wuding | (no subject)

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.”

There is a moment when it seems entirely likely that Lan Liang will successfully plunge into the bowl of lychee, enamoured of the sweet mush before his greedy hands. Then, he swings back, dragging a greedy fistful of mush in his chubby hand, half dripping down his arm, a quarter landing squarely in a sticky smear on his chin and cheek — and the rest, pulverized in his puckering mouth. He takes his time in the way of all children deprived of teeth, smacking his lips together with focused enthusiasm.

"In your absence, I learned that the dissatisfied sects of the south will perpetually linger dissatisfied," he murmurs and nods along with Lan Liang's shallow giggling, as if the infant also understands his father's petty irony. Yes, Lan Liang. It is so.

"Shall gladly bathe both of my loves." After all, both are adorable, fussy and portable. Well suited for the ambition. And softer, after, "You were run ragged and hoarse today, my love."

He does not wish to show the color of his concern, the inevitability of his worry. Wei Ying can and has so often minded himself. And yet they both know that Wei Ying, subjected to the look of their trembling and ailing child, has suffered more. At the very least, Lan Wangji knew helplessness, prior.

"I worry." This too a welcome addition to their marriage, that they feel equal to the task of confiding their feelings, however awkwardly.

He helps Lan Liang by redirecting the messy bits off his cheek and chin towards his mouth instead. There’s something grossly fascinating about the way their son can make a mess out of just about anything. They’re lucky, he supposes, that Lan Liang hasn’t decided to use his own waste as paint. He’s heard some awful stories from some of the washer women he sometimes chats with.

“Some people are impossible to please,” he sympathizes, offering the bowl to their son again. For now, he seems happy to chew on his own fingers until there’s no juice left on them. Some of the fruit has found its way on his own robes, but the juice is clear so he isn’t worried about it staining. “Compromise sometimes just means all parties are unhappy. You’re doing the right thing by not picking favorites.”

“Worried about me or A-Liang?” He asks, though he’s pretty sure Lan Zhan’s worry for Lan Liang doesn’t need speaking. “I’m fine as long as this little guy can keep this fruit inside him,” he says with a laugh, only realizing that he should treat his husband’s candor with more respect. “I mean it, Lan Zhan. I’m a little tired and I was a lot worried, but things look like they’re going to be okay. After I take my bath and a nap, I’ll be up for taking care of this little one while you get some sleep, too. Maybe if he doesn’t pass this food, we can rely on the talismans and him to let us know if there’s more we need to do.”

"He will not pass his fruit instantly," he says with steely sincerity and an edge of steel that retaliates, futilely, against Wei Ying's instinct to deflect and downplay. Already, Wei Ying masks himself, content to pretend he is at ease and capable of surmounting this moment without impairment. As if the dread and disaster of earlier never took place at all.

"He will heal. He is healing." It is unfair, he suspects, after Lan Wangji was absent for the better part of the morning to force his sheer will on his husband, as if it were law. As if he need only think it, and his will shall be done. But he cannot have two ill, even if one is with worry. "Sit with me. Tell me what would please you now. Shall I call your bath?"

He fears, if he so much as suggests dinner so soon, Wei Ying's already thin appetite will suffocate.

Gently, hand timid first then heavying, he pats the stretch of seating room beside him. "

“I know, we’ll have to give him some time before putting him in the bath,” he says because the idea of him passing the fruit in their bath water sounds more than a little disgusting. Still, it is encouraging to see that he has an appetite. It means that he doesn’t feel too sick to eat. Maybe solids will be able to stay in him better than liquids.

He continues to encourage Lan Liang to snack, walking him slowly around the table with the baby in one arm and the bowl in the other. He looks up when Lan Zhan invites him over and grins. After such a harrowing morning, all the encouraging signs are giving him hope that the worst is behind them. “What do you say, A-Liang? Want to go sit with baba some more while you eat?” Lan Liang just looks at him passively, clearly more interested in fruit than either of his fathers.

He makes his way over to take a spot next to Lan Zhan, scooting close enough to press his side against him. “What would please me…” he thinks about it and knows Lan Zhan is looking for an answer beyond ‘a healthy baby’. It’s hard for him to know what he wants or needs when it’s not on impulse. “A bath sounds good, but I’d like to be close for a little while, first. I feel like I could melt into you and disappear if I’m not careful.”

What a wretched life, to be a sickly infant emperor, at the mercy of one's subjects. Truly, Lan Liang — balefully glaring or simply struggling to focus ahead — is a martyr to suffer his existence. A hero and an example, and Lan Wangji and his husband are painfully unworthy of his presence.

Conceding this point, Lan Wangji shifts to stick himself against the wall and welcome his husband and their happy bundle, pleasantly teased by the points of contact with Wei Ying, their pulses of shared warmth. His arm comes over the perch of his lover's shoulder, drawing him in with care not to disrupt his hold of young Liang. The dried, crisp line of Wangji's mouth chases the shoreline of Wei Ying's temple. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh, then.

"These are not the moments of parenthood extoled in poems." If anything, they are the gentle heartbeats that most parents pretend never took place. Wei Ying, who has never before faced such hardships, must surely flinch before them now. "Will you reconsider more children?"

He lays against his Lan Zhan, nestling as close as he can get without compromising Lan Liang’s comfort. He takes a deep breath in, taking in the notes of sandalwood that always follow Lan Zhan mixing with A-Liang’s more neutral-smelling salts. It smells like home.

“Seeing A-Liang this morning frightened me,” he confesses, though he’s sure Lan Zhan already knows. “It’s cause I love him so much. It made me realize how precious every day is and I think I’ve been taking for granted all the days we’ve had with him so far.” So much that he’d jumped at the opportunity to hire someone to help out with the caretaking. “I was starting to wonder if I was a bad mother, but I think I did well today.”

It feels strange voicing all of that, but he’s determined to trust Lan Zhan with every aspect of himself.

“After today, I’m more determined to be a good mom to A-Liang and any of his current or future siblings. But you do have a good point about waiting until A-Liang grows out of his jealousy before we adopt anymore.” If he reconsiders having more kids, then he will only be denying them good lives and himself the love he’d share with them. He doesn’t have the heart to turn away a kid in need of a roof over their head and a meal on their belly.

"You did well," he intones instantly, less perfunctory than viscerally instinctive. Wei Ying, who criticizes no one as deeply as he does himself, who only favors mirrors to spit in the face of his own reflection, cannot be allowed this one avenue to contemplate his failures. In truth, none today: he answered swiftly, devotedly, impassioned.

"You found assistance for Liang. Attended and cared for him. Calmed your elder son and husband." All duties separate from the healer's aid, paling in such comparison — but then, Lan Wangji has hardly performed better. If anything, he has added to Wei Ying's troubles, fussing, worrying and asking questions at a time when his lover had no answers to give.

Barely known to himself, he eases in to drip slow kisses on his husband's temple and cheek. Sweetheart.

"Parenthood suits Wei Ying. Tires him to a point of abiding to be bedded." A pause, then somberly, "Might frighten to approach him, otherwise, for fault of my stamina."

He smiles, letting himself get comfortable while listening to his husband tally all the things that he’d done right today. Sure, he’d slept in and could have been up earlier, but once he noticed something was wrong, he’d done everything he could to make sure Lan Liang was taken care of. He’d done well, but now he’s exhausted mentally and physically.

“I like your stamina,” he counters, leaning into the affection. Lan Liang seems to think it’s an appropriate time to shove a fist full of fruit at Wei Wuxian’s face. He laughs a little and accepts the generous offer of sloppy fruit, “Tasty. Thank you, A-Liang. You should have some more, too.” With that, he guides Liang’s hand back to his own mouth.

“You did so well with Sizhui,” he says, thinking of how his elder son has grown up into such a wonderful young man with a similar amount of troublesome taste in men. “Together, we’ll make sure Liang will grow up just as well.”

He stifles a yawn and stretches his legs out before curling up against his husband again. “It’s too early to be this tired. Who knew raising a sick kid would be as tiring as fighting a battle. House wives don’t get enough credit.”

Irresistible, when Wei Ying is surprised with a fistful of battered fruit, and Lan Liang harrumphs as if to press the point of both his gift and his conviction — how can Lan Wangji bear but to come in close and open his mouth, rounding it over air and closing it with an exaggerated snap of his maws, as if he might swallow the babe's hand whole? It wondrously escapes at the last moment, and he pulls back, delightedly as his son bursts into peals of laughter.

There. Whatever the sins of his distance and delay to join his child in his battle against his sickness, at least Lan Wangji can help now. As Wei Ying stretches out and resettles against him, Wangji offers out his arms, waiting to collect Lan Liang and provide his husband some opportunity to rest.

"How shall I reward my housewife?" ...the Yiling Patriarch, fierce general of the Sunshot Campaign, ruthless villain of the cultivation world, necromancer of the first degree. "Shall I buy silks? Jewellery? A pet or the services of a dancer?"

He takes the invitation, handing the baby over to Lan Zhan for the time being. “I’ll be right here,” he tells the little one, bracing himself for grabbing that… doesn’t come. He’s surprised that Lan Liang seems content to be moved, the new object of his attention being Lan Zhan. Good. He sometimes feels twinges of guilt that Liang seems to always favor him when they’re all three together like this.

He shifts his position until he’s half-lying with his head on his husband’s lap. The position could be more comfortable with more surface to work with. He hasn’t yet washed and he doubts Lan Zhan would be happy with him climbing under their clean sheets with lychee spilled down his front among all the other mess he’s dealt with today. This is good for a short rest. Just long enough for Lan Zhan to get hungry and order their dinner.

“Hmm, what riches to choose from,” he says with a smile, patting and rubbing one of Lan Zhan’s knees. “But I have something better already. A handsome husband, two beautiful kids, as much wine as I can drink. But I won’t say no if you want to surprise me with something if you’re out sometime and see something that makes you think of me.”

He feels content. Like he has everything he wants in this moment. Oh, but he needs to pick and choose the carpenters to build furniture for their new house. Tailors, too, for the curtains and cushions. Not to mention the artists who specialize in decor.

“Maybe I could ask my gentle husband if he could have a list made of artisans I can talk to for preparing our future home,” he suggests, hoping it won’t be too much of a bother on top of all of Lan Zhan’s other duties.