wuding | Snowed In

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?”

"You don't approve of bites," he murmurs behind himself, already at ease and languid, molten over the fur. Wei Ying's questioning probe into Lan Liang's safety is natural, if unnecessary: even now, Lan Wangji's gaze snags on his child every few heartbeats. He allows himself the indulgence of basking, of humming along with the progress of Wei Ying's lips, anticipating the touch of his hands.

Their only interruption comes when he brings himself fleetingly up to shed his sleeves and allow his robes to fall to his lower back, revealing the great battlefield of his torn and long-healed back. He survived this hell, he knows, and supposes it must do him credit.

He survives, but he wears the marks still. "Shall I eat Wei Ying after?"

He will never improve his ability to take his husband into his mouth at length without exercise, after all.

“A bird wouldn’t approve of a cat biting,” he points out while he watches Lan Zhan disrobe his top half. He’s used to the scars there and he no longer feels the guilt of being a large part the cause of them. There’s no reason he should feel guilty. Lan Zhan’s decisions were his own. Besides, Lan Zhan would be more self-conscious if Wei Wuxian got mopey every time he sees those scars.

He waits until Lan Zhan’s settled before straddling his hips. “What a fearsome fate to be eaten,” he says with a smile while he pours some of the viscous oil into one hand. “I’m yours to do with whatever you like. If you want to eat me, I’ll fill your mouth gladly.”

Once the oil is warmed as well as he can get it with his cool hands, he starts by spreading a layer of it across Lan Zhan’s skin. That’s the easy part done, and now he needs to navigate the scars and taut flesh around them without causing more harm than good. He’s a fast learner though and he’s figured out what sort of touch Lan Zhan reacts positively to.

Starting at the top, he works the oil in. “You’re not as tense as usual,” he observes, feeling somewhat amused that spending so long shoveling snow is somehow less harmful to Lan Zhan’s body than politics. It’s a little sad, if he thinks about it, that Lan Zhan is stuck doing work that doesn’t suit him at all. Just one year, he thinks, then they can see if Lan Xichen feels at ease with taking his position as sect leader again.

"I enjoy being of use," he rasps out in between syrupy stretches and kicks of his legs, as he thaws beneath Wei Ying's working hand and the pervasive sheen of the honeyed oil. At first, there is no difference to his scars, his flesh merely put to task. Then, gently, Wei Ying's touch and kneading begins to incinerate what tension the winter's cold had woken, wherever its fingertips spread.

He moans, when Wei Ying dallies on a certain upper part of his shoulders, quite helpless. Then, behind himself, "Elders are easily pleased. Grateful. As children are."

Perhaps this is why Hanguang-Jun is so renown among their numbers, so ready to satisfy their needs. He understands them, without fears over his sparse communication. He seldom need wonder if he has stepped astray. It is almost as easy as interacting with Wei Ying.

"I do not resent service to them." He will offer it more often, gladly, once he has completed standing for Zewu-Jun — come that time when it may.

“I know you do,” he answers, enjoying the feeling of being of use himself. He doesn’t usually feel the desire to be useful to anyone outside their immediate family, but it’s something of himself that he can give to Lan Zhan and the kids. At times, when he’s feeling particularly idle and bored, he starts to devise ways he can donate his time to the rest of the sect.

“Thanks for letting me keep you today, Lan Zhan. I won’t stop you from helping them tomorrow,” he promises, digging in with a thumb to work out a particularly stubborn knot. He feels proud of himself for all the fun noises he’s pulling from his lover’s lips.

“You know, I don’t like thinking of you as something to be used, but you’re of use to the family every day. You keep us safe. You’re giving your brother the time he needs to heal and you’re giving Lan-shufu time to rest. We know he’d be standing in instead of you if you didn’t step up.”

"He answers duty," he agrees, and it is a point of high contention between them: Uncle has never meet an ethical high horse he would not climb, for all his sword might ever take him higher. At times, Lan Wangji permits himself the treacherous thought that his uncle gives hunt to the first challenge before him, only to justify his outrage that no other man stepped forth first.

This turn, Lan Wangji barred path, and he was permitted. Much as he made attempt to assist the household and was permitted. His loved ones ever make space for his own misplaced pride, and this he must thank them.

Reverently, he twists himself to chase the shadow of Wei Ying's fingertips as they cross his shoulders, to catch them in kisses only marred by the sheen of oils.

And in their wake, muscles unwound and back wholly lax, the last of the long tremors leaving him, he manages, "If you had wished us fled of Cloud Recesses a year ago, it would have been done, justly. But I am grteful you did not wish so."

He tilts the back of his hand towards Lan Zhan’s lips to accept the kisses. He can’t imagine the flavor of the oils he’s using would taste very good and he’s not about to taste it for himself. As hard as it is to believe, he has some standards for flavor.

“I don’t want to divide our family,” he says. Moving down from Lan Zhan’s shoulders to his mid-back. “Zewu-Jun and Lan-shufu included. So if the best thing we can do is help out here, then that’s what we should do.”

If only it were so easy to do what’s best for his own side of the family. Jiang Cheng doesn’t make it easy.

“Want to move to the bedroom after this?” He asks, leaning down so he can speak closer to Lan Zhan’s ear. “We wouldn’t want anyone -“ meaning, Lan Liang, -“To see you with your mouth full.”

Ah. A day of confinement, a rare opportunity to bed with daylight licking pale from a snowed-in outside. He hesitates, helplessly charmed, but also aware they have only just both exposed themselves to the elements.

Delicately, he turns only enough to close the breath of space between them, to nuzzle Wei Ying's cheek. To steal his affection.

"You craved lunch." Of course, Lan Wangji's own appetites can't be disputed, constantly hungering for Wei Ying, his flesh, his pleasure. He has only ever refused his husband when Wei Ying appeared intent to punish himself with Lan Wangji's own hand — and even then, his restraint was belated, grudging, threadbare.

"I want to bed you." Openly, plainly. He wants this man like he wants to breathe. "But we may eat first. To give my wife strength."

He’s drawn to Lan Zhan’s face, rubbing his nose and cheek against him before he steals a little affection for himself in the way of a quick kiss before he sits up again. Despite the majority of Lan Zhan’s tension and soreness being in his upper back, he wants to at least pass over his lower back too.

“I crave you, too,” he answers readily. His appetite for his husband’s touch is as healthy as ever, but he does feel hungry for food, too. He’d eaten a couple pickled vegetables straight from the jar when Lan Zhan was working on clearing paths in the snow, but he probably should have had more.

“Okay, let’s eat first,” he agrees after some deliberation. If Lan Liang wakes up before they get a chance to love each other, it will be a shame. But they always have tonight. “What do you want me to cook for us? We have fresh vegetables, but I don’t think we have any fish stored. Maybe I’ll fish tomorrow. I’m done with the cold for today.”

"Mushroom broth, rice, pickles, tofu strips." Does he ask too much? Perhaps. But he is still the second master of Gusu Lan, held in high comfort even during his travels. He cannot wholly surrender his desires.

And what of Wei Ying's strain? In the end, a proper wife should wish it done and prevail upon the deed. Did the Yiling Patriarch not commit himself? "Shall mind Liang as you cook."

As he stretches out to allow Wei Ying a final pass over his lower back, he instructs, "Eat healthily. I wish to enjoy my wife at least thrice tonight."

Certainly, if they are secluded, they must take advantage, and Wei Ying has ever wistfully expressed an interest in honoring their allowance for confinement. He must be bedded, served sweets, attended.

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