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 sits up slowly, a little dazed from the kissing and Lan Zhan’s reaction. He’d screwed up, hadn’t he? He mutters his husband’s name, wincing at the bitter accusation in Lan Zhan’s voice. Yeah, that answers it. He’d gone and screwed things up.

“I thought you didn’t want to,” he answers, trying to keep his temper in check. If they both get upset, they’ll end up in a worse position for them both. “I do want to sleep with you. A lot. I only pushed you away because you were the one who said you wanted to wait until morning. I’m not as good at restraint as you are and I was already starting to react to that kiss, as if you couldn’t tell.”

He folds his arms over his chest, feeling all kinds of conflicted. “It’s not fair. I don’t know what you want from me. I was just trying to honor your request and you’re making me out to be the bad guy here.”

The bad guy. The villain of their interaction. No — he flinches — he cannot spell that fate for Wei Ying, no matter the bitterness of their exchange, the downturn of Lan Wangji's mouth. He chances a glance away, yet resting knelt as if a disciple obediently listening to his instructor to accept punishment due.

"I thought to overcome my initial reticence." To push past the headache, the suffocated appetite, the bone-weariness that has infected his entire skeleton. He would never need to force himself to make love to his husband, body attuned to every stirring from Wei Ying, every pulse of pleasure. At most, he might perhaps have divorced his mind and his body enough to perform his marital duties and alleviate his lover's qualms.

"To meet Wei Ying's enthusiasm." Perhaps not head on or to equal measure, but surely, it matters. That he makes attempt. That he would coax and tease himself to warm to the possibility.

“I thought about letting you,” he admits, then loosens up his posture by resting his hands in his lap instead. “No, that’s not quite right. I thought you just wanted to make out for a while because you like kissing so much, but it would just end up sending us both to bed without finishing. I would have tried pushing you or I would have taken care of myself even though you asked me to wait and I didn’t want to do that to you.”

He leans forward and gets onto his hands and knees to crawl the short distance to where Lan Zhan’s kneeling. “I don’t want our love making to feel like an obligation. That’s not us.”

He sits back on his knees and opens his arms to invite Lan Zhan back into his arms. “I’ll confess that I thought about withholding kissing until tomorrow morning because I was feeling rejected, but I wasn’t going to actually go through with it.”

For a moment, his stillness transcends his mutinous sullenness, his stubborn pride. He watches Wei Ying with a silent, cavernous awe, and he feels — he is entitled to feel betrayed.

His husband had thought to punish him for declining physical congress. To withhold kisses, Lan Wangji's only succor, at a time when he needs it best to quiet his soul. At least, Wei Ying did not allow himself to be governed by this malice, tempted to the point of contemplation, but falling short of execution.

He looks away, neglecting the spread of Wei Ying's arms, the embrace they promise. No. Not yet. "I apologise if my inability to perform disappointed you."

But it should not have, it strikes him. Wei Ying's feelings of rejection are hollowly misplaced. "If one night's omission from our trysts is so repugnant, seek your hand."

He settles back on his folded legs and looks down at the ground between them. So much for honesty. So much for understanding. This is the second time he feels like the rejection is directly linked to his honesty. When he’d been sharing half truths and keeping himself chipper when when he didn’t feel that way, things were better between them.

“Sorry,” he says, frowning and feeling defensive. “You only thought you wanted to know me inside and out, didn’t you? If you want a placated happy husband, then I can pretend to be that for you all you want me to. I told you that I’m not a good person and you didn’t believe me. Well, do you believe it now? You can’t have me both ways.”

He knows he’s being unfair now. He’d been trying to calm Lan Zhan but it’s backfired on him. He reaches up and roughly wipes at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “Just go take your bath alone. I’m going to take a walk.”

With that, he rises up to his feet. “And for the record, you can skip sex with me as much as you want. I’ll just keep my damn mouth shut next time.”

The barrage continuous, preposterous, unyielding. No one can sting and stab or kill more efficiently than the ones we love. Than Wei Ying, setting himself to vengeance. Perhaps Lan Wangji should have recalled this: the legacy of resentment undertaken by the Yiling Patriarch's ghosts was, after all, born of their master's spirit.

He weathers the first offensive, bloodless and barely blinking, suffering each slap of words with the impunity of men who were too slow to be cowardly and must now be brave. And he bears it.

He steels himself when Wei Ying indicates they will take their bath apart, with his husband no doubt seeking solace on a rooftop, his wine sour and attention ill placed. And he bears it.

He flinches when Wei Ying rises, affixes his gaze on the single twin grazes of the thickly lacquered and painstakingly polished floor, to avoid his lover. And he bears it.

"If you leave now, I shall not be here on your return."

He freezes, gaze icy when Lan Zhan gives him an ultimatum. If he leaves now, no matter how temporarily, Lan Zhan would go gods only know where and leave him to the jingshi alone. That’s not what he wants, but his temper is already stoked. There are two options. He could leave and face the consequence of at least one night alone, probably more. Or he could stay and keep fighting with Lan Zhan, risking one or both of them saying more things they can’t take back.

“Suit yourself,” he says, grabbing the half-finished bottle of wine from the table and walking past Lan Zhan to the enclave they’d set up for Lan Liang. His back leans against the wall and he slides down it until he’s sitting. He’s not leaving the jingshi, but he is leaving the room. It’s up to Lan Zhan to decide whether it counts.

He wonders where things went so wrong, feeling quite sorry for himself. There’d been no pleasure in berating Lan Zhan with barely any response. Lan Zhan may have been the first one angry, but Wei Wuxian had plunged the knife in deeper, twisting it for good measure.

Maybe Wei Wuxian is the bad guy after all.

He cradles the jug of Emperor’s Smile against his chest, making no move to drink it just yet. Once he’s done with it, he’ll have to go back into the other room and face Lan Zhan again and he’s not ready for that. He’ll end up making things worse if he’s still angry and hurt when he does it.

On backfoot, he nearly breaks the second Wei Ying exits his peripheral view and retreats, step feline, to spirit the last of himself away from the room — only for the door of the jingshi to never screech open. The winds of the dying spring season do not dance in teasing shifts around his ankles. The crackling, gravelly taste of Wei Ying's qi does not dissipate in its entirety.

Then he hears Wei Ying take seat — and the traitor, his heart, beats once more in violent earnest. Sluggishly, he bides their time: lifts himself, limbs asleep from the tension of his knelt repose; starts his bath, steam balming his limbs, when he slips into the waters, making slow progress of his cleansing.

In the end, it is done, and he re-emerges, wearing, if not Hanguang-Jun's poise, then at least the sophistication of his extensive grooming. In their bed chamber, languishing by their clothes trunk, he lingers just enough to select three of the layers his foolish hearts remembers Wei Ying once complimented for their seascape embroidery.

Then, masked in what scant regalia he might call his own, he finally infiltrates Lan Liang's enclave, looming over his demolished husband.

"I understand the thought repels now," he starts, jaw slack and tongue clammy, because Wei Ying need not speak the words to condemn him to the realization. "I ask nothing of you. But I must... feel touch tonight."

Unmoored, drifting. Distant from himself. Requiring an anchor. He shared the truth of it with Wei Ying earlier in their evening, but failed to convey the magnitude of his urgency. It cannot be requested of his husband, now; he refuses the imposition.

"Release me to go to Sizhui." After all, Wei Ying did not flee their home, however mournful his blatant resistance. Lan Wangji cannot evacuate their shared premises without breaking his bond — or asks.

Edited 2024-05-31 22:50 (UTC)

He listens, stubbornly waiting to hear Lan Zhan settle in his bath before he allows himself the relief of silent sobs. They start out as angry things, but after a while, it’s the despair that consumes him.

He asks himself why he’d let himself become so angry in the first place? Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut long enough to let Lan Zhan’s anger fizzle out? They could be in the bath together now, enjoying each other’s company instead of hiding away with his old friends, guilt and loneliness.

He can still see Lan Zhan’s face when he’d said all those cruel things. He’d hurt him pretty badly. He’d implied that he only pretends to be happy when the truth of the matter is that Lan Zhan’s one of the few who brings the happiness out in him.

He’s still holding the unfinished jug of wine when he hears footsteps approaching. He’s finished crying, but there’s evidence that’s what he’s been doing. Moisture on his sleeves, red, swollen eyes. There’s no point in trying to hide it, but he still tries to avoid bringing attention to it.

He glances briefly at Lan Zhan’s face before staring pointedly at the ground between them, instead. He’d noticed which robes Lan Zhan’s wearing and he wonders if Lan Zhan knows they’re some of his favorites. It would be a strange choice, if so.

“So you’re leaving anyway,” he accuses, disappointed. He feels the tears coming on again so he looks down at his lap to try and keep some dignity. “If you’d rather have Sizhui, go ahead.”

He wept. Wei Ying, his Wei Ying, to whom Lan Wangji twice bowed in the ways of marriage, their fates bound. He permitted this, this beautiful, ostentatious, living creature reduced to the paltry fight or flight responses of a lesser thing. Thirteen years did not suffice him; he has deadened Wei Ying once more.

When he melts down bonelessly, like a coiling snake, it is the graceless, artless surrender of a man who barely recalls the geometries of his long-perfected kneeling. This much, all children of Cloud Recesses learn: how to be impossibly, impractically beautiful in obedience. Not now. He slips by Wei Ying's side, knees in loud, dragged shifts across the floor, struggling to fit himself in his husband's negative spaces — before giving up that war and simply catching Wei Ying in his arms and forcibly rotating him, so that Lan Wangji's front might fit behind him, back to the enclave's wall dappled with bells and folded coloured papers.

Perhaps it is not only Lan Liang who benefits from distractions.

And oh, he should have asked. Knows so. Is not entitled to his husband's affection or his company, but for once the intensity and urgency of his need must be afforded dominance. He clings to Wei Ying, manipulating him in his arms, clutching and steeling as if he is the life-saving rope thrown to a man at sea, and their storm has come. His eyes shutter, a coward, so there is not an inkling of possibility that he might glimpse the tears on Wei Ying's face again.

"Do not fight me now." He whispers it like a prayer, for all he has never lent himself readily to faith. "Please, do not fight me. Do not weep. I have you. Please."

What had he expected? Surely, Lan Zhan would want to go to Sizhui where he could feel safe from the strife that had boiled between them. He must not know Lan Wangji’s heart in this moment because he couldn’t be more wrong. He steals a glimpse at his husband lowering himself to crawl towards him. And Wei Wuxian doesn’t shy away, letting Lan Zhan do with him as he sees fit.

The tears still come, his body and mind confused and oh so relieved. His Lan Zhan is here again in spite of everything, he isn’t being abandoned for the night no matter how much he deserves it.

The jug of wine is discarded at his side so he can curl himself around Lan Zhan’s arms. “I’m sorry, Lan Zhan,” he says pitifully, anger having already fizzled out. He’d been too cruel and too vicious, lashing out with his words like a sword. And Lan Zhan was still the first one to come back. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. All I ever do is mess things up.”

He’s not finished feeling sorry for himself.

He scoffs at himself, “And now I’m letting you do all the comforting when I should be the one holding you.”

"Don't. Don't weep. Don't." He litters his words incontinently, half hiccuped, half murmured, drowning in the torrential onset of his own silent tears. It is Wei Ying who triggers them, sooner than previous sorrow, the look of his husband reduced to this.

"You break my heart," he gasps and only tightens his hold, raining kisses on the side of Wei Ying's face, cradling him close. "Don't weep."

Of all the fates he has condemned Wei Ying to, from their marriage to the dissatisfaction of restricting himself to the territories of the Cloud Recesses — this is, must be the worst. He has compelled his love to cry, to reach the sharp, harmful limit of his tolerance for Lan Wangji's eccentricities. He has failed, once more, to communicate —

...no. No, for once, no. He communicated, and everything worsened, evidencing the truth behind the precepts that bind them to mindfulness, discretion, composure. He should have performed, as Wei Ying clearly wished him to. Should not have articulated his disappointment, to be distrusted. It would have been no hardship. He has born bloodshed and mourning and countless encounters with Jiang Wanyin, and the lashing of his back; he might have born this.

"Come sleep, come. Don't weep."

Unfortunately, being told to stop crying just makes it harder for him to do so. To hear the strain in Lan Zhan’s voice, knowing that he’s the one that caused such pain makes it harder still. His composure crumbles and he wipes the wetness from his eyes and nose on his shoulder. “I should be holding you. You asked me for my touch and I should be holding you.”

He turns as much as he can, struggling until he’s able to cling on to Lan Zhan where he can hide his face against the prettily embroidered silk covering up that branding scar. And he lets himself cry ugly sobs until he manages to calm down under his husband’s patient guidance. His tears now are as much relief as they are pain.

It takes a little while, but he eventually stills. He mutters another apology for dirtying Lan Zhan’s clean robes. It’s been a rough evening between deep talks and harmful words and it’s caught up to him leaving him feeling exhausted. A nap sounds good to him, but it will only end up with him waking up in the middle of the night.

He pulls one hand back, rubbing at his eyes and nose again. He feels like some sort of bog monster dripping unceremoniously on them both.

“Haven’t bathed yet,” he says, finally sitting back and looking at Lan Zhan’s face. He knew he’d made him cry too and he wipes the trails of moisture on Lan Zhan’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean what I said before. I don’t always pretend to be happy. You really do make me feel happy most of the time, Lan Zhan.”

"...I know. I know," he says in between the spasms and feverish tearing spells that afflict Wei Ying savagely, sabotaging his composure, leaving him to cling and drag onto Lan Wangji as if he is the best and last trustworthy thing in the world. He bides his time, focused on holding them both upright, on shifting to allow Wei Ying to turn towards him and envelop him.

Warmth and wet and shivers. This is the experience of Wei Ying cascading over him, letting his outburst run its course, helpless before the tide of his own emotions. Lan Wangji can only hold him through it, obedient when Wei Ying returns to himself and begins to attend to both of their grooming, likely overwhelmed by misplaced shame.

"Shall we bathe Wei Ying?" A communal effort, the power and resilience of their steadily depleting stamina, combined. If Wei Ying wants the marks of his dishevelment reduced, they may erase them so. "Shall hold Wei Ying's hand."

They need not be parted, past the inevitable few heartbeats when Wei Ying must climb and collapse in the tub, or Lan Wangji must pour in his water or ready his fresh silks and balms.

He nods his head before speaking his agreement, “I’ll bathe and then I’ll hold you until you fall asleep. No, no, I’ll keep holding onto you all night long if you’ll have me.”

There is a fair amount of shame. Most of it revolves around his behavior before excusing himself to Liang’s room. Now that he’s cooled his anger, he’s just embarrassed for getting upset in the first place. Lan Zhan had only been trying to sleep with him in spite of his feelings of unease and desire to skip it. If anything, he should have been angry at himself, but he’d lashed out at Lan Zhan instead.

He leans in and brushes his lips over Lan Zhan’s, lingering there and kissing him for a few sweet moments. “You’re too good to me, Lan Zhan. I’m sorry again for losing my temper like that.”

One last squeeze and he gets the nerve to let go of his husband and get to his feet. With the wine jug in one hand and offering the other to his husband, he makes his way back to the main room to set the wine down and to get ready for his bath. It’s not usual for him to want to take a bath after Lan Zhan implying he doesn’t have to, but he feels like he needs it.

“You don’t have to help me bathe if you don’t want to,” he offers, standing near the tub and starting to strip down. He won’t take a long bath. Just enough to wash off so he can feel like an adult again.

In truth, he wishes to speak his acceptance of Wei Ying's apology. To welcome it and the formal end of their quarrel, and to call this chapter closed. Yet his mouth stays loose, jaw stiff, tension accruing steadfast in his body.

He is not yet at the point where can forgive. He will not forget. And he decides, for once, to allow himself moments with his grievance, to digest it privately and return to his husband if sympathy doesn't solidify.

It is not the problem of the moment. Wei Ying, at long last, begins the arduous task of picking himself up, and Lan Wangji orbits him after, wary of the possibility that his lover might grow faint-headed and lose his balance at any step. He is not — himself, still too frail. They reach the tub, and he pours in buckets of hot, yet steaming water, waiting on Wei Ying to complete his disrobing, only to offer his arm and assist him in.

They will both need, he suspect, a change of silks after, following Wei Ying's enthusiastic spell of tears. For now, he loiters at the tub's side, presenting various salts for his husband's consideration and dropping them on the rim, before collecting a cloth he dips in water to pass over Wei Ying's back and limbs.

"I would enjoy nothing better than Wei Ying's embrace," he whispers. "All that I wished."

It doesn’t go unnoticed that there’s been no comment, acceptance or otherwise, to his apologies. He won’t try to force it. Lan Zhan is at his side now and things feel… stable. Not the same as it had earlier in the evening or how it usually feels, but it doesn’t feel incendiary either. He wouldn’t go as far to say comfortable, though.

He thanks Lan Zhan, using his wrist to aid his balance climbing into the tub. The bath won’t take very long because he doesn’t feel like lounging around and basking in the warmth like they usually would. With Lan Zhan taking care of his body, he makes short work of cleaning and oiling his hair.

“All night then,” he promises. He won’t leave the bed unless it’s for emptying his bladder or drinking a cup of water. “I’m feeling pretty tired, myself. Maybe I’ll wake up earlier than usual, too.”

He’s not expecting Lan Zhan to go through with waking him up with his hands or mouth anymore after their fight. He gets the impression things aren’t back to normal between them just yet. Lan Zhan is quieter than usual. Things feel awkward in so many little ways and he’s not bothering to force himself to smile or turn things into jokes to lighten the mood.

Before long, he finishes with his hair and stands up, once again using his husband’s arm for assistance. He dries himself off with the same careless hurrying as he’d done washing. He’ll change into whatever Lan Zhan picked out for him and then he’ll be able to give Lan Zhan the one thing he’s said he wanted.

A brisk bath, entirely efficient. He does not debate Wei Ying's appetite for an expedited ablution, only stepping in to serve him where he is required or signaled wanted. Now and then, between sweeps of the cloth, he noses at Wei Ying's cheek or hair, only to remark shallowly, "The honey-infused oil suits you."

They can spare each other this little: passing compliments, small acknowledgements of their respective merits, even at a time of hurt. This much cannot be turned into a dispute.

Then the bathing is done, and he excuses himself only fleetingly to capture a handful of silks in hand — both sets his own, desaturated but heavily adorned, offering one out for his husband in private reassurance that he is loved, understood. Welcomed, in his rawness and vulnerability, in clothes that might remind him of Lan Wangji's embrace.

He offers his hand after, to lead Wei Ying to their bed. "Perhaps we may spend half a shichen together after waking. To break fast, practise forms."

To find their way back to each other.

"Does it?" He brings a few locks of hair to his face to remind him of the smell. "I thought it would go well with your sandalwood instead of overpowering it." Like the oils he'd grown up using in Yunmeng that he'd tried out before had done.

Part of him wonders if the only reason Lan Zhan is tolerating him right now is because he requires human touch tonight. Usually, they'd be avoiding each other until both of them have shed their resentment privately. The fight would have continued if Lan Zhan had approached him without making the request he'd made regarding physical touch. Maybe that's why the air still feels uneasy between them.

He takes Lan Zhan's hand and follows him to their bed where they will lie down and hold each other throughout the night while he continues to silently fret about what tomorrow will bring.

"I'll try to get up early," he offers, but he has his doubts. Maybe if he stays asleep instead of waking up halfway through the night, he'll be able to. He can probably force himself out of bed half-asleep, otherwise. He probably shouldn't try using a sword if he's in that state, though. "Just drag me out of the bed by my ankle if I try to sleep in."

"Do not strain yourself," he whispers and sweeps aside the covers and blankets of their sweet marital bed, to welcome Wei Ying in their abode and drown him, wrapping around him as if the roots of river weeds or the maws of a hunting hound.

It seems, no sooner than he greets the soft stretch of their linens and Wei Ying is entrapped beside him — something in him dissolves, strain releasing like heat from desiccated grounds in the wake of a rare rain. He is not complete, not without worry, not unencumbered —

But he is better. Wanting. Wanted. Satisfied that he is not alone, will not be abandoned, that his mother may have fled, but this one person has yet to. That Wei Ying lives, revived for him, breathes, and he can hear the minute hitches of his breath, that his heart beats.

He wishes to trust it will be so, too, tomorrow. "I am so glad you are alive. I am so fortunate. So grateful. Never, for anything more. My heart is joy."

Despite the evening's sorrows, despite their conflict.

He could be in a more comfortable position than the one Lan Zhan’s chosen for him but he’s almost scared to complain about it lest it rekindle the fire from earlier. He waits a few moments before squirming around so he can at least face Lan Zhan instead of the ceiling.

“I can manage getting up early for one day,” he says, “A-Liang usually woke me up early back before we got help.” He works his arms around Lan Zhan and pulls them that much closer.

He takes comfort in the touch and his husband’s presence around him, but he’s still worried. Neither of them are acting like themselves. It’s the first time they’ve been in a situation like this. He’s good at improvising, but he’s also good at worrying and overthinking when it comes to their fights.

“Lan Zhan, I’m lucky, too. I get to spend my second life with my favorite person in the whole world.” He presses a kiss to the closest patch of skin which ends up being Lan Zhan’s neck. “Thank you for staying tonight. I know I’ve been an asshole, but I’m glad you’re here with me tonight.”

"Do not speak ill of my husband," he cuts back instinctively, because come what may, there is a lingering edge of playfulness between them, and Wei Ying's reconfiguration in his arms marks that he feels at least at ease enough to shift, to squirm, to make himself at home. Lan Wangji's hand finds the back of his head, latching onto his hair and starting to gently work Wei Ying's temples in smooth, calculated circles.

They might not sleep easily or readily, but at least they can simulate the dregs of comfort between them. They can fight to achieve peace.

"Before Wei Ying's return, at times Sizhui would hold me. He was young. Barely reached my waist." He has not spoken of this to Wei Ying, though he anticipates he knew, somehow. There would have been no one else, past Xichen, whose sympathy was drowned out by mourning the elders Lan Wangji had culled and have their sect, lost to swathes of hostilities against the Wen, then the Yiling Patriarch after. "He would climb the bed to curl against my back."

And fit, somehow, even more loosely than Wei Ying does at present.

He barely flinches at the playful reprimand, at first thinking he’d said something wrong before realizing that it had been directed at himself. He snorts a small laugh, letting his eyes drift closed so he can concentrate on Lan Zhan’s fingers massaging the sides of his head. It reminds him all at once that Lan Zhan had mentioned a headache. Maybe that has something to do with them being on edge this evening.

Smiling softly, he says, “Sizhui’s always been a cuddler. Sometimes I woke up to him curling himself around my legs or at my back. I usually ended up urging him into my arms. I didn’t have as many nightmares back then, but he seemed to have a sixth sense about when they were happening.” Or maybe he made enough noise while sleeping to alert him.

He moves his legs this time, feeling a little more comfortable now that they’ve been touching for a while. And finally, he rests with himself tangled up in his husband’s limbs. “Hey, Lan Zhan,” he starts, opening his eyes to look at his lover’s handsome face. “Would it be alright if I kissed you..?” He normally wouldn’t assume he needs to ask, but tonight still feels fragile.

A cuddler, yes. More so, was Sizhui, then still a-Yuan, in the wake of sudden relocation, the abrupt and critical loss of his beloved caretakers, along with his Wei-gege. He was a small thing, loving and soft, even after Lan Wangji was forced to briefly desert him for a number of years of recovery and seclusion in the sect's cold ponds, after his — delinquence. Throughout, only rare, scattered visit, and Sizhui still holding high hope for him, only ever greeting him with smiles.

Wei Ying gave him that wonderful boy, the exceptional man he has since become. Wei Ying gave him the gift of Lan Liang, the strength to raise a second child. Wei Ying gives him everything, and only asks...

...a kiss, as if a shy maiden or a pale ghost.

"Please," he says by way of acceptance, and sweeps in to capture his husband's face in both warm hands, bridging their mouths with stale numbness and fledgling interest. Soft and easy at first, then deeper, then their embers kindle, and it is heat, all heat and cunning and relief. They've made it. Despite tonight, despite their quarrel, they're here.

They've survived.

And maybe this is what marriage is, the decision to fight for the life of their trust and intimacy each and every day and win and win and win. And they've won.

He looks between Lan Zhan's eyes and his lips, waiting for a moment that feels like an eternity before his husband grants him permission. And once he has it, he leans closer and closes the distance between them. At first, the kiss feels lackluster and too tame but it doesn't last. The discomfort he feels peels away in thick sheets leaving them to each other and the safety of their love and marriage. He brings his hands back to cup Lan Zhan's cheeks, mirroring the way he's being handled.

And everything else slips back into place.

"Love you," he murmurs, only pulling away from the kiss long enough to get the words out before delving back in with a desperate kind of passion. They probably won't sleep together tonight and that's okay. Their bodies are still responsive and they can cling to one another like they'll sink and drown if they let go.

As long as it's together, he can accept it and be happy.

How could he have even considered for even a moment denying Lan Zhan this comfort. Denying himself, too. He could never withhold kissing because they'd both be destroyed without the other.

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