wuding | a home.

a home.

They fall together, like fresh snow off the mountaintop: first, in measured, patient, cultivating reunion after an extended dinner at their inn. Then, with passion. Then, syrupy and slow, with morning. In a rare, turn, after bathing, Lan Wangji denies himself the rigors and discipline of morning and coaxes them back abed, to hold his lover throughout his rest near sunrise, until halfway to midday.

He stirs them, inevitably, when the blinding bright white of the day overwhelms, and they must set for the road to make good pace to Cloud Recesses while still enjoying their stroll. They arrive, meandering, in the depths of a trickling, golden afternoon, when much of the clan is distracted with the latest lecture of a visiting hermit — they say, an aspiring immortal — and neither Uncle nor Sizhui can be politely parted from his wisdom. First, a brief stop with Liang. Secondly, for Lan Wangji, yet slowed by his fading wounds and bruises, to test the recovery of his disciples.

Lastly, facing the dregs of an afternoon together with no duties, no assignments, no occupation — curiosity wins over. With the packed necessities of a quick meal in his qiankun pouch, he steers Wei Ying to walk the winding, if peaceful path toward the peripheral territories, past the liminal, isolated quietude of the jingshi and into the periphery of Lan Wangji's inherited grounds.

A short walk, yet they may have breached the threshold of a brave new world. He had chosen the space for its proximity to river water, cunning, lively spikes of rice stabbing the field, alongside feral flowers. Already, the builders and architects have marked a path to make a road, but they have yet to set down wood or stone for steps. These, he knows, are still young days for their home, Wei Ying's house, rising on strong, sprawling bones that stretch out over a considerable territory: a number of rooms, some superfluous, including an isolated study for Wei Ying's pleasure and a music chamber. A large kitchen, for all much of the house yet misses its roof. A segment for the archery post Lan Wangji had bidden. The house, designed to host an inner garden, even boasts the allocated space for a pond men had been digging until mere hours prior, when their toil ended.

"To grow lotus," he murmurs, nodding ahead where the pond is yet to glisten and crest, where its waters are short of rising. And he does not ask, Do you like it, what it can be? But his gaze flickers between Wei Ying's face and the home in desperate, hungry study.

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Turning around so his back into the future garden, he leans his butt against the wall underneath the window. He’s pleased that Lan Zhan is expressing his preference for peace in the house they’ll likely spend decades - if not, centuries - living in. As long as they’re both comfortable enough to say when the plans don’t feel comfortable, he doesn’t mind making all the decisions.

“A garden for us and the rabbits on this side, and another on the opposite side of the house for Little Apple and his new friends,” he agrees, reaching out to clasp his husband’s wrist to pull him closer. Instead of kissing his Lan Zhan’s knuckles, this time he kisses the inner part of his wrist.

There’s an impish part of him that wants to seduce Lan Zhan here and now to lay claim to this new territory, but his body feels sated after last night and this morning and the unfinished flooring would stain their robes and hurt his knees. Maybe next time.

“When A-Liang’s a little older, we can invite the local children to come play. And maybe, if Lan Zhan’s interested, we could search for a sister for him,” he ventures. Now that they have a nursemaid, he can rely on someone else to watch the kids if he needs an hour or so to decompress. He loves their baby, but motherhood isn’t the sort of work that stimulates the mind.

He hesitates, natural enthusiasm at war with the belated understanding that Wei Ying may have generously extended his care to a babe he was in truth not wholly prepared to welcome, at his husband's insistence. A slow but sure progress will better suit them.

"Let us see Liang better grown and learn his appetites." Perhaps he will be a child who yearns for siblings and companionship. Perhaps he will begrudge them, selfishly possessive of Wei Ying in manners Lan Wangji will publicly chide but privately understand. "We consider, after."

But he lingers, shifting his wrist so that Wei Ying may enjoy a better spread for his passing mouth. For a moment, be considers abandoning his husband to his devices — then, piqued by artistry, collects Wei Ying in both arms and situates him on the sill of a different window, where light spills out golden and soft and drenches him gentle and mellow. He steps back to enjoy the view, no better than an artisan surveying his craft or a sophisticated merchant at the market.

"Better." In ways so minute and easily disregarded, they may well seem irrelevant. "Have retained an alcove for tablets. Speak in Caiyi to have Jiang Yanli's name carved. Wei Ying's family."

It’s not disappointing that Lan Zhan urges them to wait to adopt another child, but part of him wonders if the reason is because of him and not because of A-Liang’s potential temperament. He’d struggled for a while with keeping his mood as pleasant and cheerful when he’d been performing the majority of the caretaking and he can’t guarantee he won’t struggle again in the future from the same. Is it bad that Lan Zhan may be worried for him? No, he should be touched by the consideration. So why does it feel like he’s letting Lan Zhan down?

He’s shaken from his thoughts when Lan Zhan picks him up. He throws his arms around his husband’s neck and presses his face against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. He barely has time to breathe in the comforting smell of sandalwood clinging to his robes before he’s set down again. Better, indeed, he thinks with a smile.

“Our family,” he corrects, letting his grasp loosen until his hands are resting on Lan Zhan’s shoulders. “We should include your parents, too.” And they could include his own parents, both biological and adoptive. “It’s my house but it’ll be our home.”

"My parents..." And he need not finish, mouth stitched shut and stubborn and dour, the weight of the implications burdening his back. His father, the architect of his mother's suffering, through malice or neglect. His mother too, murderer or martyr, absent or misunderstood. The relationship is nuanced, complex, crumbling. He hesitates, but does not begin to speak the words again.

Wei Ying. Focus on Wei Ying. On here, on now, on his beautiful mouth, his magnetic presence. On tipping in and breathing the crisp air of the garden beyond the half-erected window, where they will grow lotus and roses and whatever flight of fancy troubles Wei Ying at any turn. "You chose well. The eastern light suits you."

It will make for a handsome bedroom, a peaceful resting quarter. Perhaps they might keep Liang with them, from time to time, once he may rest through the night and their unusual sleeping patterns cannot disturb him. He will be an obedient, gentle child, Lan Wangji knows, somehow — perhaps different from Sizhui's cautious silence, but inspired by their beautiful elder son's balance.

"You will require furniture. Silks and weaves. Perhaps in Yu —" ...ah. "Jiang Wanyin. Has he answered?"

He tilts his head to one side when Lan Zhan all but spits out the words referring to his parents. He doesn’t say anything either, because it’s not his place. He never knew Lan Zhan’s parents, but he leaves the invitation open between them. His hands work to ease the tension in his husband’s shoulders, letting those same hands fall loosely when Lan Zhan moves to the window.

Half-turning so he can still face his husband, he looks out at the patch of land he’ll be in charge of. “You think any light suits me,” he teases, bumping the back of his wrist against Lan Zhan’s arm. “The light suits you, too.” It’s not just empty words. The way the golden light halos around the edges of his husband’s face, softening the sharper angles gives him a youthful glow. He can almost see the surly teenager he’d first met.

His eyes dip back down to the ground outside the window when Lan Zhan asks about Jiang Cheng. “Not yet,” he answers, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. “But he’s still in Lanling. He’s probably too busy to write.” Or too angry. Or maybe he’s just not ready to reach out to him yet. “If he writes, he writes. If he doesn’t, then he doesn’t.”

He tugs lightly on Lan Zhan’s sleeve, then crawls his fingers down to his hand. “I’ll be okay with whatever he decides, so don’t you start worrying about me.”

Silence envelops them, enshrines them. For a heartbeat, Wei Ying seems beautifully statuesque, isolated from this world — lost, never again to be found. Disparate. Lan Wangji's breath stutters, and he reaches in, on instinct, just as Wei Ying casts his glance aside, to fit his nose in the crook of his husband's bared shoulder. To breathe.

How is it they comfort each other, when their hurts are so private, so forlorn? When Wei Ying mourns his living with the same sweet aptitude with which Lan Wangji once begged relief from his one, presumed dead?

"They host too long in Lanling." With unrivaled enthusiasm, as if failure to drown a guest in extravagance injures every ancestor, down to the bitter last. Even Lan Wangji and Wei Ying, barely tolerated and tenuous relations, were welcomed as kings and torrentially overwhelmed with a series of fetes, banquets, introductions and receptions. "The days are busy."

And in this one breath, he steels himself silently to also write to Jiang Wanyin.

He turns his body until he’s facing Lan Wangji and lets one arm find his husband’s waist to draw him closer still. Nuzzling his nose against Lan Zhan’s cheek makes him feel like he’s doing something with this moment to limit how much they dwell on their pains. Life doesn’t have to be perfect. As long as he has Lan Zhan with him, he can feel happy.

“He’s handling something big and political, I think. Jin Ling didn’t know to expect Jiang Cheng until he was a day away or he would have warned me sooner. I tried to pry some information out of them, but Jiang Cheng kept telling me that it wasn’t my problem to worry about,” he confesses. “I was going to work him down until he told me, but I didn’t get a chance to.”

With a sigh, he buries his face against Lan Zhan’s shoulder again. There’s a little voice in his head and that reminds him that if it were truly serious, Jiang Cheng’s first day there wouldn’t have been open to spend it with him. He takes some comfort in that.

Facing the window, Wei Ying's back is exposed to the draft and the elements, his faint and thin limbs vulnerable and sweet as they latch onto Lan Wangji's waist. He feels the sudden, primitive need to blend in with his husband, to envelop and protect him from himself, from his thoughts, from the world. To safeguard him. His grip tightens around Wei Ying's waist, pulling him inward so as to not upset his balance and tip him over.

"Perhaps, work him still." A slow, methodical, strategic manipulation, the likes of which Lan Wangji should not encourage. All the same. "Purchase him a gift. Write your thoughts. Be... brotherly."

Even Lan Wangji, consumed by perpetual urgency to rejoin or rekindle his communication with Wei Ying, remembers to check in with Xichen, to devote him moments of his day. All relationships require attention, care and thought.

He welcomes the proximity by nuzzling his nose against Lan Zhan’s throat and settling their bodies close together. He almost regrets their conversation about not using sex as a way to avoid thinking and talking about the complicated things like this. No, Lan Zhan’s right. This can only make their union stronger.

“Maybe you’re right. I know I said it would be our last chance, but I was upset,” he concedes, “I’ll just write to him every day until he has no choice but to write me back. If nothing else, he’d have to write to tell me to knock it off.” It’s more his style, but it still feels awkward because of everything that’s happened between them. And he’s not sure if he deserves to be forgiven and accepted in the way he wants to be.

“I love you,” he says, breathing in his husband’s comforting scent again. “I know it’s hard for you to encourage me to keep trying with Jiang Cheng. I appreciate it.”

And is it? Difficult for him, when it's Wei Ying who constantly divides himself, at war with his own instincts to crawl back to Lotus Pier and offer his gratitude, and with Lan Wangji's demands to better treasure himself. No, compared to the ongoing struggle his husband faces, Lan Wangji's quest is nothing if not sedate, his strain and hardships meagre.

He cannot say so. Cannot say anything, the moment slowly, but surely descending into a syrupy melancholy that threatens to drown out their starting exuberance. Wei Ying had been so enchanted before, so at ease — and now?

Uninvited, he dips forward, once more collecting Wei Ying in his arms, only this time lingering long enough so that his lover might settle against him and perch comfortably, while Lan Wangji's hands contort to cradle his lower back and rump. Then, he starts to walk the room, signaling various nooks and corners with possibility.

"Where do you wish your buried wine stashed? We shall set a hatch door."

It’s shared instinct that guides his arms and legs around Lan Zhan without a second’s delay. He makes himself comfortable by hooking his ankles behind Lan Zhan’s waist and presses the underside of his chin onto his husband’s shoulder so he can be carried around like a small child.

With the topic of Jiang Cheng dropped, his mind wanders back to the house and the plethora of decisions he gets to make. They can’t implement most of those decisions until the construction is complete, but it’s still fun thinking about.

“We’ll put a lock on it so A-Liang won’t get into it,” he suggests, looking around the room. “Spin around slowly so I can get a look at the layout of the room again. Hmm, we can put the bed over there. Maybe at the foot of the bed? Actually, how about between the windows closer to the wall. That way it won’t get too much direct sunlight in the summer.”

He squeezes his arms around Lan Wangji briefly, feeling so grateful for all of this. In mere months, they’ll be putting furniture in and moving their possessions. “You were suggesting hiring someone from Yunmeng for the furniture earlier. Maybe we can get a carpenter from Gusu too and see what they come up with working together.”

He spins, carrying Wei Ying as if a precious and tenderly loved burden and exposing him to every corner and line of the quarter, every flicker of dust. Wei Ying, for his part, begins the careful autopsy of the chamber, reviewing where their bed might sit, where his wine can be housed, how they can arrange their other possessions thereafter. Sunligt, yes.

In truth, only part of Lan Wangji heeds him, eyes slanted and gaze soft as he nods along, permitting his husband's lilting voice to mellow and soothe him. He has no opinion, no priorities, scant preferences. Cloud Recesses raises its sons obedient and grateful for whatever it is that the Heavens ordain and their ancestors choose. But this is of relevance to Wei Ying, and so, he must try harder.

"The styles will not harmonize. Perhaps one quarter in one style, another in a second. We need not force. Only accommodate. Put at balance."

“Our room should have furniture we’re both used to,” he suggests, leaning back far enough for him to look at Lan Zhan’s face. He grins and gives his husband’s nose a pecking little kiss. “My work room will have Yunmeng style. The kitchen and dining room, too. Most of the rest of the house can have Gusu decor.” After all, they’ll be living in Gusu and it just makes sense. It will not only be less expensive, but it will be ready sooner.

He cups Lan Zhan’s cheeks with both of his hands and steals a slow kiss. A pretty long one, at that. By the time he’s had his fill, his heart is beating a little faster and his cheeks are slightly pink. He wants to kiss him more, until they’re both lost in the moment, but he rests their foreheads together instead.

“Take me to the library, Lan Zhan, and then I want to see where the banquet hall will be,” he requests, foot wiggling a little behind Lan Zhan’s back. “After that, we should start placing the talisman before we run out of daylight.” Which wouldn’t be the end of the world. They have the means to light their way.

Some truth to Wei Ying's speculation, no matter Lan Wangji's opposition: they are better together than apart, reassured when their mouths meet. His husband withdraws first, and Lan Wangji gives instinctive chase, following his lips, only to restrain himself at the last moment and proceed, breathlessly, as instructed. He should release Wei Ying to the autonomy of his own legs, he supposes — only, the flooring remains unreliable, splintered, stabbing, and Wei Ying is too precious a burden by far. Such, then, is the reason, if he is asked.

No one asks.

The library is a close destination, consigned in a generous enclave where master carpenters have already begun to fit in the loose entombments of wooden cases, absent shelves. A room eclipsed of strong light, its windows narrow — all the better to preserve the quality of their scrolls.

"Will this suffice you?" For Lan Wangji, a library is a matter of inheritance, of study and storage, perhaps of correspondence. For Sizhui's perusal, if he chooses to relocate here, or the instruction of their other children, once they have grown. But for Wei Ying, learning is a greedy, constant pursuit, something to both occupy and amuse him. This room must him, above all. "Speak your ambitions."

When they’re on the move again, he tucks his face against Lan Zhan’s neck so he can breathe him in again. They’ve been married for over a year and he still feels as smitten as ever. His lips graze the skin there appreciatively as he smiles. It’s only moments before they’re in the first destination.

He leans back to look around again. There’s so much room for so many books and scrolls. “More than. Unless you own a lot of books, it’s going to be pretty empty for a while.” He only has a few books to his name, two of which he’d only just received from Jin Ling. He doesn’t know if any of his favorite books survived the massacre and he doesn’t think asking Jiang Cheng about them is a good idea.

He leans in, brushing their cheeks together and stopping when his mouth is suggestively close to Lan Zhan’s ear. “It’s not the same as messing around in the library pavilion, but we can probably have a good time in here.” They’ll more than likely claim most of the rooms in that way over time.

"Wei Ying." This, chastising, but still expending the energy to twirl once in place and amuse his husband, much as the same movement tends to indulge and entertain Lan Liang. "We cannot be so careless in this house, with servants you must look each day in the eye, and children."

It is... a different proposition, when they are only inconveniencing their grudging hosts of Lanling, or the staff of Cloud Recesses that Wei Ying needn't encounter more than a number of times, in passing. Lan Wangji's cheek yet bruises in a hard blush, but he can overlook their extravagance then. This is their home, their sanctuary. They must keep it pristine and above reproach.

And so, he removes himself, skin chilled where the print of Wei Ying's mouth has barely gone, as he walks on to their second destination: the reception hall, generous but unimposing, skeletal in construction so far. He anticipated the need to host, but gently shrugged off the possibility of holding banquets. It strikes him that perhaps Wei Ying might require that spark of friendliness and kinship. "You require it bigger?"

Laughing, he extends his legs out behind Lan Zhan and leans back as he’s twirled only to come close again right after. “Aww, we’ve got to try it at least once. We can wait until the late hours after your usual bed time and sneak our way in,” he sighs and squeezes Lan Zhan close while he’s carried to the next destination.

“The best banquets are held primarily outside,” he boasts, because that’s how it was done in Yunmeng. “But this is a good size for indoor gatherings. Anything that requires a full-sized banquet hall can be held in your family’s halls.” It’s not like he’s popular enough to fill a room even this size. Not yet. His reputation is repairing as more time goes by and he interacts with more cultivators, but it will take some time before the damage is fully healed.

“We can fit a few tables in here. All the same size like the Lans do. I’m not a fan of lording over everyone like I’m a Jin,” or a Wen before that.

"Only a handful of tables," he corrects, and finally betrays Wei Ying by tarting to descend him and allow him his freedom, so that he might walk the room and dance in the steps of its vastness and taste the realm of its possibilities. "We require more space between guests, here. To fit guqin and other instruments."

It is rare for representatives of Gusu Lan — their likeliest daily visitors — to feel at ease without their musical instruments close by, or to not volunteer or join in performance. Music is paramount in Cloud Recesses, an extension of the being and will of its inhabitants. Houses must be prepared to host it, built to accommodate acoustics.

"All greater banquets outside," he concedes, then carefully, airily studies the previous proposition. "We may consider Wei Ying's other ambitions, if he perfects silencing wards."

It’s fine for him to be set back down on his feet. He raises himself up to give Lan Zhan a chaste kiss on the cheek before turning to inspect the room on foot. Imagining four decent-sized tables - one for every quadrant -is easy for him to do. It’s not as grand as the halls run by sect leaders and that feels fitting. If his house was more impressive than the sect leader’s house, he’d feel conflicted by it. As it is, this whole house is a sprawling mansion compared to the modest house he’d dreamt about sharing with Lan Zhan.

He looks over his shoulder, grin somewhat wicked. “You mean that?” Of course he does. Lan Zhan doesn’t waste words, so if he says something, it’s usually genuine. “I’ve got it mostly worked out, but now I feel inspired to put on the finishing touches.” The only reason he hasn’t already is because he’d accepted it as ‘good enough’ and moved onto the next thing.

“Don’t worry, Lan Zhan, we’ll be careful so we won’t get caught. And if you really don’t want to do it in our library, I’m still open to having a sensual tryst in the library pavilion. Maybe reenact that dream we shared if you’re feeling passionate.”

"Perhaps." 'With certainty,' from any other mouth. Wei Ying's wish, his command. If his husband decrees they must honour each room of this house with their presence and passion, his will be done. There is a point past which they both know all too well that Lan Wangji's token refusals are play-acting and that he is singularly devoted to enjoying his lover under all and any circumstances in which he offers himself. Whom do they wish to fool?

Absent of furniture, the room shallowly echoes their voices, the sound losing emotion and character as it ricochets from the gilding ceiling trims and wall edges. A large room, after all. Vast and unending.

He pauses, having only just begun to trail after his beloved, one arm shackled against his lower back. Concern drips venomously at the corners of his words. "...Wei Ying. Is it... too much? Too large?"

Has Lan Wangji perhaps... overdone thingS?

And is it too large? He pauses mid-step and turns to face Lan Zhan. He can see the concern etched across his features and his heart goes out to him. “It’s a lot of space for a family of four, but our family will grow,” he admits thoughtfully. “We’ll have the privacy and freedom to relax here without having to worry about all those Lan rules. The most important part is that we’re going to be together.”

He reaches one of his arms out towards Lan Wangji, inviting him to take his hand. If he does, he’ll bring Lan Zhan’s hand up to his mouth to kiss; and if he doesn’t, then he’ll lower his hand. Either way, he takes a few steps backwards.

“We’ll make it work! Your uncle will probably stick his nose up at it, but I don’t care what he thinks. The thing that matters most to me is that we’ll have our own house and all of our children - present and future - will get to have their own space that they don’t have to share if they don’t want to.”

"We may yet remove some quarters," he volunteers, because the sketches have been completed, Cao Zhaofeng will fuss and disdain, but in truth they do not owe him a masterpiece of vastness. If a smaller abode suits them, let it be done. Wei Ying should not more be confined in his dwelling than suffocated by its expansive ambitions, a no-longer virgin sacrifice anointed by Lan Wangji's overcompensation.

He takes his husband's hand, clutches, squeezes. Relinquishes only when Wei Ying has finished with him, mouth soft on Lan Wangji's knuckles. I ever remember you by way of your footsteps.

They will make it work, says Wei Ying. A consummate optimist. "I asked and decided too much without consultation. This cannot be your home without your say."

A fool. He was a fool, sincere in his kindness but overreaching. The same error, committed again and again and again. And he does not learn.

“Then I’ll say it now,” he says with a grin, “This will be our house. There’s no need to trim it down or anything. Well, unless we need more space outside for the second garden,” he says, looking around the room again. It does feel large, expansive, but some of that will be mitigated once they add the furniture and decorations.

“I’m still getting my head around it being mine,” he admits. It’s obviously the most opulent house in the area - and perhaps in all of Cloud Recesses and its territories - but that doesn’t mean it has to be a bad thing. There’s a small worry in the back of his mind that the neighbors around them will stay their distance and treat him differently because of nonsense like class and wealth. But he’ll just have to be more friendly and generous in his invitations.

He beckons Lan Zhan over to him with a curled finger. “You just did what we agreed on when you first brought up the house. I really do want to have a big family with you and fill up the rooms and halls. I just feel a little overwhelmed now that I’m seeing it with my own eyes. That doesn’t mean I want to change it or make it smaller.”

He comes, large and looming but obedient, seeping into Wei Ying's personal space to claim it and him, to once more absorb his scent. He does this, he supposes, far too often: overcorrects at the first sign of Wei Ying's potential disagreement, for fear that his lover will flee him. That this will finally be the turning point, the line Wei Ying will not allow crossed.

Standing before Wei Ying, disciplined like a waiting pet, he anticipates his husband's next instruction, only offering, "Bide yourself time. This will be house. Our home."

A man of property is one of distinction, a harder breed to kill or ostracize than a lone, tolerated addition — even to one of the major sects. It takes... effort to deprive such a man of his possession, to confiscate it without complex reason and due course.

Far more precious than gold, it is a gift of stability.

Once Lan Wangji steps close to him, he takes a step forward and wraps his arms around Lan Zhan’s waist. He holds him there for a few precious moments before looking up at him with that grin still on his face. “We’ll turn this place into something warm and inviting for Sizhui and Liang. Maybe Jin Ling will see that we can treat Sizhui just as well as he could and inspire him to try harder to earn distinction before the end of their courtship.”

He lets go of Lan Zhan so he can cup both of his cheeks and tilt his face down to look him in the eye. “I love you, Lan Zhan. I love what this house will become.” He leans up and kisses his husband’s mouth. Short, sweet. There’s no overt heat in it, but he does spill his love into it.

“Let’s finish looking around. Oh, before I forget, do you think the carpenter would be open to building a small barn? It would be nice for Little Apple and the goat to have somewhere with a roof for when it rains.”

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