wuding | Snowed In

Ah, their young tyrant truly cannot abide contest to his authority, his majesty, his absolute command of Wei Ying's time. Approaching his first anniversary has made Lan Liang no less princely, exacting or unforgiving: even as Wei Ying coos and teases him, their young master grumpily snatches a fistful of Lan Wangji's hair to remind his father his place lies in eternal servitude. All hail Lan Liang.

With a sigh, Lan Wangji settles his son over his shoulder, where Liang has closer vantage of Wei Ying and may sullenly nibble on Wangji's collarbone with pointy, freshly peeking teeth. For his own pleasure, he leans into Wei Ying's touch, grateful to accept his support.

"Typically, days," he murmurs agreeably, before reminding his beautiful wife of the realities of a secluded existence without the convenience of disciples to attend them hand and foot. Carefully, "The well will provide for drink. Shall retrieve river ice to thaw for bathing water."

A privilege for his home to be so closely positioned to the cold streams. Only now will Wei Ying understand.

"We must prepare our own meals, also."

Days! His excitement only dims a little when Lan Zhan reminds him that they’ll have to take care of the mundane parts of life without the aid of disciples and servants. Luckily for both of them, he’s not a stranger to struggling to survive on his own. Even with the extra work, it’ll still be more comfortable than the winters spent sleeping in a cave.

“It’ll be like camping out. We can take turns. One of us can fetch water and the other can get the ice,” he suggests. “Whoever gets the water can do the cooking, too.” He says it knowing that Lan Zhan will likely be the one in charge of bringing the ice home. His upper body strength is superior and his golden core will do more to keep him warm than Wei Wuxian’s would.

It’s not an ideal situation, but he’s glad they’re not going to be separated by the snow this time. Even if they’ll probably get on each others’ nerves after a while, they always end up making up (and making out) without too much fuss.

“A-Liang can help me cook dinner. I’ll let him decide which spices to use,” he suggests, prying one of Liang’s hands up so he can squeeze his finger. “You’re getting strong, but I’m stronger!” He kisses the back of the tiny fist still clutching him.

“If only Sizhui lived closer,” he sighs. It’s for the best, really. Sizhui can take care of Jingyi. And there’s not really enough room for all four of them to sleep comfortably. One or two of them would end up sleeping on the floor depending on whether Lan Zhan or Sizhui felt more stubborn.

For a moment, he is stricken, mouth slack and hands soft surrounding Lan Liang, who squirms in response to Wei Ying's attention, desperate to reach his self-assigned mother no matter how close Lan Wangji delivers him. Wei Ying will cook.

Truly, Lan Wangji is set to experience horrors without compare. He eyes the child in his grasp, his quick submission to Wei Ying's entertainment. Considers his own odds of surviving whatever concoction his husband presides over, with their baby guiding the spice choices. At such a tender age, children are often drawn to strong colors. Reds.

Lan Wangji's lips smack together, already tingling. "I beg mercy of my wife and second son."

Surely, some rice can be spared the affliction of Wei Ying's stews or generous sprinkle of peppers. Surely, Lan Wangji can ask this little: plain rice and vegetable broth. He will eat as monks do, for days on end, if needed.

But then, this is Wei Ying, a mind of sharp wit and brilliance, but no resilience before the meekest shadow of rejection. He will taste refusal as bittersweet. "But await their creations."

He laughs when Lan Zhan expresses his concern over their future meal and Wei Wuxian pats his back a few times. “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan! If A-Liang chooses clashing flavors, I’ll only add a tiny bit so it won’t ruin it.” He could always just not add anything that would clash but he doesn’t want to stifle Lan Liang’s creativity.

He stands on his toes and leans in to kiss the top of their son’s head. “You won’t lead us astray, right?” Even though Liang reaches for him, Wei Wuxian doesn’t take him from his father’s arms. Instead, he squeezes a pudgy hand gently before stepping around to Lan Zhan’s front.

“We still have a couple jars of Emperor’s Smile and that new fruit wine you found. I’ll have to make it last a few days, huh? I should have made the trip to Caiyi Town yesterday.” Oh well, it can’t be helped. It’s not like he needs to drink wine every day, but he’s become quite spoiled under Lan Zhan’s generous love and care.

He tugs on the front of Lan Zhan’s robe to lure him down for a quick, child-appropriate kiss on the mouth. Afterwards, he feels satisfied with their morning greetings and turns his attention to the window. Everything outside is blanketed in a heavy layer of snow and it’s still coming down, too! They’ll have to shovel a valley from the door to the well and river.

“There’s so much snow the trees are drooping under it! I’ve never so much at once before. It looks like it would go up to my waist if I were standing in it. Do you think it’s going to keep snowing all day?”

"With certainty." For once, something he can predict clearly, gaze limpid as he steals glances between the window shutters. They're bound tightly after, as he inserts himself with care to safeguard the frailty of his young and husband from the wretched cold.

It'll coil and infiltrate, spread and seize, left unattended. The beauty of the untarnished mounds that await is only fleeting: beyond it, ice and claws of frigidity and unwavering, all-consuming anguish. Countless ambitious hunters and merchants have learned better than to risk travel in Cloud Recesses without ample provisions.

"Do not be tempted to underestimate our winters," he cautions steadily, because Wei Ying's enthusiasm should not be allowed to bloom into negligence. As if to balm the warning, Lan Wangji drifts in to land another kiss, this round to the warmth of his lover's temple, before carefully moving to surrender their child.

"They only appear silent and tame." Not, he supposes, unlike the men of Gusu Lan.

He leans toward Lan Zhan, perfectly content to let his husband guard him from the minimal draft from the window. It’s true that he’s probably underestimating the snow storm in the same way visiting disciples underestimated the humid heat of summer in Yunmeng. He’s never been the sort of man to take warnings as seriously as he should.”

“I’m content with staying out of the snow as much as possible,” he concedes, reaching for Lan Liang at the same time Lan Zhan moves to hand him over. He adjusts the baby until he’s holding him up with one arm under his butt and the other hand on his back. “We can’t both go out at the same time. A-Liang doesn’t need to be so closely acquainted with this sort of thing.”

Really, it wouldn’t take much convincing for Wei Wuxian to let Lan Zhan go out for the ice and the drinking water despite his suggestion earlier.

“Tell me about the worst snowstorm you’ve been through! How long was it snowing and how deep did it get?” He asks, bouncing Lan Liang in his arms to keep him feeling comforted and easy.

The worst, the very worst. Ah. But there are stories to tell, and they've their start in the dead of winter, when Lan Wangji himself was born — and for once, he finds himself well equipped for conversation.

Unhastened, aware he must bide his time until the day crawls to its midday hours and the sun has thawed as much of the evening ice as it can, so he may proceed to shovel, he wilts down onto the floor, legs gainlessly spread at broad angle before him. Uncle would be distract to witness such a perversion of his forms; Lan Wangji accepts it as a worthwhile sacrifice to offer his lover a cradle, so that Wei Ying might sit down with the child in hand and rest his back against his husband, taking comfort in the nearby brazier.

Pleasure and ease are the priorities of all seclusions. It is known.

"With Xichen, after my ninth summer. Entrapped in his abode." Long after their mother's passing and their father's withdrawal, when the twin jades of Gusu Lan were inseparable out of both affinity and grief. "Five days, could not cross farther than three li. Wood and waters well supplied." A pause, then carefully, "Brother served raw rice often. Corresponded, besotted, with a clan scion now wedded."

Truly, Xichen's luck in love. "I transcribed love verse for his courtship, often."

He takes the invitation for what it is and kneels down in front of Lan Zhan, turning at the last moment to sit in the cozy nook of his husband’s front. This is what he’d been thinking of when he’d first heard they were snowed in. Taking in each other’s warmth and enjoying the intimacy.

He sits with his legs crossed in front of him, leaning his weight on Lan Zhan and shifting Lan Liang in his arms to disperse his weight across his lap instead. The baby seems to accept the change in position with only a few confused huffs.

“You mean there’s something Zewu-Jun can’t do? I figured he was the one who taught you how to cook,” he admits with a grin. “I can’t imagine trying to transcribe love verse for Jiang Cheng. I’d probably have just teased him until he lost his temper.” Not that he can really imagine Jiang Cheng wanting to be romantically involved with anyone.

“Do you remember what she was like?” He asks, curious to know what sort of woman would get the elder Jade to turn his head. He knows Lan Zhan’s told him that Lans only fall in love once and it feels a little too sad to imagine Lan Xichen already used up the one time he could fall in love for someone who didn’t return his affection.

Is this his secret to share? Has he transgressed already? After all, Do not gossip.

But it seems to him a sweet nostalgia, distant from the horrors his brother has, of late, confronted. Let Lan Wangji be forgiven the inevitable indiscretion, arms rounding around his husband's waist, easing his stay. Their baby, for once agreeable even when Wei Ying's attention flees from him, coos and pokes at Lan Wangji's hand. Ah, perhaps even the young tyrant can be swayed to infrequently accept the nuisance of his father's presence.

"Young." Obviously. "Moderately accomplished with the sword. Showed promise in archery. Disdained poets and tea service."

Truly, hardly the match of a sect leader. But there is the inevitable merit. "Beautiful beyond compare."

What more do young boys require? "She chose a more compelling suitor."

“She must have been important if her father let her choose who to marry,” he ventures. He can’t help but wonder if he’s met the woman at some point. As far as he’s concerned, Lan Xichen was, is, the only one who could objectively compare to Lan Zhan in good looks. “But if she wasn’t keen on poetry, your brother should have chosen a different way to express his affection.”

He shakes his head and pouts on behalf of his brother by marriage’s bad luck in love. “Who could be more compelling than Zewu-Jun?” He asks rhetorically. He knows Lan Zhan would have mentioned her name if he’d been prepared to disclose it.

He looks down at Lan Liang again, surprised that he’s being so well-behaved. “I like baba’s hands, too. They feel strong, don’t they?” He converses, giving Lan Zhan the chance to choose not to disclose her identity in the event he’d taken Wei Wuxian’s question as legitimate.

“You know, I used to think Zewu-Jun was the more handsome one, but that was before I saw your smile,” he admits, then wonders if he should have maybe kept that to himself.

"Brother misunderstood courtship." A rare concession that, once upon a time, even the magnificent Zewu-Jun may have eluded perfection. "Not educated in alternative romance."

Only in the rigid, ritualistic steps of Cloud Recesses that prescribed the homogenous interests of one and all, and therefore that which appeals to every disciple. Zewu-Jun resorted to the traditional staples. "Poetry and calligraphy paled against a rival offer of hunt and wine."

...something in him wonders whether Lan Wangji, too, might not have lost his chance with Wei Ying, were they ever in a position to pursue classical courtship, and had he also attempted to follow the Gusu Lan recipe to romantic success. His beautiful intended had too much spirit to entertain dead words and the classics.

And just enough liveliness, it would seem, to have considered the better Lan brother. For a moment, deadened under Lan Liang's strokes, Wangji loosens his arms' hold. Turns to look away. Then, softly, "Zewu-Jun is more handsome. More mannered. More accomplished. But he may not have my wife."

He turns to look over his shoulder when Lan Zhan pulls away from him. The look on his face! He doubles over in laughter, surprising Lan Liang in the process. “Relax, Lan Zhan! I’m not interested in him like that. Looks aren’t the only reason I love you, you know.”

He coddles Liang, rubbing a few soothing circles on his back to keep the young tyrant’s temper in check. “You and me belong together. Two halves of one soul. And besides, when you’re happy, you shine brighter than anyone else. Including Zewu-Jun.”

And what better way to make his Lan Zhan happy than for him to be present, safe, and in high spirits?

He cups his hands under Lan Liang’s arms and lifts him up, holding him so that his feet rest solidly on the floor in front of him. He holds him steady at first, then slowly starts to move his hands away only to snap them back into place when Liang loses his balance.

Two halves, one soul. This, more than anything, reassures him: that Wei Ying, his Wei Ying, cannot escape him, try though he may. Perhaps it should not be what settles him. He should want Wei Ying to come and stay with him of his own volition, the element of implicit force removed. Yet he thrives on knowing that they are inevitable.

Nodding, he binds his arms around Wei Ying again, only loosening intermittently to allow his husband proper reach of their son, both keeping an eye on Lan Liang's tentative ventures. A step here, a wobble there, Wei Ying's hands to support him. Lan Wangji laughs, warm and sedate, impossibly fond.

"You hope for proper steps soon?" Their infant is on the cusp of his feet, stubbornly and sullenly intent, holding onto Wei Ying's hands for dear life. He has been practicing, with aid, for some time now. Perhaps this could be their gift for resting snowed in.

"This young master will elude you thereafter."

The sound of Lan Zhan’s laughter washes over him like warm water and he has to steal a peek to see him. He grins back at his husband, heart fluttering pleasantly at the sight of his mirth.

Liang, never one to share attention, whines and flaps his little arms in frustration until Wei Wuxian looks back his way. “If you want me to look at you, impress me. Take a couple steps!” He lets Liang hold onto his hands, but he lets go of his middle for another attempt. This time, Liang is able to stand with the aid of the support. He even shuffles one of his feet forward but doesn’t actually take a whole step.

“He needs more confidence,” he suggests, guiding his son through a shaky step. With a little balance practice, it won’t be long until Liang advances from infant to toddler. They’ve already taken care of baby-proofing the lower half of the jingshi, but they’ll need to work on the higher half once Liang starts to climb.

After another loss of balance, he wraps his arms around the child and pulls him close for a quick cuddle, leaning his back against Lan Zhan’s chest again in the process. Liang squirms around in his arms for an handful of moments until he gives up and tolerates his mother’s affection. “It’ll be nice if he takes his first steps without help while you’re here to see it.”

What a hard taskmaster is Wei Wuxian, inconsolably strict with his young son. Tsk, tsk. Behind him, as Lan Liang fusses and flails, Lan Wangji offers the shadow of an encouraging smile to please him, nodding along with his efforts. A fine feat, no matter it finished without satisfaction. Tomorrow is another day.

Then, Wei Ying leans back, Lan Wangji steels himself to support him, driving his arms up around his husband's to cradle their son — and stills in place.

"Had not considered it may occur in my absence." Only, of course it can. The odds prevail in such favor. He is called upon to attend sect duties within and outside the confines of Cloud Recesses with painstaking regularity. Even now, he is only privy to this beautiful family portrait because their very home was buried in.

"Shall I walk with him outside, after I shovel?" He had considered against it, given the wretched cold, but the babe may be bundled, and the air could do wonders to sweeten his sleep.

“I’m glad he waited for you. Maybe with his baba here to see him, he’ll be inspired to take some steps on his own. I usually try to guide him through it in the afternoons when he’s returned to me. He only has a few days to master it, so we’ll keep exercising his legs.” He loosens his hold on Liang and turns him so that he’s cradled on his back in both of their arms.

“I guess it’s as good of time as any to get him used to the Gusu winter,” he says thoughtfully. He’d just assumed they’d keep him inside all day where there’s no wind to chill the air. “You’re sure you want to spend more time than you have to out in this weather? Or maybe you just want me to warm you up when you’re finished.”

He turns his head to plant a kiss on Lan Zhan’s arm. There’s a silk barrier between them, but it’s an easier target than trying to crane his neck far enough to kiss his husband’s mouth. “While you’re out there, I’ll walk A-Liang around the room a few times. He can walk if he’s being helped, it’s just that when he’s not being held up, hs falls on his butt.”

"No." This, unreasonable and nearly silent, in the wake of Wei Ying's haphazard kiss and his bird trills. Of course attending Lan Liang is a sound, noble and understandable endeavor that any man would wish pursued for the betterment of his second heir. But.

"My wife has been remiss in talisman work. Complete the localized one for silence by my return," he instructs evenly, pinching Wei Ying's flank with a sliver of the old meanness that once dragged Wei Ying across the training grounds to perform his best steps and sword work. Soon, they'll cross blades again, Wei Ying's core reinforced each day through their evening congress.

Certainly, they cannot afford a setback.

"Days snowed in with a young infant," he murmurs lightly. "You must still serve your husband."

The two rooms of Lan Wangji's quarters are broad and generous, with the small alcove for private relief, besides. Certainly, they'll be able to transfer Lan Liang in the nearby room for half of a shi, provided they moderate the sound of their enthusiasm.

“No?” He asks, an edge of playfulness to his voice that pulls into a higher register when he’s pinched. It isn’t until Lan Zhan mentions the talismans that he gets the gist of why Lan Zhan answered the way he had. He feels the wave of warmth reddening his cheeks and his grin is at once mischievous. How could he forget that taking outside walks always lulls Liang to sleep?

“Wouldn’t want to deny my husband his marital right,” he agrees, looking back down at Lan Liang. “It won’t take me long to finish plugging the holes in the array, so I can take a walk with A-Liang while you’re working.” He offers it before his brain processes what that actually entails.

“If I take him on a walk, you’ll have to be the one to warm me up! It was cold enough yesterday before the storm came in. I’ll be frozen solid by the time I get back.” It’s so we can have our moment together a little sooner, he reminds himself so he doesn’t take back his offer. Like Lan Zhan would let him off that easily!

"After I shovel," he murmurs agreeably, nuzzling Wei Ying's cheek for behind with canine infatuation. Ah, to think his husband so often opposes his bites — left to his own devices, he might have passed his teeth over Wei Ying's nape to bloom a mark. Instead, he is obedient and gentlemanly before the judging gaze of his youngest son, who takes this time to retaliate for his mother's hardships by reaching out to squeeze Lan Wangji's arm presumably in his own pinch.

At this, Wangji breaks apart from his spouse only enough to claim Liang's little fist and lean in to kiss it apologetically. There, there, young tyrant, kindly spare your unworthy father.

To Wei Ying, after, "Enough have lost their path in the mounds, snow encircling."

White against white, in overwhelming perpetuity. No, better to shovel, to clear a road that Wei Ying can take to enjoy his morning walk with their young son. And so, regretfully, Lan Wangji starts to peel away. "Shall make start now."

In the same breath, nodding behind them to their coffers, "Pelts and blankets lie stored beneath our common sheets. Coal pieces and dried goods in the back of the pantry. Shall return with further kindle."

It’s a shame that their little family cuddle comes to an end so quickly, but the snow is piled up high already and it’ll only become more difficult to manage the longer they wait. He tries to kiss Lan Zhan as their faces rub together like cats. “Okay, I’ll wait until you make a path before going out,” he agrees easily enough. He doesn’t want to wade through deep snow, anyway.

After Lan Zhan pulls away, he gets to his own feet too. With Lan Liang tucked in one arm, he goes to fetch his talisman papers and his inking supplies. He could use blood in a pinch, but that isn’t as good for long-term sorcery.

“Be careful out there,” he says unnecessarily. Lan Zhan’s grown up in this climate and he does everything with patience and care. “I’ll put some tea on for you, so you’ll have something hot to keep you satisfied until the baby’s napping.” And he’ll probably drink some tea after his own excursion into the cold.

He thinks to thank his husband, to linger here where it is warm and affection blooms and he can bask in the brilliance of Wei Ying's scantly divided attention and in his young son's progress. But he will not move at all, if he dallies, subject to lethargy.

Lan Wangji rises, long whites drawing beside him, and then the governance of a thick robe and furs atop. No doubt to both their awe, he retrieves a shovel, carefully buried behind their typical provisions, and buckets, and he exits their house to a howling wind. The snow storm spreads, buries, lingers. He takes the shovel and works for long shi, freeing up a road all the way to the river, sweat lining his back, and the chills wrecking his flesh. If not for his golden core, he might have surrendered early — but he returns, duty done, to collect water.

Well supplied, he comes back, hands too limp and stiff to close the door behind him, dragging in the buckets to deposit in their makeshift kitchen — before rejoining Wei Ying in the main quarter, hands and cheeks frozen, snow lining his lashes.

"The... frost is deeper now than in many... many years." Even his teeth clatter.

It feels too long after only a quarter of one shi, so he keeps going to the door to peer out at his husband’s back to make sure he hasn’t collapsed. He doesn’t let Lan Zhan know outright what he’s doing, but he doesn’t try to hide it from him, either. He doesn’t want to hurt Lan Zhan’s pride by implying he needs to be checked up on, but who could blame him for worrying in this weather?

He’s playing with a fussy Lan Liang when he hears the sound of Lan Zhan coming in. He scrambles to his feet, leaving the brilliant blue and white wooden dragon he’d been flying in Liang’s care. A few moments on the floor unattended won’t hurt.

He stops in his tracks when he sees the state of lover. His already pale skin looks nearly blue from the cold. He knows it’s going to suck, but he rushes across the room to take Lan Zhan’s hands and presses them against his warm throat. He holds those hands in place, rotating around Lan Zhan and backing up to shut the door without letting go.

“You look half frozen,” he chides, but it comes from a good place. “Take off your robes and sit next to the brazier. I’ll bring you dry ones.”

He hears Lan Liang babble to get their attention. He doesn’t spare their son a glance for several seconds, but right before he actually tells Lan Liang to shut up for a moment, he finally looks over at him standing there a few steps away from where he’d been sitting before. And sure enough, Liang toddles towards them for two steps before he falls down on his butt again.

Half is not yet whole, but there is no space for levity when Wei Ying fusses. Half-frozen, then, he shifts to allow his husband full control of the room, walking and taking comfort in warmth as directed, the print of Wei Ying's skin soft under his questing, cold-burned fingertips.

It aches to sit so closely to the brazier, heat entering his flesh as if through needlework, but at Wei Ying's command, he bears it, hulking over the flame, palms outward — gaze caught between the wreck of his hands and the distant figure of their son, wailing at his mother's betrayal. Poor Liang, poor darling. Of course he starts to shift, to crawl, to call for attention. Of course he lifts himself on chubby arms, glancing vengefully where Wei Ying concentrates the better part of his interest.

...and of course he rises on two feet, wobbly and half bent, waving his arms each way as if a firefly for all of two steps that both Wei Ying and Lan Wangji drink in greedily, before plopping back down, only to weep again.

"Oh, beloved," Lan Wangji whispers, and for all his frosted rigidity, he advances on his knees to sink near the child, sparing him an embrace in his cold arms. Even so, his proximity seems to please Liang, who crawls forward and drapes both arms around Lan Wangji's throat in something in between complaint and welcome, utterly indifferent to the frostiness of his father.

"You have done well, my love. So well," he coos, and praise is ever a language Liang understands. "Has he not done well, Wei Ying?"

He feels so torn between watching the monumental achievement of Liang graduating to the next step of his development and fussing over Lan Zhan some more. It isn’t that he thinks Lan Zhan won’t take care of himself, but he doesn’t like how exhausted and uncomfortable he looks. And so he delays fetching Lan Zhan’s dry clothes to watch Liang taking his first steps.

“Real well,” he says, stepping towards his son but Lan Zhan gets there first. It might be a bad time for it, but it’s still something they should celebrate as a family. “He was trying to follow me,” he says, almost feeling bad that he’d been ignoring their child for his husband.

He kneels down and pats Liang’s head, but he shies away and sulks at him for his betrayal. “Aw, come on, I only looked away for a little bit. I wasn’t going to forget about you,” he says but Lan Liang seems intent on pouting, though he does lean in when he’s patted.

“It’s not my fault you decided to take your first steps while I was busy,” he says, maybe sulking a little bit, too. He pokes at one of Liang’s cheeks before going to get that dry robe for Lan Zhan. “I can’t believe I almost missed his first steps!”

"But you saw them," he reassures, because whatever his failings, Wei Ying is a doting parent who should not be permitted to discipline himself overly harshly over negligence of hazard. Already, Lan Liang seems to open like a flower to the sun, surrendering his grip over Lan Wangji's throat to plaster a litany of close-mouthed kisses on his cheek and eyes, then wave his arms again in the general direction of his assigned mother. A sulking little traitor.

Forever the second choice, Lan Wangji contents himself with accepting the dry robe layers, fumbling with removing his own clothes with yet rigid fingers, before prevailing to release the first few layers. Snow has encrusted itself between silks, and he dismisses it with care for the integrity of the textile, with love for the craftsmanship that produced them. Slowly, delayed by false clumsiness, he is made bare, flesh as if bruised between the spasms of cold yielding to sudden warmth.

He gathers his old layers by the brazier to warm and slips into the fresh robes with a nod of gratitude, before sinking beside the fire to warm himself further. "The snows run high. Shall send butterflies if the elders require assistance."

The young must lend their broad backs and the strength of their arms to purpose, when hard winters strike. It is only just.

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