wuding | (no subject)

Part of him wants to insist on staying out of a misplaced sense of stubbornness, but he wants what’s best for Lan Liang. That means keeping himself healthy and alert in case another emergency lies in their horizon. So he sighs and pouts, but ultimately nods his head. But which option would be the most beneficial? Not to him, but to his family. “I’ll try to sleep, or at least lay down with something to read in case A-Liang needs feeding or medicating while you’re working.”

He steps closer to Lan Zhan and wraps his arms around his waist, leaning his head on his husband’s shoulder and looking at their baby. He does look much better than this morning and he reminds himself that the doctor said it would take a couple of days for him to recover.

“Maybe some fresh air would be nice,” he waffles in his prior decision. Maybe he should run around and try to exhaust his stamina so he can fall asleep easier. “I guess I am pretty worried. I’ve never had to nurse anyone to health before. I’d rather be the one sick than him, but it’s not like I can snap my fingers and trade constitutions with him.”

Gently, testing the limits of Lan Liang's patience for unnecessary movement, he tips the baby higher on chest, closer to where Wei Ying may peer over Lan Wangji's shoulder. There, their noses nearly colliding, Lan Liang tolerating the encounter between tepid, sly blinks. He seems content to linger in this state of imperfect dozing, never quite sinking in slumber, nor perking up alertly.

Behind Lan Wangji, Wei Ying feels warm, a welcoming reprieve from the day's tensions, his embrace both anchoring and refreshing. A slow exhalation punches its way out of Lan Wangji's lungs, and he allows his eyes to shutter, while he drinks in the familiar, measured pressure of his husband's touch, the spiced notes of his scent.

"He knows you are present. That you love and attend him." A soft, limpid murmur. He allows himself the indulgence of carrying on. "So I tell myself, when Wei Ying takes injury or ill, and I assist helplessly."

He can feel Lan Zhan relaxing in his arms, so he squeezes his middle and kisses Lan Liang on his nose once it’s within his reach. The baby merely blinks at him with the hint of a smile on his tiny mouth. He’s glad to see the shadow of happiness on his son’s face. “He’s such a sweet boy, even when he doesn’t feel good.”

And is he sweet at other times? Mostly, but the kid has a temper and hates when his parents aren’t focusing on him when he’s in the mood to entertain. But he’s a cuddler and he’s intelligent when it comes to figuring out what to do with his toys. Truly a precious treasure that Lan Zhan brought home for them.

“I always know you’re with me and that makes me feel better,” he admits. Hell, even in the cave with the Xuanwu of Slaughter, he appreciated Lan Zhan being there with him. The thought makes him smile self-indulgently. “I love you, Lan Zhan. I don’t know if I’ve told you today.” He turns his head enough to press a kiss on the side of Lan Zhan’s neck. It doesn’t matter to him that there’s hair in the way and it’s a little funny when Lan Liang whines a short syllable in protest.

The tyrant, their youngest son concedes to allow Wei Ying to pay Lan Wangji a fraction of his attention before claiming his rightful due with a kick that aims and hits squarely in the midst of Wangji's chest. He hisses, eyes briefly slanted and turned down on Liang who glares back, locked in a war of silent words.

He will grow excellently among the Lan, Wangji knows instinctively, joy only stifled by the pretense of anger. He will thrive.

Then, Wei Ying's kiss quiets him, and he accepts its blessing with a paltry murmur, absorbing his affection, letting it consume him. Finally, he turns to walk his mouth over Wei Ying's cheek, nudging them both for the door, where a disciple knocks already with fresh bathing water. It must be Wei Ying who leads the bathing effort this time, though Lan Wangji accepts the greeting duties, directing the disciple where the bucket wants delivered.

It's dropped, the young man — flushed, as they ever seem to be, when they glimpse the Yiling Patriarch in domestic bliss — flustered as he withdraws. The door creaks shut behind him.

"Only a sprinkling of soothing salts," he directs Wei Ying, as if they have not both rehearsed this time and time again. Liang's sickness has left both of them rattled.

He barely glances at the disciple curious to see who it is, but he can tell the guy’s nervous. He grins to ease the mood, but that only makes the kid more anxious. It’s nothing new, but it still doesn’t feel great. At least it was Lan Zhan who answered the door this time. If it had been him, the disciple might have fainted or done something equally embarrassing.

He’s already preparing the salts when Lan Zhan tells him to go easy on them. He just grins and sets them next to the basin, going over to grab the bucket of water. “I know, I know,” he says without any heat. “Water first, then a dusting of salts.”

Once the water’s prepped, he turns to face Lan Zhan with his hands extended to take the baby. He’ll need to be undressed - what a waste after wearing his current swaddle for less than half a shi. He tests the temperature of the water before lowering Lan Liang into it. He cradles the infant’s head to keep it above water and starts to bathe him.

“Was that disciple new? I don’t think I’ve met him yet,” he says conversationally. “I guess no one told him that I’m not going to kill and raise him if he insults me.”

Water, then a dusting, and the bathing cradle of young master Lan is prepared, fragrant and welcoming. Lan Wangji surrenders the child as if he were the most precious, rarest of artefacts, a beautiful benediction that Wei Ying accepts with dutiful enthusiasm.

At least Lan Liang's temper is soothed by the water, no doubt the warmth and buoyancy resonating with both his fever and inevitable bloating. They will want to beware the heat, while the child yet struggles with dehydration, but Wei Ying has already availed himself of the necessary tests. And so, Lan Wangji only hovers, dipping a linen piece in water and passing it shallowly over the child's warm, sketching the broken line of a shadowy smile when his touch is batted away. In the end, with inevitable partisanship, Lan Liang clings to Wei Ying's thumb, pinching with his incredible infant might.

"He did not fear you," he corrects, a pause sprawling long and lean and awkward between them, before Lan Wangji proceeds, "He was embarrassed."

And softer, "We are... enthusiastically in love." It is no secret throughout all of Cloud Recesses that Hanguang-Jun struck a belated, but entirely welcome love match. "At times, perhaps too vocally so."

Between Lan Wangji's possessiveness and Wei Ying's ease displays of affection... "They fear they intrude."

With Lan Zhan’s help, Lan Liang’s bath is efficient. It’s best not to keep him in the water for long lest his fever come back, but he can tell Lan Liang is feeling more comfortable in the bath than out of it. He seems more alert and himself, anyway. “We should keep the water heated in case he has another accident,” he says so he’ll remember to prepare the talisman once their son is dried and laid to rest once more.

His eyebrows shoot up for a moment when Lan Zhan corrects him, then he starts to laugh. “Is that right? Well, it’s not like we were making out in front of him.” He leans his side against his husband’s, stealing a moment of affection. “Guess it makes sense that they’re embarrassed to see us together. I can’t contain my love for Lan Zhan!”

He lifts one of Liang’s chubby legs so Lan Zhan can wash his behind thoroughly. It doesn’t look very irritated yet, but he figures it would be best to start using the rash ointment as a preventative measure. “Does it still stink in here or am I just getting used to it?” He bends down to kiss the fist holding his thumb and he’s rewarded with a couple syllables of laughter and a splash of water to his face. “Our little tyrant likes the water. I’d let you stay in the bath all day but your fever would come back and that wouldn’t be good for you. Come on baby, time to put on a brave face and dry off, okay?”

He nods to the drying cloth and waits for Lan Zhan to ready it before lifting Lan Liang out of the small basin. He drips for just a moment before they work together to dry him off. It doesn’t take long before Lan Liang starts to vocalize his displeasure.

It seems, fleetingly, for all his timid touches, that Wei Ying too is touched by shame over their behaviours, finally aware of the — gazes they attract when they saunter through Cloud Recesses, hand in hand, or steal kisses in Caiyi. No one condemns them, but the modesty of Gusu Lan is such that they're ill equipped to respond to enthusiastic displays of affection. They do not know whether their externality is an invitation to never intercede, or a warning of imminent aggression if someone does.

"I have never sought to contain my love for Wei Ying," he says blithely, as if, where Wei Ying merely succumbs to the failures of his nature, Lan Wangji willfully refuses to refrain from making a scene of himself. Even now, he shamelessly speaks so, washing their infant's backside and calves and narrowly avoiding getting splashed each way, as Lan Liang fights off the attention. Wei Ying incapacitates him, lifting him out of the water, the child stunned by his sudden, undignified exit from the peaceful and soothing elements and into the cruel, vicious world of a draft striking his tush. Behind his husband, Lan Wangji attends dutifully, drying off the child and perfunctorily moving on to swaddle him.

He steps away after, careful to allow Wei Ying full mobility with their child, as Lan Wangji begins to put away salts and containers and tidy their space. After, he collects a bundle of blankets and cushions, shifting to create Lan Liang a nest on the opposite end of the bench where Lan Wangji prefers to read in early afternoons.

"Set him here. Shall watch his sleep." While Wei Ying hopefully honours his word and minds his own needs, for a shichen.

“It makes me feel good,” he confesses, “Since I know the Lan clan isn’t always so expressive when it comes to matters of the heart.” He’s not ashamed of his relationship with Lan Zhan, but he gets the idea that a lot of the older generation wish he was.

Once Lan Liang is dry and swaddled, he cradles the baby to his chest and kisses his forehead a few times for good measure. It won’t be long now before Liang will be covering his forehead with a Lan ribbon. For now, no one expects a baby to repress any part of himself, so there’s no need for it.

He leans into Lan Zhan for a moment, then lays Lan Liang into the makeshift cradle. He stays close and coos a few words of encouragement and comfort, stroking the fine spread of short hairs on Liang’s head. “I’ll be back soon A-Liang. I’ll grab some fruit if I see any.”

He turns his attention to Lan Zhan, stepping close and wrapping his arms around his middle. “I’ll bring enough fruit for the both of you,” he teases, tilting his head up to kiss his husband a few short times. “You’re sure you’ll be alright watching him and working at the same time? I left instructions for all his medicines. If he’s too fussy, just a drop or two of the poppy milk under his tongue is enough. It’s bitter, but I get the feeling he won’t mind for long.”

Fruit, yes. A fine bribe, for all Lan Wangji's raised brows suggest he has perhaps surpassed the prime age when such tricks prevail. He accepts Wei Ying's parting instructions obediently, absorbing every word and storing each order, even though the clan's doctors would present themselves within instant, should Hanguang-Jun require it.

In the end, he ferries Wei Ying out, grateful for the opportunity to settle his husband's nerves with a distraction for even half a shichen. Hopefully, longer still. And then, scrolls in hand and an ink jar before him, precariously balanced, and Lan Liang nestled carefully in his little home of blankets and bound sheets.

Time drips and trickles along.

He knows so, because light deepens, then turns bloody, then changes — and the creak of the door signals Wei Ying, returned.

"He ate without passing," he calls out to Wei Ying, barely lifting his gaze from the correspondence he has finally seized the moment to address. Beside him, Lan Liang has slipped into sleep again, restful and settled.

He ends up losing track of time wandering around the rabbits’ territory and taking note of all the animals he might have hunted back when he’d been staying in Cloud Recesses as a kid. He would always chase his prey across the barrier so he could kill them and not break any of the then two-thousand precepts.

He doesn’t hunt now, respecting the spirit of the rules more than he used to. He must set a good example for the kids and teach them which rules they can ignore and which ones should be obeyed under most circumstances.

By the time he gets back to the kitchens to borrow some fruit, it’s already starting to grow dark. He grimaces when he peaks around the door, worried briefly that he’d taken too much time away from his family during the current crisis. “Sorry, Lan Zhan! I got distracted chasing pheasants,” he admits while he lets the rest of himself inside.

He perks up when he hears the good news. “How much was he able to eat?” He asks, showing Lan Zhan the bowl of lychees he’d been given for master Lan Liang. He knows they’ll have to peel and cut the lychee into very small pieces because its rubbery texture might get caught in Lan Liang’s throat.

He considers, fleetingly, as if Wei Ying has tasked him with a precise and lethal calculation of warfare, and not the approximate intake of their youngest child, who could always benefit from more feeding throughout his sickness. Then, carefully, "About fifteen spoonfuls."

Less than a full meal's worth, but still competitive and ambitious for a young child at his phase of recovery. And he has yet to relieve himself of the fluids, in the day's single greatest success, closely followed only by his lax, elegant drifting to a painless sleep beside his father. Truly, no better infant on this land.

The bowl of lychees briefly attracts his attention, and he purses his mouth as if beckoning a kiss, when in truth he begs the privilege of a lychee delivered to him. He is no better, nor less than an emperor, readily spoiled by his husband.

"You caught a bird?" For all he cannot abide witnessing the cooking of meat, it grants him a certain satisfaction to know Wei Ying's hunting instincts have been appeased. The Yiling Patriarch, at the end of the day, is no better than a mollified predator, a cat defanged and much more at ease sunning than slaying. A bird here or there is barely a sacrifice. "Our provider."

Fifteen spoonfuls is more than he expected, so he’s pleased with the news. In under half the time they’d been given, Lan Liang is already able to keep his meal inside him. He knows that it’s too soon to celebrate victory, but he can’t help feeling more hopeful at the news.

He laughs, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t catch one. I just chased them around for a little while to occupy myself. I didn’t think about the time until the sun started setting.”

It’s no secret that Lan Zhan wants some lychee with the way he looked at them. He takes the silent request to heart and grabs one of the reddest ones to peel for his husband. He goes above and beyond by separating the fruit from the seed before stepping close and offering it. “How is it?” He asks without giving Lan Zhan enough time to chew his food first. Chewing food thoroughly is among the Lan rules he often forgets to follow.

He laughs, nearly, sound stifled and syrupy, accompanied by a tender hum, as Lan Wangji seems to fleetingly consider the mild, barely ripe flavor. A pretty addition to a day that is already settling, the initial tremors of Lan Liang's sickness readily dispelling. He hesitates for a moment, before tipping his head outward again, less to call for a second piece of fruit, then, like passing silk, "Cannot remember if it is as sweet as my husband's lips."

Kiss me, he does not say, intent obvious as he leans forward, docile but waiting. His intent is less erotic than patiently amorous, enthusiasm simmered. They are both too fatigued by the day's events to ponder tumbling, but physical reassurance has always found its place between them.

"How are you feeling?" He murmurs before Wei Ying can claim his mouth, only to check in, to take the temperature of his husband's restlessness. No doubt, he suspects, Wei Ying must be improved in some capacity, however feeble.

He watches Lan Zhan enjoy the fruit, glad that he’s able to provide a moment of peace and pleasure after leaving him to watch over Lan Liang on his own for so long. Stepping closer, he presses a palm to Lan Zhan’s cheek, “Let me remind you then.” He tilts his head up and brushes his lips over his husband’s. It’s a small tease before deepening the kiss.

“Better,” he says with a softer smile. He indulges Lan Zhan a few more kisses before eventually pulling back to check on the infant. Lan Liang has slept through their greeting and he looks restful and at peace with the illness that still lingers in his system. He checks Lan Liang’s temperature with the back of his hand. The baby’s skin still feels warm, but not burning.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to rest without worrying,” he admits, tapping a finger onto Lan Liang’s palm. The baby doesn’t stir much, but his little hand curls around the finger anyway. “Did he give you any trouble?”

They come together, unfailingly sweet and reassuring, and he drifts only a few fingers' widths back to allow Wei Ying further space, coiling an arm around his husband's waist before dragging him down to sit on Lan Wangji's thighs and knees. Before them, Lan Liang mutters the exclamations and sounds of indignity that befit his imperial station, clinging for dear life to his coveted treasure, Wei Ying's finger.

And Lan Wangji shares, in a sign that, come what may, he will always concede to his children, and his son deserves the best of all.

"A little," he offers after a few heartbeats, smiling over the perch of Wei Ying's nearby shoulder, while retaining his lover firmly captive. He could lie and champion Lan Liang's performance, but he finds himself open to communicating, to allowing Wei Ying into the world of his petty inconveniences. "Fussed, after you left. Required walking, cradling, patting. Perhaps he thought himself a pheasant."

If this were a normal night, he’d straddle Lan Zhan’s legs, facing him so they could share more intimacy and coax each other closer until they inevitably fall into bed play. Tonight, he stays situated sideways on Lan Zhan’s lap with his feet dangling over the floor. He bends forward, barely able to reach their son. He manages to lift the child and cradle him against his chest.

“Poor thing,” he says, kissing Lan Liang’s forehead before shifting around until he’s comfortable against his husband’s chest. He imagines Sizhui is too old to lay across his lap, but he’s the only one who’s missing from their family cuddle session.

Lan Liang quiets once he’s in his mother’s arms. He’s thrilled to be able to offer comfort, but he’d like to see Liang taking as much patient comfort from Lan Zhan. It can’t be helped, though. Lan Zhan is often away to do work and Wei Wuxian has a lot more time to spend with their son. It’s only natural that he’d be more greedy over him.

“I’ll try to take a nap after dinner,” he says, leaning his head onto Lan Zhan’s shoulder but keeping his attention on their little Tyrant. “I’ll be fine staying up with him even if I can’t sleep before. I talked more to the nursemaid and she said she’ll come relieve me of my duties as soon as she’s presentable.”

Presentable, Wei Ying says, and it takes Lan Wangji a moment to remember that the nurse, too, had had plans for her day out of rest, and that she had barely endeavoured to take a walk into Caiyi, when word of young master Lan's affliction rattled all of Cloud Recesses. She cannot be faulted, even as Lan Wangji privately wonders how it is any other person prevailed to breathe, to be, while they fussed over their child.

Truly, parenthood is a mixed blessing.

For now, he only envelops Wei Ying in his arms, obediently dipping his head in or pulling back, depending on Lan Liang's whims for him and appetite to tolerate his presence. He cannot upset his youngest son, cannot rile or instigate him — cradles Wei Ying in his arms, and, in doing so, Lan Liang.

"Shall we bring his bed to our chamber, tonight?" They've long since removed Liang's crib to reinstate their own intimacy, but they can readily carry it back near their bed's side. Perhaps, to pacify Wei Ying, they may raise it up on his side of the bed. "You may watch him, as you rest. We would both hear him."

And there is the possibility, however shallow, that Wei Ying might catch a few blinks of sleep. "Perhaps work a talisman to alert us when his body's warmth spikes into fever."

It won’t be long now before Lan Liang is toddling around and getting into trouble. He’s already adventurous with his crawling and he can stand as long as he’s holding someone’s hand. Maybe it’s a blessing that he’s come down with a sickness before he’s fully mobile instead of after. This way he’s contained, content to lay in his arms.

“Sure,” he answers, bending forward to kiss Lan Liang’s head a couple times. “I’d feel better having him close and I don’t want to risk him making a mess in our bed.” It would be such a pain in the ass to have to change the bedding in the middle of the night.

A fever detection talisman. He thinks on it for a moment, then nods his head. “I can do that. We can put it underneath him.” He just needs to determine how sensitive to make it. Should it indicate when his temperature rises at all or until it becomes worrisome? Maybe a temperature change in general would be better because he’d like to medicate him before his fever spikes too high.

“We can stay like this until they bring us dinner, can’t we?” He asks, turning his head enough to give his husband an awkwardly angled kiss. Liang’s little fist captures a handful of his hair to tug. The little Emperor is displeased that mother’s attention isn’t entirely fixed on him at the moment and it makes Wei Wuxian laugh. “He takes after you in some ways, doesn’t he?”

"We can stay," he commits, likely before he should have, the victim of excess optimism in the face of Lan Liang's thinning tolerance for being held. He has yet to soil himself, but his fever sweat keeps him wet, tacky, uncomfortable. The itchiness and fatigue of sickness make for a fussy, impatient child, no matter how fleetingly civil his current temperature.

But a part of him suspects Lan Liang would gladly bear the world's worst horrors for his so-called mother, taking after Lan Wangji in ways both deplorable and likely wrong. Even npw, as Wangji tickles his chubby feet, he kicks out and tightens his hold of Wei Ying's fingers, as if it is under threat of theft.

"He may not approve of siblings," he pronounces amid the heft of a long sigh. Early indications dismiss the possibility of Lan Liang being a generous sharer of Wei Ying's affection and Lan Wangji's own happy servitude &nmmdash; for all he treats Sizhui with minimal suspicion. Time will tell whether his aggressive, dominant selfishness eases.

"You have raised two monsters."

“He might be alright with older children that don’t require as much doting,” he suggests hopefully. They have loose plans to foster more children as time goes on. It’s clear that raising another baby would be out of the question until Lan Liang is old enough to be less needy. Maybe even until he’s Sizhui’s age.

He kisses Liang’s head again, causing the infant to squirm just as much as Lan Zhan’s effort on his feet. There’s a sticky sheen of mostly evaporated sweat on the baby’s brow and he takes that as a good sign that his fluid intake is good.

“Spoke too soon,” he says, bouncing the baby a little as he sits up more. “I’m going to try and feed him some more. What were you feeding him earlier?” Maybe he’s being superstitious by wanting to feed him the same thing that he’d been able to keep inside.

He gives his husband an apologetic kiss before climbing off his lap with the baby in tow. “Did you give him any medicine while I was gone? If he can eat a little more without passing it, it might be a good time to administer some of the them.”

"No medicine," he answers instantly, surrendering Wei Ying his freedom so that their beautiful son might be attended without delays of consequence. And faintly, as his lover withdraws, "A clear mushroom broth."

Lukewarm, left over from Lan Wangji's own meal, absent any garnishes or spices. In truth, this much speaks well of the Lan cuisine: it suits every palate, however young. Wei Ying might despise it, but he cannot deny its merits.

He considers, for a moment, to drift behind Wei Ying and fuss beside him, before deciding to entrust his husband with a moment of bonding with their son. Instead, he leans back against the wall of their window sill's nook, light pouring down sweet and mellow on his face, dappling on his shoulders.

"Wei Ying. Do not startle. He senses it." Easier to coax Lan Liang into tender behaviour, to pretend normalcy.

The baby in his arms seems more content now that he’s being carried instead of coddled. He takes it as a good sign, cradling him with one arm against his chest while he prepares something for Lan Liang to eat. Since there’s no more mushroom broth, he peels some of the lychees with one hand. He’ll squeeze the juice out of them and mix it with some water to give him a treat.

“Yeah, I know, you’re right,” he says, glancing over at Lan Zhan. And he can’t take his eyes away, because of the way the light halos around him. His husband is so much more beautiful than he’ll ever realize. His own face softens into a wide smile as he takes a detour to give Lan Zhan a quick handful of kisses.

Lan Liang whimpers in his arms, so he moves back and looks down at him. “Don’t worry, A-Liang. I won’t forget about my precious little emperor, but your dad looked too pretty for me to resist.”

Obediently, he swerves and tips in to meet Wei Ying's mouth like a moth drawn to flame, their collision so impeccably coordinated that he titters, delighted by their reunion, by the sheer childish glee of his husband stealing affection. He does not intercede, nor does he attempt to stall Wei Ying, as Lan Liang materializes his dissatisfaction and huffs until Lan Wangji pacifies him, passing a soft, warm hand over his narrow forehead. Not tellingly, burningly warm. Settling. Good.

"Lan Liang." This, sternly, in the voice of a father not to be trifled with, for all Wei Ying and he both know he is the gentler parent, overly discriminating in his rare instances of enforcing discipline. "Be good."

The baby's face scrunches and wrinkles and tightens, as if he understands the reprimand, gazing daggers into his father's general, blurry direction — before his mouth breaks into laughter, seemingly enamored with something he has spotted on Lan Wangji's face or silks, and reaching a hand out to grasp —

...Lan Wangji's hair, no doubt being prepared for a slow chew. No, no. Now, Wangji deigns to pull away. "Save me, Patriarch."

He gives an exaggerated gasp at the tone Lan Zhan’s using, looking down at the disgruntled bundle of adorable in his arms. It lasts just as long as the baby’s sour face and he grins along with him, tipping Lan Liang a little closer to Lan Zhan only to pull him away from his prize once it’s requested.

“You need to eat something more nutritious than baba’s hair,” he says, winking over his shoulder at Lan Zhan before he goes back to preparing the lychee with one hand. He’ll make sure the pieces are small enough to not be a choking hazard since Lan Liang’s teeth are just cresting from his gums. Having been raising Lan Liang for so long, working with one hand isn’t enough of a bother for him to ask for assistance.

“Did you get a lot of work done?” He asks conversationally as he transfers the fruit to a shallow bowl where he can take the seeds out and smash the flesh between his fingers. With the scent of his sugary treat in the air, Lan Liang watches with renewed interest.

He sets the bowl on their table and kneels down in front of it before offering the bowl to the infant. He holds it steadily while Lan Liang takes a messy handful of smashed fruit and brings it to the general vicinity of his mouth. “We’re both going to need to wash up, aren’t we? If you’re good, maybe baba can help us out.”