wuding | Snowed In

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.

“I should have known that he’d pick himself up off the ground to follow me if I ignored him for a moment,” he says, but he’s not all that upset about could have beens. He’d seen the first steps and so had Lan Zhan! What a well-timed treat for them.

He bends down and picks up their little one while Lan Zhan sheds his damp layers for fresh ones. He carries him over to the brazier where Lan Zhan is warming up so he can kiss Lan Zhan a short, sweet moment. “You’re like ice,” he says, brushing his lips over Lan Zhan’s again before straightening up.

“I can help,” he offers, even though he and the elders don’t get along very well. “You deserve a break after all that work. How about, I walk with A-Liang, then we warm you up properly, and we can offer to help the elders when we’re finished. We can take turns, okay?” He knows Lan Zhan is stubborn when it comes to responsibilities and hates anything that can damage his pride, so he doesn’t push it too hard. And to sweeten his offer, he steps in close and curls an arm around his waist. “Liang’s already getting tired, so I won’t be long. Oh! Right, I made tea earlier but it’s probably bitter by now. You want some? I can make a new pot if it’s too bad.”

He leans into Wei Ying's touch, grateful for any trinkets of touch and absorbing warmth shamelessly under Lan Liang's condemning gaze. He only stirs when Wei Ying makes his proposal, mouth pursed in a tight line, careful to neither accept nor outright reject him.

"Turns are unnecessary," he murmurs and dips his head to catch Wei Ying's mouth in a breezy kiss, already stirring to rise as if his hands can still grasp the shovel. They linger by him, limp and distraught.

"Leave me to the task." He is suited to discomfort, to long hours of draining work, to applying muscles he has worked tirelessly to shape for the purpose of service. His sect, above all, deserves his toil. His sect will receive it.

His only concession, brief, as he leans back into Wei Ying's grasp for a moment, "Sliver of salve for my back, beloved."

A rare request. Rarer still of an admission. But winter bites fiercely at old wounds, and the marks his thirteen lashes only ever healed tenuously.

“But,” he starts, but Lan Zhan delays his protest with another kiss. He puts the hand not holding Lan Liang on his husband’s shoulder and guides him back down. As stubborn as Lan Zhan is, the limitations of his body will prevent him from running off into the cold again for a short while.

“I’ll be fine helping out, Lan Zhan. I’m young and able-bodied too! It might make some of the elders hate me a little less if they see me taking on the same unpleasant duties that all the disciples do,” he insists, and curls his arm around Lan Zhan again to hold him with Liang caught between them.

The request for salve only makes him feel more adamant about taking some of the burden off of Lan Zhan’s shoulders. “You want the salve before or after my walk?”

He tucks his head on Lan Zhan’s shoulder so he can hold him a little closer for a few moments. He doesn’t want to let him go in case he decides to get up and go shovel some more anyway.

They do not speak of this often, play pretend and dance around their truths, the steps diffuse. It is not by Lan Wangji's tongue that they should start their quarrel, not by his manner. He hesitates, biding his time with half-hearted nuzzling, because instinct forever compels him to indulge in Wei Ying's company, whatever its shape.

"Your core is yet fragile, my love." Ah, and how Wei Ying despises it for it. "You are more exposed to the elements."

Particularly the harsh breath of a snow storm without abeyance that seems uniquely armed to torment even Lan Wangji, master of one of the most refined cores of their generation. "I would not see you ill, threatened."

At risk in ways Lan Wangji is poorly equipped to mitigate, lacking the experience of a healer and encumbered to access one in the storms. "Forgive me. I am selfish in this."

It all comes down to his fledgeling core. It’s not the first time it’s made him feel utterly useless. It feels like he’s letting down Lan Zhan, and the sect at large, by being too weak to pull his weight. He frowns, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Then let me be selfish, too. I want you here with me and A-Liang,” he counters, squeezing Lan Zhan when he says it. All of this proximity seems like it’s starting to thaw Lan Zhan, but he’s still uncomfortably cold to the touch.

Liang squirms between them and triumphantly grabs fists full of their hair to put in his mouth. Wei Wuxian sighs and lets go of Lan Zhan’s so he can pry the hair out of the toddler’s mouth so he doesn’t choke on it. Liang defiantly puts another fist in his mouth as soon as the first one is removed.

“I know you’re strong enough to help more, but I want you here with us. At least for a little while,” he adds, successfully holding both of Liang’s hands away from his giggling mouth. “Wait until after we’ve had something to eat.”

Let me be selfish, Wei Ying entreats, and when has he not been so? When has Lan Wangji denied him in this, his second life? His every whim and desire met before he needed to exert the breath, a thought to them. This, Lan Wangji has wrought until now, without dithering.

This, he gives again. "Shall dine first gladly."

And he bows his head, just so, delaying only to coax loose the second fistful of hair from their babe's mouth, earning Lan Liang's grumbling displeasure. To punish him, or perhaps ally himself with his mother, their son crawls along to plant himself on Lan Wangji's knees, arms out to beg his attention. It is given, the child cradled in one elbow's nook, while Lan Wangji distracts himself only fleetingly to receive a sudden barrage of spiritual butterflies, their messages sparse.

"Brother and Sizhui convey their welfare," he confirms to Wei Ying. As does Uncle, the next butterfly's arrival confirms, but he does not jest with himself about Wei Ying's natural priorities. The elders of the sect Gusu Lan once stood against Hanguang-Jun and later cast their judgement upon him. Wei Ying forgives much but forgets little.

He’s expecting more of a fight, but Lan Zhan gives in easily and he feels the tension leave him. It’s only a little while, but making sure Lan Zhan has a good rest will give him the strength to push himself to his limit all over again. He’ll worry about that later. For now, he takes the win with a smile.

Eying the butterflies suspiciously, he fetches the tea while Lan Zhan checks his correspondences. He’s half expecting at least one of the Lan elders has sent a request for aid, but if they have, Lan Zhan doesn’t mention it. He pours them each a cup, but he doesn’t drink his right away.

“Thanks, Lan Zhan,” he says at last. “I won’t try to help with the back breaking labor anymore. I will go on that walk, though. I just need to get dressed first.” And since Lan Zhan is holding their son, it’s probably the best opportunity he’ll get. “When I get back, I’ll give you a massage. Then once you’re warm and comfortable, I’ll make us some food.”

"I may assist," he murmurs, but knows it a deed already done that Wei Ying will contort himself to fulfill all of their household obligations single-handedly. They each feel the need to step up and assume more of the work, to give their spouse peace. If Lan Wangji wishes to have ownership of shoveling, he cannot expect Wei Ying to surrender cookery.

Gently, he brings up their son and begins to blow hot air against his belly, a pleased smile warming the corners of his mouth when the infant bursts into a fit of giggling and kicks out his tender limbs. Stroking his hair, kissing his cheeks, pinching his sides — these are the marks of Lan fondness, before Lan Wangji begins to swaddle his son in deep, warm layers.

In between, he calls after Wei Ying, who has departed to wrestle his own clothes on, "Do not leave the cleared path. Winds deceive."

“You can help by watching Lan Liang while I’m cooking,” he suggests. He could strap their son to his chest and cook with him, but it would make his job a lot easier if he’s being looked after. As long as Lan Zhan is warm and content while he isn’t out shoveling snow, then he feels like he’s doing right by his husband.

He wraps himself in another few layers including his warmest fur-lined robe for the outermost layer. It feels too warm almost at once, but he knows he’ll miss the warmth as soon as he goes outside. “Sure, sure. I won’t be long,” he promises as he approaches Lan Zhan again. While he might wander off the path if he were on his own, there’s no way he’d put Lan Liang in unnecessary danger. The only thing that would coax him off the path is if someone were calling for help and Lan Zhan knows him well enough to expect that sort of thing.

He throws a pelt over his forearm that he picked out to keep Liang warm. “I really won’t be out for long,” he assures again, bending down to kiss the top of Lan Zhan’s head. “A quarter of a shi at the most.” While he can tolerate discomfort as stubbornly well as Lan Zhan, he doesn’t want Liang to fall ill.

"A quarter of a shi," he agrees, and then the matter is decided, and he arrests his fledgling doubts long enough to pass Liang on to his spouse's care. After the two have gone, the domestic game is afoot: Wei Ying, constantly vigilant of their child, is less attentive to their household.

And so, Lan Wangji devotes himself to righting the wrongs of his negligent passage, tidying clothes and effects, rescuing combs, washing some of Liang's cloths. He sets fresh tea to brew and makes their beds and settles their cushions, folds cloths newly freshened and airs those stale.

By the time Wei Ying returns, Lan Wangji, pinked with new warmth, has begun to boil their rice — the single part of cooking he interferes with, knowing Wei Ying will not deviate from the base recipe, and that he is unlikely to meddle. And he hurries the two inside, where the braziers now breathe hard.

"A fine walk?"

The start of the walk isn’t so bad. He sticks to the path Lan Zhan made leading towards the river. He talks to Liang as he walks, rocking the baby as they go. The precious child seems impervious to the cold and tries to wiggle his little hand out of his swaddling to reach for the snow. Wei Wuxian lets him for a few moments before tucking the chubby arm back against Liang’s body.

By the time he gets to the river, he wishes he’d chosen a closer target. The wind coming off the water feels white hot against the parts of his face he hadn’t covered up before leaving. He turns away before reaching the bank and walks as quickly as he can towards the jingshi.

His nose is dripping and icy when he comes inside, and he allows Lan Zhan to rush him towards the brazier. His teeth clatter and clumps of snow fall from his shoulders and hood as he moves to hand Liang off to Lan Zhan. He’d been cradling the child close and covering him from the wind the whole time, so his discomfort is lessened.

“A cold one! I’m half solid,” he complains, but he’s no worse for wear. His skin is pink and a little chafed more than the blue tint that Lan Zhan sported when he’d returned earlier. He whines about it while he shrugs out of his furs. He must have been sweating under so much warmth if his robes are an indicator.

“Did you miss us?” He asks while he pulls his boot off and tosses it onto the floor next to the brazier so it can dry with its mate. Lucky for him, it’s just the outer part of the shoe that’s soaked in melting snow. “I can barely feel my fingers and toes!”

"Cast your fingers on my belly," he instructs as Wei Ying makes the better of his sad fortunes, the tides of winter turned wholly against him. He is not accustomed to the hardships of the Gusu Lan season, but he will learn, as all those who marry in acclimate incrementally — for all that Wei Ying lacks the innate weapon to hasten his accommodation.

For now, Lan Wangji affords him a wide berth to walk the room as he pleases and dispose of his accoutrements, while Wangji cradles their young babe to his chest, unswaddling him from his cold garments and slipping him tenderly against his father's golden core. That furnace, at least, will never fail them, and soon Lan Liang gurgles contently, leaning his sweet face against Lan Wangji's front, already prone to drifting asleep. He feels warm, if not feverish. Drained healthily.

Dragging a cushion beside them near the braziers and their low table, Lan Wangji settles the babe for close watch, enveloping him in a great wan fur blanket. For his part, he takes his seat beside Wei Ying, guiding his husband's hands where they can best steal the warmth of Lan Wangji's own body.

"Joy left beside you," he murmurs, because Wei Ying only ever asks if he was missed in play, but ever feels the sting of rejection if he is unanswered. "Returned only as you did."

He half-watches Lan Zhan with their son, just to make sure he hadn’t overdone it and come home with an ice statue instead of a baby. But his worries are for naught and he smiles while he finds a dry spot in front of the brazier to sit and warm himself. His robe hangs off one of his shoulders exposing part of his chest but he doesn’t move to fix the positioning of it.

“I took joy with me,” he says, looking past Lan Zhan at the drowsy toddler. “But I brought him back for you safe and sound.” With Lan Zhan’s help, he slips his hands under the folds of silk to leech warmth from Lan Zhan’s skin. He sighs happily and scoots close.

“You cleaned up,” he says, eyes darting to the rice pot before looking into Lan Zhan’s eyes. He should have known Lan Zhan wouldn’t be content to sit and rest when there were more things needing doing. He should have taken care of it before going on the walk, but what’s done is done. So he grins and moves his fingers to new, warmer spots. “And I finished the talisman work you asked me to do, so we have a little time to ourselves. My ankles could use a little warmth, too.”

Against the musculature of his chest, Wei Ying's hands feel as chilled prints, and he guides them in circles, both to ease the burn unto himself and to reinstate Wei Ying's blood flow. Now and then, he catches his palms and brings them up to blow hot air against wild fingertips.

Then he eases back, drawing his hands over Wei Ying's thighs to loosen the tension of his legs and pull them out, ankles against Lan Wangji's hips. Always, always frigid. Utterly devoid of warmth.

"The disciples have attended the elders," he offers out, as if Wei Ying were the one clinging and denying him the opportunity to serve his clan. He sighs, hands now rubbing his husband's ankles carefully. "Hanguang-Jun is no longer necessary."

Truly, replaced by younger, more resilient fare.

With a few short syllables of laughter, he wiggles one of his feet against Lan Zhan’s hips. He’d meant they should reconvene under the blankets where he could rub his chilled feet against Lan Zhan’s warm legs, but this is just too cute for him to complain about.

“Really?” He asks brightly, inching his fingers up to his husband’s chest. “So I get to keep you for the rest of the day! We should make the best of it. I’ll borrow you while our little emperor rests, but I’m sure you’d like to spend more time with A-Liang while I cook.”

His hands are starting to warm up, so he moves them up to Lan Zhan’s face for some affectionate caresses. His mood is elevated because he doesn’t have to see Lan Zhan push himself past discomfort again. At least not until tomorrow when the paths will need to be cleared and more resources acquired. “Hanguang-Jun can rest because Lan Zhan is necessary enough for both of them.”

"Hanguang-jun is old and greyed," he murmurs with formidable sorrow, as if he is a decrepit and bereft thing, unwanted. His arms wind around Wei Ying's waist slowly, leaning into his husband's caresses, like a child sullenly staking his claim on a beloved toy.

"Strapping young disciples replace him." And he pinches Wei Ying's side as if he alone led to this great decision. "Soon, even his pretty wife will abandon him for young blood."

In truth, Wei Ying could surely attract a younger, fairer husband closer to his energy and appetites — if not his checkered past. As if to punish him for a venture in which he has expressed not the slightest interest, Wangji raises his spouse's left leg, hiked all the way up to his shoulder, where Lan Wangji can meanly graze his teeth on the jutting ankle bone. Then, satisfied, he releases him.

"Shall I draw your bath, or only blankets?"

“Old and grey, sure,” he says with none of the seriousness Lan Zhan speaks. “But he’s all mine for the day so that makes this wife profoundly happy!” Still grinning, he lets Lan Zhan pull him closer and leans forward to kiss his mouth lightly. The position is too awkward for lengthy kisses as they are, but he pushes his flexibility to get what he wants.

“What would I do with a younger spouse?” He asks, grinning when Lan Zhan lifts his leg until it gets bit. Then he whines and fails to pull away from him. “You’re the one who said it, not me! I like my old, grey Hanguang-Jun! At least when he’s not biting me like a bad dog!”

He drops his leg at Lan Zhan’s side again, thinking about his choices. “The bath would warm me up faster, but we’ll just take another one after dinner anyway. Maybe we should get under the blankets for now,” he decides, leaning forward for another short kiss. “You’ll lay with me for a little while, right?”

A greyed, mad dog, a proper beast. The sliver of a grin threatens to warm his mouth in the wake of Wei Ying's outrage, but he schools himself back to form, walking both hands over his husband's thighs to continue warming them. The blankets, then.

Within instants, he comes to his feet, careful not to attract Lan Liang's attention as he excuses himself to peel loose two of the larger fur pelts from the bottom of their clothing coffer. One is set neatly on the floor, by the brazier, a respectable distance away from their child, but within sight of him to attend his needs as required. He lies on it, drawing the second thickened pelt over himself, but leaving it open to mark his invitation.

"What choice have I, when the Patriarch commands it so?" Clearly, he only exists to serve, resigned to his bittermost fate of nurturing heat for his husband's frigid ankles. Woe is Hanguang-Jun.

"Only beg him to soothe me with kisses."

He lets his fingers linger on Lan Zhan for as long as possible, but he drops his hands to his lap as soon as he’s too far to reach. It’s only temporary, but he pouts playfully while Lan Zhan fetches exactly what he’d asked for and doesn’t stop until Lan Zhan lays down and offers him the prized spot. With a grin, he crawls across the floor and under the blankets. It might be his imagination, but he feels warmer already!

“Kisses as payment for Hanguang-Jun’s noble sacrifice? Sounds fair,” he teases, nosing at his husband’s cheek. To make his point, he seeks out the warmest part of Lan Zhan’s calves to thaw his icy toes. His fingers find residual warmth on Lan Zhan’s cheeks and he tilts his head just so for the first of many kisses to come.

“You worked so hard today to make sure we have access to fresh water for our baths and drink,” he acknowledges, brushing his lips over Lan Zhan’s again. “Such a good, dutiful husband.” His eyes widen momentarily, “Oh! I was going to reward your hard work with a massage, wasn’t I? Should I fetch the oils?”

A shiver walks up his calves, rattling his spine, settling in his back, as Wei Ying tickles his skin with chills. He laughs, sound a low and careless rumbling, deafened in their kisses. He worked hard, is that so? And now he has earned this?

...no. A lifetime of toil will not make this bliss deserved. His, his husband, his wife, his soulmate. His, and the wealth of children, of a settled home. Even more so, of spoiling when Wei Ying makes his soft proposal.

"Please," he agrees, and this small step for all other mean is a leap for Lan Wangji, whose autonomy has been painfully curated. He never admits his hurts, never entrusts his recovery. Licks his wounds and takes his herbs, and he suffers without witness or violence.

Today, as he rolls obediently on the first layer of fur, arms crossed beneath his chin while Wei Ying prepares the oils — he will share his grief. "And thank you."

All of the petty pleasantries they'd exorcised between them. He cannot help himself.

He’s not in a hurry as he lingers and kisses his lover a few more times. It isn’t much in the grand scheme of things to be allowed - invited - to help ease the tension in Lan Zhan’s back, but it means a lot to him. It gives him something tangible that he can do to help his husband who so often carries the burden of his family and sect without a whisper of complaint. It makes him feel less like a trophy and more as half of a team.

One last kiss and he slips himself out from under the blanket to go to the drawer in their sleeping quarter where they keep such supplies. Sandalwood, like most of the other scented products they use. This particular oil has medicinal herbs to relax and numb pain. There’s still plenty of oil left in the small jar and he doesn’t remember the last time they had to replace it which goes to show how infrequently Lan Zhan expresses his discomfort.

On the way back, he checks over Lan Liang to make sure he’s sleeping comfortably. With the way he’s sprawled out over the cushion, Wei Wuxian is satisfied that he’s not feeling overly cold. “He’s out,” he says with a smile.

He kneels down next to Lan Zhan, leaning in to kiss the back of his head. “You look like the cat who caught a bird,” he says fondly while he helps Lan Zhan shed his robes. “Does that make me the bird?”

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