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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By summer, a seemingly ambitious target, made practical by the discipline of Gusu Lan constructors. Many of the men will be required to start the work to prepare grounds for reaping. Building must finish ahead.

He nods, at first tentative but increasingly certain: it can be done. Will be done. "By summer. We shall seek out merchants in the coming days."

Sculpting, chiseling and pouring furniture and decorations is an exercise of months, stretching into seasons. Better to start early, for all they'll have the basics of the jingshi to tide them, as needed. He hesitates, measuring his words before finally treading ground, "Will you want our bed of the jingshi, or one new?"

Elopement deprived them of the traditional offering of their wedding night bed, to be reconstructed as their conjugal spread — but the jingshi was still the first nook to welcome. Nevertheless, a bitter, saddened place. There is enough reason to welcome or reject the proposition.

It’s hard to keep walking while he’s holding Lan Zhan’s arm, so he squeezes once more before letting it go and taking a hand instead. There’s still enough lingering light to see their way without lighting a lantern and he thinks they’ll get back to the lighted path before the remaining moments of twilight fizzle away into full dark.

“I’ll think about what sorts of things we’ll need for our comfort first,” he says with good intentions, but he knows he might need to be reminded later on when the time to do so actually comes. “We can worry about filling the other quarters after we have our immediate needs met.”

He hums thoughtfully, thinking about their bed in the jingshi. He doesn’t have the same sort of emotional feelings towards those rooms as Lan Zhan does. To him, it’s more of a matter of practicality. “Maybe we can leave that bed where it is. We aren’t moving that far, but it would be nice to have a place to stay if you’re needed for political conferences that will go on multiple days in a row. Unless you think Lan shufu would want to repurpose the jingshi when we move?”

Their immediate needs, in truth, now orbit their sons. Lan Liang has the lion's share of necessities, but Sizhui too was raised as a young lordling, the son of a disciplined but affluent sect, denied nothing. He will not learn deficits now, nor will Lan Wangji strive to teach him so. He is nodding, agreeable and fond and Wei Ying prattles —

Until the last of his questions.

His uncle. His uncle, having rights over the home of Lan Wangji's mother. The woman he too forsook at the mercy of a clan that misunderstood her and heavily preferred her husband. The same mistress of the sect whom he failed to protect.

No. He growls, nearly, teeth sharp and visible, the feral and visceral quality of his answer plain. "I shall sooner put the house to flame myself."

With his two hands, stubborn and willing, forgiving not a cinder, leaving not a pillar to stand. The home that embraced him for decades is better off falling than becoming a repurposed accommodation, stripped of its grief and dignity.

He shouldn’t be surprised at Lan Zhan’s reaction. The jingshi has been his home through good times and bad times. It’s part of who he is, so of course theorizing that it could possibly be repurposed is a cruel thing to bring up. It’s also a possibility. Lan Qiren is sour about the prospect of Lan Zhan moving to the outer territories of Cloud Recesses already. Then again, he hasn’t done anything to the Gentian House besides maintaining it, so maybe there’s nothing to worry about there.

He rubs his thumb over Lan Zhan’s knuckles in a silent apology. “If it comes to that, I’ll help in any capacity you’d want me to,” he offers. “But if he knows you want it maintained, surely he won’t be so cruel as to take it away from you.” No, the cruel one is Wei Wuxian who callously mentioned it in the first place.

He brings Lan Zhan’s hand up to his mouth and kisses it a few times for good measure. “Whatever tomorrow brings, let’s face it together.” Always together.

Ah, his sweet thing, his beloved. So quick to soothe and still him, as if Lan Wangji were a wolf baring his fangs. He acquiesces, easing into the comfort, curling his fingers inward to catch Wei Ying's thumb and rub back, then lingering his touch over his lover's cheek after it is kissed.

Skittish like a lamb before the anger of his loved ones, Wei Ying does not need his misplaced fury. No. And there is, too, a cradle of ignorance in which they've allowed this matter to fester, Lan Wangji taking a scant part in introducing his husband to the legacy of his long-departed mother-in-law.

"...my love. I apologise. I have startled you." He has startled himself. "You bear no blame."

“You can be angry around me, Lan Zhan,” he says while nuzzling his cheek against his husband’s palm. “I know you aren’t mad at me or anything.” And even if he were the beneficiary of his husband’s ire, he could shoulder it. Sometimes it might make him feel small when they argue to the point of anger, but he’s willing to weather any storm to be with Lan Zhan.

“Are you worried that he’ll retaliate against you because we’re moving?” Or retaliate against Wei Wuxian because surely it must be his fault to lure the second son of the sect away from his ancestral home. It’s not something he’s put much thought into.

One kiss against Lan Zhan’s palm later, he lowers their hands and he starts walking again. They’re walking at a sedate pace, but it’s not like they haven’t traveled in the dark before. They’re still far enough from the main lands of Cloud Recesses that the lighting is dim. It would almost be romantic if they were talking about something different.

Unbidden, his hand travels to caress Wei Ying's lower back, supporting him as they continue down the steady path to the main residential district. It is a palatable distance by foot, and a blink by sword, but their new home waits sufficiently afar that they will inject a degree of separation, of privacy from the rest of the sect. He wonders, fleetingly, if that will further isolate Wei Ying, who already struggles under the mark of shame inflicted by his uncle, or empower him to seek out friendship on his own terms.

"No." This, after minor consideration, after checking in with himself. "He is a man of rash impulse and stubbornness, but not cruelty."

For all he knows Wei Ying, upon seeing the lattice of scars on Lan Wangji's back, has begged to disagree. Even so — and even in his perpetual criticism of Wei Ying and the slowness of his thawing — his uncle is not purposefully, irrevocably unkind.

"He has failed to show you kindness." A truth, no matter anyone's interpretation. "Though he learns, and Sizhui and Liang teach him. But he does not wish to humble or reap sorrow. He merely... misunderstood mother's grief."

Okay, even with the conversation topic, their walk still feels a little romantic. He smiles to himself, glancing up at the crescent moon and stars starting to twinkle while they walk. He finds himself leaning closer to Lan Zhan with an exaggerated shiver. It’s not too cold for him, but he likes being close.

“No kidding. He’s always been strict,” he agrees with a little laugh at the understatement. They’d really rubbed each other the wrong way since day 1. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed some of that softening whenever Lan Liang is involved. The first time he’d seen the man smile had been after Lan Zhan brought the baby home.

His smile fades into something more compassionate when Lan Zhan mentions his mother. “He likely didn’t understand yours, either,” he points out. He means the grief of Lan Zhan losing his mother, but he could say the same thing about Lan Zhan’s grief after his death. “I don’t think he means ill or anything, but he can be… cold when it involves the heart.”

And he can be equally cold when it comes to discipline. As much as Wei Wuxian despises how severe Lan Zhan’s punishment had been, he understands that it would have been necessary to appease the rest of the sect. Be that as it may, it should have been less extreme.

"He is... of a different era. Denied by the Heavens that which the clan holds dearest." From the teachings of their founder, they are a sect of profound, consummate romantics, collared by the need to find true love. "Perhaps raising Xichen and me distracted him from courtship."

There is that burden too to bear, to consider as their own. A price was paid: it was Lan Qiren who opened his heart and his purse, in the wake of his brother's confinement, then passing.

"I wish him opened to you. So that two of the men I hold close may know each other's beauty and truth." Perhaps, he supposes, more of these virtues lie with Wei Ying — but cerainly, even his uncle is not without merits. For Sizhui's sake. For Liang. For Wei Ying, too, who is far more deserving than the sects have ever paid as his due.

He opens his mouth to say something. To remind Lan Zhan that he's already thinking about which widow or older maiden might spare an evening of her time to have dinner and maybe a walk with Lan Qiren, but he stops himself from speaking the words when Lan Zhan continues.

"He's... getting better. I think," he says thoughtfully. Really, the only reason he spends any time with Lan Qiren is Lan Liang. They never take their meals together, though he did try to sit next to Lan Qiren one day for Lan Qiren's midday meal and his own breakfast. He'd been scowled at so much that he eventually moved down a seat to give the elder his space. That had been before the youngest Lan's adoption.

"I don't dislike him or anything. Think he'd feel better if I told him he could stop by anytime he wants to see A-Liang? He really loves that kid," he says, rubbing the back of his head. "I don't know how much he'd open up to me, but it's worth a try. I can hold a conversation easily enough even if I'm the only one talking. I can't exactly tell him too much about me since it's against the Lan precepts to brag and to complain - not that I have a lot to complain about in the present."

"Offer tea. It will flatter him to be greeted as an honoured elder." Especially if Wei Ying masters the art of successfully pouring a cup and only sacrificing half of his pot's contents. Even so, there mere gesture, the kindness of the invitation should appease and smoothen whatever hairs on the older man's back that remain bristling.

Without notice, he finds his arm winding around his husband's waist, cleverly aware of just when they risk entering the radius of the residences' vantage and he must withdraw himself to preserve the appearance of dignity. For now, for another few heartbeats, this small transgression may pass, as he directs a few slivers of his pulsing qi to warm Wei Ying against the evening's sharpening chills.

"Remember: he knows, between you who would be chosen." That Lan Wangji, who barely lingered among the sect last time, would not hesitate to walk out if his lover were banished or offended. If Wei Ying so much as asked. "He must earn your approval, as much as you do his."

Edited 2024-03-31 19:53 (UTC)

"Tea, got it." He's the type who would either go without offering refreshments or to offer what he'd like to drink, which is almost always wine over tea. But he could train himself to offer tea when Lan Qiren comes around. He might even try to perform a ceremony with it if it means getting the Lan elder to feel important. Even if he doesn't really care about things like decorum, this is a reminder that some expect it. "I'll offer the good tea," he says, despite not knowing which would be considered as such. Lan Zhan's favorite, maybe.

He doesn't mean to gasp when Lan Zhan starts the qi transfer, but he does it anyway. Before they started working on his core, he would have brushed the gesture off as something entirely frivolous and unnecessary. But Lan Zhan knows what happened to his golden core and he's also learned how to accept qi despite it.

"I'd never make you choose between us," he says, doubting that Lan Qiren would ever do anything to insult him badly enough to react that way. It's not impossible, but it might as well be. The only reason he could think of to do it is if Lan Qiren hurt or insulted Lan Zhan or one of the kids enough to push Lan Zhan to distance himself from the sect on his own. He'd obviously side with Lan Zhan in that case!

"I guess the best way to do it is to suck up to him, huh?" he asks after a moment, looking up at Lan Zhan's face. He looks good in any lighting, doesn't he? "Just because I never bothered to before doesn't mean I don't know how. I'll be courteous enough that he won't know how to handle it."

The good tea, as if every brew and blend in their household has not passed the exacting standard of a residential attendant who carefully and personally curates the second master Lan's every indulgence. No, best not to afflict Wei Ying with immediate knowledge of just how expensive his day-to-day attendance proves.

In the interim, just as they start to come close to the main path, Wei Ying flinches with a gasp, and Lan Wangji removes his hand and interrupts the qi transfer, only mouthing softly, "Hurts?"

Surely not. Surely, and yet his heart is a troubled thing, a bird furiously beating its wings and petrified of the possibility of causing Wei Ying any flavour of hardship. Perhaps he is overstimulated after devoting himself to the wards, and Lan Wangji troubles him further.

"Wei Ying. Do not be submissive to him. Cordial, but not conceding." This, spoken with quiet, molten surety. "You are my husband. My wife. My soulmate. You outrank him in the sect and in my favour."

But he understands, inevitably, the instinct to make peace, sooner than war. No matter outright rank, it is always better to please and cater to, than to irritate and indispose.

“It’s not pain,” he says, his grin just a little sheepish. “I was just surprised. It felt pretty good, actually.” And it did feel nice to accept Lan Zhan’s qi into him. It’s become a familiar sensation and one his body has learned to associate with a different sort of pleasure.

He guides Lan Zhan’s hand back to where it was on the small of his back. It’s an invitation to transfer a little more of that warm qi to him, if Lan Zhan feels so inclined or to just touch him like he’d been doing before.

It feels weird to be reminded that his position in the Lan sect outranks Lan Qiren’s. It’s not a surprise, really, but it’s just something he hasn’t spent much time thinking about. As the man who raised Lan Zhan and his own former instructor, it just doesn’t feel natural that their positions are now reversed. He wonders how much of Lan Qiren’s softening distaste for him is due to that or if he really is earning the old man’s respect.

“He’ll lose what respect he’s gained for me if I coddle his ego too much,” he agrees. “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan. Being submissive isn’t my style unless it’s with you. In bed.” And now that he’s reminded of their relative ranks in the clan, he might open up to the elder on his own. After all, he isn’t the sort who cares for authority.

For a moment, his hand rolls in soft circles to transmit heat through friction, before duly falling into the old habits of transferring qi for the same purpose. There, there. Any inkling of warmth in Wei Ying's bird bones is well and thoroughly purposed.

With a soft murmur, he retaliates against his husband newly discovered backbone. "You are not submissive to me in bed. You bully, demand, whine and threaten with your cold ankles."

But he speaks his truth with fondness, eager to discourahe his husband from steering toward questions of his place in Lan Wangji's regard. He is constantly challenging, picky and petulant, but never in the absence of Lan Wangji's sincere enthusiasm and vocal encouragement.

"Wei Ying is more submissive to Caiyi sweet sellers and launderers for gossip than to his husband." Truly, no one has glimpsed a more plaintive sight than the Yiling Patriarch, bereft of his sustenance of sugar or rumours. He is all civility then, long-lashed blinks and purring, until his prey comes within reach.

When it’s just the two of them like this, he feels like he can relax completely. There’s no little one to demand their attention and if someone or something decides to attack, he can count on Lan Zhan’s reaction speed. Not that he’s been attacked by anyone or anything in Cloud Recesses since calling it his home. It’s almost surprising that none of the Lan cultivators have tried to retaliate against him considering he’d been responsible for the deaths - and undeaths- of several in Nightless City.

“I’m not that bad,” he answers around his laughter. He nudges Lan Zhan’s side again, this time with his hand on his husband’s middle. “You make me sound like a brat.” And is it incorrect to do so? Nope! It’s all true and he doesn’t pretend otherwise.

“Next time you bind me, you could always put a gag in my mouth, then I’d have no choice but to submit to Lan Zhan,” he suggests, thinking back to the request he’d made recently regarding binding him in bed.

"Not that bad," he hums agreeably, leaning into Wei Ying's side when his waist is entrapped, freely orbiting the sun of his husband's good humour. Then, Wei Ying exacerbates their minor... conflict, dares and prods and pokes at him, and suddenly they are within reach of the periphery of Cloud Recesses —

And Lan Wangji, illustrious second son of a dignified sect, should know better than to suddenly drag his lover behind the nearest, seemingly empty home, Wei Ying's back to thick wooden planks, stench of moss crisp in their nostrils. He watches his husband, shackling both of Wei Ying's wrists in one hold, no better than the thug Wei Ying wishes him to be for the purposes of their nightly pleasure.

Nearly night, skies deep blue and darkening, and the roads emptied while most cultivators attend either the conference of the visiting monk, or dining preparations. No one will see them. Anyone could.

Lan Wangji wets his lower lip with the tip of a greedy tongue. "Must I gag you here? Now?"

He’s swept up in the motion, his steps dancing backwards as Lan Zhan pins him against the wall of a house they just happened to be walking by. The lights are out, but that doesn’t mean the house is empty. Not that he really cares whether it is or not. He’s far too busy grinning up at his husband.

“Is Hanguang-Jun worried I’m going to call for help?” He teases, nibbling at his lower lip and looking at Lan Zhan’s mouth. “You’ll have to find some way to keep me quiet.”

His heart thuds in his chest while he waits for Lan Zhan to have some mercy and just kiss him. He moves his feet apart just enough to put some space between his legs. A shameless invitation. If this were any other town, he’d anticipate Lan Zhan’s roaming hand and a hectic scramble to seek each other’s pleasure before getting caught. But this is Cloud Recesses. Surely, Lan Zhan wouldn’t risk such a thing here, as much as Wei Wuxian would be thrilled by it.

For a moment, they are as children — as the countless smiling faces Lan Wangji glimpsed during his youth, never so enslaved to the principles as he, never as entrenched or harmfully fettered. There is an edge of play and silent laughter, when he injects a leg between Wei Ying's — whorishly, wantonly, seductively open, purposefully placed. A single point of friction, half offering relief, half daring: they both know Wei Ying will only regret if he teases himself near completion, then must walk back home with the proof of his ardor serving him discomfort.

"Shut up," he bites out, then dips in with clumsy lack of coordination, until finally, in the settling dark, the configuration of their mouths and noses fits just so, pure and whole. They kiss slowly, heatedly, Lan Wangji's teeth tracking over his husband's lower lip, where he had bitten it earlier, then chasing his tongue. Wet heat, a hard instinct for passion, and his hand pinning Wei Ying's wrists hard against the wall, to he point of a petty thud.

The other drips down, chasing the curve of his husband's nape to cushion him from injury, when they push a kiss too heady, too long. "Suffer obediently, as in Phoenix Mountain."

Despite anticipating Lan Wangji to slip a knee between his thighs, it still makes him shudder with the simple pleasure of it. His hips buck forward out of instinct, grinding himself against Lan Zhan’s leg like they’re innocents making out for the first time. He suspects they won’t be out here until they’re both satisfied, but Lan Zhan’s surprised him before.

“Make me,” he challenges when Lan Zhan tells him to be quiet. He knows exactly where it will lead and he’s not disappointed when his mouth is covered. He can’t help but to moan softly into his husband’s mouth. He follows Lan Zhan’s lead, chasing his mouth when he pulls away to speak.

His gaze is molten as he looks up at Lan Wangji. He’s always been the adventurous type and he’s thrilled that his husband seems to be, too. At least when it comes to sharing affection. “An esteemed cultivator taking advantage of a poor, young maiden. How scandalous.”

"This maiden has tarnished more beds than a prized courtesan," he counters, because the truth of highly valued ladies of pleasure is that they so often grace the company of a handful of lords, who retain them in favour. Wei Ying, meanwhile, has been dragged through a swathe of resting places, courtesy of their migrant conditions.

To prove his point of his husband's debauchery, Lan Wangji kisses him again and again and again, wet and far too long, unseemly, both hands now wrestling in Wei Ying's hair, pushing his bead back to bare his neck in a sweet, inviting curve. He stops only to bite and chase the pulse that rocks Wei Ying's jugular, leg inching in to hold fast and offer a point of solidity and friction. Oh, sweet thing.

"Break free, if you are so affronted." Only, he suspects Wei Ying would sooner do battle to draw close, rather than loose. No matter his disavowals, Wei Ying has never lacked enthusiasm.

Guilty as charged and surprised to boot, Wei Wuxian barks a little laugh against Lan Wangji’s mouth. He may only have experience with one particular gentleman, but it’s true they’ve probably claimed nearly a hundred different beds and other surfaces in their ardor. In the beginning, he could claim innocence and virtue during their bed play, but he’s far too eager and willing to play a passable maiden.

With his hands free, he lowers them briefly to get the tingling sensation out of his hands before pressing his palms against his husband’s front. Too many layers of silk. As much as he wants to tug Lan Zhan free of the restraints his robes impose, he is worried that if he strips him too much, it will only make Lan Zhan come to his senses and stop this. He doesn’t want to stop. So he curls his fingers and drags his fingertips over Lan Zhan’s chest, stomach, and a little lower, too.

He shudders again when Lan Zhan’s teeth find his skin. “You just like bullying me,” he concedes, looking up at the moon while giving Lan Zhan as much access to his throat as he could want. “If I tried to get away, would you let me go?” He presses himself against Lan Zhan’s thigh again, biting back the moan that slips out.

"Will you?" This, between barely muffled spells of laughter, as he pushes his mouth onto Wei Ying's shoulder and bites in like the vicious dog his husband would paralyze to hear named. Against his leg, Wei Ying is hard and cunning and an inviting warmth, begging relief that Lan Wangji withholds, villainously drawing his leg back before his lover might be satisfied.

With the moon as their lone witness, Wei Ying is not alone affected. Lan Wangji's shudders come in quick, violent spasms, in long beats. He presses his mouth to his husband's again to claim him, pushes him into the wall with a crackling thud, and then —

Movement inside the house, a brazier lighting. Moaning and footsteps. Elder Fengliu muttering about whether the cat's rummaging through the gardens again.

Lan Wangji, paralyzed, watches Wei Ying with bright, wide eyes, wishing him silent.

“Maybe,” he teases, but he really has no desire at all to get away from Lan Wangji at the moment. He can’t help but to giggle along with Lan Zhan, feeling every bit in love with the man as the first night they’d slept together. Almost enough to forgive him for taking away the warm thigh that he’d been using for his own gratification.

He starts to say something, but Lan Zhan has other ideas for his mouth. He loses himself in the kissing, cupping his husband’s length through his robes and working him with slow, firm strokes.

They both freeze at the interruption and Wei Wuxian has to clamp his mouth shut lest he dissolve into hysterics. It’s either that or give into frustration, and he’s not in the mood to feel annoyed by anything right now. He reaches up with his free hand and presses a finger to his lips to let Lan Zhan know they should be quiet. From their position, there’s no risk of being seen by looking out the window, so as long as the elder goes back to bed without coming outside, their presence need not be discovered.

There is a moment where, despite the cover of dark and Lan Wangji's own initiation, he feels impossibly, unfairly furious at his husband who tempted him, wooed him alone, prompted this.

And then Wei Ying has the audacity to sit his finger on his lips and nudge Lan Wangji into good behaviour. He says nothing, aware of the danger of discovery, but glares endlessly at this insufferable creature, coming on the brink of biting his shoulder again. His mouth hovers, as he casts Wei Ying an ugly glance, then his teeth clutch, softly.

And he waits out the old man, who mutters, mumbles, nearly curses out the cat — the audacity — but does not drift outside.

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