wuding | Snowed In

"Survival is our foremost duty during winter," he prescribes as if Wei Ying is too innocent still to clock the devastating realities of his new pasture. As if, perhaps, Lan Wangji has thieved him, set him down into the rich infertile grounds of the frozen Gusu Lan territories.

Poked, he frowns down at the departing finger, mulling retaliation for tender moments before finally conceding that his husband has perhaps earned brief sweet reprieve. His arms bind around the slim pale stretch of Wei Ying's waist, and he nudges his husband to pivot in his hold and sit, back to Lan Wangji's chest — like a toy, as he belongs.

"Write to Jiang Wanyin." A pause, his soul all but expunged from his mortal coil. "Doubtlessly, he will have thoughts."

That Lan Wangji looks forward to refuting.

Survival. Is winter really that bad? He supposes that they’ll have to rely on imports for their dietary needs, but he’s scraped by on starvation rations before. Living off dried and pickled goods isn’t exactly luxurious. Still, he thinks it’ll be more comfortable living through a typical Lan winter than the Burial Mounds.

He follows Lan Zhan’s lead and finds a comfortable spot with his back cozied up to his husband’s front. Letting out a pleased sigh, he tilts his head back to try and look at Lan Zhan but the angle is too off. “We’ll be fine, Lan Zhan. You’ve made it through loads of winters, so I’ll just follow your lead.” He picks up one Lan Zhan’s hands and brings it up to his mouth to kiss.

“I’ll write him later,” he agrees, already thinking about what he’ll say. They’re getting along better with the wedding looming in their future, but he’s getting the feeling they’ll never return to what they were when they were kids. That’s fine. People change. Relationships change with them.

He fidgets with Lan Zhan’s hand, singling out every finger in turn. “You’re coming with me this time, aren’t you? I know he gets weird when you’re involved, but he can get over it.”

As the de facto leader of sect Gusu Lan while Zewu-Jun negotiates his peace, he cannot ignore Jiang Wanyin. As his brother-in-law, he cannot strike him down. As the father of his two nephews, he cannot consider him ill fortune. But he wishes it done, oh, how he wishes it.

With a forlorn sigh, fingertips catching and webbing and toying with the threads of Wei Ying's wet-tipped hair, he only murmurs, "I would not shame my husband, to send him alone."

It would only injure Wei Ying's good name and pride, if Lan Wangji were to insult his dignity and consign him to attend his brother's home alone. It is known that couples that spend weeks apart are surviving rare turbulence in their married life. And the sects only ever wait, breath bated, for any signs of the Yiling Patriarch's disgrace. They would lap this up wholly.

"Shall even select a gift." How magnanimous and pointedly civil.

He tries to look over his shoulder at Lan Zhan’s again, but he ends up giving up and hugging Lan Zhan’s arm briefly instead. “I’m glad you’re going with me,” he says against his husband’s knuckles. He doesn’t care as much about his reputation as he might have when he was younger, but he tries to keep it in good standing since malice could bleed onto the rest of his family if he doesn’t.

With a sigh, he kisses along Lan Zhan’s fingers for a moment before finally relaxing and letting Lan Zhan have his hand back. “Seeing A-Liang’s chubby little face isn’t good enough as a gift? Okay, we can get him something nice, then. Maybe if we get him some calligraphy supplies, he’ll write to me first for a change.” No, they’ll probably need to bring something nice but not too nice. He really should know what to get his brother, but he’s at a loss. If only he could find a woman willing to marry someone with Jiang Cheng’s temperament.

“Maybe we can bring him some Emperor’s Smile with his gift,” he suggests, adjusting his position to take some pressure off his tail bone. “It’s been a long time since we were students here, but it really is the best wine in Gusu. Maybe the best in general.”

A-Liang, the best wine of Cloud Recesses, calligraphy brushes. Truly, a feast for the eyes of the unworthy, and Jiang Wanyin is undeserving, he is, he is, and he never will gain an inkling of understanding of Wei Ying's hardships. His devotion.

Inevitably, Lan Wangji wants to bite again. To graze, to gnaw. To hold close and absorb into himself, to fend harm off Wei Ying, come what may. His skin feels hardened, stone. His eyes shutter, valiantly, decisively opposed to the world. The water balms him through fits of fury, through its convalescence.

"If you wish him treated fairly, it will be done." He speaks it as he might make the chief cultivator's pronouncements, with slow, careful, tidy deliberation. Balanced. Beyond the pale. "But he must receive you, if not as a brother, then as my husband. Respect due."

He’s spared from seeing the look on his husband’s face because of their positioning, so he assumes that everything is fine. That maybe Lan Zhan’s usual bitterness about Jiang Cheng is tempered by the comfort of warmth and each other.

That is until Lan Zhan uses his politician’s voice.

“He will,” he answers, though he can’t know that for certain. If he remembers, he’ll add the stipulation to his letter. He wonders what will happen if he forgets and Jiang Cheng doesn’t give him enough respect for Lan Zhan’s tastes.

Maybe he let go of Lan Zhan’s hand too soon. He picks it up again and brings it to rest on his cheek. He turns his face to sprinkle comforting kisses on Lan Zhan’s palm. “If he doesn’t treat me with respect, I won’t stop you from dueling him.”

Ah, his love, his beautiful love, his husband. How willy he is, dragging sweet kisses down Lan Wangji's palm, focusing him. Making a weapon of their shared affection to tame him down. How well he has learned to contort himself into something pleasing and meek.

Of course Lan Wangji yields, every concession timed and calculated. Wei Ying would allow him no different. "If he doesn't treat you with respect, I shall not stop you from tripping him down."

After all, Lan Wangji's lethality is only one side of the coin of their combined prowess. He is more renown, but never more feared — and while Lan Wangji could only ever hope to intervene categorically, Wei Ying thrives before the challenge of terrorizing his brother without collapsing inter-sect relations.

Lan Wangji might glower and stare down, but Wei Ying is the true threat between them.

He laughs a little at his husband’s words, nodding his approval. After all, his own honor is now linked to Lan Zhan’s by marriage and by choice. He needs to take things like this more seriously than he has in the past. “I won’t reward him for bad behavior anymore,” he says, taking a gentle bite of a fingertip. “If he disrespects anyone in our family, I’ll handle it.”

As much as he longs for his relationship with his brother, he knows that some wounds are too deep to heal without time. If only he were more of a patient person, it wouldn’t be so hard. Still, things are going better than he anticipated months ago.

“And if he’s rude, he can’t hold A-Liang until he apologizes,” he adds for good measure. Lan Liang has done wonders keeping Jiang Cheng in (relatively) high spirits during their more recent visits. It’s not hard to see why, since Lan Liang shines as brightly as the stars at night. He can’t help but look towards his cot despite not being able to see it from where he’s sitting.

Anyone in the family, Wei Ying says, and his fate is sealed: the moment he concedes his brother cannot avalanche them with his anger, he includes himself in the category of protected civilians. Lan Wangji, grateful for the loophole, will happily hold him to task, humming as he leans in to drag his teeth over his lover's earlobe.

"Your son will soon be too old to use as a weapon," he warns, for Lan Liang's growing ability to escape their clutches and waddle to his only other relative is slowly but surely diminishing Wei Ying's ability to purpose him toward extortion. What a faithless child.

"What then, beloved?" To think, Wei Ying might have to resort to that least of his favorite devices, his words. No, they use other means in Yunmeng, roughhousing and shouting and menace. Even now, for all he lacks malice, Wei Ying is still too prone to physical expressions of his affection, often drowning himself in their trysts to overlook his doubt and hurts.

He tilts his head to the side to expose his ear and neck a little better. He feels much more relaxed than during their usual arguments about Jiang Cheng and his place in their family. It’s probably all the fun they had before going out to play in the snow.

“If things go how I want them to, I won’t need to use a weapon,” he admits. When do things ever go how he wants them to, though? Even with just the two of them, he still finds himself stomping unceremoniously into arguments at times. “How hard can it it be to treat us kindly?” To treat them like family. Unfortunately, family ties in the Jiang household are wrought with tension and anger.

He sighs and lifts his cupped hand up and lets the water dribble down in front of him. “If he doesn’t respect us by now, I don’t see it ever changing. I don’t want to expose A-Liang to his temper, but I don’t want to deny him a chance to have a relationship with his uncle, either.”

"Wei Ying." How to begin this, how to speak words neither of them wishes to hear? Perhaps by bowing his head and inviting his husband's touch, by courting his gentle affection, inviting it forth. "You are a wretched merchant."

The least successful, most miserable of all. Truly, one of a kind. Yet, even as he sits there obediently and passes insults, Lan Wangji feels himself compelled to explain onward. "You seek to buy hope with delusion."

One, a fleeting dream without foundation. The second, somehow even feebler. He hesitates, nudging Wei Ying's cheek with his nose, courting his laughter, before finally drawing fresh waters in his own cupped hands and delivering it over his lover's head. Sweet, kindly thing. "Yet I cannot help but wish that you make your fortunes."

That whatever this fool's gamble with Jiang Wanyin truly comes to fruition. That his sweet husband does not regret and finds himself instead engulfed in the family he so desperately craves.

He’s stunned for a moment upon hearing Lan Zhan’s insult, but he can’t hold back an amused chuckle. A wretched merchant! Lan Zhan has no idea how right he is. He’d been able to swindle people out of their coin to buy the radishes grown in the Burial Mounds, but he almost always had leftover stock and a light purse at the end of the day. He was way better than when he sent Wen Ning on his own, though.

“You’re right,” he answers after, closing his eyes to allow the water to wash over him. “I have a hard time giving up on people. Whether it’s hope or delusion, I still want to try. But there’s a point in which it’s stupid to keep trying when the results are disappointing every time.”

He sighs again, leaning back into the nook of his husband’s front and filling up the space there. He still hasn’t made plans to exorcise the demonic cultivators Jiang Cheng had tortured and killed. Maybe he can do it on this coming trip even though it will likely end up with both Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan upset with him.

“What would you do in my position?” He asks quietly, turning his face towards the affection. They can almost kiss like this. Well, they could kiss, but it would be a little uncomfortable.

In his position, in his husband's narrow shoes. He sighs, some part of him indifferent to the question, far too intimately aware that Jiang Wanyin cannot, will not change — that he is singular, dramatic and disproportionate in his fury, and what he has not learned by way of limitations in a lifetime whole, he will not master now.

To slap his teeth out with a sword's hilt would be a blessing, surely. To break each of his bones. To bring him down to ground and knees and to his belly, like the worm he is, like the miscreant as which he portrayed Wei Ying —

For a moment, his gaze steels, fingers curling on the rim of the bathtub, teeth gritting hard. He wants to bite to blood, only not amorously. Wants to shatter. But it is Wei Ying who looks at him, questioning and sweet, Wei Ying who deserves better than the dregs of his patience. His breath burns, a heavy exhalation.

"I would tell him with no uncertainty what I expect, tolerate and offer. Ask his pledge of agreement." But then, he knows himself the truth of it. "He would not give it."

He lets the advice weigh between them, heavy. It would be a simple thing to go to Jiang Cheng and make his demands and expect agreement, but he knows that it would not be the path to a rekindled closeness as siblings.

No, if he were to approach Jiang Cheng demanding respect, their relationship would be forever superficial. They could treat each other as a sect leader and another sect leader’s spouse and maintain peaceful coexistence. It would be an easier path and it wouldn’t compromise Lan Zhan’s honor. But that would be it. Peace at the cost of distancing himself permanently.

Would it be so bad? What would happen with the wedding negotiations?

“Why does he have to make things so difficult?” He asks rhetorically, not expecting an answer but also not denying his husband a chance to comment. With another heavy sigh, he closes his eyes and thinks about what he can do. What he should do for his own honor and for the rest of his family’s.

“I’ll write out a letter to him tonight. Will you look it over in the morning before I send it?” Unless impatience gets the better of him and he sends it before going to sleep.

Because he is a pest and a fool and I love him not, and neither should you. But these are the words of a jealous thing or a childish creature, and Lan Wangji cannot strand his husband in the space between two family choices. Instead, mouth pursed, he keeps his silence, fingers rounding into tight-knuckled fists, while Wei Ying slowly wilts against him.

In the end, he eases again, instinctively chasing the hair away off Wei Ying's ears and forehead in delicate strokes, reuniting it on his heat-slicked back. Quietly, he brings up cupped fistfuls of water to shed down on the crown of his husband's head, beginning their ablutions.

"I shall, if Wei Ying thinks me fitting." He is no where so foolish as to neglect his own prejudices against Jiang Wanyin and how some might argue they blind him. "My love. Do not overthink. Your claim is just. Should he refuse, we winter elsewhere."

He focuses on the feeling of the water over his head and shoulders and Lan Zhan’s presence against his skin to ground himself. He doesn’t want to ruin the mood anymore than he’s already done. He can think about what he’s going to write when he gets ready to do the writing.

“You’re right. There’s plenty more to experience in Yunmeng than just Lotus Pier,” he says, reaching blindly towards their cleansing oils. “Or we can go somewhere else altogether. As long as it’s somewhere I can thaw after a month of this weather.”

He offers the bottle of oil to Lan Zhan. “If you wash me, I’ll wash you next,” he offers, “Make sure you don’t miss a spot.” He just wants to feel his husband’s hands on his body. He’s made up his mind regarding something that’s been nagging at him for a few months and now he wants to reward himself (prematurely) by enjoying some touch.

"There is too little of you to miss," he mutters upon accepting the fragranced weight of the oils jar, some part of him still malcontent over Wei Ying's inability to attach heft to his person. He has filled out more with time, but never pleasingly, never sufficiently, Mo Xuanyu's early starvation spelling an ill fate for his lover's odds to flourish. To think the Yiling Patriarch and he must share this much.

Dutifully, he pours a generous heaping of the oil onto his hands, before surrendering the container on the bathtub's rim, warming the salve between his fingertips. Careuflly, he starts to pass it over the roundness of Wei Ying's shoulders, the slender bridge of his nape, cascading down the line of his spine, after.

"Do you still wish to be bedded again?" He manages, despite the words and the topic of their conversation to retain some semblance of balance and measure, to keep himself still and obeying his lover's wants. An ambition need not leave their bedsheets. Wei Ying does not owe him a marathon.

“I’ve been better about remembering to eat more often,” he answers. It’s been a household effort, but he’s gone from missing a meal every day or two to missing one or two for the whole week. There’s still room for improvement, but he feels he’s doing quite well.

He moans softly, easing his muscles under Lan Zhan’s touch like he’s getting a massage. But there’s only so much skin Lan Zhan has access to, so he uses the edge of the tub to help him get to his feet. “Let’s see where the evening takes us,” he offers. He doesn’t not want to be bedded again, but his excitement’s had some time to cool down. It’s physically impossible for him to stay hard while talking about Jiang Cheng.

He turns around to face his lover, careful not to step on any stray body parts, particularly the ones between his legs. He cups Lan Zhan’s cheek in one hand and smiles at him. “I could be easily convinced if you wanted to lay around and kiss for a little while.”

"Better," he murmurs agreeably, because Wei Ying's spirits should never be dampened, his progress should not be undersold or stymied. For all Lan Wangji can sense lean muscle and bone beneath his touch, for all he wishes more fat presented itself — this will suffice, also. With a soft sigh, he continues pressing the oils into his husband's body, readying it for relaxation, the overpriced substances working their way in with a pleasingly herbal afterprint.

In their wake, as Wei Ying gracefully turns toward him, he massages his lover's limbs, careful to devote fair time to the pretty buttocks that so often welcomes Lan Wangji and the flat belly where Wei Ying's nascent golden core hides. He is grateful to both in their respective measures.

"Sit in your husband's lap and reward him for his service," he offers by way of counter to Wei Ying's proposition. Kissing is never dismissed or unwelcome, Lan Wangji's preferred way of exchanging intimacy. He will never speak ill of his husband's attempts to woo him into kindly behavior through it.

It feels good to be tended to like this and he has every intention of returning the favor and massaging Lan Zhan to cleanliness once he’s thoroughly washed. He sighs and hums his pleasure until he’s invited into his husband’s lap. He lowers himself down, sitting sideways across Lan Zhan’s thighs with one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other resting on his belly between them.

“Whatever shall I do to pay you back,” he asks, nosing at Lan Zhan’s cheek and brushing his lips there shortly after. He lifts his hand to touch Lan Zhan’s cheek to turn his face towards him so he can kiss his lips after. They kiss and kiss some more until he’s feeling pleasantly flushed and warm.

Kissing Lan Zhan is one of his favorite ways to share affection. He nibbles on Lan Zhan’s bottom lip, grinning to himself before pulling away just far enough to look at his lover’s face. “You’re such a good husband. I feel a lot better after talking through those things,” he admits. ‘Thank you,’ he adds mentally to avoid triggering Lan Zhan’s superstitions.

Ah, but he must be good, he must be good. Wei Ying conquers his mouth and makes home on his lap, no less than bidden, and Lan Wangji must somehow steel himself against the natural temptations of weathering his husband's alluring company. With a sigh, he allows himself vanquished by Wei Ying's affection, answering with quick nuzzling of his lover's jaw, before calmly laying out his own heart's troubles.

"We have overcome Wei Ying's questions. But my own?" This, in a voice nearly mournful, as if he struggles to contain his despair. Truly, though he can never hope to achieved Wei Ying's thespian histrionics, Lan Wangji can also be said to have developed a certain flair uncharacteristic of Gusu Lan. "What shall I eat in Yunmeng? Even the rice rallies against me."

All spiced and reddened and prickly, quick to bite the tongue. How is Lan Wangji to survive it? He is but one man, son of a sect weakened before base condiments. How can he prevail against the shrewd manners of lakeside men?

He stills for a moment, steeling himself for the worst as soon as Lan Zhan starts speaking again. He jumps to a few conclusions, all of which will bring the conversation back into dangerous territory. They’d managed to navigate around the usual traps of their differences regarding Jiang Cheng before, but they could stumble headfirst into discord if they’re not careful.

But then he’s pleasantly surprised by the mundanity of Lan Zhan’s admittedly valid complaint. Laughing, he nudges Lan Zhan’s belly with his fist. “Not everything in Yunmeng is peppered,” he argues, but spiced doesn’t only mean heat. Even simple congee has more flavor than some main courses in Cloud Recesses. “Just let me pick your food for you. I know what sorts of things you like by now, so I won’t steer you wrong!”

He settles against his husband, resting an ear against his shoulder blade. “We’ll need mild food for Lan Liang, anyway. You can just eat from the same batch.” Maybe it’s not kind to liken Lan Zhan’s tastes to a toddler’s, but it’s true, so he doesn’t feel like it counts as bullying.

Mouth slack, gaze mildly widened, he looks at Wei Ying, overwhelmed by the audacity of this creature who presumes to liken Lan Wangji's palate to that of their sweet infant. "I am no child."

He should bite him, he supposes. Throw Wei Ying over the bathtub's rim and claim him, animalistically. There are countless ways to prove his unfortunately ancient age without so much as raising his voice, and he bristles to understand the hour to prove himself to his lover is nigh.

"I shall entrust Wei Ying with my care," he agrees all the same, granting the concession the sort of aplomb that might in truth accompany the nomination of a poison tester or a cook assigned to escort the temporary clan leader in his travels. Of course Wei Ying is no servant, but perhaps he can be coaxed to serenely assume these duties, while they bide their time in Lotus Pier.

"Please treat me mercifully." A pause, then almost plaintively, "I am but a man with children and family."

He looks at the way Lan Zhan is looking at him and it’s too much. He breaks out into giggles, muttering half-formed fragments of sentences about the look on Lan Zhan’s face. Granted, he did just emasculate him by that comparison. But still! Lan Zhan looked so affronted!

He wipes at the tears in his eyes, giggling coming to a close with a few false stops. “Right, right, I won’t let you down, Lan Zhan. I promise! I’ll warn you if anything’s hot or heavily spiced, but you’ll have to decide whether to try and eat it anyway or not.”

He sits up and turns towards Lan Zhan’s, touching their foreheads and noses together. “I couldn’t love you anymore than I do in this moment,” he says before kissing him again. Lan Zhan never ceases to amaze him when it comes to showing his sense of humor. To think he’d ever assumed Lan Zhan would always be a stick in the mud!

"You could," he counters, warm against Wei Ying's mouth, never quite deepening their exchange past his husband's threshold. There seems to be a tacit agreement between them to not be consumed by more affection than they've shown so far, their balance tenuous. Only the meagerest tip over, and they're unlikely to contain themselves.

"If I produced wine." After all, no matter Wei Ying's newly found discipline, he will never refuse either his husband's favor or the riches of Caiyi, delightfully able and willing to consume vast quantities of the latest brew. A husband can always improve himself with generosity.

"Perhaps also peanuts, fresh silks." This, recited agreeably, as if Lan Wangji only now revisits the list of the many gifts he intends for his dutiful lover. Ah, perhaps he has been remiss. "Inks, a jade comb. My husband has been long bereft."

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