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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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.

He’s torn between wanting to leave the jingshi and wanting to make amends and accept whatever stupid ideas Lan Zhan has come up with for their living arrangements. Surely having Lan Zhan visit him daily with his heart full of love for him would be preferable to the emotional sludge they’re both wading through.

But that can’t take back words that have already been said and feelings that are already sore.

“Okay,” he says, eyes falling away from Lan Zhan’s. He fixes the robe he’s wearing so that it covers his chest again, slotting Chenqing on one side and Suibian on the other. Then he walks to the bedroom to fetch a clean blanket to throw around his shoulders.

“How long do you want me gone?” He could stay in Cloud Recesses if it’s a short time or he could fly to the skeleton of a house they’d both been so excited about just a short time ago. Or, if Lan Zhan doesn’t want to see him for the rest of the night, he could go to Caiyi. He feels directionless.

He looks like a rogue cultivator, or a stray cat, or a beggarly fool. Like a child, constantly batted away from kindness and opportunity.

...and his robes yet fit him too loose, no matter how much Lan Wangji seeks him fattened. This will not do. Cannot.

In the end, Lan Liang spares him pity and does not wake while he's transported back to his crib. Through a minor miracle, on cursory inspection, neither has he soiled his linens. He sleeps, far too peacefully and sprawling, fists dangling now and then to catch whatever sliver of a dream envelops him, while he scolds his dreamed things to attention.

And so, Lan Wangji allows himself to return, less encumbered by responsibility, to either seize whatever dregs of patience they can still summon for each other, or wage the full war of their quarrel. Nothing short of this will do.

"I am not the one who banishes you." But they both know how Wei Ying does with neglect, startled by the mere possibility of being unwanted after the torture inflicted by Madam Yu. "You are the one who flees."

He stands dumbly next to the discarded remains of a dinner he’s barely touched and he watches Lan Zhan disappear in the direction of Liang’s makeshift room. He thinks about leaving before Lan Zhan comes back, but he doesn’t. He’s still holding the half-finished jug, it bulging out from beneath the blanket.

Yet when Lan Zhan comes back, he looks away. At the window where he can see it’s full dark and there’s a crowd of people walking from the direction of the lecture hall. The aspiring immortal must have been long-winded. How long had that lecture gone on?

“I thought you’d want some time to yourself,” he answers quietly, risking a glance at his husband. How is it that he’s right there where he could reach out and touch Lan Zhan yet it feels like there’s a chasm he can’t cross?

Edited 2024-04-10 20:23 (UTC)

...and he is young, it strikes Lan Wangji.

Young, to the measure of his body. Wei Ying might have rejoined them in the days of Wangji's maturity, but he only ever lived a handful of decades, before his — sleep. He never learned to pace himself, to find steadiness, to anchor his grief. What loneliness and uncertainty storm Lan Wangji must drown Wei Ying, who lacks a profound knowing of himself.

He has earned a little grace, Lan Wangji supposes. Not comfort, but guidance. And so, gaze slate and slanted, he covers the distance at a stubborn pace to catch the bird-boned wrist of his husband's free hand. To squeeze once in slow, warm pulses.

"Thirteen years were enough," he reminds gently, and tugs once, towards the waiting low table, where their meal waits respectfully. "Come join me to finish dinner."

The mountain between them shatters when Lan Zhan takes his wrist. He could run away like he’d been accused of, but he doesn’t want to. Instead, he follows him to the table, the blanket dragging on the floor behind him. Thirteen years. How could he have thought Lan Zhan would want to spend his nights alone when he’d mourned for him for so long.

“You’ll sit with me?” He asks, lowering himself down onto the floor again, legs folding underneath him in a more proper eating posture than before. He takes the half-full jug of wine out from under the blanket and sets it down on the table. Will he finish it tonight or store it for later? He’ll decide later after he’s finished eating.

“This whole situation’s a mess, isn’t it?” All stemming from a budding romance between his son and his nephew. “We’ll make it through it, won’t we? Together, I mean.”

It’s a fight. It’s not the end of their marriage or their lives.

He does not answer at first, only lets himself become once more a man of action: sits down patiently beside Wei Ying, to his left rather than opposite him, so that their knees might gently brush at the very ends of a table only constructed to host one. Another legacy of a life lived in loneliness.

"The precepts were wise to prohibit talking during meals," he murmurs, and delivers private thanks to the disciples who thoughtfully accompanied their dinner with a minor assortment of bowls. Fresh ones, he decides, rather than reusing the ones already soiled. They can pretend, almost, that their meal is barely started. To new, rice-filled beginnings.

With measured dips of a spoon, he fills Wei Ying's bowl near brim with hearty broth, first. Then, a second bowl of rice. For himself, a light stew of mushrooms and scattered bean stalks. "Before, I asked if you wished us to depart the sect. Now, you believe I would abandon you for a title."

Mollified, he relaxes when Lan Zhan sits next to him, letting their legs touch while Lan Zhan serves them. The wine is starting to hit him now, leaving him leaning to his side slightly until his shoulder is touching Lan Zhan’s arm. He takes comfort in the passive touch taking it to mean Lan Zhan isn’t angry with him. Or at least he isn’t so angry that he’d prefer to keep his distance.

Through the opening where the two sides of his blanket meet, he extends his right hand to pick up his bowl of soup for a few small sips. It’s not as hot as when it had first been delivered, but he drinks it without complaint.

He wants to start their evening over, but he hasn’t come up with a means for time travel. Not that something like that would be possible.

“It’s not the title. It’s the obligation,” he clarifies. “I was shocked by the thought of living separately… I guess I can see your point about A-Liang, though. He’s going to need more room for himself when he’s older. I just don’t like the idea of either of us sleeping alone. I have to remind myself that a decade or two will be a blink of the eye when we’re cultivating towards immortality.”

Drooping inelegantly, wilting beside Lan Wangji like a beautiful flower — welcomed, when Wangji's arm wraps tenderly over his shoulder, half to pillar him, half to bring him in.

"No." Calm, settled. Unambiguous. "I would come to you each night, leave with morning."

A straining commitment, likely to choke his sleep, but not negotiable. This much cannot be sacrificed between them. They have so little, so scant.

Unbidden, perhaps unwanted, he refills Wei Ying's bowl with fresh broth, pushing the rice offering forward to entice him. "Eat. Soothe yourself."

His eyes start to water when Lan Zhan’s arm goes around him and he tries to will them dry. It doesn’t work, so he tries to ignore it instead. Maybe Lan Zhan won’t notice if he keeps his head down and focuses on his refilling bowl of soup.

“I already keep you awake past your bedtime. You’d really be okay cutting your sleep to travel so much?” He sets the broth down and eats some of the rice next. He doesn’t feel hungry and it’s a little harder to force down solids, so he only eats a couple bites before reaching for the broth again. He knows from experience (and Wen Qing) that drinking more things without alcohol will make him feel better in the morning.

He hadn’t given Lan Zhan a chance to make amends before reacting so defensively. “I know you wouldn’t leave me for anything. I was just being selfish by wanting more of your time than I thought you’d be able to give me.”

At first, the wetting of Wei Ying's eyes is only candle light, catching. A spasm of flame, an accident of perspective. Curious. From Lan Wangji's limited vantage, spread over the soup bowl, it presents no more than a foregone conclusion: the jingshi, after all, was not created to host.

But then he offers out the bowl for Wei Ying's consumption, it is gladly accepted, his husband's cheek comes close — and it is plain. Whatever pretty deceit Wei Ying had hoped to practise eludes him.

A lesser man might call out his weakness. A better one might inquire. Lan Wangji, who at last understands the value of sparing his lover's dignity does not remark on any one thing, only settling down his spoon and chopsticks, and shifting back from the table's side to inject space.

"Come here," he urges at the end of Wei Ying's confession, tapping his thigh for Wei Ying to translate the invitation as his comfort pleases: either to lay down his head and rest, his husband's hand caressing his hair, or to scuttle until he has fully nestled to sit in Lan Wangji's lap.

He freezes for just a moment when Lan Zhan moves away from him and he tries to follow him with his eyes instead of turning his head. In the end, he still has to look over his shoulder to see the invitation precious moments before Lan Zhan speaks. He downs the rest of his broth in a few gulps, then sets the bowl on the table.

He crawls closer, letting the blanket fall to the floor behind him. He thinks about resting his head on Lan Zhan’s lap but he thinks it might bring attention to his embarrassingly weepy state, so he crawls into Lan Zhan’s lap instead. He throws his arms around his husband’s neck and rests his chin on his shoulder.

“No need to contact the contractors for the house,” he says once he’s settled. “No matter what the future brings.” And if Lan Zhan must take up the mantel of his brother’s station, they can still rendezvous there for sleeping. And if it’s left empty some nights because Lan Zhan has to perform his political duties until late, he can always spend the night in the jingshi.

He sighs and closes his eyes, resting his cheek against Lan Zhan’s throat. This is what they miss when they argue through their writings. “I’m going to stay like this for a while, okay?”

He does not answer for the longest time, only becoming a recipient for Wei Ying and each of his husband's mute, gentle needs. One arm latches onto Wei Ying's back, at once to support and soothe him, hand rubbing slow circles across his spine, climbing to stroke his hair. Now and then, he kisses the crown of Wei Ying's soft hair, pulling loose the last of the half tail to avalanche it down, exerting no further pressure on his husband's head.

No erotic intent here, no seduction. This is, somehow, no different than caring for Lan Liang, affording a fragile and yearning and vulnerable creature the time and space to breathe. With his spare arm, slow as to neither disturb Wei Ying nor spill over the bowls and recipients, he begins to stack the various pieces of ceramic and to cover the leftover dishes, replacing and repowering the talismans to keep the meal in stasis.

In the end, he knows he must risk either disrupting or fully wakening his lover, murmuring between measured exhalations against his ear, "Wei Ying. I intend to take you to bathe. Speak now if you wish sleep instead."

Though, for how soft and syrupy and sweet his husband is, Lan Wangji anticipates all choices will belong to him for the rest of the evening.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Lan Zhan rouses him. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the typical exhaustion after expending so much emotion, but he feels completely spent. He inhales sharply, stretching his back and shoulders, awake but not entirely.

“Bath’s good,” he murmurs, nestling his face against his husband’s throat. He’ll likely wake more fully once they’re in the bath, but for now he savors being taken care of.

It’s not fair, he thinks. Lan Zhan had been just as hurt by their argument, yet he’s the only one being comforted. He hopes that the closeness and little cuddle they’re sharing is at least a little comforting for Lan Zhan. Maybe once they’re going to bed, he can hold Lan Zhan close until he falls asleep.

He reluctantly pries himself off of his husband’s shoulder and looks around the room. Sleepy and still a little bit tipsy, he sways slightly with his movements. He doesn’t feel entirely drunk, but it’s more than he usually gets when they’re together. “How long was I asleep?”

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