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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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.

He clamps his mouth shut, looking down at Lan Liang who is still agitated despite the soothing touches. He takes a slow breath like he would when he’s meditating and releases it out directly on Liang’s cute little head, fluffing fine hairs. He’s still feeling defensive and angry that Lan Wangji would consider living in separate houses. The only time they have to themselves regularly are in the evenings after Liang goes to sleep and before Lan Zhan does the same.

What’s he supposed to do? Just travel back and forth between the jingshi and the house every day for whatever crumbs of affection Lan Zhan can muster through the exhaustion of being sect leader? It’s one thing if he has to suffer, but Lan Zhan and the kids deserve better than that.

“You’re the one that brought it up,” he points out, bending down to kiss Liang’s forehead. “And you,” he says to the baby, “Mommy’s not upset with you, little one.” He pinches the tip of their baby’s nose softly, avoiding looking at Lan Zhan for the moment.

No. Mother is upset with this unworthy husband. But he cannot inflict the dregs of his guilt on Wei Ying in this moment, when he must already contend with a difficult child and the inevitable shocks and demerits of Lan Wangji's proposal. He is the one who has poisoned their evening, who gazes upon Wei Ying with sharp, earnest but undeserving longing.

...when was it Lan Liang began to resemble Wei Ying so closely? Perhaps it is mere proximity, constant and encouraging, or Lan Wangji's propensity to think of them as one. But he thinks somehow the little babe's eyes are as dark and daring as his mother's. As punishingly unforgiving, when they sit on Lan Wangji, now.

He finds himself quickly expending a talisman piece to summon the dissolving light of a message butterfly that heads toward Lan Liang to deliver his father's kisses. Of course, he is too young to read, to understand such language — but old enough to laugh, distracted, by the shiny, flying thing. At least this much, even Lan Wangji can do.

Then, bowing his head low over the table, "I apologise."

He focuses most of his attention on Liang, having lost his appetite for dinner. Maybe there’s some merit to the rule about not speaking while eating after all. He knows there’s no point to keep bickering over a hypothetical situation, but it’s not like he can just forget about it, either.

The thought of living in that palace of a house without Lan Zhan there with him hurts. He’d rather demolish the whole thing and forget they ever talked about it than to stay there alone with the kids.

Maybe Zewu-Jun will take up the mantle of sect leader again. This whole situation could never come to pass. And now he’s leaning towards contacting Lan Xichen behind Lan Zhan’s back all over again. It could be their secret. Lan Zhan wouldn’t need to ever know about it.

He looks up when he sees the fluttering wings Lan Zhan’s summoned and their son’s excited wonder at it. He kisses Liang’s head again and breathes in his clean baby smell, then he catches the butterfly and holds it out so Liang can get a closer look. Which means touching it and trying to put it in his mouth.

“What part are you apologizing for?” It’s a cruel question and he regrets asking it as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

...it is an unkindness, to ask such a thing across the abyssal distance of a table's spread, with their child in Wei Ying's grasp. The isolation numbs, aches, stabs. He watches Wei Ying, a world away. Watches and withers.

As if sensing discontent, Liang coos thoughtfully, for the first time this evening extending Lan Wangji half of the adoration he'd devoted to Wei Ying alone. His finger flickers out for the child to catch and shake clumsily with both fists.

"Drawing you into a marriage of responsibility," he murmurs, in stinging contrast to the loving sight before him. He feels somehow colder now than in the river, voice crisp yet removed. "With a man who can only be half your own, half his sect's. I have wronged you."

That’s not the answer he’d been expecting. And in his ears, it sounds like Lan Zhan is apologizing for marrying him in the first place. That stings more than the thought of living in separate houses.

No, Lan Zhan loves him and he loves right back. It’s not the marriage that’s the problem, it’s the sect and Lan Zhan’s role in it. It would be one thing if Lan Zhan wanted the title of sect leader, but he doesn’t.

He kisses the back of Liang’s head, then he lifts him up and across the table again to pass him back to Lan Zhan. As soon as his hands are free, he picks up the bottle of wine from before and takes another drink straight from the bottle.

“Don’t say you’re sorry for marrying me,” he tells him, looking down at the mouth of his jar to check the remaining volume. He won’t get drunk off of one jar, and he’s tempted to finish this one and grab another. “That’s the one thing I don’t want to hear when we’re already talking about living separately. What is it that you want. Not what’s good for the sect or what’s good for the family.”

At once, this is the worst of them: Lan Wangji, stubbornly shielding behind the cooing, comforting, squirming body of his son, who nestles into his chest with sudden enthusiasm. Wei Ying, retreating into drink.

For a momemt, he holds himself still, only attending mechanically to pacify his son and rock him against his person. To take shallow solace in his warmth and the hunting grip of his chubby fingers on Lan Wangji's hair. He cannot force himself to meet the true challenge before him. Sighs, as if a broken thing.

This home, so much smaller than their option in development, was never meant to house strife. There is no breathing room, no opportunity to walk away and calm themselves.

"I would wish this matter not our own to resolve." Soft, strained. Liang peers up, dark eyes bright and all-consuming, like a summer night. He presses his mouth to his son's forehead. "Should it come to be, I would return each day to you."

A slight against any honoured visitors, perhaps, not to share their encampment — but a compromise.

“That’s enough for you? To travel all that way to and from just to spend a few short moments together before going back to a cold bed and no children? It’s not good enough,” he empties the last few sips of wine and sets the jar down on the floor next to the table. “I don’t want to raise our kids alone. I don’t want to go to sleep every night wishing I were somewhere else.”

He looks over to where they store the wine and erotica. They’ll have to start keeping something heavy on top of it soon to keep Liang from poisoning himself with drink.

It’s strange arguing with Lan Zhan like this when they’re close enough to touch and read body language. Part of him wants to hold his husband and mourn for the (possible) loss of their marriage bed together. At the same time, he wants to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him.

“I’d rather be here with you. That’s more important to me than some house. I wish you could see that,” he says, pushing himself back from the table and going to fetch that second jug of emperor’s smile. It also gives him some time to maintain his composure.

It's not good enough. And then, Wei Ying heads for more wine.

He thinks, fleetingly, to follow and stay his hand, to bring him back and plead. But there is a child who has barely calmed, spread sweetly over Lan Wangji's chest, the puffs and crisp inhalations of his fragile breath following a slow, known beat. It gives him power, somehow, both arms now cradling his son, wishing Sizhui too were beside him.

There is no wait, no equivocation. No use in negotiations Wei Ying has already called to a draw. Lan Wangji only pronounces, after him:

"...very well." It is not well. It shall be days before they achieve anything close to balance. This is the trouble with carrying out their disputes in person, in the absence of a filter of correspondence: there is no one else to blame. They must face the inevitability that the man who causes hurt is the same each would wish close and cherished, for kisses. "The constructors will stop work."

Lan Wangji himself will tell them so, incurring their curiosity, frustration and confusion. So be it. And if it comes to nothing, if Xichen does not wish to abdicate —

They must see then.

This is what he wanted, isn’t it? For Lan Zhan to see his side and take it seriously. For him to accept that he’d want to sleep next to him every night, even if it means that they’ll stay in the jingshi until someone else takes up the sect leader title and frees his husband from that burden. So why does it make him feel worse?

He rubs the back of his wrist across his eyes, then he breaks the seal on the second jug and tosses back a few gulps. He doesn’t usually drink this heavily other than when they argue. It’s a bad habit because it makes something he otherwise enjoys feel tainted.

“Talk to Zewu-Jun first,” he suggests after a moment. He makes his way back to the table, pinching Lan Zhan’s sleeve between two fingers and his thumb when he passes. “This could all just be hypothetical until we know what the future will bring.”

He sits down across from Lan Zhan again, subdued and still unhappy. He’s only just now thinking about Liang’s role in this despite Lan Zhan mentioning it earlier. If Lan Zhan is forced to lead the sect and if Liang doesn’t have the capacity to form a core, they may have to compromise their living situations anyway.

More drink, and this time he flinches, watching Wei Ying gravitate towards his single remedy with hawkish, unfaltering interest. He wishes to clench the jar of drink and shatter it.

Does not. The child. The child, perfectly arrested in sleep against his chest, murmuring in tongues Lan Wangji cannot wait for him to graduate. Soon, he will make his wishes and mind known. Soon, he will be a force beside them. Lan Wangji withdraws, instinctively, feeling protected in the mist of dark barely broken by their candles, incense and brazier — before finally rising, the child yet with him.

Then softly, "I shall cleanse."

Unspoken between them, he will take Lan Liang, also, to deposit to his crib. If Wei Ying intends to drink himself to a stupor, there is no need for their son to bear witness.

He glances up at Lan Zhan when he stands, not flinching away from the look on his face. He merely nods when Lan Zhan announces his next task. Usually, they’d bathe together but he gets the feeling that it wouldn’t be welcome just now.

“I’ll take a walk,” he says after a moment. Drinking is against the rules, so he’ll just have to go outside the gate (or over the wall) where he can imbibe without bringing any attention to himself.

Their marriage should be stronger than this. It will be once they can get over this hurdle. He’d hoped that by agreeing to let him stay in the jingshi with him would be enough, but the subject of the argument had been only the surface of the problem. There are too many legs of it spreading out in different directions.

He stands, still showing his usual amount of grace. For now. Once he finishes the second jug of liquor, that will likely change. He can only think of one thing that might make himself feel marginally better. “Sorry, Lan Zhan. I didn’t mean to ruin our evening.”

A walk. As if they do not both see Wei Ying's fingers casting a deep web over the wine jar, clutching tight. The line of his mouth tightens, paralyzed midway to the small quarter where Liang unofficially resides, the infant strapped against his chest. He frowns unambiguously, without apology.

It will be a dark evening, if it comes to this, if he does not intercede. As is his habit of self sacrifice and limitless excesses, Wei Ying will drink himself sick. Perhaps he deserves it. Perhaps, too, it does not fall on Lan Wangji to keep him in hand.

"Take a blanket." Far from Wei Ying to trouble himself with proper clothes, but the absence of a core to defend him will tell. "Your sickness would benefit no one."

Least of all Lan Wangji, who would then have to attend the needs of a furious infant, a self-pitying husband, a love-stricken elder son and his brother, likewise reduced by troubles of the heart. This entire family is condemned to pining, and for once it is Lan Wangji who wishes them all returned to their senses.

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