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The story goes

Or the way that I was told

There was a king that always felt too high

And then he fell too low

So he called

All the wise men to the hall

And he begged them for a gift

To end the rises and the falls

It starts, as these things do, with a death. 

One death, then two, then enough that the people of this secluded mountain village began to get nervous. 

Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it starts with a house. 

“House” is a generous word for it really. It’s barely a shack, with thin wooden walls, and completely vacant save the scorch marks on the floor and ceiling where a brazier must have once sat. That, and the roiling resentful energy that surrounds the squat little structure. 

Something in this dilapidated little shack is luring men to their deaths. 

Wei Wuxian is very excited to meet it. 

“While golden cores offer cultivators additional resistance to and protection from the elements, it is important to remain vigilant. When a cultivator’s spiritual energy is heavily depleted, the ability of their golden core to regulate body temperature can be dangerously impaired. When nighthunting in cooler climates, with depleted reserves of spiritual energy, cultivators may find themselves at risk for hypothermia and, when temperatures drop below freezing, frostbite. Moreover, windy or wet conditions and injuries sustained while nighthunting can greatly elevate this risk.”

- Advisement on Nighthunting Safety Procedures, Vol. 5, Revised

The interior of the shack is cold. The fall breeze filters through the gaps in the shack’s walls and becomes something cruel and howling. Even in his thick winter robes, Wei Wuxian shivers with each new gust of wind. Still, it’s not cold enough to be dangerous just yet. Wei Wuxian knows that cold, the bone deep chill that numbs your fingers and toes and sweeps in with the winter storms. This is a discomfort, at worst. 

Besides, if the rumors are to be believed the cold will be the least of his worries tonight. 

The rumors, which have been paralyzing the nearby mountain village, claim that young men -  wayward out of towners on the run from wives and responsibilities - have been lured out to the edge of town and disappeared into the shack 

All signs point towards a good old-fashioned haunted house, and, despite the chill, Wei Wuxian finds himself in high spirits. He’ll handle this case and be home to his husband before the first snow of winter threatens to fall. 

As it stands, the resentful energy around the house is loose and dispersed, untied to any specific object or location, but something lured those men here. Wei Wuxian figures he ought to wait and find out what that something is. 

He settles into a sloppy lotus position on his sleeping mat. He does not have to wait long. As the sun slips behind the peaks, the resentful energy begins to drain out of the house and coalesce just outside the front door. Wei Wuxian grips Chenqing, watching the doorway warily.

Then, the crooked front door creaks open, and a figure in pure, blazing white inner robes glides into the room. 

Lan Wangji. 

Except, it’s not Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian knows that much, but he’s willing to admit that it’s a clever trick. Whatever spirit is haunting this house, this must be how it attracts its victims. He could whip out Chenqing, dismiss the spirit right now, but… he won’t lie, he’s a little curious. With the number of victims it’s had, Wei Wuxian is skeptical that this ghost’s only trick is an apparition disguised as a lover. There’s something more to the story, and Wei Wuxian is absolutely dying to learn what it is. 

So, he smiles, tilts his head back invitingly and says, evenly, “Lan Zhan.”

Not-Lan Wangji inclines his head in greeting, and strides across the room, meeting Wei Wuxian where he sits and crouching so they are eye level. He gently cups Wei Wuxian’s cheek in his palm, idly rubbing his thumb over the delicate skin of his under eye. 

Wei Wuxian shivers in response. Even compared to the frigid shack, not-Lan Wangji’s hands are almost painfully cold. He wants to flinch away, but not-Lan Wangji’s grip turns firm, and his free hand shoots down to grab Wei Wuxian’s wrist.

The wrist attached to the hand currently holding on to Chenqing. 

Not-Lan Wangji leans in, so close that Wei Wuxian wonders, a little hysterically, if he’s about to be kissed. Instead, the apparition’s lips ghost past his own, and hover just by his ear. “Wei Ying,” he says, each word punctuated by a little puff of freezing air, “What do you want?”

“What?” Wei Wuxian laughs, caught off-guard by the question. 

Not-Lan Wangji draws back, studying his face. Wei Wuxian doesn’t even bother schooling his expression into something other than open incredulity, but the apparition seems unbothered. He studies Wei Wuxian’s face for a long moment, and then, slowly, as though he’s handling a wild animal, the apparition slides its freezing hand down to wrap around Wei Wuxian’s neck. 

Wei Wuxian fumbles to raise Chenqing, but not-Lan Wangji keeps his wrist firmly pinned. The apparition hums consideringly, and then the pressure on Wei Wuxian’s throat begins to increase. Wei Wuxian gasps, taking deep rasping breaths, but he’s not - he’s not being choked, not really. His airflow is restricted, to be sure, and not-Lan Wangji’s grip is tight and bruising. It certainly feels like he’s being choked, but Wei Wuxian knows what it feels like to have your airways crushed, to really, truly no longer be able to breathe, and this - this is not that. 

On instinct, his free hand shoots up to grasp not-Lan Wangji’s wrist. The grip on his throat tightens in silent warning, and Wei Wuxian gasps against the renewed pressure. He takes deep, wheezing breaths, but he can feel himself growing light-headed and almost euphoric. He’s shaking, he realizes, shivering violently as the freezing cold seeps through his robes. He’s cold, too cold, and the shivering… it’s not a great sign, in the scheme of things, but at least it means his body is still trying to warm up. 

Not-Lan Wangji’s grip on his throat tightens in a silent admonition. Wei Wuxian can barely feel the change in pressure - a decidedly bad sign - and gone is the stinging bite of cold. His wrist and neck feel dangerously numb. He takes another wheezing, gasping breath, fighting to get enough air to think, to clear his head. This close, he can see all the minute little details of not-Lan Wangji’s face, the flecks of warm amber in his eyes, the straight, strong line of his brow and the fan of his eyelashes. He looks so real, feels pretty fucking real too. Not-Lan Wangji is, all things considered, an impressively accurate recreation, but Lan Zhan hasn’t looked this sternly at him since they were teenagers, even teasingly. Wei Wuxian can always catch the lightness in his eyes and the sweet softening of his mouth and jaw. 

Still, in the low light of the cabin, gone lightheaded from the steady pressure on his throat, Wei Wuxian can feel himself going loose and pliant. As his eyes start to blur, he could almost mistake not-Lan Wangji for his husband, could almost imagine Lan Zhan’s warm hands around his neck, in the Jingshi, in their bed. Wei Wuxian feels a familiar euphoria wash over him. It could be good. This could be good, if it weren’t so, so - 

Cold. 

It’s cold, too cold. Lan Zhan’s hands are never cold. He runs delightfully warm, and in the winter months, when Wei Wuxian’s own hands grow stiff and cold, Lan Zhan clasps them gently until they’re both warmed-through.

This isn’t right, none of this is right, and Wei Wuxian can’t - he just needs to breathe, but he can’t - 

“Stop,” Wei Wuxian wheezes, between gasping, panicked breaths, and Lan Wangji - not-Lan Wangji - loosens his grip immediately, stepping back. 

Wei Wuxian keels over, curling in on himself. He’s painfully cold, colder than he ever remembers being in this lifetime. He hasn’t been this cold since he was a child, alone on the streets in the dead of winter, but even his dulled memories couldn’t have prepared him for how much it still hurts. 

He shivers violently, clutching at his arms and trying to cling to the warmth his robes should provide. Across the room, the apparition watches him, silent and unmoving. Even in his addled state Wei Wuxian knows instinctively that it should be attacking him. He’s still alive, still a threat, but the apparition stands silently, watching him through his husband’s frosty, golden eyes.

He’s alive, yes, but he’s cold. Freezing. 

He shouldn’t be this cold, not with Mo Xuanyu’s spark of a golden core, not with warm, dry robes to keep the late-fall chill at bay. Still, shivers wrack his body, and his wrist where not-Lan Wangji gripped him is a bloodless white that speaks to the early stages of frostbite. His fingers are so stiff with cold that he can barely get a fumbling grip on Chenqing. Silently, not-Lan Wangji watches him freeze. 

Wei Wuxian has been careless, and this ghost is far cleverer than he gave it credit for. His fingers are too stiff to play Chenqing, but, blessedly, that’s not his only trick. And he will not make the same mistake twice. He wets his lips and whistles, sharp and clear. 

A question: Who are you?

Not-Lan Wangji’s form wavers in response, and Wei Wuxian whistles again, the start of a wavering melody. It’s rudimentary, but effective, so he persists, tugging at the threads of the ghost’s illusion. The ghost struggles against him as black threads of resentful energy begin to fray and smoke away, leaving fissures in not-Lan Wangji’s form. The ghost lunges towards him, shrieking, and he gives a sharp whistle in response, tugging against the resentful energy with everything he has. He can feel sweat beading on his forehead, despite the chill, and the ghost thrashes against him. Wei Wuxian lets the melody grow sharper, more insistent, and with a final, mournful howl, the ghost sheds its disguise, revealing a young woman, tall and broad shouldered. She’s clad in pragmatic, sturdy winter robes, but her fingers are frostbitten and purple. Frost clings to her eyelashes and hair, and he can make out the glimmer of frozen tear tracks on her face. 

She’s angry, seething with resentful energy, as she hisses, “Cultivator.”

“Wait,” Wei Wuxian says. His fingertips are no longer a chapped red, but a milky white. He’s running out of time. “Wait, I just want to help.”

“You expect me to believe that, little cultivator?” she snaps, stalking towards him. He can feel the freezing resentment that surrounds her, temperature plunging with each step she takes. 

His free hand hovers over the qiankun bag containing Suibian. A last resort. 

“Listen,” he says, “we can fight and I can destroy your soul or you can kill me and wait for the next cultivator to come knocking. Or,” he pauses, studying the ghost’s frostbitten face, “or you can let me help you.”

The vice-like grip of the cold loosens, ever so slightly, but the ghost’s expression remains unchanged. “And why should I trust you?”

“Well, worst comes to worst we try to kill each other,” Wei Wuxian replies, lightly, “and I assumed we were going to do that anyway.”

The ghost is silent for a long, tense moment, and then she says, “Okay.”

All at once, the cold recedes, leaving only the mild chill of late fall. Wei Wuxian’s hands and neck sting viciously, as the blood flows and the nerve endings fire, as his body remembers what it is to be warm. 

“Symptoms of hypothermia include shivering, exhaustion, confusion, memory loss, slurred speech, drowsiness, and a loss of dexterity. In extremely cold climates, hypothermia may be accompanied by additional complications, such as the freezing of the extremities - commonly known as frostbite - which can cause lasting tissue damage if left untreated or treated improperly.”

The ghost’s name is Wu Qingling. 

So she tells him, seated on the tiny back porch of the shack, overlooking a modest clearing with the rotted remains of what must have once been a woodshed. 

“I didn’t want to kill you,” she says. “I do have standards, you know. I only kill men who deserve it.” She crosses her arms sternly and gazes over her little patch of land. It’s overgrown now, no doubt due to years of abandonment. 

Wei Wuxian doesn’t interject, just waits for her to continue. 

Wu Qingling sighs, flexing her hands, her bloated black-purple fingertips at odds with the fine bones and tendons of her knuckles and wrists. “I was alone for most of my life,” she says. “You learn to take care of yourself pretty quick.”

“I understand,” Wei Wuxian says softly. 

Wu Qingling’s gaze snaps back to him. “You do, don’t you,” she says. She shakes her head slightly, and kicks at the porch beneath her, an abortive gesture, half-remembered in death. “There was someone, for a while, that I - It doesn’t matter... The important thing is that he left. I didn’t - I mean, it’s not like I came here for him. This place, I built this myself.” She sweeps a frozen hand to gesture towards the shack. A little home, carved into the unforgiving mountainside. 

“He left, the first winter, when it started to get cold,” she continues, “He took most of our - my - rations with him. There was a blizzard, the night he left. I don’t know if he beat it into town, but by the time I woke up he was gone and I was snowed in. I ran out of food, I ran out of firewood. You make a mistake, and the mountain punishes you.”

Wei Wuxian exhales, breath frosting slightly as dusk settles over the mountain. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“For what?” Wu Qingling barks, half laugh, half sob. “I was a fool, and he was - was a bastard for what he did, but you had nothing to do with that.”

“Still,” Wei Wuxian insists, “It wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry for that. Someone should be.”

Wu Qingling stares at him for a long moment, before her face cracks, like thin ice under a load too heavy to bear. Tears begin to flow anew down her ruddy cheeks, as she slumps against the wall of the shack. She’s silent for a long moment, and then she says, “If I come back, if I reincarnate, I’ll deserve it, won’t I? When it happens again.”

She sounds so small, and Wei Wuxian hates it, hates the choked off voice she says it in, hates the way his stomach flips because he has wondered the same thing. He wets his lips and thinks of Lan Zhan waiting for him in the Jingshi. 

“If that’s true, then I think… I think I’m still waiting to get what I deserve,” he says, finally, trying to fit a pained smile to his face. “Or maybe you deserve a second chance. Either way, it has to be better than staying here.”

There’s a beat of silence. Wei Wuxian looks steadfastly at his hands and wills himself not to do something ridiculous like cry. Wu Qingling looks skyward, chest rising and falling in a ghostly facsimile of breathing. 

“Okay. That’s - okay.” She squeezes her eyes shut only to open them once more, catching Wei Wuxian’s gaze. “Do it then. Do what you came here for, little cultivator,” she says, “Then, go home to your husband.”

Wei Wuxian gives a slight, wry smile, ignoring the ball of freezing iron forming in his gut. “Okay,” he breathes. 

He raises Chenqing. 

“Frostbite can be identified by a loss of dexterity in the affected extremity, waxiness or stiffness to the skin, and a pale white or yellow coloration of the skin, during early stages. Early warning signs include the severe reddening of the extremities, and severe cases of frostbite will result in a black-purple discoloration, as tissue death begins.”

Wei Wuxian stumbles into the Jingshi, chilled to the core, as grey storm clouds roll over Gusu, harbingers of the first snow of winter. 

Lan Zhan wasn’t there to meet him at the gate, which means his husband is likely tied up in meetings and paperwork or teaching. Wei Wuxian hums idly to himself as he drops his travel bags and draws himself a hot bath. He strips out of his travel robes, ignoring the chill. The fireplace stands empty in the corner of the room, and Wei Wuxian steps hurriedly into the steaming water. 

The hot water stings against his cold skin, sharp and insistent, but he doesn’t bother easing into the bath. He dunks his head under the water, wetting his hair, and waits for the pain to subside. 

It does, eventually. By the time Wei Wuxian hears Lan Zhan’s soft footsteps crossing the Jingshi, he’s pleasantly warm and scrubbed clean of the dust and dirt of the road. He hears the rustle of the fireplace being lit, and then the gentle swaying of Lan Zhan’s robes as he rounds the silk screen to find Wei Wuxian. 

“My lovely, beautiful husband,” Wei Wuxian says, cracking an eye open lazily, “Won’t you comb my hair for me?”

Lan Zhan hums his assent. As he gathers the comb and the hair oil, he pauses, dropping a kiss onto the top of Wei Wuxian’s head.

“How was the case?” he asks, gently working the comb through Wei Wuxian’s hair. 

“Mm, good,” Wei Wuxian replies, “Ghost was freezing people to death, convinced her to pass on.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan replies, “And you are uninjured?”

“As if one little ghost would be enough to injure me,” Wei Wuxian scoffs, “Lan Zhan, what do you take me for?”

Lan Zhan forgoes a response in favor of tugging his hair in admonishment. Wei Wuxian turns to face him, ignoring the precarious sloshing of the water as he does. 

“Hanguang-jun,” he teases, “Such brutal treatment of your poor, weary husband!”

“My apologies,” Lan Zhan says, sounding completely unapologetic, “I have simply been deprived of my husband’s company for far too long.”

Wei Wuxian rises from the tub, resting his forearms on Lan Zhan’s shoulders. “We can’t have that now can we,” he says. 

Lan Zhan reaches up, cradling Wei Wuxian’s cheek in his palm, thumb pressing gently against the outer corner of his eye. Wei Wuxian shivers, cold prickling at his skin once more. Lan Zhan smiles, small and soft, and presses a kiss to his mouth. Wei Wuxian allows himself to be dragged from the tub, laughing as Lan Zhan eschews the need to wrap him in a sleeping robe in favor of dropping him onto their bed. 

Wei Wuxian laughs, pulling Lan Zhan down after him and pressing a smiling kiss to his lips. One kiss becomes two, becomes long, lazy minutes with their lips pressed together. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan pants, pulling back to create a scant distance between their faces, “Would you like to be tied up?”

Wei Wuxian flushes, equal parts embarrassed and delighted by just how shameless his husband can be. “Lan er-gege,” he says, “how can you ask me such a question, when you already know the answer?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan replies, dipping his head to kiss Wei Wuxian briefly, chastely, before crossing the room and pulling a length of fine silk rope from their drawers. This he laces around Wei Wuxian’s torso and between his arms, and secures his wrists to their bed frame. 

It’s good, being tied up like this. It’s one of the few uncomplicatedly good things in Wei Wuxian’s life. It’s good, being cradled by the ropes, the bedsheets, by Lan Zhan’s warm hands. There’s nowhere he needs to go, nothing he needs to do. He just needs to stay here and trust Lan Zhan. And trusting Lan Zhan comes as easily as breathing, these days. 

Lan Zhan indulges him in this, tying him down in the warm low light of their bedroom, and Wei Wuxian indulges him in turn. He allows himself to be peeled open, like the leathery skin of an orange, carved away to reveal the soft fruit underneath. 

Wei Wuxian knows that Lan Zhan was born first into snow and frigid silence, but he has seen him in the summertime, with baskets of fruit and flowers, with the citric sweetness of orange juice on his lips. Wei Wuxian has seen him in the days when there is plenty, when there is tea and there is laughter, when the water of the lakes is sun-warmed and the lizards crawl over the packed earth and rocks. 

And Wei Wuxian has seen himself in the wintertime, with no blanket and no hearth. When the stones hold only the bitter evening frost, when the lakes freeze and the birds flee south. Wei Wuxian has seen how far the animal will crawl to survive. 

Tonight, as winter crawls towards Gusu, Wei Wuxian feels the chill of the air against his exposed skin every time Lan Zhan’s body parts from his. He is a field of gooseflesh, prickling under the warmth of Lan Zhan’s hands. It hurts, the pain hovering just shy of truly uncomfortable. He ignores it, focusing on the bite of the ropes, on his husband moving against him, on the kisses and bites laid against the soft juncture between his neck and his shoulder.

When he comes, back arching, toes curling, panting in his husband’s embrace, he feels the trickle of cold between his back and the bedsheets. It doesn’t warm, even as Lan Zhan gently unwinds the rope between his arms and wipes him clean. 

The cold is an old friend. Perhaps Wei Wuxian has grown too comfortable with his place in the sun. 

Lan Zhan crawls into bed beside him. Wei Wuxian can feel the heat of him, the long line of warmth as Lan Zhan’s body curls around his. Like two halves of a wooden joint, slotted perfectly together. If he could stay here, if he could open the seams of Lan Zhan’s body and crawl inside, be forever one part of a complete whole, he would. 

Sleep is the same mercy that it ever was, as the storm clouds break like waves against the mountaintops. 

“When treating frostbite, do not attempt to rub or massage the affected extremity. Doing so will aggravate the skin and could cause lasting tissue damage.” 

In his dreams, Wei Wuxian’s hand burns. 

It starts small, a pinprick of heat in the palm of his left hand, sharp and too hot to be comfortable. 

Then, something scalding and liquid flowing over his hands like boiling oil. It burns, white hot against his stiff fingers, gone a pale bone-white from the cold. It coats them in a wet red slickness, and he realizes, with all the clumsy slowness of a child assembling their first words, mind gone sluggish from the cold - he realizes that it’s blood. Beneath him, a body shudders and sobs, and Wei Wuxian forces his stiff hands against the gaping stomach wound. 

He tries to cry for help, but barely manages a rasp, gasping against the freezing, vice-like grip on his throat. He’s cold, so cold, but the body beneath him is hot, its blood scalding against his bare hands. He tries to pull the wound shut, but he can barely bend his fingers, stiff as they’ve grown in the freezing cold. He presses down trying to staunch the bleeding, but his hands sink deeper into that wretched, gaping wound and the blazing heat of a body fighting and kicking to stay alive. Wen Qing would know what to do. It’s the only thought that comes with any clarity. Wen Qing would know what to do, but Wen Qing is dead, and he can’t - 

He can’t - 

There is a crane. 

There is a crane and he loves a man so much that he tears out his feathers, and then the crane is a man and the man has a husband. The husband is kind, and he loves the man, and the man - the man who was a crane - wants for nothing. 

Still, the man weaves. In the dark blue of the evening, the man rips his feathers, his hair free and weaves and weaves and weaves. He weaves late into the evening, until his fingers blister and his hands grow stiff, and the husband -

The husband is confused, and he asks, he begs, in the early light of the morning, “My love, why do you weave so, when there is food on our table and wood in our hearth?”

And the crane, now a man, looks at his husband, wide-eyed and earnest in the dawn, and he says, “I can’t stop.”

As always, there is a crane. Against his better judgment he continues to weave. 

Wei Wuxian wakes, shivering beneath the sheets of his bed. He’s curled away from Lan Zhan’s touch during the night, but one hand is still clasped in his embrace. It burns. 

He sits up fully, letting the blankets pool around his waist, and draws his knees to his chest. He’s shivering, so hard that his teeth chatter and his hands shake. Around him, the Jingshi is dark, lit only by the low red glow of the fireplace. Cast in the bare, flickering light, Wei Wuxian sees Lan Wangji - not-Lan Wangji, not his Lan Zhan - staring at him steadily from across the room. He watches in muted horror as the skin on Lan Wangji’s grows red and then a pale, waxy white, and then a deathly mottle of blues and purples. It reminds him, sickeningly, of the frozen body he’d seen on the street as a child. Of the elderly man’s frostbitten nose and icy face, the way he’d twitched and shivered through the night only to go horribly, wretchedly still. 

He’d given Wei Wuxian an extra blanket. In the low, stone alley where the winter winds had driven them, Wei Wuxian learned to weather storms alone. 

Beside him, Lan Zhan stirs. 

“Wei Ying,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

Wei Wuxian tears his gaze off of Lan Wangji, turning to face his husband. “Lan Zhan,” he whispers, “I’m okay, the cold just woke me up. Go back to sleep.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan replies, already sounding more concretely awake at Wei Wuxian’s mention of discomfort. “I will put another log on the fire.” He crosses the room, placing another log onto the fireplace, and gently stoking the flame. As the light emanating from the fireplace brightens, Lan Wangji is nowhere to be found. 

Lan Zhan returns to bed with a thick winter inner robe, which he promptly wraps around Wei Wuxian, before bundling him beneath blankets, and then laying unceremoniously on top of the pile of blankets and beloved. 

Wei Wuxian wishes he felt warmer. 

“Allow the affected extremities to warm up slowly. If possible, submerge the affected extremity in warm - not hot - water, and allow blood flow and nerve function to slowly return to normal. Depending on the severity of the frostbite, it may be necessary to remove dead or dying tissue or amputate the extremity altogether, in order to prevent further tissue death. In cases of severe frostbite, where tissue death has occurred or may occur, seek assistance from a healer as soon as possible.”

Cranes are, by nature, social creatures. They flock in groups, separating only briefly for the mating season. 

The crane, who is now a man, was shot by an errant arrow. With a damaged wing, he lost sight of his flock and tumbled onto the doorstep of the man, who is now a husband. 

And that man, he nursed the crane back to health, and rebuffed the crane’s many attempts at repayment. And when the crane took to wing, only to land right back at his doorstep, the man welcomed him inside. 

Again and again, the man offered the crane a chair by the fire and a plate full of food, until the furniture in the home shifted to accommodate a second person, until the crane became a man, became a husband, until the husband - the husband who was a crane - built himself a loom. 

The crane knows the price of a debt unpaid, of a home unearned. 

The Jingshi is empty when he wakes properly. There’s a steady fire burning in the hearth, and the tray stacked with food has been left on the table, kept warm by heating talismans written in his husband’s hand. 

Still, the cold floor of the Jingshi barely registers under his own freezing feet, as he pulls his winter robes from the shared dresser. He dresses warmly, despite the fact that he has no need to leave the Jingshi today. Lan Zhan always arranges for him to have a day of rest after he accepts a case, though whether or not Wei Wuxian actually accepts it is another question altogether. 

Today though, with the fresh blanket of snow laid over the Cloud Resecesses, and the bitter winter wind, Wei Wuxian thinks he might stay by the warmth of the hearth. He’s cold enough as it is. 

His fingers feel stiff as he fumbles with the ties of his robes. He flexes his hands absently, feeling the waxy skin of his fingertips brush against his palms. He does not glance down at his hands. He does not. 

Instead, he wanders to the table and settles into the seat closest to the fireplace. He almost drops the bowl when he first tries to lift it, scorching as it is against his hands. He settles for pulling the tray towards him in its entirety. He doesn’t have the dexterity to hold chopsticks, so he settles on spooning himself little bites of congee, perfectly spiced. 

When he catches a glimpse of his fingers, closed around the spoon, they’re bloated and purpled, and Wei Wuxian can’t feel them. 

It’s not right. It’s not cold enough in the Jingshi to cause… this. He blinks hard, and opens his eyes to find his hands, just his hands, a little chapped and red from the cold, but whole and alive. 

He eats another few mouthfuls of congee and forces himself to remember that he is home, by the hearth with a plate full of food. 

The crane weaves into the late hours of the night, while his husband is asleep. He weaves himself a net, something to catch him when the sky turns rough, when the wind whips around him and rips his flight feathers free. 

For the crane knows - as children learn, when they first turn their eyes towards the place where the treetops meet the sky - the crane knows, too, that the higher you climb, the further you will fall.

Wei Wuxian is still curled up by the fireplace, when Lan Zhan returns. He’s paging through a text on golden core cultivation, only half absorbing the words. It’s still early afternoon, and Lan Zhan comes bearing snacks pilfered from the kitchens and word of a free afternoon. 

Wei Wuxian allows himself to be fed, allows his hair to be brushed, and wills his mind away from memories of frost-covered wood and stone. 

Lan Zhan, patient as he always is in the face of Wei Wuxian’s strange moods, doesn’t object to his silence. When the food has been eaten, when Wei Wuxian has long since gone pliant on his husband’s chest, Lan Zhan asks, softly, “Wei Ying, what’s wrong?”

“Mm, nothing,” Wei Wuxian replies, pushing himself off of Lan Zhan’s chest and sitting up on his own. Nothing is wrong. He is home with his husband, and he will stay here through the winter, and then through the spring. Wei Wuxian is safer, more loved, than he has ever been, and nothing is wrong. 

He rests his hand against Lan Zhan’s face, fingers stroking his hairline idly. The skin there radiates heat against his freezing fingertips. “Baobei,” he says, watching the way Lan Zhan’s eyes go hot and dark at the endearment, “do you remember what we talked about - about trying, before I left?”

Lan Zhan inhales sharply. “Wei Ying,” he starts. 

“Not - not the punishment thing, I know that’s not…” Wei Wuxian trails off. 

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. “I have no need to punish my husband.”

“Of course,” Wei Wuxian replies, “Of course, you’ll just let me go on being as shameless as I please.” He ignores the hot sting behind his eyes at the thought of it, the thought of what might happen if he did what he wanted, acted however he pleased, and Lan Zhan just - just let him. He clears his throat and continues. “No, I meant the other thing… the - the choking thing.”

Lan Zhan studies him carefully, and for a long moment, and Wei Wuxian thinks that he’s about to be dismissed out of hand. But, much to his surprise, Lan Zhan says, “Is that something you would want?”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian replies, “yes, I think… I think it would be good. For both of us. And we have a free afternoon, don’t we, er-gege?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan replies, letting his hand drift to the place where Wei Wuxian’s jaw meets his neck, thumb brushing the soft spot behind his ear. “We do.”

Wei Wuxian feels the sweet rush of relief, as Lan Zhan guides him from the table to the bed, divesting him of his robes with each step they take. He kisses him, slow and sweet, as they land on the bed in a tangle of limbs. Lan Zhan draws one hand up against Wei Wuxian’s throat, the ghost of a touch, and breaks the kiss to ask, “What is your safeword?”

“Loquat,” Wei Wuxian half gasps in response. 

Lan Zhan hums, nipping at his earlobe. “Wei Ying,” he breathes, “will you be good for me?”

“Lan er-gege,” Wei Wuxian chides, “haven’t you heard? I have only ever been incorrigibly wicked.”

“Wei Ying has only ever been good to me,” Lan Zhan replies. And that, that knocks something in Wei Wuxian off balance. He gasps, head tilting just slightly further back, and Lan Zhan takes the opportunity to wrap his hand fully around Wei Wuxian’s throat. 

Wei Wuxian bucks against Lan Zhan’s thigh, wedged between his legs, feeling raw and exposed in the afternoon light of the Jingshi. Lan Zhan runs his free hand over his side, soothingly. He’s so warm, his hands are like twin brands against his skin. It hurts, drawing right up to the line between something manageable, pleasurable even, and something that is simply, rawly painful. Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. 

Lan Zhan’s grip is still loose. For all his playful roughness, Lan Zhan still treats the vital parts of Wei Wuxian so carefully, with such reverent gentleness. But Wei Wuxian has not asked for gentleness tonight, has no desire for it. He presses a hand over Lan Zhan’s at his throat and says, “More.”

Lan Zhan understands immediately, effortlessly. He catches Wei Wuxian’s wrists in his free hand, pinning them above his head and increases the pressure on his throat. The heat of it is scorching, and Wei Wuxian feels like his nerves have been set ablaze. He kicks, an involuntary jerk of movement, and Lan Zhan pauses. “Wei Ying,” he says, grip loosening once more, “Wei Ying?”

Maybe this is the place where Wei Wuxian should stop. Maybe this is the place where he should draw back and say that he is cold, so cold, and afraid. That he is tired of the threat of winter, that he wants to lay his head down and trust that he will be kept warm. But Wei Wuxian is no longer a child, clinging to his shijie’s robes the first time they leave Yunmeng, in the dead of winter, because he does not want to be left again, he does not want to see the bodies freezing on the street. 

No, Wei Wuxian has lived and died and lived again, and he wants this, wants the heat of Lan Zhan’s hands against his throat, wants to see his husband enjoy this. 

“I’m okay,” Wei Wuxian replies, hoarsely, “I’m okay, Lan Zhan, keep going. Keep - keep going.”

Lan Zhan kisses him, soft and open-mouthed, squeezing his throat. And Wei Wuxian is in the bed, throat burning against his husband’s hand. And Wei Wuxian is in a dilapidated shack, with Lan Wangji’s freezing hand gripping his throat. 

And Wei Wuxian is on his back, soaked to the bone and shivering, with Jiang Cheng’s hands crushing his windpipe. 

And Wei Wuxian is delirious with pain, held aloft by Wen Zhuliu’s bruising grip on his throat. 

And Wei Wuxian is in the burial mounds, with a corpse’s hands wrapped around his neck, and he can’t breathe, he wants so badly to breathe. 

He scrabbles for a grip on the hand around his throat, and it releases immediately. He curls in on himself, shivering, taking ragged, gasping breaths. 

Distantly, he registers a voice calling for him. The voice asks, “Wei Ying, Wei Ying, where are you?”

He pauses, processing the question. “The bed,” he says. 

“Where?” the voice - Lan Zhan’s voice - prompts again. 

“The Jingshi,” Wei Wuxian replies, feeling the cold seep away from him, as his breathing begins to even out. 

“Where?” Lan Zhan asks, softly. 

“Gusu,” Wei Wuxian whispers. Gusu. He’s in Gusu, he’s home, with his husband, his husband, who would never - could never - hurt him. All at once he feels humiliated to be reacting like this, curled into himself like a scared child over a threat that never existed. 

He feels Lan Zhan’s weight lift from the bed. “Wei Ying,” he says, “I am going to get you a robe and some water. I will be back.”

Wei Wuxian stays curled on the bed for a moment longer, before he forces himself to sit up. Lan Zhan returns, setting a cup of water by the bed and dressed in one of his thick winter sleeping robes. He holds another robe in his hands, a dark blue one, no doubt from Wei Wuxian’s own collection. “May I touch you?” he asks. 

The question feels absurd, but Wei Wuxian nods compliantly, allowing Lan Zhan to help him into the robe and press the glass of water into his hands. He takes small sips, as Lan Zhan rubs soothing circles on his back. 

Wei Wuxian is the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry,” he says, roughly. “That wasn’t - You didn’t have to stop. I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have -” he cuts himself off, staring at the glass of water clutched between his hands. 

Lan Zhan’s hand stills on his back. “I didn’t have to stop,” he says disbelievingly. “Wei Ying, you were - I did not know what to do. You were in pain.” He pauses, shifting on the bed to face Wei Wuxian. “Continuing would have hurt you. Do you think that I would-”

“No!” Wei Wuxian interjects. “No, Lan Zhan you could never hurt me. Even if you had - had kept going, you couldn’t have - have hurt me.”

“I could have,” Lan Zhan insists, “Wei Ying, please.”

“Well if you did, if you did, maybe I would deserve it,” Wei Wuxian snaps. He feels the same horrible panic from before seeping into his bones, making him twitchy and afraid, like a fox with its foot caught in a trap. Teeth bared, ears down, he continues, “Maybe, maybe, after everything I did, it would be the least that I deserve. And - and if it was you, Lan Zhan, if you chose to strike me down tomorrow, I wouldn’t argue. I wouldn’t, you know that - you know.”

Lan Zhan pulls his hand away as though he’s been burned. “I would never,” he starts. Stops. Starts again. “Wei Ying, I have no desire to be a tool you wield against yourself. And I - I would sooner cleave away my own arm than raise a hand against you. Do you truly think so little of me?” He sounds afraid, with the same waver in his voice that Wei Wuxian heard that night at Guanyin temple. 

Wei Wuxian feels something fissure and crack in his chest. “No. No, of course not. Lan Zhan, I - I know you would never - I know. I do,” he says, voice sounding small even to his own ears. 

Lan Zhan clenches his fist, unclenches it, and clenches it again. “I need a moment,” he says, eventually. 

“Right, of course,” Wei Wuxian replies numbly, rising from the bed. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, “that is not what I meant. Please.”

Wei Wuxian wraps himself in a thick outer robe, and shoves his feet into his winter boots. “I know, Lan Zhan,” he says, “I do, I just - I’ll be back.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan whispers. 

“I’ll be back,” Wei Wuxian says, as he crosses the threshold of the Jingshi. 

He follows the footpath from the Jingshi to a secluded pond. In the summer, red-crested cranes gather here, milling idly in the water. This afternoon, as the sun shines too weakly to melt the first, thin layer of snow covering the earth, only one crane remains. It should have migrated to the wintering grounds with the rest of its flock, but, instead, it struts through the shallow, frosty water of the lake. 

Wei Wuxian sits on the edge of the pier, watching the crane. The crane watches back, beating its black-tipped wings to close the bare distance between them. It stares at him with its beady black eyes, and Wei Wuxian stares back. 

“Tell me,” he says, “oh wise crane, tell me I’m being ridiculous. That I should go back to the Jingshi, apologize for behaving like a child, and move on from this.”

The crane does not move, does not respond.  A breeze stirs the greenery around the lake, and Wei Wuxian shivers. He scoffs, “What am I doing, talking to a bird. I just convinced everyone that I’m sane, and here I am talking to a crane.” 

The crane tips its head, bumping its beak lightly against the back of his hand. He startles looking down at it. The bird taps him once more and then turns, beating its great wings and taking flight. 

He stares after it and thinks of Wu Qingling. Of her wavering voice when she asked if she would deserve all the ills awaiting her if she reincarnated. Of the set of her jaw as she passed on anyway. 

One night, the husband joins the man by his loom. Cheek pressed to man-who-was-a-crane’s shoulder, he said, “You do not need to tell me why you weave. But if you wish to share, I will listen. And if I can, I will try to help.”

At length, the crane said, “I am afraid that one day I will lose all that I have here. So I weave, because if we have fine woven fabric to sell we will not go hungry. Because if I weave, I can show you that you have good reason to keep me.”

“I weave,” said the crane, “because I am a coward.”

“My love,” said the husband, “don’t you know? It is a very brave thing, to try again, when you have been hurt before.”

Wei Wuxian returns to the Jingshi as dusk falls. He pulls off his boots and takes off his robe and meets Lan Zhan’s gaze across the room. Silently, Lan Zhan opens his arms, an invitation. 

Wei Wuxian steps into his husband’s embrace, resting his cheek on Lan Zhan’s shoulder. They stand, curled into each other, until the fabric under Wei Wuxian grows damp with tears. He pulls away, swiping at his face. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “let’s have dinner, okay?”

Lan Zhan gives a single decisive nod and leads him by the elbow to the table, already set for dinner. Lan Zhan serves him, pouring a generous helping of chili oil over his food. It’s a silly thing to cry over, the sight of his husband dumping chili oil onto his dinner, but watching the way Lan Zhan delicately grasps the bottle, lifting his sleeve out of the way as he sets it down well within Wei Wuxian’s reach, the tears threaten to overflow once more. 

It’s the good chili oil, the kind Lan Zhan buys him from the market in Yunmeng. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You are welcome,” Lan Zhan replies, like it’s simple, so simple, to make sure that Wei Wuxian always has good chili oil for dinner. Like Wei Wuxian deserves it. 

Wei Wuxian swallows roughly and turns his attention to the bowl in front of him, picking a spice-laden mushroom and popping it into his mouth. It’s good, as Gusu Lan food usually is once properly seasoned. 

They eat in silence, save the tapping of the chopsticks against their bowls and the sounds of food being shared between them. When they finish, Lan Zhan gathers their dishes, stacking them neatly onto the tray and setting it just outside the Jingshi’s door. 

Wei Wuxian watches him as he walks back to the table, settling back into his seat. He fidgets with the hem of his robe. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says gently, “You do not have to tell me anything.”

“I know,” Wei Wuxian replies. He does know that, but, still, he feels like a trapped fox being stared down by something much, much larger. His only options are to bare his teeth or roll over and show the soft, vulnerable parts of himself. 

He’s so tired of baring his teeth.

“If I - if I tell you,” Wei Wuxian starts, haltingly, “we can talk about it, or you can ask me about it, just - just not tonight.”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan replies.

Wei Wuxian nods jerkily, glancing down at his hands. They’ve warmed, over dinner, no longer a bright, chapped red from the cold. When he moves his fingers, he can see the tendons shift under the thin skin of the back of his hand. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, “if I held you… would it help?”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian says gratefully, clambering onto Lan Zhan’s lap. Lan Zhan’s arms wrap firmly around him, as he buries his nose into Lan Zhan’s neck. He’s warm and smells like sandalwood and the sweet floral hair oil that he uses, and, beneath that, like sweat, like the tang of blood and a body keeping itself alive. 

Lan Zhan doesn’t push, doesn’t ask him to speak, just moves his hands across his back in wide, sweeping arcs. Wei Wuxian relaxes into the touch, feeling the heavy weight in his chest ease, just a little. 

He trusts Lan Zhan, in every other aspect of their lives. Why should this be any different?

Trusting Lan Zhan is as easy as breathing. 

“This is good,” Wei Wuxian says, “This - everything - it’s good, right?”

Lan Zhan inhales slightly, preparing to respond, but Wei Wuxian beats him to the punch, saying, “Sorry, sorry, don’t answer that. If you answer, or interrupt I won’t ever finish saying this.”

Lan Zhan nods his understanding. Wei Wuxian lets out a short, breathy exhale and continues, “The last time things were good like this, everything went so, so wrong. And I - I know you don’t think it was my fault, what happened, but I can’t -” He pauses, blinking furiously against the tears gathering in his eyes. “I just. This is good. I don’t want to lose it.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t say anything, just silently continues rubbing Wei Wuxian’s back with wide, steady strokes. 

“I’m scared. I’m scared I’m going to do something, or something will happen, and - and I’ll lose this.” Wei Wuxian whispers. “That’s all.”

There’s a long moment of silence between them. Lan Zhan’s hands slow to a stop, and Wei Wuxian can almost feel him contemplating his next words. 

“I cannot promise that nothing bad will ever happen.” Lan Zhan says at last. “But, Wei Ying, I would no sooner be parted from you than I would my own heart. Do you believe me?”

He nods against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “I do,” he says, “Lan Zhan, I do.”

“Mn. Good,” Lan Zhan says. 

They stay like that, slotted together in front of the hearth, two halves of the same whole. There’s more to talk about, more Wei Wuxian has to say. But for now, the worst of the pain is over, and, in its place, there is warmth.

(The next morning, Wei Wuxian will catch Lan Zhan’s eyes over breakfast. “There’s somewhere I’d like to go,” he will say.

“Anywhere,” Lan Zhan will reply. 

“There’s a shack in the mountains. I’d like to set up a shrine there.”)

(Spring will find them, with warm hands, sticky with fruit juice. They will follow the road, muddy and green with snowmelt, to a shack carved into the unforgiving mountainside. 

Against the backdrop of the uncaring world, they will do their part to ensure that the lonely children of the winter are unforgotten.)

And here's the thing:

They came back with a ring

It was simple and was plainly

Unbefitting of a king

Engraved in black

Well it had no front or back

But there were words around the band

That said, "Just know: This Too Shall Pass"

- This Too Shall Pass, Danny Schmidt