebag. His fingers curl closed on empty air as the elder himself comes out to greet them.

“Welcome, Hanguang-jun,” he says, saluting properly with a broad smile. “We are most thankful for your visit. This humble servant wonders at your foresight to time it so promptly, and for the need to bring extra assistance.”

Lan Wangji shares a glance with Wei Wuxian before responding. “You give too much credit,” he says, “this is all happenstance. Please, elaborate.”

The elder proceeds to inform them of a band of fierce corpses that has been roaming the countryside, razing farms as they go. They’ve made countless messes, and even killed half a dozen people in the last few days. The origin of the corpses—storm damage to a rural cemetery—was located and rectified, but the monsters themselves remain.

Once Lan Wangji has thanked the man for his help, he and Wei Wuxian set off for the recommended accommodation. A sense of unease spreads in Lan Wangji’s chest as he realizes he must make a suggestion Wei Wuxian will not like. He does not wish to tell him what to do, but his concern and the reason for it must be made known. He centers himself, banishing his fears of Wei Wuxian’s reaction. They are not the same people they were almost two decades ago.

“Wei Ying,” he says at last, “it would be best if you stay in town.”

Wei Wuxian turns and looks at him, frowning. Not upset, but confused. “Why?”

“It is crucial to conserve your energy at this time,” Lan Wangji clarifies. “If you nighthunt, you will likely be tempted to use skills you cannot presently spare.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian protests, brow furrowing, “I can’t sit here waiting while you go off and hunt.”

Lan Wangji does not see why not. “Additional meditation will do good to the formation of a core. Careless use of what little energy you have will only prolong the process.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth is already open to argue further, but he shuts it with an audible click. He looks down at the ground before his feet. “Ah.”

The uneasy atmosphere has returned, the air thin and awkward between them. Lan Wangji does not know what Wei Wuxian is precisely thinking, but he is determined to move them past it.

“Wei Ying, do not worry,” he says. He knows inaction pains Wei Wuxian greatly. “This is temporary. You will form a new core, and you will be free to use it as you wish.”

Wei Wuxian nods slowly, looking off into the crowded market they are passing. “Mn,” he says.

Lan Wangji does not think either of them are reassured.

The forest between the two most lately affected farms is cool and quiet, devoid of both sunlight and birdsong, the lush green of it trampled and suffocated by the inexorable forward shambling of death. Lan Wangji glides between the trees, Bichen at the ready, following the wide track of broken underbrush left in the corpse band’s wake. It looks to have been made by about ten of them; disastrous for the average farmstead or traveler, but manageable for someone of Lan Wangji’s skill. As he advances, he hears a small sound in the underbrush and dismisses it, then catches the scent of rot on the near-stagnant air. They are close.

He hears them next, their feet dragging, their ragged clothes catching, accompanied by no sounds of life. No words, no breath. No heartbeats. Just the eerie shuffling of ten aimless bodies. Lan Wangji silently leaps up to the branch of a tree, barely bowing it beneath his feet before he is gone, onto the next. He moves seamlessly between boughs until he finds himself overlooking the desolate, corrupted crowd. He checks them over carefully from above and senses nothing out of the ordinary, ensuring there are no ugly surprises waiting among them. Just the too-taut buildup of resentful energy inside of them, searching ceaselessly for any destructive outlet at all.

When Lan Wangji drops to the ground accompanied by Bichen’s first strike, the dam bursts. The remaining corpses rush him, fall upon him, snarling and screaming their ceaseless rage and sorrow. It is chaos, but this is Lan Wangji’s craft. He strikes with certainty and precision, his senses honed for just such purpose, and the things that were once human fall around him like so much wheat beneath the scythe, finally severed from the ills of this world. Finally at rest. At peace.

He twists and turns, striking and slashing methodically with both blade and energy as the corpses roar and groan and churn. It is grim work, particularly when done alone. It was good, yesterday, to have a partner. Someone to share in the adrenaline. The responsibility. Perhaps, someday, he will have it again.

Or perhaps not.

His mind has wandered carelessly, inexcusably away from his task, and he blocks the swipe of a worn, skeletal claw nearly too late. But just as he does, just as those decayed fingers brush his white sleeve, there is a soft, sharp whoosh, followed by a flat thunk.

Lan Wangji turns to look, and there is an arrow protruding from the throat of the corpse which had nearly laid its hand on him. This close, he can see swirling characters inscribed on the shaft, like those of a talisman. On instinct, as he stabs through another attacking corpse, he flings a shot of spiritual energy into the bolt. It shudders with blue light, and a moment later the corpse is blown back several feet, a lightly smoking hole in its chest.

It is brilliant, efficient work. Lan Wangji does not need to look for its creator, but he is incapable of keeping his eyes from the search. When he finds him, his mouth goes dry.

Wei Wuxian is perched on the trunk of a fallen tree, one foot braced up on a branch, an arrow-nocked bow in his hands. His expression is one of prideful elation. As Lan Wangji watches, he pulls back the string and releases in a single, fluid motion, as if aiming is entirely unnecessary. As if the arrow exists only to enact Wei Wuxian’s will.

Lan Wangji envies the arrow its simplicity of purpose.

As he whirls to behead his fourth fierce corpse, a bright slash of red flits past the corner of his eye. He grits his teeth, fighting forward with renewed fervor, imbuing each new, perfectly-aimed arrow with spiritual energy as he goes. In scant minutes he straightens, surveying the carnage sprawled across the forest floor. No corpse is left moving. Only when he is certain it is safe does he look around once more.

Wei Wuxian is standing on the other side of the clearing, arms crossed, the bow slung over his shoulder. His smile is crooked. Arrogant but, in a way only he could ever manage, charming nonetheless. He looks as well as he did when they parted at the inn; a healthy, triumphant gleam in his eyes. The horrible tightness in Lan Wangji’s chest eases, replaced by a familiar, multi-faceted warmth.

But then Wei Wuxian catches his eye and holds it for half a moment too long. He drops his gaze, his smile fading just enough to hurt.

Lan Wangji does not know what to say. His throat is still dry, and the rush of battle is still too close to think clearly. But he cannot let the silence ring any longer.

“You made these just now?”

Wei Wuxian nods, his face carefully neutral.

“Very impressive.”

“Thanks,” Wei Wuxian says with a shrug. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

His demeanor is dampened such that Lan Wangji almost wants to shake him. Instead he nods, cleans his sword, and starts toward the town. He has only one idea of how to fix this, and his uncertainty will not change that. He has only until tonight to gather his courage.

Back at the inn, supper eaten, Lan Wangji still feels the heat of the fight, the fear for Wei Wuxian, the joy at having him there fighting at his side. It is a heady and inconvenient mix as he heads up to their room, as he prepares himself for his next challenge. It will require delicacy. And bravery. And a far more forward attitude than he has ever thought he might even approach the use of. But he must try. He must.

Just as he is taking down his hair, Wei Wuxian follows him into their room, his second jar of liquor in hand. He is more quiet now than he was downstairs, and Lan Wangji is certain he means to down it in one go. It is impossible to blame him for a desire for liquid absolution. If Lan Wangji thought it would help, he would do the same.

He turns and takes the jar from him, setting it on the table. Wei Wuxian startles and goes still, staring. He is visibly stopping himself from speaking Lan Wangji’s name, holding that small piece of intimacy inside, away from what they both know is about to happen.

Lan Wangji understands. He stands before him, heart pounding slow and hard, and cannot meet his eyes. He fears what might happen if he were to try. “A moment.”

Wei Wuxian is silent in the warm lantern light. Outside, wind sighs through the trees. Lan Wangji takes a breath.

“If it is your intention to continue with dual cultivation, I would...proceed differently,” he says. “If you agree.”

“...Oh?” Wei Wuxian’s voice is thin and dry.

Lan Wangji nods. “I would...” he pauses, painfully aware of the layered meanings behind so many potential phrasings. “If you thought it possible, I would wish it to be a positive experience.”

“Positive,” Wei Wuxian repeats faintly.

“Mn,” nods Lan Wangji. He glances up at his wide-eyed, bemused, lovely face. “Is it?”

“What?”

“Possible.”

“Oh. I…” Wei Wuxian glances around the room as if seeking escape. Lan Wangji’s heart lurches, but he keeps very still, waiting. “You make it sound like torture, Lan Zhan,” he murmurs, eyes downcast. His shoulders are hunched again, making him appear smaller than he is. “It wasn’t. You’re giving me—you don’t have to…”

He does not finish his sentence. Lan Wangji is not reassured. He forces his stiff jaw open, forces his mouth to form more words.

“If I thought it were torturous, I would not offer again,” he says. “I am asking if you think it conceivable to improve on such low expectations.”

Wei Wuxian’s expression is growing ever more pained. Lan Wangji’s instinct is to change the subject, apologize, buy him all the finest wine in the region in penance for such a distasteful and awkward conversation. But he holds firm. If he can only push through the discomfort, perhaps he can begin to heal the wound he made.

“I...don’t know,” says Wei Wuxian.

Lan Wangji purses his lips in consideration of this. It is honest, and a more promising answer than he dared hope for. How is Wei Wuxian to know if such an intimate act, when done with someone for whom one feels no desire, can be made favorable?

“I understand,” he says. His ears are preemptively growing very hot. “In which case, would you be amenable to an attempt at discovering the answer?”

There is a long beat of silence during which Lan Wangji’s shoulders begin to ache with tension.

“...Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says at last. “What are—what exactly are we talking about?”

Hiding his shaking hands in his sleeves, Lan Wangji works to swiftly order his words into the least offensive combination possible.

“You deserve better than a step above torture,” he says. “If you prefer impersonality. I will of course not ask again.”

He takes an excruciating step forward. Then another. He is in Wei Wuxian’s space, now, almost close enough to feel his breath. He fights his every instinct to run, or worse, to press closer, and instead gently takes Wei Wuxian’s wrist, prepared to let go at the slightest resistance. The fabric wound around it is soft, the overlapping layers flat and neat. With the hope that if he imbues his actions with utmost care they will speak more eloquently than he is able, he unwraps it. Round by slow round.

It is by far the most purposefully erotic thing he has ever done. It takes effort to keep his breath, his words, steady.

“But if you would not mind,” he goes on, more quietly than he means to. “I would try to make this a thing you could enjoy.”

While Wei Wuxian lets out a long, uneven breath, Lan Wangji sets aside the first wristwrap and then unwinds the second. This is allowed, silently. He knows it is not permission, but he means only to prove his intent. He reaches next for Wei Wuxian’s belt.

There is a sharp intake of breath, and a hand on his wrist.

“Lan Zhan.”

The use of his name, now, is arresting. He centers himself and lifts his gaze to Wei Wuxian’s bemused, near-panicked face. His resolve falters, but his hand does not. It lays against Wei Wuxian’s waist with all the confidence he does not feel.

“You don’t have to—I don’t know why—”

“I want to,” Lan Wangji confesses, because now it comes to it, he must.

Wei Wuxian falls silent, his eyes searching Lan Wangji’s face with all the quickness of his incomparable mind. Something settles in his expression, and his grip falls away from Lan Wangji’s wrist.

It is still not permission. Acutely aware of this, Lan Wangji focuses on the actions required of him, on the mechanics of his hands. Loosen the loop. Slide studded leather through the ring. Pull it out the other side. Grasp the edge, remove it entirely. Set it down on the table with care.

The tie of Wei Wuxian’s middle robes is exposed, now. That is next. Lan Wangji does not hesitate. If he simply maintains his momentum, he will be able to carry on. Such is the way of all difficult things in life. He tugs the knot loose, and the fabric falls open, revealing darker, softer, solid black beneath. He pinches the string holding this last layer closed, the fragile, final barrier between them, and finally looks up at Wei Wuxian’s face.

He is staring, lips parted, eyes still so very wide. Lovely even in his blank confusion, even in his uncertain shock. Lan Wangji realizes his throat is very dry. He swallows past it.

“May I?”

Wei Wuxian glances away, and then back, his eyelashes fluttering. But he nods his assent, a small, shaky thing. Lan Wangji takes his hand back, a sudden surge of fear, of ancient, deep-seated anxiety piercing him.

“Do not feel obligation,” he says, terrified that he has already exerted too much pressure. That he has already pushed too hard, removed the comfort of alternative options. The urge to flee grows. This, this exactly, this thievery of Wei Wuxian’s freedom has been his greatest dread. “I wish only...only to…”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian murmurs. Lan Wangji’s eyes snap to his face, to the pink flush washing his cheeks. He looks terribly abashed. Terribly sweet. Lan Wangji aches. “You can. I want you to.”

The words seize the muscles of Lan Wangji’s lower stomach, drawing them tight. He pauses for a long moment.

“Are you certain? I would forget this, should you ask me to.”

Wei Wuxian huffs and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t,” he says. “I’m...I’m certain, if you are.”

Lan Wangji is not certain. Not certain that he can manage to...to please Wei Wuxian, as is his goal. Not certain that he can hold himself steady enough to keep his focus where it should be, and not on the torrent of feeling already beginning to build inside his bones. Not certain that he can go through with this at all.

But it is too late to turn back now. He can no more submit either of them to last night’s ungainly shame than he can stop this altogether. Wei Wuxian needs this to form a new core. And Lan Wangji needs not to lose him entirely in the process.

He hooks his thumbs inside Wei Wuxian’s middle layer, gathering it together with the outer robe and pushing them back, off of Wei Wuxian’s shoulders all at once. He steps yet closer in order to guide them down his arms, stooping to pull them free. He can feel the heat of Wei Wuxian’s nearly-bare shoulder against his face. He wants to turn, to run his mouth along it. He tries very hard to think if it would be appropriate. If it would serve the governing purpose of Wei Wuxian’s satisfaction.

He straightens slowly, still considering, somewhat hindered by the confusion of trepidation and desire in his mind. He is allowed...he is allowed something, now. Wei Wuxian has agreed. He must simply strive to stay within the undefined bounds of that something. He decides, based on the questionably accurate information found in prohibited literature and his own even more questionably accurate fantasies, that yes, lips are a proper vehicle for the provision of pleasure. Lightly, mindful of objection, he presses his mouth to Wei Wuxian’s silk-covered collarbone. When no protest is made, he does it again, this time to the delicate, bare sweep of his throat. He watches goosebumps rise in his wake. He wants to lick, to bite—but this is surely a step too far. Another chaste press, slightly firmer, slightly higher, and Wei Wuxian’s right hand suddenly grips Lan Wangji’s arm. Lan Wangji pulls back to look at him, his nose just barely brushing Wei Wuxian’s jaw as he goes. Their faces are very, very close. He wants, more than anything in the world, older than almost any other desire, to kiss him.

But taking this...taking a kiss from his lips. Certainly, wherever their new line is, this would cross it. Wei Wuxian must be allowed to keep some things private, to keep certain acts for the person to whom he will freely choose to give them, whomever and whenever that may be. Lan Wangji will keep these things guarded for them, in the meantime. It is the least he can do, as he hoards so much of Wei Wuxian for himself.

When at last he manages to meet Wei Wuxian’s eyes, they have gone ink-dark. Twin pools of something that might even be desire.

“Your turn,” Wei Wuxian says.

The low roughness of his voice catches at Lan Wangji’s insides like a hook, pulling him onward. Once he’s parsed the meaning of the words, he has already divested himself of his own middle layer and the skirt beneath it. He manages not to pause before taking Wei Wuxian’s wrist again and bringing him toward the bed.

There is a charged, helpless moment wherein they stand beside each other, staring. Lan Wangji is acutely aware that this was his choice, his idea. He must do something. He must act. Please Wei Wuxian. Make this something he can enjoy. Remove all traces of shame.

This would be easier done if his own shame were not bubbling up inside him, hot and sticky as tar.

He pushes it down, ruthless and efficient from long years of practice, and presses Wei Wuxian down onto the bed. He hovers over him, beside him, and unties his last layer, sliding his hand inside, feeling the flinch of hard muscle along his waist. He does not think of the fact that he is touching Wei Wuxian, with intent no less. He does not think of the way his warm skin feels against his palm. He opens the robe and ducks down to press his mouth to pale, untanned skin, aiming for the most sensitive places on his own body, with which he truly is only vaguely acquainted. He listens for any reaction, and the speeding of the heartbeat under his hands is something holy, something long thought lost, miraculously found.

Wei Wuxian is gripping both of his arms tightly now, his breaths coming faster. When Lan Wangji finds the nerve to brush his lips across a nipple, Wei Wuxian gasps quietly, his hips shifting. The heat, the sound, the scent of him, all battle Lan Wangji’s restraint, and he is thankful for the familiar feeling of the ribbon across his forehead as he dips his fingers beneath the waistband of his trousers.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian breathes.

Lan Wangji pauses to make sure he still has not yet gone too far, has not done something unwanted. Wei Wuxian’s mouth is open, bitten red and spit-slick, and it takes every ounce of his discipline not to dive into it. He clenches his teeth. That is not what they are doing. That is not what he is here for. That is not his.

“Lan Zhan, you…”

“Is this alright?”

Fingers tighten on Lan Wangji’s bicep, on his wrist. Wei Wuxian nods. Lan Wangji unties his trousers and pulls them down, down, and it was a mistake, this was all a terrible mistake, because there, now, before him, is Wei Wuxian’s cock: stiff, and dark, a scant distance from his hand, from...his mouth waters. He knows it would be very good, to put his mouth...he reminds himself adamantly that his desires are meant to be irrelevant. He tears his eyes away and closes his lips instead over the nipple that had made Wei Wuxian gasp.

It works, brilliantly well, a small, breathy sound escaping Wei Wuxian’s throat above him. He laves over it with his tongue, mouthing at it, worrying it until it is hard and dark as well, and Wei Wuxian is pressing the bone of his hip up against the meat of Lan Wangji’s palm. Only then does he give in and haltingly, uncertainly, move his hand. His fingers brush against his length, hot and hard, and his own cock aches, but Wei Wuxian pushes his hand away.

He looks hazy and wild, his long hair mussed in a way that should not be attractive, but very much is. He is glowing with sweat and candlelight, devastating in his raw beauty. Lan Wangji’s heart pulses in his throat, choking him.

“Not yet,” Wei Wuxian breathes. He clears his throat. “I’ll...it’ll be over, if you do that. Just. Skip it.”

Adrenaline courses through Lan Wangji, making his lungs buzz with something between satisfaction and anticipation. He was so nervous, so afraid that he would not be able to make Wei Wuxian feel anything other than awkward embarrassment. And yet now...but he cannot dwell on it. The most difficult part is yet to come.

He nods and pulls away, reaching to the side, to the small jar of oil in his qiankun pouch. He kneels beside him on the bed and tugs Wei Wuxian’s trousers off, and keeps his eyes averted from the alluring sight of his lithe body half-wrapped in rumpled silk. Lightly, delicately, he touches his thigh, asking for access however Wei Wuxian sees fit to give it. Wei Wuxian’s knee bends slowly, his leg pressing against Lan Wangji’s hip, his side, as it rises. Lan Wangji resists the urge to pull it close, to dig his fingers into the meat of it, to suck, to—

With a shaky breath, he composes himself. The slickness of the oil, the hot press and give of Wei Wuxian’s flesh, are the same as before. What is different, this time, is the openness of his posture, the spread of his legs, the slight, hitching flex of his hips, of his back, as Lan Wangji slides his fingers inside. He can see the way his eyelids flutter closed, the way his throat works, the way his lips press and open and slip between teeth to stifle ragged breaths. He tries to keep his eyes there, on his face, his focus on finding the most precise pathways to his pleasure. But he finds them errantly slipping down, to the flex and arch of his stomach, the flushed dripping of his beautifully curved cock. He wants to taste it, still, shamefully. He wants to swallow him whole.

Something happens, then, suddenly, and Wei Wuxian’s voice is dragged from him, sweet and shocked and wanton. Lan Wangji’s eyes snap back to his desperate face, to his head thrown back, to the sweat glistening beneath his sharp jaw. He repeats the movement of his fingers, and Wei Wuxian moans, pressing down against his hand. His own heart is pounding at the cage of his ribs as if demanding to be let out, his arousal aching and uncomfortable, but he ignores it all in favor of focus, in favor of making Wei Wuxian writhe and cry out again and again.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, half a whimper that jolts straight through to Lan Wangji’s hips. “Lan Zhan, I...I want—” he cuts off, gasping, and Lan Wangji stills his fingers to let him speak, watches the staccato rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath. “That’s enough,” he manages at last, eyes burning into Lan Wangji hotter than the fuzzy sense-memory of a brand. “I want you, now.”

Lan Wangji is frozen for an extended, thunderstruck moment. His heart leaps then drops then leaps again as the words sink in, as he processes them as true, but not in the endless, expansive way he wants them to be. True enough, though. True enough for this.

Gently, he eases his fingers free. He shuffles over to kneel between Wei Wuxian’s strong, spread thighs and leans over him, braced on an arm beside his waist. Lan Wangji can feel the heat coming off him, this close, but he himself is blazing, both with the shame of doing such a thing and the excitement of it, the pure, raw desire boiling his blood. He does not look at his face. He tries not to look at him at all as he pushes down his own trousers and shifts down. It is an odd angle, so he touches Wei Wuxian’s thigh again, requesting, though he does not know precisely what. His face burns. Wei Wuxian’s knee lifts, his calf pressing against the back of Lan Wangji’s bare flank. He shuts his eyes and breathes through the heady shot of arousal of skin on skin.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asks. He runs his hand up Lan Wangji’s arm, soothing. It cuts through the haze, fond and devastating.

How is he to live with this? This easy intimacy that both is and is not his?

How will he live, once Wei Wuxian’s core is established, without it?

“Ready?” Lan Wangji asks, instead of giving in to premature grief.

“Yes,” says Wei Wuxian, pulling him down impatiently with one leg, and bending the other higher in an unconscious, suggestive splay.

Lan Wangji wishes, again, that he could kiss him.

Instead, he guides himself down, and in, and breathes. He breathes, and breathes, and does his best not to shake as he presses slowly past Wei Wuxian’s body’s defenses, as he eases his sublimely agonizing way inside.

Wei Wuxian’s breath stutters in fits and starts, his fingers tightening, and tightening, and tightening on Lan Wangji’s bicep.

“Oh,” he says, then, "ah, Lan Zhan—”

Lan Wangji is breathing harder than he has in recent memory, the rampant flame in his blood fanned with each use of his name, in that voice, in this tone. But he pauses, holds himself still even as his body is demanding more, faster, now.

“Alright?” His voice is hoarse. Broken. An unacceptable sign of weakness.

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian forces out, clipped. Lan Wangji can feel the warmth of his breath. “I—yes. Don’t stop.”

He does as asked and presses on, fighting hard not to lose himself in the tight heat, in the fire that licks along his every nerve. Wei Wuxian pants beneath him and holds on, both knees pressing into Lan Wangji’s waist, squeezing him pleasantly. It is more sensual, more grounding, more intimate than ever would have occurred to him, before. At length, he is entirely sheathed, surprised by the sudden slickness of oiled skin against his body.

Wei Wuxian’s hand shifts up behind Lan Wangji’s shoulder, fisting in the material of his tunic, pulling, and Lan Wangji’s arm buckles. He lands on his elbow as Wei Wuxian makes a surprised, satisfied sound and angles his body differently, restlessly, hooking his ankles behind Lan Wangji’s back. Lan Wangji cannot breathe. He is suffocating under the weight of his need and his heavy responsibility, his muffled, labored panting bouncing back at him from Wei Wuxian’s flushed throat.

“Come on,” Wei Wuxian murmurs into his hair, “come on, Lan Zhan. Move.”

The next morning, the two of them walk the market stalls to find breakfast. Wei Wuxian had woken uncharacteristically early and shyly requested it. Lan Wangji, of course, agreed. They walk side by side now, close but not touching, as Wei Wuxian quietly scans the offerings along the street. Lan Wangji struggles to keep from staring at him, from trying to discern if his last-ditch effort has succeeded.

“Ah, look there,” Wei Wuxian says suddenly, pointing. They’ve reached the end of the market street, and almost left the town entirely. “We can people-watch while we sit and eat. How about it?”

Lan Wangji nods, and they take up places at a shaded table. Wei Wuxian orders for both of them with a grin before leaning on the table to watch the few early risers pass in and out of town. Lan Wangji surreptitiously watches him in turn, until a young woman passes with a basket of flowers for sale. Wei Wuxian calls her over excitedly.

“Guniang! These flowers are almost as lovely as the one who sells them. Tell me, how much for this bloom here?”

She blushes pink as Wei Wuxian indicates a lush, white camellia. She stammers out a price, and Wei Wuxian plucks it from the basket, then swiftly tucks it behind Lan Wangji’s ear.

It is Lan Wangji’s turn to flush. Wei Wuxian smiles at him daringly, dazzlingly, and then pays the young lady. Lan Wangji almost does not recover before she is gone, but as she turns, he spots the stunning, dew-laden bloom pinned to the side of her half-bun.

“Guniang,” he says. She stops, and they avoid each other’s eyes, both freshly embarrassed by Wei Wuxian’s teasing. But after only a moment of consideration, spurred on by Wei Wuxian’s laughter, he speaks. “Might I purchase the blossom in your hair?”

She glances at him, uncertain.

“If it is too great a gift to ask, think nothing of it,” he says. “But money is no object, should you be willing to part with it.”

She doesn’t hesitate to remove the fiery red lotus flower from her hair. It is a delicate thing, freshly cut, and it will only live a short time more—a reminder of their current proximity to the lakes of Yunmeng. He pays her for it and, once she has gone, wordlessly places it behind Wei Wuxian’s ear.

Wei Wuxian tracks the movement with wide eyes, and then watches Lan Wangji’s face as his fingers brush the shell of his ear. Lan Wangji’s cheeks burn under the scrutiny, but Wei Wuxian is smiling, smiling, so brightly it almost hurts to look at, but Lan Wangji looks anyway. He cannot stop looking. He sees the moment a new thought strikes Wei Wuxian, and the smile fades to something softer. Something almost uncertain. He reaches up and takes the flower off, then leans in, and tucks it behind Lan Wangji’s other ear. His fingers linger for the barest moment in Lan Wangji’s hair.

Several breaths back up in Lan Wangji’s lungs and begin to struggle to get out. He is frozen, locked in Wei Wuxian’s soft gaze. It feels like a claim. No—it is not that. It cannot be, not between them. Not from Wei Wuxian, who flirts, and teases, and gives with all the kindness of his untamed heart, but has never asked Lan Wangji for anything more. That much, Lan Wangji is still sane enough to remember. But it feels...it does feel, perhaps, like forgiveness. Like moving on.

Lan Wangji removes the white camellia and reaches across to set it where the red lotus briefly lived, and Wei Wuxian’s smile flares bright once more, just as their food arrives.

The following days see Wei Wuxian’s return to his normal, spirited self. He is as free with his affections as he ever was: teasing, touching, playing as is his wont. Lan Wangji’s sense of relief is immense. His guilt remains, curled up snugly with his shame—a soft, tender ball of blame behind his ribs—but it is nothing in the face of this freedom. This certainty that their future as zhiji, as friends, as close confidants, is assured. He would drown in shame for the rest of his long life if it meant even just a few more short weeks of walking the countryside, Wei Wuxian laughing on his temperamental donkey beside him.

During the day, they travel. It makes Lan Wangji think wistfully of the end of his work transforming the sects into a less manipulable governance. He does not know how long it will take, or if he himself will even finish it. But he dreams of a time when he can leave, when he can do just this, always. He knows it is pure fantasy to think Wei Wuxian would wait for him, would not start his own life, with his own people, while Lan Wangji works on this chosen path. But the dreams themselves are harmless, and they get him through many long days of politics at home. It is good to live inside them now, for a little while. Smiling in the sunshine with Wei Wuxian. Enjoying his attention, his effervescence, his quick mind.

When called for, they nighthunt. Together, now that Wei Wuxian has apprised himself of a bow. Each day he refines his arrow talismans, often asking for Lan Wangji’s input, but rarely needing it. It is an unequal collaboration, but Lan Wangji delights in his largely tacit part all the same. He tests them with infusions of energy, since Wei Wuxian still cannot spare his own, and very much enjoys watching Wei Wuxian’s reactions to their varied success. And when they go out, and hunt monsters, and fight them, and win, Lan Wangji has the privilege of watching his accuracy, his skill, his flinty pride in a deadly job well done. He puts these away for another time, weeks from now, when he is alone and has nothing more than memories to sustain him.

It goes on like this for days, traveling as normal under the sun, and dual cultivating as this new, secret, temporary version of themselves at night. Each time, Lan Wangji dreads going a step too far and revealing himself, or taking something Wei Wuxian does not wish to give. He fears it is only a matter of time until the towering, perverse truth of his real desires extend their reach beyond his careful governance to smash this fragile thing they have. But Wei Wuxian trusts him, and allows his touch, and responds to it with enthusiasm that only seems somewhat guarded. Lan Wangji tells himself this trust between them is not false, that he has not been dishonest outright. But he knows that too is a lie.

Despite this, Lan Wangji is learning to better and better please Wei Wuxian, the rhythm of how and what and when to give him, the balancing act of good but not too much. They do not speak of it, outside of the act itself, outside of Wei Wuxian’s tacit pleas and Lan Wangji’s rare, stifled groans. Wei Wuxian does not touch him any more than is necessary, any more than just holding on, finding an anchor. And they do not kiss.

Still, the illusion of reciprocity, of the reflection of his own greedy desires in Wei Wuxian’s careful touch, in his burning eyes, in his playful banter, begin to wear at Lan Wangji. He finds himself believing, quite accidentally, for extended, quiet stretches, that all of this is real. That it is his to keep. The longer these stretches grow, the more harshly he must beat them back. He must remind himself of who Wei Wuxian is, of what Wei Wuxian wants. That Wei Wuxian acts this way with everyone he even remotely likes. That Wei Wuxian is a free spirit, and that he deserves to choose a life—and a person, if he so wishes—that he loves.

He puts these thoughts away each night as he meditates, and Wei Wuxian’s smile is enough to keep them at bay until the next night falls. The days roll forward in the shape of a surprisingly manageable routine.

Until one night, when Wei Wuxian seems displeased with their usual patterns. He is restless beneath Lan Wangji’s touch, overheated and dissatisfied as they try to find their rhythm. He is uncharacteristically noisy for what they are doing, talkative and demanding, and it is driving Lan Wangji to distraction.

“Ah, Lan Zhan,” he says. At some point, one of his hands has tangled in Lan Wangji’s hair, sending shocks of pleasure down his spine. “More, I...I need...just—”

Lan Wangji pulls a little ways back to thrust with purpose, and Wei Wuxian gasps.

“Oh, fuck, like that, but,” he clutches Lan Wangji tightly, encouraging him with his hands, with his hips, “but, I, oh, I need…”

Somehow, Lan Wangji finds it within himself to speak almost coherently. “Tell me,” he says. “Anything, tell me, you—”

He is cut off by sudden, dizzying movement. Cradled by all of Wei Wuxian’s limbs he is rolled, spun, thrown onto his back. Wei Wuxian settles above him, the weight of him atop Lan Wangji’s hips shockingly good, pressing him impossibly deeper. He watches, mutely rapt, entirely breathless, as Wei Wuxian lifts himself and drives down against him, his head thrown back, his throat bobbing with the harsh sound that leaves it.

“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. “This is, oh, fuck, Lan Zhan,” his hands slide down to cover Lan Wangji’s where he has unknowingly gripped Wei Wuxian’s thighs. “There.”

Lan Wangji wonders wildly if he means his hands, or his...he does not know. He cannot...he cannot make sense of...it is all he can do to hold on, and to lie still, and to let Wei Wuxian work pleasure into the very makeup of his sinew. He watches Wei Wuxian fuck himself slowly, experimentally, and then harder, his dark, lovely cock bobbing just slightly with it, hard and wet and tantalizing. He is so strong, and perfect, and alive. He is overflowing with heat, with life. Lan Wangji is shaken by a sudden, deep gratitude as he feels sensation building rapidly, tensing all of his muscles in ecstatic anticipation.

“Wei Ying,” he bites out. “I...I am…”

For the first time in long minutes, their eyes meet. He realizes with a stab of guilt that he has said it. That he has brought Wei Wuxian’s name into this provisional space, that he has dissolved the separation between who they truly are to each other and the unwholesome way he feels about what they have been doing. That he has dirtied the way he says it forever.

Unconscious of this essential shift, Wei Wuxian’s gaze is sharp and dark and full of intent. Lan Wangji only just manages to bite back an alien whine. He watches as Wei Wuxian leans down, still rolling his hips, still letting out breathy little sounds of gratification. He cups Lan Wangji’s jaw. Runs his thumb along Lan Wangji’s lower lip.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, soft and warm. It cuts through Lan Wangji like a knife.

His thumb presses infinitesimally harder, and somehow, Lan Wangji understands it as a command. He opens his mouth and tips his head up to close his mouth around the tip of it. Wei Wuxian’s eyes go wide, and his hips move more emphatically. Lan Wangji is lost utterly, adrift, held and whole only by the strength of Wei Wuxian’s body.

“Fuck,” Wei Wuxian says, pressing his thumb down against Lan Wangji’s tongue, fucking himself harder.

Lan Wangji moans around it.There's a crackle of sensation down his spine and a helpless, swooping fall in his chest, his stomach. His hips snap up. He is so close he cannot stop it.

“Ah Lan Zhan, I,” Wei Wuxian breaks off, his fingers digging in beneath Lan Wangji’s jaw. Lan Wangji moans again, and sucks, some primitive instinct taking hold. “Ah, can you—”

He is cut off entirely by Lan Wangji’s thrusts, hard and awkward, but evidently effective, and Lan Wangji is so close, but he cannot finish, not when Wei Wuxian is still crying out, pleading, his hand demanding on Lan Wangji’s face, his thumb hooked behind Lan Wangji’s bottom teeth, urging him on. Blindly, madly, he reaches up to touch him, to bring him over the edge, and it takes only one stroke before Wei Wuxian’s back is bowing, his body slamming tense and tight, tumbling over that precipice and dragging Lan Wangji with him.

It is far more intense, this time. He falls out of the world entirely, lost in blinding, colorless light. Lost in a sense of formless, boundless affinity. He is not flesh and blood. He is devotion, and he is the world. He is Lan Zhan, and entangled with him, inseparable, infinitely unparting, is Wei Ying.

An unknowable length of time later, Lan Wangji comes back to himself. He is clutching Wei Wuxian close, arms wrapped around him, fingers digging into his ribs through black silk. They are both sweating, still, and breathing hard. Breathing in time. Wei Wuxian is clutching him back.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji croaks. His throat is so dry. They both need water desperately. Wei Wuxian’s hold on him tightens. “Wei Ying, meditate.”

He is becoming aware of the tacky mess between them, of the edge of discomfort to remaining inside Wei Wuxian’s body, like this. He does not wish to part from him. It is the last thing he wants. But it is necessary. He relaxes his hands, his arms. Wei Wuxian takes a deep, shuddering breath and shifts off of him, rolling bonelessly to face away.

Lan Wangji lies still for several more moments, sluggish and fulgent in the aftermath. As his mind begins to tick back to speed, though, the guilt sets in. He knows this was necessary, and his truest, most selfish self would not take it back for all the world. And yet he knows a line was crossed. He knows he has taken, and taken, has stolen things from Wei Wuxian, from his future, that were never meant to be his.

The feeling of pure, stark connection lingers somewhere low in his spine. He wishes that he could cut it out of himself, to absolve himself of blame. He wishes that he could bury himself in Wei Wuxian once more, to bring it crackling back to life. But more than anything, he wishes simply to hold him again: tight, close, warm, and breathing in time.

Chapter Text

Lan Wangji wakes.

There is nothing unusual about the manner of his waking—he is roused by his internal clock as is normal. But it is jarring, somehow, nonetheless. He feels cold. Bereft. The memory of bare skin and of a weight on his tongue flicker across his mind, and his ears heat at the same moment as his stomach drops.

Again. He has dreamed of him again.

It has been a less frequent occurrence in recent years, which is a guilty relief, but the waking from it has not grown easier. He is filled with a familiar mix of penitence and grief, a wound reopened many times over. The loss of him, again, each time he opens his eyes after his imagination has conjured him. The shame at abasing him even in memory, even after all this time. And today an added nervous confusion at the new things this dream had made him feel. He touches a hand to his mouth, already going cold. Tries and fails to slow his breathing.

If only he had done something sooner. If only he had stopped it.

If only he had the courage to try to bring him back.

There is a sickening wrench in his gut, and he sits up abruptly, running shaking hands over his face. He must stop thinking these things. He must meditate. He should have saved him. He should have—what if all these years Wei Wuxian has been waiting for him to save him? Is it dark, where he is? Does it hurt? He pushes himself from the bed, half-stumbling. His mouth is so dry. He can hardly breathe. What if he has already reincarnated? What if the child that was Wei Wuxian is back in the world, what if he is in pain? What if he is still waiting? What if he has died again, just as horribly? He should have saved him. He should have found him. He must not—

A soft rustling comes from across the room, and Lan Wangji freezes. A figure in the opposite bed stirs, faces him, and pushes up on an elbow.

Wei Wuxian blinks at him, rubbing his eyes.

“Mm,” he grumbles. “Lan Zhan?”

For three violent heartbeats, Lan Wangji can only stare, silent. The soft light of dawn is settled around Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, on his hair, a veil of lavender. His hair is mussed hopelessly, his black robe wrinkled and askew, his face contorted with the half-blindness of early morning. His collarbone is visible, and a slice of his chest. Lan Wangji had touched his mouth to it, just last night, and Wei Wuxian had sighed.

With a careful, clipped speed, he folds himself into a seat at the low table in the center of the room.

“Mn,” he replies. He keeps his hands folded in his lap. They are shaking too hard to do anything else, just yet.

“‘S early, isn’t it?”

“Mn,” says Lan Wangji. “Sleep.”

Wei Wuxian sighs, and lies down with his head on his forearm, watching Lan Wangji with sleep-heavy eyes. “What is it?”

“What?”

“You...something.” He waves his fingers vaguely. “Alright?”

Lan Wangji’s chest seizes painfully. “Mn.”

“Hm.” He sounds unconvinced. He blinks thoughtfully, and Lan Wangji can see him trying to decide if he should wake up properly.

“Sleep,” he repeats. His lungs ache. “Rest is important.”

Wei Wuxian sighs again, more deeply this time, and closes his eyes, readjusting to his atrocious sleeping posture, splayed half on his stomach.

Lan Wangji opens his mouth and quietly lets out the huge, shuddering breath that he has been holding in. He grips the table’s edge, bowing over with it. He breathes, and breathes, and breathes until he can sit upright once more.

We are here, he repeats to himself. We are both here.

A few days later they come to another city, in which Lan Wangji is accustomed to staying two nights in order to use it as a hub for nighthunting. It will be a welcome respite from their rough accommodations of late, and he finds himself walking with renewed energy as they near the city walls.

“Ah? That looked like a perfectly nice inn back there,” Wei Wuxian says from his perch as they make their way toward the northern quarter of town.

“Mn,” says Lan Wangji, “we are to be hosted by the magistrate.”

“Ma—the magistrate?” Wei Wuxian repeats. “Ah...ah, well, perhaps I should just stay back there, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

This gives Lan Wangji pause. He has not asked to separate since they departed together, and the tone of his voice is off. He turns to look at him.

“They know you are coming,” he says. “They are not small-minded people. There is no need to worry.”

“They?” Wei Wuxian asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Mn. The magistrate and his family.”

“...Ah.”

“Wei Ying. Do not worry. I would not bring you somewhere unsafe.”

“Eehh,” Wei Wuxian says, and laughs nervously. “It’s not safety I’m worried about.”

Lan Wangji understands, suddenly, his anxiety. “Come with me and meet them,” he suggests. “If you are uncomfortable, we will both go to the inn.”

Wei Wuxian smiles at him, one of the slow, sweet ones. Lan Wangji’s chest expands with it.

“Alright. It’s a deal.”

The magistrate’s mansion is spacious and elegant, the sort of home that a truly refined gentleman cultivates over long years of consideration and study. The ambiance is excellent, the decor beautiful but understated. Lan Wangji enjoys his time here both because the atmosphere is calm, and the hosts are kind. It is a welcoming residence, well-suited to his tastes. He feels no qualms whatsoever bringing Wei Wuxian to such a place. He tries to cast reassuring glances in his direction as they enter the gates and pass through the courtyard.

“Nice garden,” Wei Wuxian remarks, eyeing the koi pond.

“It is,” agrees Lan Wangji, wary of hidden double meaning.

“Big gates to keep bad guys out of it,” Wei Wuxian goes on.

Ah. There. “A good thing, then, that no such people have managed to enter.”

Wei Wuxian snorts and shakes his head. They enter the large double door into the main hall of the home, and bow to the magistrate as he enters to greet them. He is a man in his fifties, still in the highest health, with a warm countenance and a slightly distracted air. Lan Wangji respects him for his practical, learned leadership of the city, as well as his knowledge of the great poets.

“Hanguang-jun, welcome, welcome,” he says, bowing politely in return. “We are honored to host you once more, and to welcome your friend. I hope your journey has been fruitful but not too dangerous this month.”

Lan Wangji nods. “It has.”

The magistrate nods. “I am glad to hear it. And how has Wei-gongzi found Jiangnan at this time of year?”

“Ah, lovely,” says Wei Wuxian, after a brief, startled silence. “Thank you, Xianling.”

The magistrate nods again, unperturbed by Wei Wuxian’s reticence. This is why Lan Wangji appreciates staying here. They do not demand, or even expect, extraneous discussion. Just then, the magistrate’s son, Lin-gongzi, enters, smiling widely.

“Hanguang-jun!” he calls. He is a bright, promising young man in his early twenties who will likely follow in his father’s footsteps, when the time comes. “It’s been so long! How lucky we are to have you again. I’ve finished learning that book of songs, remind me to return it to you before you go.”

“Keep it,” Lan Wangji replies, “it was a gift in thanks for so graciously keeping me these past months.”

Lin-gongzi smiles again, and nods. “Such a fine gift. I shall endeavor to cherish it appropriately.”

“Hanguang-jun,” another voice calls from behind them. They turn to see the magistrate’s daughter, coming through the grand entry, gracefully stepping over the sill without breaking her even stride. “How very lovely to see you again.” She bows.

“It is lovely to return to such a welcoming home,” Lan Wangji replies. “How is your injury recovering?”

“Very well,” she says. “Hanguang-jun is exceedingly thoughtful to inquire.”

“Indeed,” says the magistrate. “With so many important responsibilities, Hanguang-jun is kind to remember us.”

“Not at all,” says Lan Wangji. “The acquaintance of such a family is deserving of the highest consideration.”

The magistrate smiles at him graciously. “I believe we have kept you long enough. Would you like Lin-gongzi to show you to your rooms?”

“If it is the same house, I remember the way.”

The magistrate bows again. “Then rest well, and I will send someone for you both when it is time for dinner.”

“Many thanks, Xianling,” says Lan Wangji, returning the bow.

Wei Wuxian bows beside him and follows him out. When they are some ways down the path to the guesthouse and he is still a step behind, Lan Wangji slows, half-turning, to look at him. The expression he wears is pensive.

Remembering his promise, Lan Wangji speaks. “What do you think?”

With a start, Wei Wuxian glances at him and shakes his head. “They seem nice. This is a nice place.”

It is an odd response. An answer and a non-answer at once. “Would you like to stay, or to leave?”

Wei Wuxian sighs, sinking slightly, with a rueful smile that Lan Wangji does not understand. “I hadn’t realized they’re your friends. Of course we should stay.”

This strikes an odd chord in Lan Wangji. He had not thought of them as such, but yes, he supposes they are. Friends. He does not see them often, yet he does enjoy the time he spends in their home. They are easy to speak with, and to not speak with, and they share mutual respect. That is a sort of friendship. But Wei Wuxian seems...surprised, by this information. Or perhaps unhappy? But that is nonsense.

Still, he remains suspiciously quiet throughout the afternoon, meditating and working through sword forms with a sturdy stick to ease his muscles back into the movements. After only a few minutes of this, of the stinging joy of seeing him move this way, seeing him hope this way, Lan Wangji retreats inside. He finds that he should not watch, if he wishes to maintain his propriety of thought. Instead, he reads one of the many rare books the magistrate keeps and lends freely when he visits. It is interesting, just barely distracting enough, and soon a servant arrives to summon them to dinner.

The evening is a normal one, quiet and intimate at the family’s personal table. Lan Wangji eats with them this way whenever he is their sole guest, and he has come to appreciate the way they carry on soft conversations on the state of their city, or on art, or music, drawing him in for responses when they have genuine questions instead of mere attempts to involve him in discussion. He is unused to the habit of conversing over a meal, but it is rude to ignore one’s host, and it does not trouble him to make an exception in the face of their kindness. He prefers eating silently while Wei Wuxian talks, but this is not terrible. It is almost comfortable. And made all the more so by Wei Wuxian’s presence beside him.

That is, until Lin-gongzi asks Wei Wuxian a question.

They have not been at the table long, just long enough to tuck into their bowls, when he turns to him, his face open and interested.

“Wei-gongzi, what has brought you along with Hanguang-jun this month?”

Lan Wangji manages, by virtue of his practice this past week, not to flush guiltily at the honest answer to the question. He waits for Wei Wuxian to give their standard, bland reply about travels and visits, but it does not come. Lan Wangji glances at him. Beside him, he continues to eat placidly.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji prompts.

“Hmm?”

“Lin-gongzi is speaking to you.”

“Oh? Excuse me,” he says, glancing at Lin-gongzi with a theatrically apologetic expression. “What was it, again?”

Lin-gongzi blinks, then smiles uncertainly and repeats himself. This time, Wei Wuxian answers. It is strange, but not worryingly so. Until it happens again.

And again.

“Oh, my hearing is terrible,” he claims the third time, half an hour into the meal. “Just ask Lan Zhan. He knows.”

The pronunciation of Lan Wangji’s name is oddly forceful. Wei Wuxian places a fourth portion of tofu and cabbage in Lan Wangji’s bowl. For some reason, this combination of actions makes Lan Wangji’s ears heat.

The conversation moves on, and people stop directing questions to him altogether. Lan Wangji supposes that for whatever reason, that is probably best. He does not understand what is wrong, and the longer they sit, the more impatient he grows for dinner to end so that he may ask. But he does not wish to be rude. The conversation has turned to music, and he attempts to focus once more on their hosts.

“Did you hear, Hanguang-jun?” Lin-guniang asks. “A great master has come to Jiangnan.”

“I heard,” he replies.

“Surely someone of your eminence will be granted the honor of hearing him play,” says Lin-gongzi.

“I had thought to do so,” Lan Wangji says, “but plans change.”

In truth, he was meant to meet the master a few days ago. But he does not regret missing it, not now.

“Ah, yes,” says Lin-guniang, “one must remain flexible to the whims of fate. But, say your plans change again, would you like the opportunity?”

Lan Wangji blinks. He does not particularly enjoy hypotheticals. “Possibly.”

“Ah, you see?” She says to her brother, “Ask him!”

Lin-gongzi laughs. “Hanguang-jun, we have been invited to see the master three days hence. Would you honor us with your company?”

As he says it, he reaches across the corner of the table and places his hand on Lan Wangji’s arm. Lin-guniang leans forward, intent.

The invitation and the touch both surprise Lan Wangji thoroughly. For a moment, he does not know how to decline politely. He casts about for an excuse, for a reason he could give, ruffled by the sudden increase in familiarity and the old urge to shake off the unwelcome hand. But he is older now, and knows better than to act so rashly. By the time he realizes this is unnecessary, Wei Wuxian has stood abruptly.

He bows, his face a pale mask, his eyes on his own feet. “Please excuse me,” he says. He opens his mouth as if to say more, but then turns and leaves the room with long, hurried strides. Lan Wangji stares after him, stunned.

“Is Wei-gongzi well?” Lin-gongzi asks. His hand is still on Lan Wangji’s arm.

“Have we offended him in some way?” The magistrate adds, hovering between offense and fear.

Lan Wangji feels ill. A familiar, listing sensation tips through him. He frees his arm and stands, his vision swimming, blurred and brassy with candlelight.

“Apologies,” he says, bowing. “Xianling, please allow me to make up for this offense in the future.”

He is incapable of waiting for a response. He makes his unseeing, unfeeling way back to the guest house, hoping that Wei Wuxian is there but uncertain of what he will find. It has been so long since he watched him make such abrupt, graceless exits, but not so long that he has forgotten that look of closed-off anger or his own gnawing helplessness. It rises in him once more, now.

“Wei Ying,” he calls as soon as he passes through the guest house door. The lamps are lit; the comfortable, refined space undisturbed. Silence answers him. His throat begins to close. “Wei Ying.”

He reaches Wei Wuxian’s bedroom at last. The quick release of tension at the sight of him standing there, followed by the sudden snap of its return when he sees the flute and qiankun pouch at his waist, leave him lightheaded. He stares, paralyzed by the fear of making whatever has happened even worse.

“Sorry,” Wei Wuxian says when he sees him. His glance is quick, furtive. Shielded. “I—should apologize to them, probably, but I...don’t think. Well. I should go, so I’m going.”

“Where?” Lan Wangji asks, the very least important of any of his questions, but the first to reach his lips.

Wei Wuxian quirks half an entirely mirthless grin. “You know me, Lan Zhan. Anywhere at all would suit me just fine.”

Anywhere but here, Lan Wangji thinks. He says nothing. He can think of nothing to say.

Wei Wuxian flattens his mouth on a small, knowing smile, and nods as if Lan Wangji has replied as expected. He walks past him, out of the room. Lan Wangji does not turn. He is rooted to the spot, overcome with the sudden, horrible familiarity, with the sharp, old pain of Wei Wuxian walking out of his life. He cannot feel his fingertips.

But then, very quietly, a ways off outside, he hears Wei Wuxian sigh.

He jolts into motion, spinning on the spot and rushing after him.

“Wei Ying,” he calls at the door. He hopes it does not sound as desperate and deranged as he feels. Wei Wuxian stops and half-turns back. “Why?”

After a pause, Wei Wuxian looks up at him from the bottom of the steps at the front of the house. He is bathed in the orange-red-gold of sunset, washed in the gentlest of flames. It gilds and softens him at once, but does not temper the resolve on his face.

“I got too comfortable somewhere I don’t belong.”

Lan Wangji touches the door frame for support and tries not to sway visibly. His lips are going cold. Soon they will be numb. He does not care. He does not understand. “If I have done something to make you feel unwelcome—”

“No, Lan Zhan ah,” Wei Wuxian shakes his head, frustrated. “You haven’t, that’s the problem. I’ve felt...too welcome. I started to forget.”

“Forget?”

“That this is your life,” he says, gesturing to encompass their surroundings. “Famous masters and elegant dining. Making connections with local leaders, to better protect the people. I’m not part of it. It’s not my life.”

Wood creaks under Lan Wangji’s grip. He works to swallow down the thickness in his throat. “Those things are not important to me.” You are. He does not know if he should say it. Is it not obvious?

“It doesn’t matter, they’re important to your work, and your work is important to you.” Wei Wuxian looks away, blinking rapidly. “And I’ve known that all along, you’ve been...you’ve been clear, you’ve been right, not to—but it didn’t matter, because I forgot anyway. It’s just been so hard to keep separate—”

Their eyes meet, and Wei Wuxian cuts himself off. Lan Wangji tries to parse his expression, his shining eyes, tries not to get lost in the way the sunset hardens them to clear amber, kindles them to burning embers. But Wei Wuxian looks away.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, uncomprehending.

“Either one of them would be overjoyed to have you,” Wei Wuxian says.

It strikes Lan Wangji like a physical blow. His mind cycles through several immediate, visceral responses to such an observation, ranging from shock to outrage to hurt. Wei Wuxian has begun to turn away again by the time he has quieted them. Wei Wuxian cannot leave this way. He cannot go on not knowing his importance, without understanding Lan Wangji’s priorities.

“I would not have either of them,” he says.

Wei Wuxian glances around surreptitiously. “Lan Zhan,” he hisses.

“I would not. Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian looks alarmed now.

“You must know,” Lan Wangji goes on, his ears burning, “that I would not have them. That there is only one person—”

“Don’t,” Wei Wuxian cuts him off, desperate and pained. “You can’t say it to me. Lan Zhan, you’ve been so careful not to say it.”

A spike wedges violently down the center of Lan Wangji’s chest, and he looks away. So he has known. For how long? How long has he known, and borne the weight of such unwanted feelings in silence? How long has this desire to get away been building? Hundreds of smiles and casual touches between them reframe themselves as endlessly patient, selfless kindness, rather than simple reciprocated affection. Lan Wangji’s stomach turns.

“I apologize,” he says, for the second time that night, though for a different sort of offense entirely. “I should not have…” He trails off as he realizes what Wei Wuxian must have thought this entire time. No, what Wei Wuxian has known. “I should not have. Taken advantage. I...apologize.”

He goes back into the house. Wei Wuxian does not wish to see him any longer, let alone like this. There is no reason to draw out such a goodbye, not when he can hardly speak. His apologies mean nothing. There was nothing he could have done to salvage such betrayal of trust, it was foolish of him to think so. He should have spoken his truth up front, and lived with the consequences. At least then he could have kept his integrity, if not his Wei Ying.

He will need to go and apologize appropriately to the family, in the morning. But immediately following, he will return home. He will send out disciples to finish the sweep of Jiangnan, and to complete future assessments and nighthunts. It would be...wrong. To frequent such a large area, marking it effectively uncomfortable for Wei Wuxian to travel in. He should—

He stumbles in the sitting room, and resigns himself to falling. It happens, sometimes, when the blood rushes from his limbs to his pounding heart. But he does not fall. Strong hands catch him.

“...Lan Zhan? What’s wrong?”

Slowly, Lan Wangji looks up. Wei Wuxian is there. Close, and real, and still here.

“Lan Zhan?”

“You were leaving,” Lan Wangji says.

“Yeah,” says Wei Wuxian, letting go of him now that he is steady. “But then you looked...like that. And you stumbled. What’s wrong?”

You were leaving, Lan Wangji thinks. He shakes his head. “Do not trouble yourself,” he says.

“Lan Zhan. I’m troubled.”

Lan Wangji tries to swallow down the stone in his throat. “You did not wish to hear. I will respect your wishes.” Why will he not go?

Wei Wuxian looks stricken. He looks him up and down, shocked and confused by something Lan Wangji cannot begin to guess.

“You need not stay,” he ventures. He should be alone now. He should be alone. It is only natural. “I understand. That I have made you feel...beholden. You are not. Your life is yours. It is as separate as you would like it to be.”

“It isn’t about what I’d like, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says. “It doesn’t matter what...what we want. It’s just...circumstance. Isn’t it? You have to go back to your home, to your position, and I can’t...I’d just make a mess of all that.”

He says it like he is reciting long-written fact. Like it is obvious.

“What we want,” Lan Wangji repeats. The phrase rings in his mind, an alarm.

Wei Wuxian draws himself, smaller, straighter. “Yeah.”

“What we want.”

Silence. Something frantic is clawing at Lan Wangji’s ribs.

“Wei Ying. What do you want?”

A sigh. That same sigh, again, the one that roused Lan Wangji from his stupor to give chase. It is...regret.

“Why do you suddenly want to say all these things out loud,” he says solemnly, to the floor. “All it’s going to do is hurt.”

“Why?” Lan Wangji asks again, desperately confused.

“Because you made your choice!” Wei Wuxian says. “You chose to be Chief Cultivator. You chose...you chose to try to make a difference, and that’s noble, and it’s you. But we both know it also means you chose a life I can’t be a part of. The Yiling Laozu can’t be...can’t be seen to be close with His Excellency. And he can’t obey thousands of rules, either, everyone knows that.”

“Wei Ying…” Lan Wangji says. He is both gutted that Wei Wuxian would think any of this, and relieved because it is simply not true. “Everyone knows that I chose you. Everyone.”

Wei Wuxian is staring at him again. “If that were true, then why would you be working so hard to keep this...this distance between us? Always holding yourself at arm’s length. Lan Zhan, we’ve been dual cultivating, and you won’t even kiss me, even though I can tell you want to.” He shakes his head. “I got the message, and I tried to go along with it, until I couldn’t anymore. But I don’t understand what...what’s happening, now.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji chokes out. “You thought—”

He clenches his jaw and looks away. He breathes deeply until he can speak again. “I did not want to burden you needlessly with my own unimportant feelings. That is the distance I kept. I thought you would not want to know them.” He takes another deep breath, still looking out, toward where the sunset is cooling to soft pinks and mauves. “Given any choice, I would never choose anything but you. I simply did not want to keep you against your will, or to push you away. To...impose. What I felt. Onto something you needed.”

The conversation has become so muddled, so directionless, that Lan Wangji is uncertain if this is the reassurance Wei Wuxian needs. But he does not know what else to say. He watches bright colors recede to the horizon, and tries not to see Wei Wuxian falling away with them.

The sound Wei Wuxian makes is half breath, half word. A quiet but percussive oh.

“Lan Zhan you—you were trying to—ah, Lan Zhan…”

Wei Wuxian steps closer, and closer still, and Lan Wangji cannot move. He keeps still, and hardly breathes, as Wei Wuxian leans in. As he closes his eyes. As he presses their mouths together. A kiss. His own eyes slide closed, and his chest aches as if it wishes to pry itself open on hinges, to expand, to reach out and contain Wei Wuxian as well. His hands hover awkwardly over Wei Wuxian’s elbows. Wei Wuxian pulls away, sighing.

“Lan Zhan, you’re not going to push me away,” he says. Quiet, almost bashful. “I want you to hold on. I don’t want you to let go.”

Lan Wangji’s lungs are tight as a fist. For a moment, he is at the edge of a cliff, bleeding and terrified, and it is hard to believe the here and now, the warmth of living breath on his skin. It does not feel real, yet such words are beyond any imagining of his sixteen years of grief, of regret. He sets his hands to Wei Wuxian’s arms and they are solid, the fabric soft and thick. His face is tipped toward Wei Wuxian’s with a knuckle under his chin, and the smile he sees is tentative, but no less lovely for it. There is the ghost of a touch on his lower lip.

“You’re blushing,” Wei Wuxian says, mischievous eyes traveling over Lan Wangji’s face.

The teasing tone plucks a familiar, reflexive note of frustration in the back of Lan Wangji’s mind. He surges forward, holding on as asked, and kisses him properly. Finally. The swelling relief of it is almost suffocating. Wei Wuxian’s mouth parts around Lan Wangji’s lower lip, and the dry press dampens, heats, and begins to gain momentum.

Lan Wangji breaks away before it can sweep him under, drawing in a long-held breath. “Stay,” he says. “Stay with me.”

Wei Wuxian blinks at him, eyes unfocused. He looks inclined to speak, but Lan Wangji hurries to explain.

“My work is finite. I hope to finish with it some day, though perhaps not very soon. There is an end to it, and after we may go where you wish. I would—”

“I don’t care,” Wei Wuxian cuts him off, and the words would hurt but he is smiling again, dazzlingly so. “Lan Zhan, I don’t care about that, if you want me...if you think it’s alright. I’ll stay, it doesn’t matter where.”

Lan Wangji stares, struck breathless once more.

“I mean…” Wei Wuxian goes on. “I might get...restless. You know me, hah, I sort of—but you’ve been taking these trips anyway, maybe we could—together—if—”

Lan Wangji kisses him. Wei Wuxian makes a startled, pleased noise and pushes back against it, one hand firm on Lan Wangji’s waist, the other light on his jaw: a gentle counterpoint, almost distracting from the plush heat of the kiss as it deepens. The fall into each other is so gradual, so steady, that Lan Wangji does not know when his hands fisted themselves into Wei Wuxian’s robes, his hair, or when Wei Wuxian’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. He does not know when last he breathed air that was not first in Wei Wuxian’s lungs.

He tears away, suddenly made anxious by the uncertain passage of time. He wants to be present, for this. He wants to be aware of every second. But Wei Wuxian does not grant reprieve, he simply moves on, and down, hot, sparking presses of lips and tongue to Lan Wangji’s throat, to the skin suddenly no longer covered by the collar of his robes. It is shocking, this touch of lips on skin. New. Overwhelming. But he holds on, and does not let go.

“Wei Ying,” he says, possibly in reproach. Possibly asking for mercy.

“Mn,” Wei Wuxian hums against his throat, just above the collarbone. A resonant vibration that sends a shiver through Lan Wangji’s whole body.

His lower stomach seizes, and his robes feel suddenly much too heavy and tight. Wei Wuxian plucks at his collars, prompting Lan Wangji to start working at his own belts, almost frantic, and the novelty of feeling Wei Wuxian’s smile on his skin makes his knees go weak. Strong fingers curl around his, stilling them.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, close. So close. He speaks against Lan Wangji’s ear, nearly making him flinch with the strangely stimulating intimacy of it. “Now that I know it won’t...make things harder. No more rushing through things. I want...I want us to take our time. I want to take my time with you. Is that alright?”

“Yes.” An automatic, unbidden, shaky whisper. He cannot find the wherewithal to be ashamed of it. He has waited too long in shame to cling to it now.

They undress each other in one of the bedrooms, Lan Wangji could not say whose. The process is slowed by lingering touches, distracting kisses, and disbelieving smiles, but soon they are both clothed only in their innermost layers. Wei Wuxian sits on the bed, tugging Lan Wangji to stand between his knees. He runs his hands up Lan Wangji’s thighs, his hips, to his waist, and Lan Wangji has never been touched like this. In the face of all the things they have done, it should mean little. And yet the purpose of it, the intent, the careful but clear desire, make him begin to feel light-headed.

Wei Wuxian looks up at him slyly.

“I’ve thought about putting my mouth on you,” he says. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

If Lan Wangji were not already achingly hard, he would be now.

“You could,” he says.

He means, you could do anything you want with me. If the flash of teeth in Wei Wuxian’s smile is anything to go by, he understands perfectly.

“I might,” he says, back to mischief. “But we’re taking it slow, remember?”

Lan Wangji nods. He remembers. He brushes a lock of hair behind Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and leaves his hand there, his thumb tracing circles on the softness of the side of his throat. He keeps still as the ties of his inner tunic are pulled loose, as warm, calloused fingers trail tingling goosebumps up his sides, over his chest, to his shoulders. There, they slide under fabric as if to guide it off, and he stops them with a light grip on wrists. Wei Wuxian looks at him in question.

“Not now,” Lan Wangji says, his gaze flicking reflexively away. He does not know how to speak of his scars without toppling them out of their momentum, into something colder, less comfortable. “Some other time. Next time.”

Wei Wuxian nods solemnly and pulls back, scooting farther onto the bed. His own dark robe hangs open, sagging off of one lean, sculpted shoulder. He smiles crookedly. “Lie down with me?”

It takes a moment for Lan Wangji to respond. He is overwhelmed. Uncertain how to proceed, without any of his very specific and limited goals in place any longer. But Wei Wuxian has only asked him such a simple thing. He can manage it. He can do as Wei Wuxian asks.

He sits primly, then lies down on his side, facing him. Wei Wuxian makes a small, exasperated sound and scoots closer, pulling at his waist, diving in to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him. His hand moves from Lan Wangji’s waist to his shoulder, to his hair, and his thumb catches on Lan Wangji’s ribbon. Lan Wangji jerks back reflexively, shocked despite everything, and Wei Wuxian snatches his hand away. They stare at each other, trying to catch their breath.

“Sorry,” says Wei Wuxian. He looks as stunned as Lan Wangji feels.

“No,” Lan Wangji hurries to say. “I...was surprised. But it has been yours to touch for a very long time, if you wanted to.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes are wide, and he just stops himself from saying something. Instead, he reaches out, presses his fingertips to the fabric at Lan Wangji’s temple. It sends a frisson of desperate satisfaction down his spine.

“You may remove it,” he says shyly, no longer meeting his gaze.

He feels Wei Wuxian lean in close, and then the press of his lips against the silver filigree at its center. His breath catches loudly, embarrassingly, and he squeezes his eyes shut to hold back inappropriate tears as Wei Wuxian unties it, as he slides it free. He folds it carefully, and sets it aside, and then they are kissing once more.

They are pressed together from hip to chest, legs a hopeless tangle, and Lan Wangji’s heart is racing, pounding, trying to fight its way up his throat to freedom. But pulse and breath are secondary. He is kissing Wei Wuxian. It wakes his archaic longing and stokes it to a frenzy, a desperation to make the most of this, this time, this most precious and uncertain of treasures. He does not know where to put his hands, or how to move his lips, his mind simply stuck on the fact of any of this happening at all. Wei Wuxian’s tongue is in his mouth, hot like blood, like injury, and Lan Wangji is trying not to think of death.

But then Wei Wuxian is leaning into him, rolling him onto his back to lie over him, and the weight of his body is so suddenly and thoroughly grounding that Lan Wangji’s tense muscles all go lax at once. His breath leaves him in a grateful sigh, and Wei Wuxian stops to look at him.

“Lan Zhan?”

Lan Wangji presses his hands against Wei Wuxian’s back, holding him down, holding him close. He does not know what he should be doing, but he knows that this is good. That he likes this, here, now, very much. Wei Wuxian smiles.

“That’s it right there, you know,” he says.

He bops the tip of Lan Wangji’s nose with a knuckle, and Lan Wangji frowns. Wei Wuxian laughs, soft but bright.

“That face you were making. It’s how I knew.”

Lan Wangji closes his eyes. What a fool he has been. But his thoughts are interrupted by the soft brush of lips on his forehead, his nose, his eyelids.

“Lan Zhan, make the face again so I can kiss it all over, too,” Wei Wuxian laughs against his mouth. “I have to thank it for telling me you loved me back.”

Lan Wangji’s heart seizes, his arms tightening involuntarily, and he leans up to kiss him again, eyes still squeezed shut. Opening them would be too much. He relies on Wei Wuxian’s ability to read him, and is not disappointed by the soft heat that greets his lips. Wei Wuxian kisses like he lives his life: brash, ambitious, and full of genuine care. Lan Wangji lets it sweep him away this time, the warm, real weight of Wei Wuxian’s body a constant reminder of reality, of this moment, of the time they do have, now. Of the way Wei Wuxian wants to use it.

This kiss never grows frantic. It deepens to a slow, rolling heat that wrests Lan Wangji’s breath from him in waves as Wei Wuxian’s hand slides down to his hip, his mouth down to his throat. It flares, then, a profound, demanding ache. Wei Wuxian’s teeth sink into his skin. He gasps, pressing up into him, and Wei Wuxian hums, palming him through thin trousers.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji breathes, utterly shocked by the sensation, the deliberate touch.

Wei Wuxian’s teeth and tongue travel down his neck and up again, leaving Lan Wangji breathless and shivering, unable to focus on all of the things happening to him at once. He clings to him, and shakes, and nods his head yes to Wei Wuxian’s gentle question. He helps get his trousers off as best he can. He clenches his teeth hard on the sound that bursts in his tight throat when teasing fingertips skim up his bare hardness. He keeps his eyes closed. It is too much even without the sight of it.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian murmurs. “Tell me what you like, won’t you? I want to be the best you’ve ever had.”

“You are…” Lan Wangji struggles to speak as Wei Wuxian touches him slowly, deliberately. “You are the only—there has been no—”

There is a brief pause, Wei Wuxian’s hand stilling. “Ah, Lan Zhan, you—” He cuts himself off, a warm puff of breath. “I...is it horribly selfish of me to say I’m glad?”

“No.”

“Good, then. I’m glad.” He kisses beneath the hinge of Lan Wangji’s jaw, a quick press. “I want to be the first to learn you like this.”

His hand moves again, still slow and frustratingly light, and Lan Wangji cannot help but shift his hips. “Wei Ying, what do you—”

“Don’t give in to it,” Wei Wuxian says. “Try to hold back. You know how it’s better, when you make it last?”

Lan Wangji shakes his head.

Another pause. “No?”

“Efficiency was...preferred.”

“What—by you?”

“Mn.”

“Why?”

Guilt. Loneliness. Lan Wangji shakes his head. Wei Wuxian kisses him.

“But you don’t mind me presenting an alternative?”

He moves his thumb idly, thoughtfully, across a particularly sensitive place. A rush of arousal leaves Lan Wangji nearly dizzy.

“I do not mind,” he breathes.

“Okay,” says Wei Wuxian. “Then...try not to come?”

Lan Wangji clenches his teeth and nods. Wei Wuxian kisses him, and strokes him, and moves languidly against his side. When Lan Wangji tries to touch him in turn, he stops him with an amused noise.

“I want to take my time,” he says yet again. “I won’t be able to if you do that.”

Lan Wangji tightens the arm around Wei Wuxian’s shoulders. It feels wrong to simply do nothing, but at the same time he is relieved. He does not think he could give Wei Wuxian the focus he deserves.

“If you are certain,” he manages to say.

“I am,” Wei Wuxian says, his touch still a maddening tease. He mouths along Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “You get me so worked up, Lan Zhan, it’s ridiculous...it’s embarrassing, honestly. How easy you get me off. Just let me enjoy this first.”

This admission has nearly as much an effect on Lan Wangji as the purposeful touch. After a careful breath, Lan Wangji murmurs, “The feeling is mutual.”

Wei Wuxian laughs again, and it feels almost like wine, the way it eases his tension and blurs his thoughts. But the pleasure builds quickly nonetheless. Soon his muscles are twitching and contracting in random, patternless flinches as his body tries to catch hold of it, to fall into the heady rush. His stomach tightens. His hips flex. It is almost upon him.

Wei Wuxian’s hand moves to knead his thigh instead, and he blinks his hazy eyes open.

“Let it pass,” Wei Wuxian says, with his lovely red mouth and his bright, cunning eyes. “Then let me do it again.”

He is so beautiful, his expression so warm and fond. Lan Wangji loosens his grip on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder to trace it with his fingertips. Wei Wuxian grins and kisses each one in turn, petting Lan Wangji’s stomach. It is likely meant to be soothing. Lan Wangji bites his cheek to stop from making an embarrassing sound, but then Wei Wuxian touches him properly again, and it makes its way out of his mouth anyway.

“Good?” Wei Wuxian asks.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji manages, though the word is entirely inadequate.

Wei Wuxian draws the pleasure through him gently, deliberately, until he is gasping and squirming, and then he stops. He meets his lips sweetly, deeply, scatters comforting kisses across his face, his throat, his shoulders, until his breathing deepens. And then he begins again.

It goes on this way for interminable minutes. Lan Wangji pants helplessly into Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, one hand clutching him close, the other clenched in the bedding. He never quite starts the climb to his peak again, and he feels wild with frustration, his body pleading for some kind of resolution, his cock aching, flushed and dripping, obscene.

“Is it good, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asks. “It could...it could be even better, maybe. But if you don’t want to…”

“Show me,” says Lan Wangji. Despite the strange new dissatisfaction thudding through his veins, he does not want this to end. He would endure anything for it to last forever.

“Can I show you this?” Wei Wuxian slides his hand down between Lan Wangji’s thighs, through, behind.

Lan Wangji’s breath stalls. Wei Wuxian’s gaze moves from the progress of his own hand, up to Lan Wangji’s face. His eyes are dark. Hungry.

“It feels...I want to show you. See if you like it.”

Lan Wangji nods. He cannot conceive of Wei Wuxian touching him in a way he would not enjoy. But again: he would endure anything.

“Tell me if you don’t, though,” Wei Wuxian adds. “I just want...you’re so...I want you like this,” he says, laying his hand over Lan Wangji’s racing heart.

Lan Wangji’s chest lurches at the way he has been seen through, at the way he is being loved. He nods. Wei Wuxian kisses him, and kisses him, sharp nips and sucks that shock adrenaline through his bones, all the while moving Lan Wangji’s body how he wants it. A firm hand takes hold of the back of Lan Wangji’s thigh, pushing it up and out, and then Wei Wuxian is shifting to lie half on top of it, pinning it in place beneath his waist, above his hip.

“Alright?” He asks, fingers brushing lightly down the crease of Lan Wangji’s other thigh, and behind his sac.

Lan Wangji swallows and nods, then drinks in the intent focus on his perfect face as he looks down Lan Wangji’s body. He tries to believe it is truly for him, now, in this lifetime. The combined weight of Wei Wuxian’s touch and his attention drives a shiver forcefully up his spine. Wei Wuxian’s eyes flit up briefly to his face, and he drops a peck to the corner of his mouth before going back to his task.

Lan Wangji lies still, and watches him, and tries not to feel useless. This, impossibly, is what Wei Wuxian wants. To touch him this way. To learn him, as he said. He clings to this thought as slick fingers make a place for themselves inside him, as they open him up to something new and dazzling. The intensity of touch itself has reached breathtaking heights, but the pleasure of this touch, of this bright intrusion, shocks him. As soon as Wei Wuxian’s fingers press into him, his body responds, demanding. His back arches just slightly, pressing him down against Wei Wuxian’s hand, before he stops himself, wills himself to be patient, for Wei Wuxian.

“Good?” Wei Wuxian asks.

He curls his fingers firmly against something that sets off a deep, resonant reverberation through Lan Wangji’s nerves. A wave rolling and breaking against his edges, only to ripple back toward his center. He understands, suddenly, what he has been doing to Wei Wuxian all these nights, the reason for his sudden gasps and moans. It makes him flush hotly all the way down his chest.

“Mn,” says Lan Wangji brokenly, gripping the sheets harder.

Wei Wuxian smiles knowingly, and does it again. Lan Wangji’s throat makes another tight, unbidden sound.

“Oh,” Wei Wuxian says breathlessly, looking down again. He repeats the motion. “Lan Zhan, you...you do like it, don’t you.”

Lan Wangji does not think he can spare the concentration to lift his head, to look down and see what he sees, but he nods in confirmation. Wei Wuxian pauses and shifts, his hand disappearing. The loss is more dismaying than Lan Wangji would like to admit.

“Here,” Wei Wuxian says, nudging his arm, “your hand.”

Lan Wangji releases him and presents the requested hand dazedly. Wei Wuxian coats the offered fingers in oil, efficiency slowing to suggestive stroking and a quirked eyebrow. Lan Wangji makes what he hopes is a disapproving face, but Wei Wuxian just snorts, settles against him once more, and kisses beneath his ear. He pushes Lan Wangji’s arm, underneath him now, down.

“There. Since we both like it so much,” he says, then slips two of his fingers back into Lan Wangji, slow and deep and luxuriously filling. “Like this.”

It takes a moment for Lan Wangji’s wits to catch up with the suggestion, but once he gets there he is quick to follow through. He curls his arm around him and sets his fingertips against Wei Wuxian’s entrance.

“Go on,” Wei Wuxian says, kissing along his shoulder, his chest.

Lan Wangji presses in, and Wei Wuxian groans, relaxing into it easily. He rocks back against his hand, then forward against his thigh, his fingers inside Lan Wangji mirroring his hips. It is so encompassing, so full-bodied, so reciprocal, that Lan Wangji must work very hard indeed to time the measured thrusts of his own fingers, to search, to aim, to make Wei Wuxian’s breath stutter. But at least now, in this, he is given back his purpose: to bring Wei Wuxian pleasure. It is almost soothing to be told what to do, and to have it align so perfectly with his own directive.

Soon, though, the sensation gathers tight once more, bigger, stronger than before as he sweats, and gasps, and scrambles desperately to hold onto something solid, to keep himself anchored. But then, just before he reaches the summit, the pressure stops. Disappears. His body seizes up through the denial, and he is distantly struck with the realization that the bereft, pitiful sound that fills the room was made by his own voice.

Wei Wuxian kisses his lips, his face, his throat, holding him steady with his weight, keeping close. Nothing has ever made him feel this terrifyingly vulnerable. Nothing has ever made him feel so safe.

At length, he begins to regain sense. He takes several deep breaths before finally finding Wei Wuxian’s face. The expression there is slack. Wide-eyed. Awed.

Wei Wuxian clears his throat, but his voice still sounds thin and dry. “Lan Zhan. Can—are. Are you alright?”

Lan Wangji nods, staring at him. He realizes he is gripping the back of Wei Wuxian’s thigh now, entirely ineffectively. He hurries to replace his fingers, hazily half-certain this is the reason Wei Wuxian stopped touching him in turn, and that if he only keeps up his end of the bargain, he will not have to wait any longer.

Wei Wuxian reaches back and pulls his hand around his waist instead. “Just—don’t bother. I want...you can say no. But that was...can we do that again?”

Lan Wangji nods at the same time he says, “Do what?”

Wei Wuxian laughs weakly, then kisses him. “That. Get you that close, and then...and then not...not let you come.”

Again? Not let...Wei Wuxian had not let him come. On purpose. Like before, but much, much more pointed. More cruel. And he wants to do it again. To push him higher, let him fall farther.

To catch him, gently. To kiss him whilst he is cracked open wide and shaking with it.

“Yes,” Lan Wangji breathes.

Wei Wuxian kisses him, deep and desperate, his tongue stroking along Lan Wangji’s forcefully in both a demand and a promise. Lan Wangji feels the sudden, foreign urge to beg, and is thankful his mouth is otherwise occupied. Fingers push back into him at the same unforgiving pace, and he makes a startled noise into the kiss. Wei Wuxian breaks off to hush him, to ask if he is alright, to mouth along his jaw. He nods, and then they are kissing again, obscene and profound, and Lan Wangji is forced open, filled with delicious, wet friction on both fronts.

It is sharper now, the pleasure coming on a fine edge, and faster. He cannot still his body or quiet his voice. His hand moves unconsciously, and he almost touches himself. He makes a noise of frustration.

“Stop?” Wei Wuxian asks, stilling his hand.

Lan Wangji makes another noise, a worse one, almost a whine, and shakes his head. “I…” he swallows. “Do not know if I can keep from…”

Wei Wuxian blinks down at Lan Wangji’s fist, clenched against his hip. “Oh. Oh, I…” He clears his throat and licks his lips. “What if you put them under this,” he says, nudging the bolster.

His hands are moving before he processes the suggestion. As his arms raise over his head, Wei Wuxian’s fingers still buried deep, a weak, uneven breath rushes out of him. It should be impossible, but he feels yet more exposed like this. The way Wei Wuxian watches him, both smitten and ravenous, only serves to prove the feeling right.

When Wei Wuxian takes up the pace once more, it rears up in Lan Wangji quickly, inevitable, but the moment he moans in earnest, Wei Wuxian pulls his hand away. Keeps kissing him, but more softly, as his bow-tight body looses, juddering with the dry fire. As he whines, low and despondent. As his neglected cock jerks and leaks.

“Lan Zhan, fuck, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, his hands busy soothing, caressing his sensitive skin. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Lan Wangji looks up at him, at his sweetly awestruck face, and is suddenly, fiercely happy. They are both here. They are so very alive.

“Wei Ying,” he says, emotion thick in his throat.

Wei Wuxian nods at him gravely. “Lan Zhan,” he agrees. Then, “Again?”

A shiver of anticipation surprises Lan Wangji. He nods.

“When you can’t...when you want to come, just say so,” Wei Wuxian says.

It is not quite a challenge. But Lan Wangji has never taken easily to giving up. He lets Wei Wuxian bring him to the edge and then push him back from it again and again, each time growing more desperate, losing another piece of his grip on himself, on reality. It intensifies, hones his senses down to Wei Wuxian’s touch, his taste, the sounds they are making, and then it stretches him out thin, almost to breaking. It hurts. And every time, Wei Wuxian is there, calling him beautiful, calling him good. Telling him he is the best thing in this world. He does not have the capacity to disagree, to tell him that the only true color in the world, the only brightness worth looking at, is him.

He does not know how long it goes on before he breaks. He does not mean to. It is an unconscious plea as he falls back to the bed, shuddering hard.

“Please. Wei Ying. Please.”

He trembles in fits and starts, while short, high whines grate in his throat. He needs him. He needs him. He needs him now.

“Ah, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian sighs, “you’re so good, you’ve been so...so perfect. Anything you want,” he says. He rambles soothing promises as he pushes himself up to straddle Lan Wangji’s hips. “Just let me, Lan Zhan, just relax and let go.”

When he takes hold of his cock, Lan Wangji’s gasp is sudden and ragged enough to almost choke him. He grips Wei Wuxian’s thighs and groans as he sinks down on him, impossibly tight, impossibly hot, the pressure on his long-neglected cock almost too much. He shakes with the effort of keeping still beneath him, of letting Wei Wuxian take him in at his own pace.

“Oh,” Wei Wuxian breathes, sudden and wanton. “Oh, Lan Zhan, it’s so...oh.”

When he’s flush with Lan Wangji’s lap, he sighs once more as if deeply content. “Perfect,” he says, rocking his hips. His cock is dark, glistening all over. He places his palms on Lan Wangji’s stomach and stretches into it, arching his back. “So good, Lan Zhan. You’re so good. Come on. Let go.”

Lan Wangji’s hips jerk helplessly up, and Wei Wuxian makes a pleased sound. But then he stops.

“Don’t rush it,” he says. He leans back, his hands bearing his weight onto Lan Wangji’s thighs, holding him down. “Just let me.”

He drags his way up Lan Wangji’s cock, a vice to ruthlessly wring him dry, then seats himself again just as slowly. Lan Wangji is moaning now, helpless to it, his hips ineffectively trying to roll into the swiftly approaching climax. Wei Wuxian brings him off with ruthless, even slowness, his lower lip between his teeth, eyes heavy-lidded on Lan Wangji’s face.

“Come on,” he says, low and sultry, hitching around each slow thrust, “come on, I need you, you know I do.”

Lan Wangji gasps as it turns him inside out, and belatedly, blindly, reaches for Wei Wuxian, to bring him release in time. His hand is caught and held but Wei Wuxian keeps moving, keeps drawing his orgasm through, and he opens himself to free it, to empty his entire self into Wei Wuxian. They are one song, one light. Old as love itself, and equally as enduring. He breaks apart violently, a tree struck by lightning, shattered to splinters by the blinding deluge.

He does not know how long he lies there, insensible to the world. When he comes back to himself, it takes him yet more time to catch his breath, to open his eyes, to focus them. He feels heavy, as if his very bones have turned to stone. He realizes, after a moment, that this is at least in part due to the fact that Wei Wuxian is still atop his hips.

“Wei Ying,” he rasps.

“Shh,” Wei Wuxian says softly. His eyes are closed, his palms upturned on his thighs. “Meditating.”

Awareness blooms through Lan Wangji like an internal blush. Wei Wuxian is meditating, incorporating his donation of spiritual energy, while still sitting on his cock. How he manages to breathe properly, to sink below the surface of his mind while still hard and wet and obviously in need of stimulation, Lan Wangji does not know. He does not know anything, in fact. He merely tries to stay still, peripherally aware of a hint of discomfort where he remains half hard inside of Wei Wuxian. He does not think he has ever been continuously touched for this long in his life. He drifts, every breath either of them take a new, slow-motion shock of miniscule friction. His mind is foggy, stuffed with wool, but his edges feel raw enough to keep him present. Almost too-aware of the strangest details.

At long last, Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath. “That was a lot, Lan Zhan,” he says, eyes coming to focus on Lan Wangji’s face. “Do you even have any spiritual energy left?”

Lan Wangji does not know. He searches inward, down, a familiar, automatic assessment. “Yes. Very little.”

“Ah, you ridiculous—” Wei Wuxian cuts himself off, bending down to kiss Lan Wangji softly. It shifts them where they are joined, and Lan Wangji grunts into his mouth. “Perfect man. What am I going to do with you?”

Lan Wangji’s ears heat again. Wordlessly, he reaches down to touch Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian bites his lip lightly, then pins his hand to the bed.

“How do you feel? Tired?”

“Mn.” He is more drained and relaxed than he can ever remember feeling in his life.

“Ah, alright,” says Wei Wuxian with a note of contrition. Gingerly, he lifts his hips, and they both make small sounds of discontent as he pulls off. “Sleep, then.”

“No,” Lan Wangji says, catching him by the waist before he can go any farther. “You. I want to know.”

“To know?”

“What you would do with me.”

Wei Wuxian freezes for several seconds, and then huffs. “You’ve just given me days’ worth of cultivation, Lan Zhan, you need rest.”

“No,” repeats Lan Wangji. He slides a hand down and is thwarted, again. “Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan.”

“I will rest when you are satisfied, not before.”

Wei Wuxian drops his forehead onto Lan Wangji’s shoulder and mumbles something unintelligible.

“Hm?” Lan Wangji asks, patting weakly at his back on an instinct he has never before had.

“I want to see what it’s like to be inside you,” he says more loudly, and Lan Wangji experiences an almost-painful throb of arousal, even now, at the words. “But you’re tired, and maybe you wouldn’t even—”

Lan Wangji kisses him, clumsy and frantic. “Please.”

“Lan Zhan?”

“Wei Ying.” He does not know why he suddenly wants to so badly. He does not know why he needs it. Perhaps it is something to do with the entirely unnecessary nature of it, a thing they might do simply because they want each other this way, not because it is the means to an end. “Please.”

“Are you sure?”

He does not dignify that with a response. Instead, he pushes gracelessly at Wei Wuxian’s knees, impatient, but receives only a blank, open-mouthed stare in return. He sighs heavily and kisses Wei Wuxian for being so simultaneously charming and maddening, then shoves him again, though with no more strength than the first time.

Regardless, Wei Wuxian finally moves, and after a few painfully misplaced knees and elbows, he is lying between Lan Wangji’s thighs, the entire lithe length of him, and Lan Wangji pulls him down for another kiss, his legs opening around him naturally. He feels breathless and feverish, excited in a heavy, muted way, just from holding him there with this intent. Their cocks brush, and Lan Wangji gasps at the stripped, stinging intensity of the touch. Wei Wuxian grinds down against him, and he hisses out a harsh breath.

“Ah, too much?” Wei Wuxian says, backing off.

It is too much. He wants it anyway. But he has exhausted his supply of words. He presses down on his back, insistent, and Wei Wuxian lets out a long, shaky breath.

“Alright, fuck, alright,” Wei Wuxian mumbles, slicking himself with unsteady hands. “Ah, Lan Zhan, you’re so good at this, I want to make it good for you, so just tell me if...if…”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji breathes, weak and pleading. He is so very tired.

“Okay,” says Wei Wuxian. “Okay.”

He moves Lan Wangji’s thighs, lifting them farther apart as if they weigh nothing, sending another quiet thrill through his stomach. Then he presses them back, leans down, and guides himself in.

The first, insistent pressure is distantly, abstractly terrifying. His body is caught between shying away from it and leaning in.

“Relax,” Wei Wuxian breathes, squeezing the back of his thigh. “I’ve got you.”

Lan Wangji takes a deep breath, and lets himself fall into the exhaustion, into the warm indolence born of Wei Wuxian’s strong hands and soothing voice. It is the easiest thing in the world, to do as Wei Wuxian wishes. He allows himself that simplicity. He relaxes.

And then Wei Wuxian is inside him. Huge, and hot, pressing him open, making space inside him that was not there before but now is, the way Lan Wangji is always ready to make space for him, to open to him, only now it is his body shaping itself to Wei Wuxian’s contours, to his pleasure. Wei Wuxian groans and curses, shaking, as he struggles not to move too quickly. All of it drives the air from Lan Wangji’s lungs, the thought from his mind, filling him until there is room for nothing else at all.

When Wei Wuxian is at last fully seated, he stops, breathing hard against Lan Wangji’s throat. “I need. I need to wait, I...are you...?”

Lan Wangji works to form an answer, but before he gets there, Wei Wuxian shifts unconsciously, and it pushes a muffled sound from him. He manages to lift one of his too-heavy legs, to press lightly against Wei Wuxian’s flank, encouraging, as Wei Wuxian had once done to him.

“Please,” he says again, not certain if he is desperate for this to continue or for it to be over. He does not know how much longer he can take it, overstimulated and overcome in more ways than one. “Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian pulls out slowly, then fucks back in, saying his name reverently. Lan Wangji moans, helpless.

“I won’t last,” Wei Wuxian breathes, his thrusts slow but erratic in depth, his control already fraying. “I won’t, fuck, are you close? Lan Zhan will you, will you—”

He breaks off on a low, lovely noise, and Lan Wangji does not know how to answer. He does not know anything of his body’s capacities for this, does not know on which side of the knife’s edge of pleasure and pain he will fall if this goes on. But it does not matter. He only wants to feel Wei Wuxian needing him like this. Needing him because he wants to. Needing him desperately, joyfully, with his whole self, and taking him apart with his need.

But then Wei Wuxian pushes himself up, and pins one of Lan Wangji’s thighs to the bed. The angle changes. His cock is suddenly grinding snugly against that deep, unfathomable place, and Lan Wangji moans. He does it again, an unguarded, anguished thing, as it forces too-sharp pleasure through him, building in unintelligible layers that twine through him, make him writhe, make him groan and sigh.

“Oh,” he groans, “Wei Ying, oh, please.”

“Come on, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian coaxes, fucking him faster, almost wildly. “Come on, you have to, I—ah—I can’t, come on. Come on.”

Lan Wangji makes a sound that could possibly be described as a whimper. He knows that Wei Wuxian wants something from him, but he is beyond knowing how to give it. All he can do is lie there and feel.

But Wei Wuxian takes control of this, too. He grinds deep, hard and filthy, and Lan Wangji sobs. It is too much. He cries out as Wei Wuxian holds him fast, and fucks him, and tells him he needs to come. He does not know if he can, or if he will. He hopes he does, for him. And when Wei Wuxian begins to moan himself, as his orgasm takes him and he buries himself yet deeper, Lan Wangji feels his entire body tighten around him, and his vision explodes into innumerable stars.

When the night sky clears from his eyes, Wei Wuxian is lying on top of him, rising and falling with both their heaving breaths. It is slightly stifling, but at the same time, it is good. Lan Wangji likes him there, breath and blood and muscle and bone. Heavy and vital. Closer than close. He smoothes a hand down Wei Wuxian’s back as he has wanted to do so many times, shyly resting it just above the curve of his ass. Wei Wuxian huffs against his ear, then turns and kisses it.

“You’re so good, Lan Zhan,” he says. “Did I do good?”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji says, drawn out and dreamy. “Good.”

Wei Wuxian’s laugh is breathy. “Room for improvement?”

“Hm-mm,” Lan Wangji denies. “More than perfect.”

He drifts off to Wei Wuxian’s hum of pride, and warm kisses against his throat.

Lan Wangji wakes.

It happens abnormally slowly. He feels heavy, weighted down by exhaustion and—a body, warm and solid. Lying against him, on top of him. The momentary surprise jolts through him, and the body on top of him stirs. Wei Wuxian blinks up at him, sleepily unseeing.

“Mm, too heavy?”

His voice is husky, low and rough with sleep. He rolls away, and Lan Wangji’s heart goes with him, torn free of his chest. He turns, unthinking, to follow, but stops himself. It is...it is time to get up. And Wei Wuxian would like to sleep more. And...there is every possibility that certain parts of the previous night have been misconstrued, have—

The fingers of one of Wei Wuxian’s hands are still entwined with Lan Wangji’s. He uses them to bring Lan Wangji’s wrist up, to press a kiss to it, and slings a sleepy, coy glance at him from the corner of his eye.

Lan Wangji moves without thinking, wrapping himself around Wei Wuxian, crushing them against each other. Wei Wuxian grunts, then laughs in that same rough voice. He smoothes his free hand over Lan Wangji’s hair.

“Sleep,” he says.

“Are we awake?” Lan Wangji rasps.

Wei Wuxian’s hand pauses briefly on the back of his neck. “Yes. But let’s not be, yet.”

Lan Wangji has never felt this way, asleep or waking. He has never imagined the precise opposite of sixteen years of grief, the joy of finding and keeping. Of being found and kept. But it feels far likelier to be a dream.

“Alright,” he says, lulled by the soothing rhythm of touch and breath. “If you will still be here.”

“I will. I’ll be here. We’ll be here. Sleep.”

“Mn,” agrees Lan Wangji.

He does not sleep. He drifts, half-meditating, for the length of the morning. First listening to the miracle of Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat, steady and sure in his chest, then watching the peace on his face in yellow-tinted sunlight through the paper window shade. When Wei Wuxian wakes at last, he is still watching.

“Morning,” says Wei Wuxian, grinning and stretching against him, one eye closing reflexively.

“Wei Ying,” says Lan Wangji. He has no other words for the terrifyingly large thing he is feeling.

“You stayed in bed with me.” Wei Wuxian’s smile is one of wonder.

“Mn.”

“You’ll spoil me,” he threatens.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji says without hesitation.

Wei Wuxian laughs, luminous. “Alright. As long as I get to spoil you, too.”

Lan Wangji does not know what he could have done to deserve this. It burns in him, expanding, expanding. He brushes an errant lock of hair behind Wei Wuxian’s ear, and he goes quiet.

“You’ll let me, won’t you?” He asks, serious.

Lan Wangji is struck with the sudden sense that he is asking a different question entirely. A much more important one.

“I will.”

Wei Wuxian nods, and then slowly, slowly, leans down to kiss him.

It says, We are here. I am staying. We are here.