wuding | Why is it Always Meditation?

Why is it Always Meditation?

The ride home gives him time to think and overthink everything they’ve been talking about. There’s a substantial side of him that wishes he could somehow take back everything that they’d been speaking about. He doesn’t want to face his demons. He wants to snuff them out completely and never think about them again.

But now that he’s let Lan Zhan in on it, he can’t see a way to get out of it. He feels exposed after sharing some of his inner workings and there’s plans set in motion to expose more. He hadn’t been lying about trusting Lan Zhan with that side of himself, but he hadn’t been thinking about how much it would hurt Lan Zhan to know about it.

By the time he reaches Cloud Recesses, he’s feeling more than a little frazzled. He leaves Little Apple near the stables where she can have the finest grasses in Gusu to appease her royal senses. He even gives her an apple he’s only had a couple bites of before he finishes the trek back to the jingshi on foot.

Luckily for Lan Zhan, there are only a few people loitering around outdoors so he isn’t flagged down to stop and chat with anyone. Carrying Liang around in public always tends to invite conversation.

He pauses outside the door and shifts Liang in his arms to free his right hand so he can open the door. “Lan Zhan, I’m home!” He doesn’t know what to expect after everything. The thing he looks forward to the most is being in Lan Zhan’s arms, and he can only hope that things haven’t become awkward between them. “I rode as fast as Little Apple could carry me. We should bring some more fruit down for her.”

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He made promises, like a merchant or a sycophant. Pleaded, like a beggar. Maneuvered his circumstances and made himself small and breathed as they pleased, when they pleased, and he was frightened, his Wei Ying, he was hunted and desired, and they were loud. They were loud.

His hand feels cold beneath Wei Ying's lips, frozen. His fingers curls and release, and turn to catch on Wei Ying's mouth, its corners, the lines of his jaw. His eyes open, the pale, stinging trail of tears leaving his eyes, collapsing off his lashes. He's okay, Wei Ying says.

"Do you fear them? Do you miss them?" It is one, or it is the other. It is both. Wei Ying, at once possessed by his spirits and commanding them, has the most unique relationship with his summons of them all.

He lets Lan Zhan move his hand, nuzzling against it as it explores his face. He takes comfort in the gesture. A reminder that he’s not alone and that he won’t ever have to be again. He has his husband. He has his sons, his nephew, his friend, and if all goes well, his brother, too.

“Neither,” he answers, then shakes his head, “Both? I don’t know. I don’t have the control I used to, but I think I could keep them at bay without the Yin Tiger Tally. But I know they’d shred me in a moment of weakness. I betrayed them by controlling them. I broke my promises to them and used them as tools for my bidding. So… I should be more afraid, I think. During my nightmares, I’m still powerless, so I fear them then, like I did at first.”

And does he miss them? “Sometimes, I miss the power I had when I could command them and any other wandering spirit. I don’t miss it enough to follow the same path all over again, but I felt invincible back then.”

Invincible. And they both know, however silently, that Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriarch, appeared the part. That he was a sterling, unrepentant visage of omnipotence, a necromancer set to rule the world — the only power uniquely charismatic, righteous and untamed enough to bow down the Qingshan Wen.

Wen Ruohan was not felled by Wei Ying. He simply met his destiny.

"If they give you comfort or company, I do not deny you them." Whatever hesitations Lan Wangji retains come from superstition, caution and a fundamental misunderstanding of his husband's craft. He knows so, however foolish the reality of his own prejudices renders him. He cannot afford to inflict his worries and cripple his beloved.

His voice sheds an octave, nearly skittish, bashful. "I only wish to understand."

“Comfort or company,” he repeats and thinks about that. “You mean like I used to before I defected? It’s true that some of them were fun to talk to, but I was mostly doing it to flaunt my power, to be honest.” He turns his head to kiss the palm of Lan Zhan’s hand. “I don’t have any allegiance to the spirits I used to keep around, but you’re sweet to say that.”

It means a lot coming from Lan Zhan with his trepidation surrounding his necromancy and battles with jealousy. But he’d promised not to tease Lan Zhan about that anymore, so he holds his tongue.

“There’s not much to understand. Ghosts are a lot like young children. They’re emotional beings and don’t act on reason. Depending on how they lived and died, they could retain most of themselves or be lost in raw feelings.” Like Chifeng-Zun. “I’d rather set spirits free from the shackles keeping them here than befriend them now. Besides, could you imagine the uproar if your uncle caught me using demonic cultivation in Cloud Recesses?”

And is he? Sweet. Perhaps self-indulgent. Taking small comfort from Wei Ying's reassurance, his sudden and beloved ease. Wangji's sleeve relinquished, they do battle over stealing intimacy, his hand curving in to cup Wei Ying's cheek in between kisses.

"Perhaps we may walk the region." No the country, no. Not with their respective commitments. In truth, it will be a wonder if Lan Wangji can spare even a handful of days, making this a narrow, restricted excursion. Still, he would not consign Wei Ying to Wen Qionglin's company alone. "Exorcise during travel. Soothe and lay to rest."

Enough harm has been done in the world that they are left with work for days, for short eternities. And this assignment, perhaps more than many, could tempt Wei Ying into sparing inklings of kindness for himself, patience for his progress. Redemption is a long, languishing task.

"Uncle need not be faced with your endeavours."

“You want to?” He asks, but he’s also thinking about the time commitment for such an endeavor. They have plans for tomorrow to go night hunting in this region, but travel to Yiling would take a significant amount of time and if they were to exorcise spirits as they move, it could take a lot longer than an acting sect leader should take. It’s one thing if Lan Zhan were to be going to a conference in another region or if he were to clean up the spirits of Gusu, but this would be a benefit another’s land.

He hums for a moment, then shakes his head. “We can exorcise spirits anywhere. Why don’t we start here and move on to Yiling when we have more time to be thorough?” He rubs his cheek against his husband’s palm, savoring the feeling. He wants to go to the Burial Mounds and lay the lingering spirits to rest there, but he doesn’t want to leave the work half finished.

“We’ve got those demonic cultivators in Yunmeng to worry about, too. You said Jiang Cheng agreed to come visit. I’ll try to talk to him again about laying those spirits to rest. They’re the ones I feel partly responsible for.” They’d been killed because of following his footsteps, anyway. He hadn’t been the one to choose to torture and kill them, but if it hadn’t been for him, they wouldn’t have been the target of his dear shidi.

His manner changes, chills, Lan Wangji's voice emptied. He tries, yet fails, not to allow base feelings to taint the moment, fears of tragedy yet unmanifested to cast a long shadow over their beautiful cooperation. Wei Ying has opened to him, speaking even now of plans and ambitions he had left so long undefined or merely mentioned. Lan Wangji must be his shield, not his hurdle.

"When he visits..." How to speak so, without injecting Wei Ying with poison of bitterness? "Jiang Wanyin may prove — abrupt. Prickly." To put the matter far too simply.

He will roar, he will snub, he will make a great nuisance of himself. He will be as better men should not. As if to soothe himself first, Lan Wangji dips in to replace his palm with his mouth on Wei Ying's cheek, pressed once, dryly. Again.

"I do not wish you disappointed." As if Jiang Cheng has every afforded his brother better than this. Vile, narrow-minded monster.

He sighs, this time an out of a vague sense of irritation than the contentedness of before. “I’d be more surprised if he doesn’t act like that. He’s always been prickly, but ever since I’ve come back, he’s been in a constant state of rage, it seems like. I don’t know if it’s just because of my presence or if he’s always like that.”

He grabs Lan Zhan’s hand again to poke at and play with. “No matter what happens, at least I’ll know I tried. That’s all I can do without risking war between the sects, anyway. If he hates me, that’s one thing, but this is my sect now and I’ll do whatever’s in my power to protect it.”

He doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to judging his brother using torture after some of the things he’s done personally, but he knows that it’s wrong. It’s evil. It can consume and taint the one doing the torturing just as much as the one being tortured. And it doesn’t escape him that Jiang Cheng had been doing those things because of the slim possibility that Wei Wuxian had possessed one of his disciples.

They both require distraction, too restless as a point of their conversation's evolution to entertain lying still. Wei Ying toys with his hand, seeking reassurance that he does not impose, does not inconvenience. For his part, driven to derailment, Lan Wangji moves sluggishly like thawing snow to pour more wine into his husband's cup, fresh tea into his own. A nudge, after, of the offered drink toward Wei Ying across the low table they still encircle.

"He will make no attempt against Cloud Recesses." Jiang Cheng's war is not with the Gusu Lan, and Zewu-Jun's honour and dignity protect them, besides. The only hostilities likely to transpire will be verbal, pointed and unwarranted. Wei Ying will suffer, he will bleed, he will scar.

And Lan Wangji, hand already steeling around his cup of tea to bear it up, will have to brace himself to survive the episode.

"He is hurt. He believes his hurt offers justification. That his grief absolves him." A pause, then carefully, "His affection for you."

“Yeah, I know he’s not stupid. Making an enemy of Cloud Recesses would be suicide for the Jiang Sect,” he says darkly, knowing his necromancy would be narrower in scope without amplification, but still strong enough to topple armies. It would tear him to pieces to side against the Jiang sect, but he would if that hypothetical has the misfortune to become real. He takes comfort knowing the possibility is immeasurably thin.

He reaches for his wine and takes a good-sized sip of it, keeping the cup in hand as he fills his little nook under Lan Zhan’s arm again. “He’s not the only one hurting. I know it’s not my place to compare my pain to his, but he’s just making it harder for both of us. It’ll never be like it was when we were growing up, but we could be family again.”

He shakes his head and finishes his cup of wine in one large sip. “Let’s talk about something else. What was your day like, Lan Zhan? You must have worked hard to make sure you had the whole evening free to spend with your husband.”

Suicide, Wei Ying says, and some part of Lan Wangji feels it worthwhile to pursue, blood due. Would Jiang Cheng's horror and hurt be enough to compensate the hundreds of innocent lives lost in the endeavour? He wishes he were a better man, the one who might jump to say, No.

More wine, then. He slips in the natural position of a sophisticated, studied concubine, to pour fresh supply in Wei Ying's emptied cup. His own tea lies less attended, on brink of neglect, callously limpid, far too absent of any virility of flavour for even Lan Wangji's delicate palate. At times, his uncle's hand — farther-reaching, since Xichen's seclusion, tells.

"My head hurts." A flimsy, reedy whisper. He feels foolish to confess so, said head tipping valiantly to brush Wei Ying's nearby shoulder, child-like. So often, he would withhold similar confessions, careful not to appear self-indulgent or immature. But if Wei Ying can expose the rawness of his wounds, Lan Wangji too must suffer the inevitably indignity of exposing himself vulnerable.

"They speak to excess."

Wei Wuxian moves along with Lan Zhan reaching for the wine to refill his cup. He only thinks to return the favor after they’ve settled again and Lan Zhan accepts the new direction of their conversation. He feels somewhat frayed after talking about Jiang Cheng.

“Drink more,” he suggests, leaning forward to refill his husband’s cup and offering it to him. Instead of sitting back again, he turns around to face Lan Zhan to give him his attention. He knows that Lan Zhan isn’t the sort to complain about his hurts, so he’s gladdened to hear him do so now. It feels like trust in vulnerability.

He sips his wine and sets the cup down so he can situate himself sideways across Lan Zhan’s lap. “Some people just like the sound of their own voice,” he says knowing that he’s one of them. He strains upward, one hand behind Lan Zhan’s head to bring him close enough to kiss the center of his forehead. “Were they loud? Demanding?” Probably both. People tend to get defensive when their livelihoods are on the line and Lan Zhan has to be the one to comb through all of that to get to the point and make an impartial and fair decision. Lan Zhan isn’t meant for work such as that. He’s meant to be out protecting the people who have no one else to turn to.

He drinks more, cautious and unenthusiastic sips, his true childish tendencies materializing in a lack of appetite to cooperate with his affliction. He will not indulge his headache with liquids, for all they would surely reduce his incipient migraine. How will this work? He cannot say. Does not say.

Only noses, impossibly fond, at Wei Ying's throat and collarbone, raising his forehead obediently to receive the benediction of his husband's kiss. Yes, that. Acceptable. "They want, constantly."

They are his people, and he loves them well, yet he feels shredded, a morsel of meat between them, and yet their vegetarian mouths hungering. He sighs, and it exhausts him ardently.

"I do not know how brother prevails." Or at the very least endures with pristine composure.

He nuzzles his face against Lan Zhan’s cheek after his kiss. Cuddling around with his husband is one of his favorite pastimes, despite the subject of their conversation. He knows Lan Zhan guards himself against sympathy when it comes to his hurts. He isn’t the sort to complain, either. If he’s saying that his head hurts, that must mean it’s hurting badly.

“You can’t please everybody,” he sympathizes. If it were a matter of giving everyone what they want, there would be no structure. The Lan coffers are deep, but not inexhaustible. Society works on hierarchical structure and that means some people will be at the lowest level. Who’d be happy with that lot?

“Your brother isn’t exhausted by the same things you are. I’m sure there are loads of things you’re better at than him, too.” He barely manages to bite back the urge to compare their taste in men.

He noses against Lan Zhan’s throat, breathing in the masculine scent of him. He smells of sandalwood with a hint of sweat. He finds that smell intensely pleasant. “Want me to rub your shoulders? You’re still tense.”

"I fear I please no one," he mutters helplessly in between absorbing the rays of Wei Ying's attention like a broken plant seeking the dregs of its salvation. This, more than anything, haunts him: that in attempting to please one and all, he achieves nothing. That he is resiliently, consummately disappointing. That, for all their sympathy and kindness, Xichen and Wei Ying might too turn the mellow sweetness of their gaze into a sharp, searching thing and find him wanting.

At least, for now, Wei Ying tolerates his fumbling. Offers, moreover, to alleviate it.

"Please," he concedes softly, rolling his shoulders once only to signal Wei Ying may pull back from his affection, as Lan Wangji prepares himself for a thorough rub. Wei Ying's current form lacks the strength of the old — will always be deprived of the arm muscle of a disciple of Gusu Lan. But he still satisfies, diligence compensating for a lack of cultivated skill.

Breath caught, he hesitates at the last moment. "Do not... Wei Ying. Go lighter, on my back."

Another tremulous, rare concession. It is a hardship to make such a fool of himself with whims, but if Wei Ying commits to signaling each turn when he is softened and uncomfortable during their bedplay — Lan Wangji can compensate at least in this way. The old hurts of his skin are long gone, but for their memory, the rare whispers of nerves that never knotted well again. But the instinct to flinch lingers.

“Some people want to be unhappy,” he says, kissing Lan Zhan’s nose and then a brushing kiss over his lips. If they start kissing too much, one thing will lead to another and they’ll end up making love while there’s still tension to work through. But he’s still tempted to kiss his husband’s mouth another couple times before he stretches his arms and leaves the comfortable security of Lan Zhan’s lap. “They’re ungrateful if they leave with more than they arrived with and still feel unhappy after. There’s nothing you can do to please those sorts of people.”

He sets his cup on the table and moves behind Lan Zhan. He touches his shoulders thoughtfully. “Salve or aromatic oils?” He asks, then thinks it over, “Oils since were going to bathe after. Unless you want to keep your robe on?” Lan Zhan is sometimes embarrassed by his scars more than other times and he’s not sure which it will be tonight.

At first, Wei Wuxian had flinched away from the scars once he realized he’d been part of the cause, but he’s better about it now. He still feel sad and guilty about it at times when he’s in a mopier sort of mood, but today he’s focused more on giving his husband relief from the knotted muscle he can already feel through the silk.

He pushes Lan Zhan’s hair to the side and presses a gentle kiss on the back of his neck. He’ll need to go fetch the oils if that’s how Lan Zhan wants to do this, so he doesn’t start rubbing right away.

An easy, gentle thing to withstand Wei Ying's affection, bearing the brunt of his sweet love, holding his head high. Shoulders dipping, his posture sabotaged, he wilts beneath Wei Ying's touch to permit him proper vantage. However strategic and convenient the transition to Mo Xuanyu's body, it was exacerbated the difference in height between Lan Wangji and Wei Ying to such a point that concessions are imminent and inevitable. No matter.

Salve. Aromatic. Oils. Does he require so much attention? He flinches, as if slapped by the abrupt reality of his whimsicality, shamed by his own desires. A man grown, and yet he requires his husband to oil and attend him, as if he is crippled or a tender thing. No such need, or truth between them.

The hair Wei Ying tamed into obedience to the side ripples and spreads in a tumbling cascade, when he shakes his head in silent unambiguity. "No oil."

Let him not be as children, taking advantage of the brunt of his husband's dutiful care. He is a man long starved, accustomed to survive off scraps and fractions. The mere silhouette of kindness will suffice for him. "No permissiveness."

No unctuous, irrevocable fall into disdainful indiscipline. Only a few passings of the hand, even those brisk and already plunging Lan Wangji in fits of shame. "Do not... concern yours. Please."

He starts to feel his way around Lan Zhan’s shoulders. He can feel the puckered scars under his fingers as he searches for the knotted muscles underneath. He knows Lan Zhan treats himself strictly and he wants to encourage him to let loose and enjoy being spoiled sometimes. It’s what any spouse would want, isn’t it?

“You’re tense, Lan Zhan. I’m surprised it’s just your head that hurts,” he says, rubbing his palms against a particularly stubborn knot. It will probably hurt until the knot gets loosened up, but Lan Zhan will feel better after. He leans in again to kiss the back of his husband’s neck. An apology for any pain he causes. “If this hurts too much, just let me know and I’ll stop.”

For now, he’ll keep going. If Lan Zhan doesn’t tell him to stop, he’ll work his way down his back.

“I love you,” he says after a short bout of silence between them. “I’m glad we got to talk tonight. I think I’m feeling a little better already just knowing that I can face whatever I need to with Lan Zhan there with me. And being able to help you feel good like this makes me feel happy, too.”

The bruise is to his pride, the ache to his heart. Wei Ying walks his hands over his shoulders and back, and he bristles first as if singed, then gradually melts into the kindness, obediently absorbing his husband's brimming affection. It feels right to allow this just as sanguinely as Wei Ying permits him to attend his wounds, or cultivate his fledgling core, or enter his body.

Throughout his, he murmurs words of soft gratitude, anticipating his husband's hesitations, the close scrutiny of his flesh for tells of anxiety. He reins them in.

"Thank you. This is pleasing." Perhaps not the words his lover wishes to hear, not a pledge of eternal romance or profound change within his person, as his shoulders roll with the movements of Wei Ying's strokes, and muscles ripple with shivers of faint, undisguised pleasure.

"It may take time to attend to Wei Ying's fears. Diligence." Effort and consistency, and a willing heart. "Do you... accept his?"

He grins at once when Lan Zhan says what he’s doing is pleasant. Coming from him, it’s the highest praise and he keeps working his magic through his husband’s muscles. He wonders, belatedly, if it would feel nicer if he used some of his qi through his fingers. Probably, he decides, but he doesn’t do it now, thinking it would only push Lan Zhan too far. Next time, maybe.

“I didn’t think it would be instantaneous or anything,” he says, stopping to work on another spot of knotted muscle. “All I know is that right now, in this moment, I’m happy. It’s strange, but I almost look forward to the next time something’s bothering me because it feels better than I expected to air out those sorts of things.” They’d only just started and it’s just as likely it will feel like pulling teeth when more personal dreams or thoughts plague him. He’ll feel ashamed sometimes, it’ll hurt others, and maybe he’ll even lash out at Lan Zhan for trying to help him, but it’ll be out in the open and he’ll no longer have the added stress of keeping that part of him hidden from view.

“So… yeah, I accept it and I trust you with it. Even the stuff that shows me at my worst. My weakness and my cruelty, both. I know you’ll still love me and that’s the thing that matters most to me.” He knows there are plenty of things that would be in that category, so they won’t run out of work any time soon.

Wei Ying understands the risks of their endeavour, yet still subjects himself to the vulnerability born of exposure. So be it, then. They will weather whatever hardship and doubt born of this experiment of trust together, and Lan Wangji, his husband's protector in this and all things, will tame his natural instinct to shield him from aby inkling of discomfort, and in doing so postpone critical revelations.

For now, he languishes in the liminal space between tense composure and molten relaxation, easing with Wei Ying's ongoing caresses, and finally leaning back until his spine hits Wei Ying's body. His head tips back, also, glimpsing his beloved upside down with despondent, juvenile satisfaction.

"I love you above my life, my sanity, my core," he reassures, and all but pouts after. "Kiss me."

Not for sake of seduction, or comfort, or whim. Not even for play. Simply, because they are wedded, generously bedded, and they can. They are permitted the luxury of intimacy at any and every step, and the entirety of Jinlintai may now stand as witness of Lan Wangji's claim.

It’s a simple thing to say that he’s ready and willing to give up every secret of his extensive traumas, but the true test will come as each item surfaces. In this moment, he is excited to do the work that will bring them closer and alleviate some of the chains shackling him in his, until now, private misery.

He laughs when Lan Zhan leans back against him and he wraps his arms loosely around his chest. How he loves this man! “I love you just as much,” he insists, then tries the near impossible task of trying to kiss Lan Zhan in this position. He laughs again when he can’t, so he loosens his hold and tries again. It works this time, curling down awkwardly from above for an upside down kiss. It’s weird to kiss from this angle, but not in a bad way.

“Sit up and turn around, then I’ll give you a better kiss,” he promises and moves back so Lan Zhan can do as he asks. Usually, by now, they would have already been making out and getting each other primed for their every day. There’s something nice about taking it slow and just enjoying each other’s company like they have been. In some weird way, it feels even more intimate than sleeping together.

Ah, there he is. Wei Ying, consuming the entirety of Lan Wangji's horizon, beauty unparalleled. A smile cracks the corner of his mouth, loosens and warms them. He answers the kiss, however brisk and clumsy, their lips missing their match more often than brushing, before the deed is done — and he lingers, soft, hand climbing up to cradle the side of Wei Ying's face.

He has this. Lan Wangji has him.

Then, his husband, a consummate tyrant, instructs that Lan Wangji must turn around, and he answers the call obediently, shifting around to face Wei Ying — and finding himself briefly pleased, because, yes. His lover was handsome, seen upside down. But he is even prettier, like this. What a wise decision.

He does not make haste, does not force their interaction — only puckers his lips in the undignified way that Lan Liang enforces when he seeks out kisses. "Was promised."

He touches Lan Zhan the whole time, hands gentle as they caress his husband’s arms and back as he turns to face him. They journey upwards until he has Lan Zhan’s face between them. “You were,” he grins at him before brushing a chaste kiss across his lips. He knows he’s being a tease and he traces Lan Zhan’s bottom lip with his thumb.

“Love you,” he repeats with a mischievous sort of smile. “You’ve been so good tonight, Lan Zhan. I just want to eat you up.”

He crawls his way closer, arms draping over Lan Zhan’s shoulders, around his neck. “You want more,” he doesn’t need to ask, tipping his face forward to nuzzle his nose against his cheek briefly before he gives his lover what was promised. Their lips come together, this time more purposeful than before.

He could get lost in kissing his husband like this, tongue sneaking past his lips to taste Lan Zhan’s lips. Surely they’re both feeling better now so there’s no reason to hold back, right? They’re not using their affection to enable one another to hide from pain.

If this were his beating heart's last stirring, the last face he saw, the last touch entertained — he would regret nothing.

Kissing Wei Ying often trumps even bedding him, the intimacy of his flesh heating in the bracket of his lover's palms, cheeks heated. The battle of their tongues, Lan Wangji's arms slipping to shackle his Wei Ying's waist and behind. How they come together, half moaning, half prey to heady inhalations, how they thrive.

He wants more. Needs less. Lives in perpetual imbalance, unconvinced that he will ever be satisfied in this world, where Wei Ying and he are distinct and disparate individuals. Two halves of a soul must, inevitably, collide.

Within long, sprawling moments, he pulls back to regard Wei Ying, to take his husband in. To adore him. "My husband who confessed his feelings is the most beautiful."

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