wuding | Snowed In

Forbidden, but Lan Wangji seems unwilling to dispute young Liang's outburst, careful only to wipe his chin and to present the next spoonful of rice for the young master's consideration. The child hums, displeased with the proposition until Wangji lingers and parades the offer. In the end, the infant concedes, leaning in to take the rice mouthful in one gulp, then grinning excitedly and batting the table with his small fists.

Of course Lan Wangji can only set aside a balanced bowl of rice doused in mushroom broth, tofu strips crowning it, so the ingredients may marry and combine — then, attend his child with further rice offerings.

"She would be proud." He agrees, for all it is not his place to make the commentary. Still, he defends it. "Lan Liang loves this dinner better than the one if the kitchens. Jiang Yanli yearned to tend a family. Wei Ying succeeded."

And this, perhaps, will give him comfort above all.

And would she be proud to see her brother settled comfortably as a wife and mother? He knows she would be happy for him and that she’d be the best aunt his kids could possibly have. Who cares if he’s a retired war criminal? Who cares if he isn’t earning a living doing some masculine profession? As long as he’s happy, she’d be happy, too.

“I wish she could have met her nephews,” he says with a sad sort of smile. “They would have loved her immediately and she’d love them right back.”

He realizes he’s been holding a strip of tofu for a while, so he brings it to his mouth. He feels oddly content. Usually when he thinks of his sister for too long, his heart aches. There’s still a little aching there, but there’s a pleasant fondness, too.

“I’ll write to Jin Ling later,” he says after swallowing his bite of food. “And to Sizhui, too, even though you already let him know we’re safe.” Sizhui might have mentioned the weather to Jin Ling, so it would only be right to let him know they’re safe, too. That, and thinking of what his sister would have wanted always leads him to Jin Ling’s welfare.

"They will be pleased. Sizhui guards your every letter."

Jin Ling. Lan Sizhui. The next generation of largely blissfully ignorant youth, immune to the traumas of a war they never waged. The trials of their fathers have so far been the worst of their lives, and Wei Ying, a doting steward, only seeks to insure that reality lingers.

Lan Wangji nods, only fleetingly capturing Wei Ying's hands in his own to bring it to his mouth and kiss the back of it, capturing motes of the spices liberally sprinkled in his husband's bowl. No matter. At times Wei Ying deserves affection he does not request.

After, he devotes himself to his meal, silently only nodding along when Lan Liang coos along in perfect gibberish, as if they are sharing a perfectly sensible conversation. Then, settling his chopsticks on his bowl at the end, "My wife dallies."

He doesn’t get the impression Lan Zhan’s exaggerating how precious his scattering of letters sent are to his first son. That boy is as pure and wholesome as his aunt had been and it warms his heart knowing how much he means to him. How much he means to all of them.

“I was just thinking,” he explains, picking up his bowl to shovel a couple bites of rice into his mouth. He’s only half chewed the food by the time he starts talking again. Surely, he’s a bad influence on their son. “About family and things like that.”

And he feels happy.

He lifts the bowl and shovels the remainder of his food into his mouth. It’s a little too much for one mouthful, so he covers his mouth with one hand as he works it down with his teeth and strategic swallowing.

There, his happy beast, his grateful and formidable husband. He eats, and it is as if Lan Wangji's own belly fills out, warmth effusive. He cannot help himself: fills Wei Ying's cup and adds fresh tofu strips to his spouse's bowl, and there is nothing that can give him more gladness.

"Have you her writings? Allow me to learn." He has picked up base skills and the necessities to prepare a few choice dishes that Wei Ying enjoys, but Lan Wangji can always deepen his learning. If mastery of spices and flavour brings out Wei Ying's laughter, it is worth the pains of experimentation.

"We may raise this second son in your way." More tolerant, if not perhaps even desirous of spice than Lan Sizhui, let alone Lan Wangji. Wei Ying requires an ally in their household, and Lan Liang already reaches out a trembling hand toward his mother's bowl and the cheeky bounty of his tofu.

He lets Lan Zhan refill his bowl without complaint. He’s satisfied, but not overly full. He reaches for the spice mix he’d brought with him to the table, but ends up pulling his hand back at the last moment. Lan Liang is reaching for his food and he thinks maybe the little tyrant will like a little flavor with his meal.

“I made copies for the kitchen, but I kept the originals,” he says with a grin. He hasn’t had very many meals made by his husband’s hands, but he’s liked the ones he’s had. He’d even been surprised to find out Lan Zhan had been the one to make it because it tasted as good as any restaurant’s dishes. If anyone can master his sister’s recipes, it’s his husband.

“In my way?” He asks, already cutting a few smallish pieces of tofu from one strip. The pieces aren’t big enough to be a choking hazard and they’re flavored by spices left behind from his first serving. Not too much, but it will be more flavor than Lan Liang’s used to. He dabs the bite of tofu bits on the rice first before offering it to his son. Lan Liang eats it trustingly, but his face scrunches up when the spice hits. It must be instinct since Liang opens his mouth more while he tries to power through some of his mother’s fair.

He loves his son, but he can’t hold back his laughter at that reaction. It’s better than when A-Yuan got some of his food and started crying, so maybe they’ll be successful cultivating his appetite for heat.

“His face is all red! Maybe we should get him some milk?” Do they have any milk? He can’t remember if he’d seen it earlier that day.

"No milk," he murmurs over the table, as if he speaks a conspiracy between them, and his young son's precious ears should not be tarnished with the revelation. Their child has progressed past the need for daily milk, and the nursemaid insists on steering him toward solids. Milk is a crutch now, to be reserved for times of sickliness.

And so, Lan Wangji takes over, clutching his child close to his chest and kissing the crown of his head, as Lan Liang seems on the cusp of eruption, carefully pondering whether to give in or survive his outburst. He moves past the point of tantrum, while Wangji hums patiently in his ear, steadfast. "Hush, Liang, hush, my dragon. You have done well."

The infant's face, truly, is unspeakably red, and he seems to somehow know the culprit for his vast misfortunes, stare sharp and unkindly and dead set on Wei Ying. Grimacing, Lan Wangji finds himself at a loss for whether to apologise for his husband's laughter to his son, or for Lan Liang's hostility to Wei Ying.

"Just more rice, perhaps."

Somehow, seeing his beautiful baby boy look so aggressive just makes it funnier. He knows Lan Liang will forgive him for his betrayal eventually, but he does manage to calm himself after a few moments. “Here,” he says, standing and going to the door. He doesn’t plan on leaving, so he doesn’t grab anything warm to put on. The door is only open long enough for him to grab a handful of snow.

“Here, this might help before the rice,” he says as he kneels down next to his husband and son. He offers the snow for Liang to take. “I’m sorry, little one,” he says while he waits for his son to decide whether or not he can be trusted.

Either way, he’ll put the rest of the handful of snow in Lan Zhan’s empty bowl before it drips onto their floor more. “I didn’t think there was that much spice left in the bowl,” he says in his own defense.

The snow, thankfully, seems to attract Lan Liang's attention, less for its culinary prospects than its iridescent luster against the nearby flame. Lan Wangji clicks his tongue, first warning the child against rubbing on the powder, before permitting him to swipe a finger through the cold and bring it up to his little mouth, where all things that are unattended are destined to go —

And explode into tears, the child's meager defenses clearly unprepared before the icy chill. He is all red fury, kicking and wailing and informing the highest authority of the Heavens of the great indignity and injustice that have both befallen upon their foremost young master, Lan Liang — and pointing throughout a still snow-licked finger at Wei Ying, to accuse he who conspired against him.

For a moment, Lan Wangji is aghast; for another, concerned; for the third, as Lan Liang shows the start of tiring himself out and likely leading into a nap, resigned. He could draw only one conclusion: "Believe I am now the favored parent."

He encourages Lan Liang to try the snow thinking the coolness will feel good to his spice-warmed tongue, but he becomes aware that he’s misjudged his son’s tolerance. “I thought it would help,” he insists, reaching across the table to try and soothe Liang. His hand gets slapped away.

“That’s not fair,” he complains and sits back down on his side of the table. “I was trying to make things better and he’s acting like I made it worse. He’ll forgive me eventually, right?”

There are still several strips of tofu in his bowl including the other half of the one he’d cut up for Liang to try. “It’s not that hot, is it?” He asks, picking up a full strip and holding it out towards his husband. There’s always the snow if he’s truly misjudged how spicy his own food is.

The ultimate sacrifice, the test of every marriage: withstanding Wei Ying's offering, painstakingly vibrant and red throughout. He flinches, inevitably, but resigns himself to a final concession before his spouse's curiosity: with a trembling hand, he claims a tofu strip, delicately wiping it on the bed of rice below, before grudgingly submitting it into his mouth.

He chews at length. Chews and chews and chews, the burn starting idle on his tongue only to assail his throat. He chokes, flushed, waving away any inquiries after his health before Wei Ying must voice them and dragging a fingertip of snow into his mouth to calm his ardor. Throughout, Lan Liang watches in rapture.

"It is... a tribute to Wei Ying's palate," he manages, eyes lightly wetting in silent admission that Lan Liang might have been lightly tormented, but Lan Wangji remains the weakest link of their household.

It’s all the proof he needs to know that he had truly misjudged and condemned his son to a fiery betrayal. He strokes Lan Zhan’s cheek once he’s sure he’s alright. “I thought I made it milder than usual,” he sighs thoughtfully. “I think A-Liang managed to tolerate it more than you, too. Think you’ll be able to kiss me?”

He drops his hand to stroke Liang’s back, rubbing little circles there to soothe him now that the toddler tolerates his touch after seeing Lan Zhan suffer the same fate. He still only gets to see the back of his head, though.

“Maybe he’ll forgive me after he has a nap,” he suggests hopefully. He’s already feeling jealous that Liang’s replaced him with Lan Zhan as his favorite parent. He’ll just have to make it up to the little guy and wiggle his way back into good standing.

He picks at the last of his food, soaking everything he can in red before eating it. He even dips the pickles in the residual spice at the bottom of his bowl. Once he’s finished, he stacks the dishes on the tray but doesn’t move to clear the table right away. “I don’t think I can eat another bite. I guess Lan Liang would rather have you watch him, so I’ll… wash the dishes while you get to enjoy our little emperor’s favor for a little while.”

"...no," he whispers gently, but firmly, hand reaching out to cover Wei Ying's and tipping Lan Liang inward until the child's curiosity consumes him enough to join his own palm over the mound. "Wei Ying cooked our meal devotedly. I shall clean. Liang will supervise."

There is no world in which his husband, unexpectedly battered by their son's shallow rejection, will be consigned to the tasks of a servant after already toiling to set food on their table. It would disrespect him, Lan Wangji's own framework for their household and any decent education they hope to impart to Lan Liang over husbandly responsibilities.

With that, he rises, displacing the child to sit him at Wei Ying's right and begin clearing the table for the small kitchen enclave, where bucket water still suffices and he starts cleansing each bowl with a drenched rag. They've water too for their necessities, for drinking, for Lan Liang's various rinses and for their baths — but he should replenish their supplies with morning.

"Lan Liang." This, sternly, behind himself, where the child is drawn to attention. "Your mother cares for you each day devotedly. Sullenness is unfilial."

The idea of doing dishes doesn’t sound very fun, so he doesn’t argue when Lan Zhan insists on handling it himself. He brings their joined hands to his mouth where he can kiss the back of Liang’s hand. If it were just the two adults, he would be kissing Lan Zhan’s, but right now it just feels right to share a little affection with their son.

They’re quiet at first, Wei Wuxian still pouting at being snubbed and Lan Liang trying his best to stay aloof when he’s not stealing glances towards his mother. As the betrayal falls into the nebulous past, the toddler’s heart still yearns to be comforted.

They both freeze when Lan Zhan speaks with his no-nonsense tone. And Wei Wuxian nods along with the sentiment and scoots a little closer to Lan Liang. The toddler smacks him in the mouth and erupts into giggles when Wei Wuxian expresses discomfort. Oh, how the tables have turned!

“Come here,” he says and his hands go straight to tickling Lan Liang’s middle until he flails his limbs and laughs. “So you can still smile, huh?” He lets up the tickling since he knows from experience that if he tickles the baby for too long, he just ends up letting his bladder empty. Instead, he picks him up and sets him on his lap.

“Lan Zhan! He’s not mad at me anymore,” he claims, though Liang could still be holding a grudge. For now, it looks like their son is tolerating Wei Wuxian’s affections.

Ah, there they are, two of the three lights that guide Lan Wangji's life. Happy, reunited, stable. Lan Wangji joins them belatedly, only once the spells of their laughter have balmed his soul, and he can nod along without detracting from their gladness with his unseemly outward frigidity.

By this time, the dishes have been cleansed, and he only bides his time wiping down their table, before breezily passing his mouth over his husband and his son's cheeks with fleeting kisses. Well done to both.

"Will the young master deign to sleep now?" Surely, as a prelude to their retirement. A condition. "I am yet hungry."

He misses the opportunity to kiss Lan Zhan’s cheek back, but that’s okay. He’ll be able to kiss him as much as he wants once Lan Liang inevitably dozes off for his post-meal (and post-tantrum) nap. Hopefully after he clears his pipes so he can stay asleep for a good long while. It’s the worst when the adults are in the middle of bedding when he wakes. They’ll have to find some way to alert them now that Liang can walk lest they wind up giving the kid a highly inappropriate show.

“He’s starting to slow down,” he answers, nuzzling his face against Liang’s cheek. “It won’t be long before sleep takes him.”

He grins up at his husband and offers Lan Liang to him so he can stand up easily. “I’ll make sure you don’t go to bed hungry, Lan Zhan. I have something sweet for you once the little one is taken care of. You’re always so patient and I’d say three times sounds achievable if you’re still feeling up for it.”

"Always," he offers agreeably, as if they are trading fish at the market and not delicately sketching out challenges to exhaust Wei Ying's body past the limitations of his fledgling core. What are three turns for a man possessed? Lan Wangji has only ever known hunger, fleetingly stalled by his sweet child's care.

So bidden, he accepts Lan Liang in his arms, diverting his son by shepherding him toward the window panes, so that he might amuse himself with the fresh fall of heavy snow, onward and onward. Another day's seclusion, at the very least. In that case...

"The typical hour of rise is loosened during snow confinement," he informs Wei Ying behind him, because his husband might not often honor the waking hours of Cloud Recesses, but it will still gladden him to know they may both attempt to sleep in. A rare experience, only so far permitted when Lan Wangji has taken ill. As if to celebrate, Lan Liang coos his agreement, just as Lan Wangji starts them back toward Wei Ying.

"Wei Ying must tolerate me in the morning."

Gladdened is exactly how he feels when Lan Zhan announces the loosening of Lan rules. He doesn’t usually let it bother him when he keeps Lan Zhan up at night only for him to rise before the sun in the morning after. But there’s something freeing about knowing they’ll both be able to rest as much as they need to - as long as Lan Liang doesn’t wake too early.

“You’ll be the one needing to be tolerant when I wrap my arms around you and refuse to let you leave the bed before I do,” he teases as he approaches his family. He snakes one arm around the small of Lan Zhan’s back and strokes Liang’s fine hair. “This little one will make sure we don’t sleep all day.” With a contented sigh, he leans down to press his lips on Lan Liang’s forehead.

“Unless you want round four when we wake up. In that case, we won’t want to rely on Lan Liang to get us out of bed,” he says, hand slipping lower to pinch the swell of his husband’s ass.

So held, he loans out some of his weight, tipping into Wei Ying minutely with the certainty that his husband has restored enough of his physical strength to offer support. More still, with time, will follow. He basks all the same.

"Most wives are wary of confinement," he offers in the face of Wei Ying's brimming enthusiasm. A nuanced truth: most wives are also raised in the isolated sect, or long acclimated to the precepts of Cloud Recesses. The early wake-up is ingrained, the instinct to prove of perpetual use prone to seeding restlessness. An artificial hesitation.

By contrast, Wei Ying was always a reluctant and mischievous disciple and a polite but superficially inoculated guest. He has subjected himself more and more to the rules of his clan by marriage in a desperate bid to honour Lan Wangji's rank and respect Uncle — but his heart does not sing in alignment with the precepts. Lan Wangji could not ask more of him. Does not.

"Wei Ying is brave to face it so steadfastly."

“If I were somewhere without you, I’d be more wary of it. Since we’re together, we may as well make the best of our predicament,” he answers as he raises his hand back up to Lan Zhan’s back. “The way I see it, I get to spend more time with two of my three favorite people.”

He may be giving himself too much credit. Chances are after another day or two of this, he’ll be pulling his hair out in bored frustration. He has always been partial to freedom. At least he has borrowed some books and scrolls he found in the library pavilion to keep his mind occupied while Lan Zhan does what work he can.

He taps his fingers against Lan Zhan’s back and nods towards Lan Liang who seems to be trying his best to stay awake with his parents. “You’re so cute when you’re half awake,” he compliments with a grin, “And so much quieter, too.”

He knows better than to look away from their son to talk to Lan Zhan’s right now, since Liang would probably get fussy if he did, so he keeps looking down and him. “Want me to lay him down? You can do it if you’d rather.”

"If I may," he murmurs in hesitant request, because Wei Ying has volunteered the mercy of allowing Lan Wangji to set their son to rest, but it feels like an imposition, all the same. "He seldom permits me."

But today feels auspicious, for all Lan Wangji's generosity extended to allowing his husband to slip back into Lan Liang's lost graces. The truth, as they both know it, is that Wei Ying will never be fully dethroned, no matter Liang's whims. But he came oh so close to a few hours' neglect today, if not for Lan Wangji's intervention.

One day, Liang will grow old enough to understand how deeply his fleeting attentions affect the two men who intercede as his servants. One day, he will likely regret ignoring Lan Wangji so despondently, for Wei Ying's sake. One day, perhaps soon. But not today.

"If it does not displease you."

“Go ahead,” he answers without a hint of displeasure. He doesn’t mind sharing parental responsibilities when Lan Zhan’s around. If anything, he wants the two of them to have a strong bond, too. “He’ll prefer you tonight. He’s not furious anymore, but I get the feeling he hasn’t completely forgiven me yet.”

He grabs socked toes and pinches them softly until Lan Liang kicks at his hand. “See? Usually he laughs first.” And usually, he’s not half asleep, either.

“How about you get him to bed while I get ready for you,” he suggests, standing up on his toes to kiss Lan Zhan’s cheek. “You want me to get anything special set out for tonight?” He would love for Lan Zhan to get off three times with him, but there’s always the second husband if it’s needed. Then there’s binding talismans, paralyzing talismans, and silk ropes they have access to if they want to be adventurous.

"His wrath is misplaced," he reassures Wei Ying, as if the whims of a young babe should ever dictate his husband's temperament. But Wei Ying has ever been sensitive to the wants of his children, and he has no true experience of denying — or being denied by — Lan Liang. Of the two, Lan Wangji has lived as a dog starved for his youngest affections.

He claims them now, accepting the child and draping him against his chest, warmed within by the sweetness of the infant's clutch of Lan Wangji's hair, and the print of heat in the wake of Wei Ying's kiss. Then, his husband's question — and, feverishly flushed, he permits himself a moment to contemplate his answer.

At long last, tentatively, "They found your disciple whites." From back then, when Wei Ying was little more than a temptation, a fledgling dream constantly conspiring against Lan Wangji's self-control. Sixteen but willy.

"Wei Ying was slim-framed then. The silks suit your present body." But the excuse sounds flimsy even to his own ears, the infamous Lan precept against profligacy surely allowing that the old robes of a man long gone could be discarded or have their cloth repurposed. He could not bare to. "Wear them."

His eyebrows raise when Lan Zhan mentions his old disciple robes and then he breaks out into a grin. “Just how recently were they found?” He asks, not knowing if Lan Zhan from way back then had enough of a crush to save those old robes from being repurposed or if they had just been in storage somewhere until now.

Still, the request is an intriguing one. If they were still fifteen, they could have probably both gotten off three times in one night easily. And that leads him to wonder, “Hey, Lan Zhan. When was the first time you thought about me while you loved yourself?”

He thinks about it a moment, then laughs. “You know what? I’m pretty sure I thought about you back when we were fifteen. Only I thought about us loving ourselves in front of each other. Do you think that counts?” He had convinced himself it was just something guys do, so it didn’t register to him as being a homosexual fantasy.

Loving ourselves. What a strangely romantic notion, both unexpected and somehow typical of Wei Ying. He considers the second question — the first, for its incrimination, discarded — with the entirety of his attention, the whole of his person.

"That counts." The first matter, because — obviously. Obviously, Wei Ying's passion for him should only belong to Lan Wangji. Then, carefully, "I did not think of Wei Ying, at first."

No, for that would have perverted him, transformed a living, breathing boy into the object of Lan Wangji's fantasies. Would have forced Wangji, also, to face his particularities at a time when he still considered the merits of ascetic cultivation.

"I envisioned... parts of Wei Ying. His hands, foremost. Often on Suibian. His thighs, clenched ad he rode his sabre. His back." Lan Wangji's desire was mutated, strange. Reshaped. "Then, the whole."

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