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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"A moment," he pleads after Wei Ying's question, distancing himself a few wading steps back before submerging himself completely, head sunken beneath waters alongside the rest of his body. An initial chill arrests him, breathing cut off to a point where he considers panic — before accepting, as he had urged Wei Ying, that the pain of his body is transient. That he exists separate and untouched by his hurts.

He brings up his hands to pass them through his hair, working out the tangles and shedding off any filth or dust collected throughout the day. Unlike Wei Ying, he enjoys the rite of ablutions, these few moments to reacquaint himself with his body, for all the cold breaches his scars and strains old hurts.

He re-emerging, water beading off his cheeks and chest, nodding to suggest what was meant to be achieved has now finished. "Now, finished."

Everywhere that had been warmed by Lan Zhan’s presence feels cold anew when his lover moves away. He folds his arms over his chest again, rubbing his upper arms to work up some more heat. He wonders if he should follow Lan Zhan’s example and dip his whole body into the water. The places Lan Zhan had dripped water on him feel colder than his lower half because of the light breeze.

Lan Zhan isn’t submerged for very long, and he looks great as he breaches the surface. Oh to be one of those drops of water clinging to his lover’s pale skin.

“Might as well,” he says to himself and takes a deep breath before lowering himself into the water. The cold hits him almost hard enough to knock the air right out of his lungs, but he only lets a few small bubbles out of his nose. He struggles to concentrate on his body and his core, but he does try to.

Only a few moments pass before he lets out his breath and emerges. Instead of looking majestic like Lan Zhan, he probably looks more like a drowned rat with his hair plastering his face. “Lan Zhan, share some more of your warmth,” he demands and wades his way over.

Wei Ying —

Only, for once, he cannot scream, cannot greet his husband's later convoluted gesture of self-sacrifice with the appropriate degree of indignation. This time, they are both fleetingly underwater, excused from screams and awe, and they break to breathe only to behold each other after.

Wei Ying is... in another debut, yet again for the first time in their relationship, artless. A little clumsy. Like a drowned kitten. Ah.

He can't help himself, can't help the spell of laughter that breaks from him as he wades to embrace his husband, sharing his bodily warmth and simultaneously starting to steer them ashore. Before exiting, he slips a hand beneath Wei Ying's knees to raise him, hushing him before he pulls his lover in a proper carry and they must both face the wicked sting of the wind on their bare, wet skin.

"You need not have joined me in dive," he chides, finally setting Wei Ying down beside their robes.

He’s breathless and shivering after dunking himself, but he grins and joins in the laughter. He pushes his hair back and out of his face so he can watch Lan Zhan glide his way over to him. He would have erupted out of the water, glistening and pretty, but the cold made him clumsy and eager to free himself.

He meets his husband halfway, practically throwing himself into Lan Zhan’s arms. It’s no use, Lan Zhan’s warmer than the water, but his extremities still feels cool to the touch. “You’ve got us in ice cold water, yet you think my ankles are a problem,” he teases.

If he thought the diving was bad, a sudden gust of cold wind reminds him that it can always be worse. He groans about it and tries to maneuver himself to avoid it… which just means using Lan Zhan as a shield. At least until he’s being lifted up into the air where his freshly soaked legs feel like they’re going to freeze off.

“Please tell me you packed some drying cloths,” he pleads. He might have some used ones he’d forgotten to take out from their last trip. Unless Lan Zhan cleaned out their soiled robes and cloths when he wasn’t paying attention.

“You made it look so easy!” He finally let go of his husband to give him the space he needs to check his possessions. He doesn’t want to get his clothes wet since he’ll have to wear them all the way back to the jingshi, so he doesn’t reach for anything to put on just yet.

"A set," he soothes, because he remains, despite the looming descent of his brother's title upon him, a wandering cultivator who attends evil where it is found, and his qiankun purse houses every manner of urgent necessity. Coin, changes of robes, base medicine, his husband's portrait.

For now, he presents the drying robes preferred in wet travel climates to Wei Ying, who will have to fend for himself against the greater size of the garment, while Lan Wangji slips back into his previously discarded clothes. More than the cold, his concern is modesty: were this a typical river dip, he would have brought linens to dry himself; now, the silks stick to his limbs. He packages Wei Ying's robes in his qiankun purse, shallowly stepping back into his boots without binding them tightly for the short walk.

"Can my sweet wife bear the distance, or shall I carry?" After all, he supposes he owes Wei Ying at least that little coddling.

He happily takes the drying robes from Lan Zhan and slips into them. It’s not as good as a heated cloth, but the difference in chill is like night and day. He sighs contentedly, feeling a bit like he’s wearing a nice blanket. It’s not the first time he’s worn Lan Zhan’s clothes and he likes the scent of sandalwood emanating from them. He almost feels bad leaving Lan Zhan to his regular robes, but he appreciates the way the silk clings to his husband’s skin.

“Carry me,” he says with a wide grin. Before, he didn’t want things like this because he felt embarrassed and worried about Lan Zhan’s reputation. Now he cant get enough of their flirting public and otherwise.

Once he’s lifted, he wraps his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck and snuggles close. “Feeling better, Lan Zhan?” He asks, and despite being tempted to kiss on his throat, he behaves himself. For now. “Today was fun, don’t you think so?” He rests his cheek on one of Lan Zhan’s shoulders and closes his eyes. “Maybe next time we check on the status of the house, we can bring the kids.”

And carried, Wei Ying is: in arms that envelop him gently, dragging him up in a loose hold so that his husband might shift and wriggle and avoid any spots where the natural wet of Lan Wangji's plain robes might upset him. It is a matter of a few steps, after, and they lack in voyeurs: most of those who did not attend the visiting monk's lessons are either in confinement or performing critical tasks for the upkeep of Cloud Recesses.

It is only when they have nearly entered the jingshi, itself peripheral, that Lan Wangji sets his beautiful prize down onto the steps, tidying Wei Ying's robes for the last few moments when his lover is likely to suffer them. A moment, to send a vutterfly requesting fresh bathing water of the attendants that serve for the evening — then he turns to Wei Ying, half warring between soft adoration and concern.

"The house pleases you? You are... content?" Despite their tensions of the past few days and the looming shadow of Jiang Cheng and an imminent altercation. It matters, more than anything, that Wei Ying should live a life fulfilled, absent regrets.

He hums to himself, swaying one of his feet to the tempo of his improvised tune while he’s being carried. He doesn’t mind the wet spots too much because they’re covered from the wind. It’s his neck and ankles that feel the most chill now that the natural warmth of their bodies kick in. He still feels energized from their dip into the river. As unpleasant as it had been during, the benefits of it afterward make it almost worth doing again sometime.

Once he’s back on solid ground, the wet spots from where they’d been touching bug him more. As soon as the nursemaid leaves for the evening, he plans to strip down and bask in the tub. If Lan Liang doesn’t have alternative plans.

“It’s coming along well,” he answers and hooks an arm around Lan Zhan’s. “It’s a little big for just the four of us, but we have forever to fill it up with our family. Oh! We can host the juniors after night hunts, too. I can’t wait to see what it looks like when it’s finished.”

But he hasn’t answered Lan Zhan’s question yet.

He turns to face him at the entrance to their rooms, standing on his toes to kiss his husband’s cheek. “It’s going to be perfect, Lan Zhan. I’m more than content.”

It's going to be perfect. As only life alongside Wei Ying has any right to be, and his cheek blossoms from the print of heat where his lover's mouth scorched him. He leans into it, flower absorbing the generosity of his sun-god, and comes in again for a kiss to Wei Ying's mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids. Beautiful, lovely Wei Ying, his darling.

"Then we move forward with it." And would he have tumbled down a house whole, if Wei Ying had expressed the smallest reservation? He wishes to think he would have been a measured, more self-contained man, but he has learned the limitations of his own composure.

They begin and end with Wei Ying. He nods along for his husband to retreat inside, just as the heavy steps of disciples carrying water buckets materialize in the distance. Their bathing water, delivered.

"Go. Dismiss the nursemaid. I shall receive dinner and our bathing water and meet you at our table." And softer, after, "There is something I wish to speak of."

“You make it sound like you’d tear it down and start over if I didn’t like it,” he says, thinking that it would be ridiculous to do so. A waste of money and resources, something he’s still not over feeling protective of. He’s had over a year’s worth of good eating and sleeping in warm beds under a roof, but the poverty mindset isn’t easy to shake.

The affection makes him laugh quietly out of a rush of pure joy. His eyes squeeze shut when they’re kissed and he pulls his husband down for another quick succession of kisses before gradually letting him go.

“Something good?” He asks, glancing over at the sound of the disciples approaching. Had they seen their displays of affection? Well, there’s nothing they can do about it if they had and knowing the typical Lan disciple, they probably wouldn’t mention it. He smiles at Lan Zhan again before letting himself into the jingshi.

He chats with the nursemaid for a few moments, letting her go through everything that had happened in the day and the instructions for the rest of his care this evening. He tries to listen carefully, but figures they can easily figure it out if something goes wrong. He thanks her and hands her a few extra coins as he’d seen Lan Zhan do at times.

Lan Liang looks like he’s stubbornly gripping onto consciousness now that his ‘mother’ is back home to greet him. When she leaves, he picks up the baby and gives him a snuggle. “Did you stay up to see me?” He asks, not expecting an answer. “I missed you too, A-Liang. Know where we went today? We went to go see our new house. It’s not finished yet, but you’re going to have a whole room to yourself! That might not sound great to you right now, but once you’ve seen another ten years, you’ll be pleased about it.”

There are moments, he supposes, when he deserves to sink into the ground, reduced by his own shamelessness. One walks towards him now, manifesting by way of two incredulous, quickly flushing disciples, who never quite accuse him of conjugal indecency, but gently and pointedly look away at the mere menacing possibility of glimpsing Hanguang-Jun seduced (yet again).

...perhaps they should not be so liberal with their love. Perhaps too these young hopes of the sect must steel themselves before displays of carnality. They will face this and more in villages, when they present themselves to attend to local cases.

For now, Lan Wangji ruthlessly pretends to have seen nothing, acknowledging even less as he waves them in to leave the buckets of hot water inside, by the door. Lan Wangji himself only sets down talismans to preserve their temperature, then takes over the dinner platter, murmuring his thanks and their dismissal before heading onward to his love. The nursemaid also begs her leave, only urging Lan Wangji to set the babe to rest at the right hour, do not allow Master Wei to spoil his sleep.

He pledges it will be done, only to instantly falter, once he has set down the dinner offerings on their low table, turning to find Wei Ying helplessly doting on their young son. He joins, lured as if by a siren, slipping an arm behind his lover's waist to peer over his shoulder at the child. Lan Liang, typically so enthralled with Wei Ying, for once focuses more intently on the novelty of Lan Wangji's presence after an extended parting. He waves, kicking his little feet out and cooing with the fury of a hundred small tyrants.

"Apologies to the prince of heavens. This unworthy one has been remiss in paying tribute." And cannot lift the child to his chest now, besides, for how wet his robes are.

Edited 2024-04-06 21:08 (UTC)

He’s carrying on, telling Lan Liang all the things they’d done throughout the day when he hears Lan Zhan come up behind him. He turns halfway towards Lan Wangji to present their little emperor to him. “And look here. It’s your baba.” He starts to hand him off only to be declined. “Oh, right, your parents went swimming in the river. Baba can’t hold you until he’s wearing dry clothes. What’s that? You want to slobber on him anyway?”

He adjusts the baby until his hands are under Liang’s arms so he can present him for some kisses from Lan Zhan, too. “Oh, no you don’t. You shouldn’t grab Baba’s hair like that.” He shifts his hold again so he can help untangle Lan Liang’s little hand from Lan Zhan’s hair. “Sorry, Lan Zhan, I thought he only liked to eat my hair.”

So much for a quiet evening. Between the two adults, they’ve given their baby a second wind. They’ll have to calm him down and get him to fall asleep again before they can get into the bath. Oops.

In truth, Lan Liang has long learned not to discriminate, sabotaging the hair of both his caretakers gladly, and at times making rare swipes at Sizhui. Lan Wangji permits it patiently, only interrupting him to lean in and press his face closer to that of the baby, subjecting his cheeks to a few friendly slaps. Yes, of course. How dare baba have absented for nearly three days? The audacity of him. He must accept his harsh lesson and never frighten Liang so.

"Attend him for a moment."

Peeling away, he surrenders their son to Wei Ying, only withdrawing long enough to their bedroom quarters to ease out of his wetted robes, summarily dry his body, then in a fit of pure indecency, only enshrines himself in one layer of silks after. He returns after, holding out both arms to receive his youngest son.

"Shhhhhhh. Liang. Be good." The babe, gazing wide-eyed and thoughtful, seems to briefly consider before delivering a well-placed smack to Lan Wangji's shoulder. After this last mutiniy, however, he settles obediently, cooing out his grievances. "Yes. It is a harsh life, to be a swaddled, beloved babe. I thank you the reminder. You bear it with dignity."

He cuddles Liang against his shoulder where the baby watches the betrayal of his father leaving him behind to go change his clothes. He sways and continues his tale of their day's adventure. He's just finishing up with their river diving when Lan Zhan returns to them. He hands their son over and kisses each of their cheeks before excusing himself to the next room. "Take care of baba for me, okay?"

He's only halfway out of the room when he starts shedding his robes. He leaves the sash tied and lets the torso of the robe drape across his backside. It's not dripping wet like Lan Zhan's robes, but the dampness is annoying anyway. Not annoying enough for him to take the whole thing off and change his clothes, though.

Smiling to himself at the sound of his husband and son bonding, he gets to work setting out their dinner on the main table. As usual, he sets most of the green dishes closer to Lan Zhan's side and the red ones closer to his own. The brown foods go in the middle where both sides can reach easily. One thing that never gets delivered to the jingshi is wine, so he fetches some from under the floorboards and brings it back to the table. Since he knows he's the only one that will drink any of it, he opens the seal and takes a few sips straight from the bottle, spilling only a couple drops down the side of his jaw and throat in the process.

In the end, it is a long procession: Wei Ying, efficiently excusing himself to attend to their dinner, barely makes sound. Lan Liang compensates: cooing and beating the drum of Lan Wangji's chest, demanding attention. He is all bustle, all nervous energy, riding on the cusp between overstimulation and exhaustion that only a small child so tellingly visits.

Lan Wangji hushes him, dragging him close to his heart, where Liang settles to hear the beat with animal, primitive instinct. They linger, Lan Wanghi's voice devolving into the dulcet notes of a Caiyi children's song about a brace of ducks, which Liang seems to either criticize or valiantly — and largely toothlessly — attempt to mimic.

"Shhhhh. Do not speak during meals," he coos at Lan Liang, settling on his knees with the babe in one arm, before nodding his gratitude towards Wei Ying. They are far less stringent in upholding this particular principle than other Lan households, but still. "Your father will think us unmannered."

He grins when Lan Zhan approaches, setting the wine bottle down so he can kneel next to the table and pour his husband some tea. He doesn’t usually serve the drinks because he just doesn’t think about it before Lan Zhan takes the initiative on most days. Today, he has the chance because his lovely husband has a baby taking up his attention.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says with a wink towards their little one. He situates himself to sit with his legs folded lotus-style. He’s also just wearing the one layer, but he keeps everything that could be considered obscene covered.

He picks up his chopsticks and uses them to take up some sort of green leafy vegetable lightly seasoned and offers it to Lan Zhan. “Open up! Your hands are full,” he explains with a good natured smile. He’ll pout about wanting to be the pampered one after the baby is back in bed. “Did Liang give you any trouble? He looked pretty cranky when I handed him over.”

"Teething," he admits gracelessly, with the growing despair of every father who knows this fate of wails and fussing awaits him for weeks to come. At least he dips in, taking the soy-braised aubergine with a delighted, muted moan and chewing leisurely, before pre-empting Wei Ying's willingness to continue the meal in this manner and repositioning Lan Liang.

First, he considers holding it in one arm, but the child has grown enough that his requests for mobility can no longer be fully denied. And so, master Liang is sat with his chubby legs to sit on Lan Wangji's thigh, while his back sprawls on his father's supporting belly. There, a handsome thing, likely to outdo Lan Wangji's own claim to good fortune. This, he wishes upon all of his children, present and to come.

At least, Lan Liang seems cooperative enough to inspect the table with squinting, likely diffuse interest, waving his hands at bowls outside of his reach. Lan Wangji rewards him with a chopsticks' fill of plain rice that Liang half ingests, half spits out, before his mouth is duly wiped. Thankfully, the disciples have seen fit to provide them with additional bowls and cutlery.

"Master Liang's days of hardships are not behind him." It will be weeks until the teething has ended, and even then, likely only for a brief respite. "If it perturbs your peace, the nursemaid may rest overnight."

He sits back and picks up a bite of fish for himself after Lan Zhan situates their son. “He’s going to be in a bad mood for a while, huh? It’s a good thing he’s so cute, otherwise we’d be frustrated too.” No, the main reason they’ll be able to skip true frustration is the nursemaid. She hasn’t complained to them about Lan Liang’s temper, but he’s witnessed the baby flailing and crying when it’s getting close to the time to reapply the numbing agent.

“She deserves some time to rest,” he says, using the chopsticks to point at Liang. “I’ve seen what he puts her through. She’s got the patience of a monk to deal with our little tyrant.”

The real reason he declines the offer is because he knows Lan Zhan hasn’t had much time with Lan Liang after their extended parting. It’s good for both of them to be able to cuddle and bond. Maybe if Liang’s still not ready to sleep after their dinner, they can recline on the bed and play with him for a while.

“You said you wanted to talk to me about something,” he says curiously. “Is it about the house?” Knowing Lan Zhan, he’ll probably tell him that he has to wait until after they’ve finished eating to tell him.

The little tyrant, their youngest master, the true commander of the armies of hell, hereby voiced by his lungs, sprawls back in the keep of Lan Wangji's unworthy arms, eyeing the feast before him with suspicion. Now and then, Lan Wangji tempts him with beads of unflavoured rice and grilled vegetables, scoring a rare victory when Liang concedes to accept a sip of Wangji's pale broth. They are not a traditional couple, vulnerable to the whims of a wife's milk supply: Liang may feed of that as long as he wishes. But with teeth comes the joy of gnawing, and they have made some effort to introduce him to base fine dining.

For a moment that drags, syrupy, he is lured by the possibility of consigning Wei Ying to wait. It is yet their dinner hour, a time for the family and it alone. But he was the one who distracted his husband with the omen of their forthcoming conversation, and it would be cruel to delay that communication. He waits until the last of his bite has completed, and he may set his chopsticks to brief rest beside his bowl.

"It is... uncustomary to disturb those in seclusion. But... brother heads a sect. With Sizhui's.... affinities, the matter of succession should be clarified." If Xichen wishes to abdicate, if Sizhui will follow him — then Lan Wangji too must know his fate. "Shall ask Xichen if he yet intends to lead upon departing confinement. We judge from there."

“I don’t like filling up on Lan cuisine, either. Too bland and what isn’t bland is bitter,” he conspires with their little one. “If this fish wasn’t encrusted with peppers, I’d give you some.” He shakes his head for their poor son, destined to eat Lan food until he’s older and can handle more flavor.

He looks back up at Lan Wangji when he sets his chopsticks down. He does the same, picking up that the conversation might be a little serious by the look on his husband’s face. As soon as he starts speaking, Wei Wuxian reaches across the table to take his hand. Lan Liang, unaware of the gravity of the conversation, grabs at one of his father’s fingers and tries to pry it from Lan Zhan’s hand.

“You’ll ask him soon, then,” he says, squeezing Lan Zhan’s hand lightly. Liang babbles and tugs at his finger again and this time, Wei Wuxian relents and lifts it up so it can be chewed between sore gums. He doesn’t point out that Lan Xichen would keep his title if he knew how much Lan Zhan didn’t want it. That could just complicate things. And honestly? He’s tempted to meddle and go to visit his brother-in-law on his own to make sure he’s well aware of that. He won’t, only because he knows it would be a betrayal against his husband.

“You know him best. Do you think he’s going to step down?” Who could blame him after trusting Jin Guangyao so faithfully all these years. “And if he does… wouldn’t you need to stay here?” What would they do with the house in that case?

Soon. His mouth feels slack, embittered. Thieved of words and sounds that Lan Liang doles out in generous deluge. He reaches for his son, greedily abducting him back into the fold of Lan Wangji's waiting arms, kissing the crown of his head even as Liang yet reaches out for Wei Ying's thumb. After a moment, he turns around to scold Lan Wangji in the tongue of his people, fussing to be released back to his waiting father.

Grudgingly, Lan Wangji holds him out over the table, where Liang — spoiled now, after days of travel with Wei Ying and his nursemaid and Sizhui alone — waves his hands to reach and latch.

Lan Wangji persists as if there is no squabbling, chaotic babe between them. "Better we know, before I move."

Not we. Nothing can or should disrupt Wei Ying's transition to a better, more peaceful abode. The house is raised, their arrangements are made. It is a better life for Wei Ying, away from the imposing bustle of the Cloud Recesses.

He stares at Lan Zhan for a moment, misunderstanding what he’s done to upset him. If Lan Zhan wants to insist on his children being strictly vegetarian like their father, he’ll accept it. As long as he’s still able to eat fish and the occasional chicken or other meat, he'll manage. “Okay, no fish for A-Liang.” Are his own carnivorous tastes so disgusting? He’s not sure he has it in him to only eat vegetables.

He takes their son automatically, setting him down on one of his knees and he offers a finger’s worth of one of his side dishes that hasn’t been enhanced by spice. Liang seems to tolerate it if it means having his chew toy back.

“Before we move, right?” He asks, brow knitting. “I like the house a lot but it would be too lonely living there without you.” Sure, he’ll have all the servants to become friends with and the neighbors just down the path, but his bed would be cold. And so would Lan Zhan’s in the jingshi. Knowing that his husband sometimes panics when he awakens alone makes his heart ache just thinking about it.

...ah. The very moment Lan Liang is captured by Wei Ying, he concedes, all the fight bleeding out of him, his manner changed. He is tempered, sweet, accepting. He even thoughtfully nibbles at Wei Ying's finger, as if it has never once occurred to him to be a fussy or provocative thing. Lan Wangji cannot help the slight perking of one eyebrow, incredulously reviewing his son's change in behaviour. The audacity. Truly.

But then, Wei Ying touches upon the crux of the matter, and Lan Wangji dithers, hand unsteady as he reaches for his chopsticks and collects the finest, most spiced piece of slow-cooked marinated mushroom and brings it up as an offering by Wei Ying's mouth. Perhaps a distraction. A bribe.

"As a family, we must do what is best for our children." A large house, room to play in unencumbered or stifled by the responsibilities cast upon the prospective heirs of the sect. "Liang's core has not been tested. If he..." No. He must speak the words, must accept the possibility. "If he is without, better he dwells where he is not each day reminded of differences."

Uneasy, he takes the offered bite of food, but his eyes stay on Lan Zhan. He can sense the discomfort in his husband’s face and body language; he’s had more than a year of being so close and so intimate that Lan Zhan may as well be an extension of himself, so it’s only natural that he can read his expressions.

“That’s not fair,” he blurts out, startling the baby in the process. Liang whines, clearly distressed by the sudden chance in his mother’s demeanor. “You think I’d just abandon you to a face a fate you don’t even want on your own? You said it yourself that we don’t know if Liang can form a core yet, so why are you making plans for him already?”

He soothes Liang by rubbing circles on his back when the child reacts to the sudden agitation by acting nervous and confused.

“If you asked me to move out on my own because you want space for yourself, I’d understand. I’d be unhappy about it, but I’d move out. But there’s no way I’d just abandon you here if you still want me with you. So which is it?”

"Wei Ying." Cautioning, slightly alert, some part of him scolding. Their child, already sensitive to Wei Ying's temperament, is naturally responsive to the spasms and adjustments in his behaviour. He sours, only falling back into ease when Wei Ying settles a warm hand on his back, and even then gazes balefully at Lan Wangji with a look between infantile disdain and growling anger.

He withers to behold it, gaze cast askance and instantly away.

"...I have not yet spoken to Xichen." They need not face one another and quarrel before that particular decision bears taking in the here, the now. Perhaps, it strikes him, he delays the inevitable, and his brother is destined to refuse his title and its calling. Perhaps too, he underestimates and misjudges Zewu-Jun, who has ever been foremost of his people.

And perhaps Wei Ying tires of him, of his constant wavering, his restraints.

He cannot say.

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