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 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?”

There, lightly but incompletely stirred, victim of exhaustion. Between their recent quarrel, qi depletion, the cold of the river waters, drink and the exhaustion of quarrel — of course even Wei Ying's resources have come to end. Lan Wangji cannot begrudge him this, not when he is partly the creator of their circumstance.

Murmuring sweet nothings, he noses at Wei Ying, accepting him as he sways and nestles, before negotiating the start of unshrouding their clothes. Wei Ying, it emerges, is easier to disrobe, to maneuver. It is Lan Wangji himself who dallies, taking turns to position his husband against hip and side, while peeling off each of his sleeves, then his robe.

"No matter. Rest," this, with a kiss to Wei Ying's forehead, once they have been bared and can proceed to the bathing tub. For once, he sets Wei Ying inside to bask in the void of the recipient, treading a fine line of carrying back the buckets of water, yet warm under the thrall of talismans, and pouring in most of their content. Some, must be spared for hair-washing, if they progress there, though Wei Ying's sleepiness might postpone them.

He slips into the tub after, drifting to the same side as Wei Ying to position his husband by and across him, sooner than risk that he should fall down in the water, asleep. "You are warm? At ease?"

He stays in a state somewhere between napping and awake, letting Lan Zhan do the lion’s share of disrobing him. He lifts his arms when needed, but says planted on his husband’s lap, greedy for the comfort of touch and chasing a few more moments of sleep.

He stirs again when he’s lifted, this time somewhat more completely. It’s hard to believe he’d been so angry and petulant earlier in the evening. And after such an enjoyable afternoon date to see the house’s progress. He should think of a way to make it up to Lan Zhan somehow. Maybe he can surprise him with a gift next time he goes out alone or with the kids. Something sweet that he can snack on or maybe he can find some trinket that would be both useful and remind him that he’s loved.

He’s more or less awake when Lan Zhan sets him in the bath and fills it around him. As soon as they’re both settled, he kisses his husband’s cheek. “Warm and comfortable,” he answers, taking Lan Zhan’s hand and bringing it to his mouth to kiss. “Sorry about earlier, Lan Zhan. I made a mountain out of a mole hill. Are you still upset?”

His fingers, soft and drifting in Wei Ying's clasp, only curl around his lover's keep, squeezing once in gratitude. Around them, water fills out what scant few negative spaces they've permitted between their bodies, anchoring Wei Ying above. His other arm slings over Wei Ying's chest, dipping diagonally toward his waist to fasten him in sturdily, completely.

"No," he concedes between slow exhalations. But he is worried, consumed. Regretful that he has once more given Wei Ying the opportunity to question himself and their marriage. That whatever doubt so often haunts Wei Ying has not yet been fully exorcised.

"You are so brittle, my love," he says after, drawing Wei Ying somehow closer, as if he might attempt to slip away. "There is... a world of hurt inside you."

A core of agony, of certainty that, come what may, Wei Ying will be the first one discarded, abandoned, cursed out. "I wish I knew to help."

He rubs Lan Zhan’s hand against his cheek, kissing the palm now. Just hearing that Lan Zhan’s isn’t harboring any additional upset feels like a burden lifted from his shoulders. He’s feeling a little embarrassed by his outburst earlier, but it’s not something he’s going to put much of himself into. They can love each other in ways that surpass the bumps in the road.

“I just jumped to the wrong conclusions,” he says, cheeks reddening. Lan Zhan sees him so well that he feels like he has nowhere to hide the uglier parts of himself. And every time, he learns that Lan Zhan loves him anyway even after all of his nonsense. He just wishes it didn’t make him feel so exposed.

“It’s fine, Lan Zhan. I’m fine,” he says but it’s not like either one of them would believe that right now. “You help by being patient with me and holding me like this after I do something stupid. I guess I just have some issues to work on. Be patient with me and we’ll overcome it together, okay?”

He hums along with Wei Ying's chatter, a sudden spell of lethargy only striking him now that Wei Ying appears to be buzzing, lively, content. As if, previously, he was occupied by a fight or flight response that has completely melted away to leave only his husk behind. He shivers, slightly, submerging himself deeper in water, until the warmth of their bath calms him.

All throughout, his palm stays sweet on Wei Ying's cheek, and he kisses his lover's temple, the top of his head. Whatever may be reached. "...all right." Too raspy, too choked. Again, "All right."

It is not all right, so simply. Not yet, but his legs come to bracket and directly press Wei Ying's, his arm fetters tighter to hold him. The reality of Wei Ying here, the depth of his scent — both are reassuringly, endlessly inescapable.

"You were mistaken to allow me close. I do not think I could ever let you be."

He closes his eyes and smiles as his husband peppers him in kisses. He steals a quick one on the mouth in passing, then stays content for a few more. It makes him ache to think of Lan Zhan hurting for him, but he doesn’t know how to stop letting himself erupt with doubts sometimes. He wishes it were easier to squash all that down and soar high above it all. He used to be able to do it just fine for the most part. When it had just been dealing with Madame Yu’s temper or the loss of his parents, he was able to trick everyone into thinking he didn’t have a care in the world. After the Wens attacked Lotus Pier, it became harder and with the last couple of years of his life, harder still.

“I like you close,” he admits with a soft sort of smile. “But, I guess… being passive and trying to ignore the hard stuff isn’t making things any easier for either of us, huh?” He says after a few moments of thought. “I really don’t know what else either of us could do to help, though.”

He shifts a little until both of his hands are free and he puts them on Lan Zhan’s cheeks. He kisses him firmly on the mouth once before pressing their foreheads together. “All I know is that I love you and I don’t want either of us to hurt because of me. You make me happy. You’re the brightest star in the sky that makes up my life.”

Mouth to mouth, their breaths mingling, their scents as one. Proximity so close that between the water that envelops them, he nearly cannot say where one begins and the other ends.

He kisses and kisses and kisses and almost succumbs to the old temptation of steering Wei Ying towards bedplay to distract him (them) from hardship. Stops, hand latching and cradling Wei Ying's nape, their eyes so close he may well drink and drown in silver. I like you close, Wei Ying says. The points where their foreheads meet may well be a long burning.

"I did not speak my meaning well." A failure of communication, coupled with one of assuming bad faith. They both strayed from their better parts. "Often, do not know how. Not... only with Wei Ying."

He smiles a little when Lan Zhan admits his trouble with communicating what he means. It’s not news to him. He’s seen Lan Zhan struggling at times with other people and it’s not the first time he’s misunderstood Lan Zhan’s meaning, either.

He shifts around until he manages to straddle Lan Zhan’s lap, then he offers a little grin. As tempting as it would be to just keep kissing until they end up making love in the bath, they both remember the vow they’d made to each other.

He pushes some errant strands of hair behind his husband’s ears. “It’s okay, Lan Zhan. Want to try again? Or maybe I could make another attempt. Hmm, you said I made a mistake letting you come close and that now you’ll never be able to let me be. Could you mean… that now that you’ve seen the cracks in my emotional armor that you want to pick at them until it crumbles and the real me is strong enough to go without?”

Wei Ying's attention, showering over him, is like the first licks of sun after a cruel winter: undeserved but gratefully, greedily accepted. He tips his head in to preen and present himself, to allow Wei Ying ease of reach to him. So that he might be, shamelessly and unrepentantly, kissed to both their hearts' content.

Then, Wei Ying speaks — makes a heart-breakingly sweet effort to attempt to translate Lan Wangji's lacklustre words. He listens, throughout. If Wei Ying pays him such mind, he will ever at least listen.

"No. Simpler." He is tempted once more by silence, to gather all of his thoughts, while his stormed gaze shields him from perception. He cannot speak until that which he communicates is wisely considered, perfect. Perhaps that is the root of his quietude, the same reason that so often sabotages him.

He tries, in the end. "I am... a dog." And hastily, words spilling out in a deluge, "Apologies. I am. And have found my bone. I cannot... relinquish him. You are to me, love. Obsession. Remedy. Peace. Home. Need never worry of parting. If you cast me aside, will sleep at your feet. Your door. I cannot..."

Leave. Be truly parted. That is the true sickness of his love.

Edited 2024-04-12 19:27 (UTC)

He takes it in stride that his attempt to discern what Lan Zhan meant had been incorrect. If anything, that makes it easier on him. Truly opening himself up and digging through the sludge of his heart sounds difficult. Too hard for him to want to volunteer to do it tonight, even though he’d be willing to endure the discomfort if it means they’ll battle less in the future.

“You bite like a dog,” he laughs a little, then clamps his mouth shut and lets Lan Zhan finish speaking without interrupting him again. He likes hearing his husband’s deep, melodic voice. And the more he listens now, the happier he starts to feel.

Once he’s sure Lan Zhan’s said all that he wants to say, Wei Wuxian closes the distance between them with another kiss. This time it’s a lingering thing, firm and alive between them. He only pulls back after a while because he wants to speak.

“I love you,” he says with a grin. The alcohol still in his system, the kiss, the words. Everything leaves him feeling giddy and he doesn’t try to subdue any of it. Maybe he really would fit in with a Lan forehead ribbon with how much he tries to hide aspects of himself. If he had one, it would come off right now. “Me too, Lan Zhan. I want you close. I want you to love me so much that you don’t know how to handle it because that’s how much I love you. Even if you say you’re a dog, you’ll be the only dog I’ll never be scared of.”

He was heeded. He did not think — but then, he ever presumes, his pessimism a foregone conclusion — that Wei Ying would listen. Hear, perhaps.

But he listened. And he feels like a well cherished, faithful and true dog, also, when he is rewarded with a kiss he answers thoughtlessly, greedily, on instinct. Here is a beautiful, happy and briefly untroubled thing: his husband, his darling. Of course Lan Wangji must kiss him back.

"You drank good wine," he murmurs, somewhere between amused and bashful over the depth of his sensitivity to alcohol, so stringent that he can tell the notes and aftertaste on his husband's lips. "Thank you."

For understanding, he need not so. For permitting this one instance of gratitude, for all they've sworn no please and thank you and goodbye between them. He dips his forehead closer to Wei Ying's, taking advantage of their proximity to cup his hands and raise water from their bathtub, nodding toward his palms as if to ask if Wei Ying will allow his hair cleansed.

"How is it Lan Liang loves you best now?"

He laughs again at the comment about the wine, “Emperor’s Smile is the best wine in Gusu. Maybe the best wine in the world.” Well, maybe not the objective best, but it’s his subjective favorite. It’s a lucky thing that they live so close to its source. And they’ll live even closer once they move to their house on the outskirts.

He nods and tilts his head forward, inviting Lan Zhan to rinse his hair. It’s a mess after their stint in the river since he hasn’t bothered to comb it out. Hopefully it isn’t too tangled. It would be a shame having to cut out knots. “I’m glad you told me how you feel,” he says, reaching blindly for some of Lan Zhan’s sandalwood oils. He likes using the ones that remind him of his husband more than the ones that remind him of his childhood in Yunmeng, especially after an argument.

“He loves me because I’m his mother,” he says, using his fingers to part through the sheet of his wet hair. “He loves you too. I just spend more time with him. And I guess there’s also to problem of your face. Sometimes you can come across as pretty scary with how serious you are.”

There is warmth still within Wei Ying, the residue of drink. It makes him soft, as Lan Wangji cards his hair with one hand and brings up water with the other, raining it down. Pliant and tender, easily appeased.

After, it's slow, measured, patient steps to untangle his hair, one knot at a time, injecting small dollops of ointments to cleanse the threads, then oils to bring them to pristine condition.

"...my face?" He queries, and it's unfair, he knows, to take advantage. In his natural, more guarded state, Wei Ying would hesitate to inflict the weight of his full opinion upon his husband. That he is generous with his pronouncements now is more a testimony that Emperor's Smile truly is the best wine in the world.

But to think of Liang withdrawing from him, on account of his... scariness. That he might put off his own child. No. This warrants a discussion and change thereafter.

"Instruct me how to mend this."

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