a home.

[shangba]

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.

Comments

[shangba]

It feels strange to finish their day so entangled, Wei Ying's frozen toes raking Wangji's calves, his front curled up and sweet. In the end, the shift is inevitable: Lan Wangji pivots then plants himself on his back, welcoming Wei Ying, nudging him to blanket. His mouth hunts the top of Wei Ying's hair again in a rain of kisses.

He is loved, Wei Ying says. And this, the same mouth that eviscerated him earlier, asking, What is it Lan Wangji apologises for? Truly, they require more care with one another. Far more kindness.

Not today. No matter. They have combed each other for truths and hurts enough already.

"I love you, half of my soul. My one." Perfunctorily, Lan Wangji's hand drags through the dark silk of his husband's hair, chasing and unwinding tangles, strokes the shining length. "Sleep."

[emperorssmile]

He makes an irritable noise when Lan Zhan pulls away, hand reaching to catch Lan Zhan’s wrist. Once he realizes that his husband isn’t going anywhere, he climbs under the blanket and scoots close enough to use Lan Zhan’s chest and shoulder as a pillow.

“Comfortable?” He murmurs, resting one hand on Lan Zhan’s belly, thumb dancing back and forth in what he thinks is a soothing rhythm. His feet naturally gravitate towards the closest source of warmth which is almost always his husband’s legs. Maybe he should just start wearing socks to bed, but he thinks it’s funny to bother Lan Zhan.

It doesn’t take him long to start drifting off, still spent after everything that’s happened tonight.