Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART 1

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“Don’t you ever study?” Jiang Cheng snaps at him from the kitchen, where he sits at the table, books spread open before him. His hair sticks up in two spiky clumps from where he’s been clutching it in his hands.

Wei Ying shrugs. “I already know it,” he says, returning his attention to the tv, where his avatar is fighting off a horde of zombies with a shotgun. 

Jiang Cheng makes a frustrated sound. “Must be nice.”

It is nice, but Wei Ying has at least enough common sense to know not to say so outright to his brother. It’s finals week, and Jiang Cheng is strung even tighter than usual. Which is saying something. 

Wei Ying’s character is suddenly swarmed, disappearing beneath a mob of the undead. Bloody, dripping letters flash onto the screen: “GAME OVER”. He sighs and tosses the controller down, twisting around to look at Jiang Cheng over the back of the couch. “You going to Mianmian’s party tonight?”

Jiang Cheng scowls at his textbook, scratching out something in his notes hard enough that the paper rips. “Is partying all you think about?”

“No!” Wei Ying says, sounding hurt. “I also think about getting drunk. Cute girls. Cute boys.”

This earns him a glare. “That just sounds like partying.”

“Oh. Then, yes.” Wei Ying smiles as he dodges the pen Jiang Cheng throws at him. “Is that a yes then? You’re coming?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jiang Cheng huffs, catching the pen as Wei Ying tosses it back to him. “Just fuck off and let me study. We’ve got to sit for orgochem in an hour and I’m still shit with Diels-Alder reactions.”

Wei Ying opens his mouth, as though to tell Jiang Cheng exactly what a Diels-Alder reaction is. This time, the pen bounces off his forehead.

--------

Mianmian’s off-campus apartment is stuffed shoulder-to-shoulder with people, partygoers spilling out into the hallway, the noise echoing into the street below.

“Fuck this,” Jiang Cheng says as they approach. “The cops are going to be here within an hour.”

“More reason to get in and drink fast!” Wei Ying says, hooking elbows with his brother and pulling him forward into the throng.

It takes a while to push their way to the kitchen, where Wei Ying quickly descends on a sticky folding table laden with bottles and mostly empty two liters of soda.

"Hello to you too, Wei Ying."

"Mianmian!" he spins, face split in a smile as he shoves a red solo cup into Jiang Cheng's hands. "Great party!"

Jiang Cheng snorts derisively. Mianmian fixes him with a look. "Enjoying the free booze, Jiang Cheng?"

He goes rigid, the plastic cup in danger of splitting in his fist. "Great party, Mianmian," he says tightly, rolling his eyes. 

"Enjoy it while it lasts!" she says, grabbing a half empty handle of vodka. "I'm fucking off with Zhou Wei before it gets busted."

"Isn't it your place?" Jiang Cheng asks as Wei Ying laughs. 

"Exactly," she says. "Can't get ticketed if I'm not here. Plus, then I don't have to be the one kicking everyone out."

She disappears into the chaos with a wave. Jiang Cheng gapes after her as Wei Ying follows her example, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and going to find a discreet location for them both to get trashed.

--------

He’s not sure at what point in the night he loses Jiang Cheng. He has a fuzzy memory of Jiang Cheng yelling about something before storming off into the dark. He’s not particularly worried about it. This is how most of their nights out go. Jiang Cheng is either back at their apartment, or he’s found someone to spend the night with. 

The latter being highly unlikely, Wei Ying opens the door to their apartment at 3am as quietly as possible so as not to disturb his sleeping, temperamental and likely very hungover brother.

The apartment is dark and tippy. The former because the lights are off. The latter due to the fact that Wei Ying has spent the last 6 hours drinking enough that he thinks he can feel his liver throbbing in protest. 

He finds his way to his room by feel, only tripping once over a paperback he left in the middle of the floor. He catches himself before he fully faceplants, but bends his wrist back a little too far with the save.

Perhaps it is because of the twinging pain in his wrist that he doesn’t realize that there are strange sounds coming from behind the closed door of his room. Perhaps if he hadn’t been distracted, he would’ve realized that it sounds like fabric swooshing across the carpet. Perhaps he would have grabbed Jiang Cheng. Perhaps he would’ve been prepared to see someone on the other side of the door when he opened it.

But none of that happens. 

Wei Ying walks into his room, flicking the light on as he shakes out his smarting wrist. He closes the door behind him, hissing at his own stupidity and wondering if he’s sprained it, thinking about how annoying it will be to try to work while wearing a brace.

There’s a sound. Small, quiet. Startled. 

He looks up.

There is a man in his room.

Tall.

Muscular.

Beautiful.

Skin like moonlight, hair like the night sky, ornaments glittering stars.

Eyes bright, light, golden.

Lips full and dark against his pale face.

Wearing extravagant, flowing white robes.

Clutching a sword.

Wei Ying should scream. He should yell for Jiang Cheng, run out of the room and call the police.

He does not.

He stands and stares at the man. The man stares back at him.

“Fuck.”

A tiny crease appears in the perfect marble of the man’s face. He opens his mouth and, in a voice as impossible as the rest of him, asks, “Where am I?”

It takes Wei Ying a while to process what is happening. Adrenaline floods his system, which provides a little clarity through the staggering fog of alcohol. But only a little.

The man continues to look at him, face impassive, but Wei Ying thinks that there’s a frown in there. It registers, late, that the man has asked him a question. “What?” Wei Ying says, feeling like he needs to sit down.

The man’s face does something -- he can’t tell what. “Where am I?”

Wei Ying blinks at him. “My room,” he answers. “Can you…?” he lurches forward. The man looks momentarily alarmed and steps to the side. Wei Ying falls onto the bed behind him, wondering if the new position will stop the room from spinning. Maybe closing his eyes will help.

“Are you going to murder me?” 

“...I am not.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying says. “I’m going to sleep. You can … I don’t know. See yourself out? Or not. Just, I can’t deal with this right now.”

There’s a long silence. Wei Ying risks opening an eye to look at the man, and the room spins again. 

“Mm,” the man hums. Wei Ying chooses to interpret this as permission to sleep.

“Don’t kill my brother either,” he says, and passes out.

--------

Wei Ying can feel the hangover before he’s even fully awake. His mouth is sticky, and there’s a knife of pain in the center of his head. The world begins to take shape around him, and he urgently needs to pee.

He groans in protest against his own bladder. The sound jostles the knife in his head. Okay, no sound, then. Quiet, only quiet.

He sits up as gently as possible, pulling off his blankets before finally risking opening his eyes to daylight. He squints in the brightness, bringing his feet to the floor and standing carefully. The room does not spin, and that, at least, is a relief. He’s woken up drunk before, and it’s not an experience he wants to repeat.

He begins to pad out of his room towards the bathroom, when he sees it. Something bright white and very still. No, not something. Some one . The man, seated in lotus pose, still as a statue, white marble, watching him. If it weren’t for the warmth and life in his eyes, Wei Ying might have thought him a piece of art.

“Um,” he says. 

The man does not move.

He considers. The man had kept to his word and hadn’t murdered Wei Ying in his sleep. Judging by the pristine quality of his robes, Wei Ying doesn’t think he murdered Jiang Cheng either. “I need to pee,” he says, and walks out of the room.

He returns a couple of minutes later, bladder empty, with a glass of water. He walks over to his bed and sits down, opening the side table and pulling out a bottle of aspirin. He swallows down a few tablets and finishes the glass of water before turning back to the man.

“Okay,” he says. “Who are you?”

“Lan Wangji.”

“Hi, Lan Wangji. What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

The small crease is back. “I do not know.”

Wei Ying laughs, which is a bad idea. He might have split his head open, if the pain is anything to go by. “That makes two of us. But, it’s my room. So … guess?”

Lan Wangji pauses, considering. “I was travelling. I opened the door to my room at the inn. But when I entered, I was here.”

“That’s … crazy. You know that’s crazy, right?”

His mouth thins. 

“Did you take anything before? No judgments here, just … any drugs? Alcohol? Drink something someone handed to you?”

“I do not drink,” Lan Wangji says, voice icy.

“Right,” Wei Ying says. “Of course.” Then, because he can’t help himself, “What are you wearing?”

“Clothes.”

Wei Ying laughs again. Shit, that hurts. But, despite the absurdity of the situation -- the potential danger of the situation -- Wei Ying can’t help but find the man’s taciturn nature, his stilted manner of speaking, his upright posture, and his clipped responses funny. “If those are clothes, then what am I wearing?”

The man’s eyes move over Wei Ying’s outfit -- the tank top and shredded cutoffs he’d fallen asleep in -- and then looks away quickly, his ears burning red. “Underwear.”

Fuck, he’s laughing again. “Oh, I’m definitely not wearing underwear,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. He is. Wearing underwear, that is. He’s in denim, and he’s not exactly a fan of chafing. But still. The man is really, really good-looking, and Wei Ying can’t help who he is.

“Wei Ying! Is someone in there with you? I swear to god, if you brought someone home again, I’m throwing you in the ocean!”

Jiang Cheng is alive then. Good. Although, it’d be better if he stopped with all the yelling. Wei Ying flinches. “No, no, I didn’t bring anyone home, didi! Don’t worry, your apartment remains unsullied. No one will ever have sex here!”

“I’m not your didi!” Jiang Cheng snaps back. “And I have sex!”

“It’s not sex if you’re alone!”

“Shut up! Idiot!”

Wei Ying smiles at a job well done, and turns back to see Lan Wangji staring at him, eyes intense on his face. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, and the man’s gaze slips away.

“So, that’s my brother,” he says. “Thanks for not killing him and all. But, as you heard, I’m not really supposed to have people over. So maybe we could … uh … leave discreetly? Are you hungry? We can grab some breakfast and figure out -- whatever is happening right now. Oh, I’m Wei Ying, by the way. I’m a student at the university.”

Lan Wangji looks overwhelmed at having so many words directed at him at once. It’s a reaction Wei Ying is used to. “Come on,” he plows on. “You can borrow some of my clothes. There’s no way we’re going to be able to sneak you out looking like that. I think I have something that can fit you. Come here a moment, let me see.”

Lan Wangji, caught in the tidal wave of Wei Ying, stands. 

“ Fuck you’re big. Jesus christ, okay. We’re about the same height, at least. My gym clothes should fit okay, they’re a little baggy and stretchy, anyway.”

He reaches into the pile of clothes at the bottom of his closet and pulls out a pair of red sweatpants and a black band shirt with “Garbage” splashed across the front. 

“You change into that. I’ll, uh, wait outside. Holler when you’re done.”

Lan Wangji accepts the change of clothes, his eyes following Wei Ying as he lopes out of the room. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji’s deep voice calls from the bedroom a few minutes later. Wei Ying peeks in and swallows hard against the spike of arousal that shoots through him. Lan Wangji is standing there, wearing Wei Ying’s clothes, and Wei Ying is jealous that he isn’t a t-shirt. Wei Ying had been right -- Lan Wangji is big . It is even more obvious now -- without the layers of billowing robes, Lan Wangji’s actual physique is now visible, and holy shit. The band shirt, which is loose on Wei Ying, is straining across the man’s chest. The sleeves stretch with the bulge of his biceps. And the pants … the less Wei Ying looks at or thinks about the way Lan Wangji fills out the sweatpants, the better. "What's with the ribbon?" he asks, indicating the white ribbon with a faint cloud pattern tied around the man's forehead. "Doesn't really go with the outfit. Here," he reaches out for it. Faster than he can process, Lan Wangji's hand flies up, grabbing his wrist in a crushing grip.

"Do not touch it," Lan Wangji says, his voice steady as he loosens his grip on Wei Ying's wrist, not yet letting go.

"Okay, right, no touching the ribbon, got it!"

He releases him, and Wei Ying yanks his hand back, rubbing his sore wrist. He wants to say something, to scold Lan Wangji or make him feel bad, except ... well. Wei Ying had tried to touch him without permission. Not really cool. He swallows the pettiness. “Ready to go?" Wei Ying asks.

Lan Wangji nods, and starts walking towards him. 

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Wei Ying says, throwing his hands up to stop him. “You can’t bring the sword.”

Lan Wangji stops, tension crackling through his otherwise placid expression. “It comes with me.”

Wei Ying huffs. “Dude, Lan Wangji, you can’t just carry around a sword. Do you want to get arrested? Look, it’ll be safe here. Just leave it.”

“No.”

They stare at each other. Unsurprisingly, Wei Ying breaks the silence first. “Fine!” he throws his hands up in frustration. “Do you have anyway to make it less, I don’t know, obvious that you’re walking around with a potential murder weapon?”

He thinks Lan Wangji is going to protest, but after just a brief hesitation, he reaches into the pocket of the sweatpants and pulls out a small, blue silk bag. He opens it and makes as though he is going to stash the sword inside.

Wei Ying laughs in surprise. “My dude, I don’t think I’ve ever said this before, but that is definitely not going to fit--”

The sword slides into the bag and disappears.

Wei Ying gapes, staring between the bag and Lan Wangji, who looks nearly smug. “What the fuck?”

--------

Sneaking Lan Wangji out of the apartment isn’t as complicated as Wei Ying had feared. Jiang Cheng is spread out on the couch, arm draped over his eyes, clearly lost to the world for his hangover. In addition, Lan Wangji is completely silent as he walks past Jiang Cheng, following Wei Ying out the door.

“I’m going to grab breakfast, didi! Do you want anything?” Wei Ying yells after Lan Wangji is out of the apartment. 

“Nobody cares, asshole!” Jiang Cheng shoots back. “Breakfast burrito.”

“Say please.”

“Fuck you!”

Wei Ying chuckles and notes, gratefully, that the aspirin seems to have kicked in, his headache dulled to background noise.

“Ever been to Sunrise Cafe?” Wei Ying asks. “No, stupid question. Of course not, you’ve never been here before, right? It’s great, it’s like $5 for a whole day’s worth of food. A student’s dream, really. It’s just a few blocks away, you good with walking? Are the shoes okay?”

Lan Wangji is wearing a pair of Wei Ying’s shower shoes -- the only thing that they could find to fit him -- and they’re not really suited to walking.

“It is fine,” Lan Wangji says. 

“Good, good!” Wei Ying says, walking backwards as he leads the way, well-practiced from all of the pre-frosh tours he’s given. It’s not necessary, of course, but it allows him to keep looking at Lan Wangji, so it’s worth it.

They arrive at the diner and are seated in a small, two-seater booth by a grumpy looking waitress, who hands over a pair of grubby menus. Lan Wangji accepts his and looks down at it with a confused expression. 

“It’s all pretty standard breakfast fare,” Wei Ying says, “bacon, eggs, pancakes.”

Lan Wangji continues to look confused, and Wei Ying realizes. “Lan Wangji, do you not speak English?”

His eyebrows crease slightly. “No.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says. “Gotcha, I can order for us. Any dietary restrictions? Allergies? Vegetarian?”

“I do not eat meat.”

“What about eggs?”

“That is fine.”

The waitress walks up and Wei Ying places an order for them both. “What to drink?” she asks, popping her gum.

“Lan Wangji, do you want coffee? Tea?”

“Tea.”

They sit and wait for the food to arrive, Wei Ying chattering at the silent wall of Lan Wangji. He has so many questions to ask, but he feels strongly that he needs to get a good amount of caffeine circulating before he can start any of that conversation.

Their food arrives quickly, just as Wei Ying finishes his first mug of coffee. “Thank you!” Wei Ying chimes excitedly. 

Lan Wangji is looking at the plate of food skeptically. “Ever had chilaquiles before?” Wei Ying asks, correctly interpreting the man’s expression. 

“No.”

“It’s good!” he says, stabbing a soggy chip with his fork. "It's the best hangover food, for real. I'm pretty sure there's literally not anything remotely authentic about it, but still. Chips. Eggs. Cheese. Salsa. What's not to love, you know? I come here pretty much every weekend, it's the best. Alice there -- that's the waitress -- knows to keep the coffee coming. Right, Alice?"

She tops off his coffee without speaking, and he beams at her.

"These family owned spots are the best. Can you imagine paying three times as much for something half as good at some chain restaurant? People are always afraid to try the greasy spoons, but they're missing out. But it does mean there's never a wait! Not mad about that, you know? How's your food, Lan Wangji?"

Lan Wangji has not taken a bite yet, even as Wei Ying had plowed through half his plate while maintaining his one sided conversation. "What's wrong? Not hungry? Cat got your tongue?"

"No talking while eating."

Wei Ying's goggles at him, and then bursts into laughter. "Oh my god. Are you serious? Alright, you don't have to talk, but we're in my world now, and there's definitely talking while eating. Speaking of … we should probably talk about that. Where you're from. Whatever that was with your … sword … earlier." He stops his voice to a whisper at the word "sword". "Because that is definitely not something that should be possible. It is, in fact, impossible. So yeah. We need to talk about that."

Lan Wangji picks up his fork and gives him a look.

"Later," Wei Ying amends. "After food. No talking while eating."

Lan Wangji nods, and brings a forkful of chilaquiles to his mouth.

As soon as he takes a bite, his eyes fly open, wide with shock. "Good, right? They make their own salsa, I helped them source the peppers. My adopted parents own some farms, and I helped cultivate a new type of hot pepper. It’s a hobby of mine. I call the one they use here 'Demonic Cultivation'. Whoa!"

Lan Wangji's face is very red. He begins coughing, his eyes watering, and Wei Ying flags the waitress over for a glass of water. "Oh shit, sorry, Lan Wangji. I didn't know you couldn't do spicy. It's not really that hot, though. Demonic Cultivation is only, like, the fourth hottest pepper I’ve made. Stygian Tiger is, like, five times higher on the scoville rating."

"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji says, his voice a little raspy. It sends pleasant shivers down his spine. He waits to see if he's going to say anything else, but it seems that was all.

"Let me get you something else," Wei Ying says. "Oatmeal? Oatmeal seems safe."

--------

Breakfast finished, Wei Ying takes a sip of his coffee and looks across the table at Lan Wangji. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. So. Explain?”

Lan Wangji looks back at him, hands folded in his lap, long since having given up on the bitter, over steeped diner tea. “What should I explain?”

“Everything?” Wei Ying nearly yells. “You show up in my room, dressed like you’re from -- from some travelling theater troupe or something. You have a sword . And then you like --” he mimes something complicated and incomprehensible with his hands -- “violate all of the laws of physics!”

“I do not understand.”

“You put a three foot sword in a bag the size of a coin purse. Is it, like, the Tardis or something?”

Lan Wangji says nothing. Which is fair.

“You know?” Wei Ying prompts. “Bigger of the inside?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? What do you mean yes? Yes, it is bigger on the inside?”

“Yes.”

Wei Ying throws his hands in the air. “That makes no sense! How? It’s like, a magic trick or something, right? Can you show me?”

“No.”

Wei Ying pouts at him. “Lan Wangji, come on! You’ve got to show me! I’m buying you breakfast and everything. You slept in my room! Aren’t I being a good host? What am I gonna do if you show me? Look at me! I’m harmless. I won’t tell anyone, I just want to see how you did it! Please? Pleeease? How can you be so boring? Come onnn, Lan Wangji! Lan Wangjiiii, please, Wangji, Lan-gege--”

Wei Ying is just warming up. He has so much more range for whining. But he suddenly finds that, he can’t. He can’t open his mouth, as though his lips have been sealed together. He turns panicked eyes on Lan Wangji, who is giving him a strange, conflicted look. 

Holy shit. Holy shit, what is happening? Did Lan Wangji just … just seal his lips closed to shut him up?

It should be terrifying. Terrifying, and confusing, and offensive.

Except, Wei Ying finds he isn’t scared. He is somehow, inexplicably, incredibly turned on. He’s worried it might show on his face a little, because Lan Wangji’s ears start to turn red. 

“You done here?” Alice asks.

Wei Ying looks at her, and then at Lan Wangji. He nods his head toward her. Lan Wangji seems to understand. He makes a small movement with his wrist, and Wei Ying’s lips pop open with a wet smack . 

“Yes, done,” he says to her. “Check, please? And a box.”

--------

“So,” Wei Ying says as they begin a meandering tour around town. “You’re … what, a wizard?”

Lan Wangji is walking stiffly next to him, hands clasped behind his back. But Wei Ying can see his eyes darting around, resting on the traffic lights. A bike rack. His hand flies towards his pocket when an ambulance suddenly speeds past them, siren blaring, and Wei Ying grabs his wrist before her can do something stupid, like unsheath a sword in the middle of First Street.

“I am a cultivator,” he replies.

“A … cultivator,” Wei Ying repeats. “So, a wizard.”

Lan Wangji scowls at him. “I am not a wizard.”

“Sure, sure,” Wei Ying concedes. “So. I take it most of this,” he waves vaguely at their surroundings, “is new to you.”

Lan Wangji pauses before responding. Wei Ying has come to recognize this is a habit of his. Carefully considering his words before he speaks. “I am unfamiliar with many things I have seen.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Wei Ying says with amusement. “Electricity. Cars. Normal clothes.”

“My clothes are normal.”

“Those robes back in my room? My dude, those are, like, some anime Emperor cosplay shit.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says.

“So, why are you here? How do you get back to … wherever you’re from?”

“Cloud Recesses.”

“What?” 

“I am from Cloud Recesses. In Gusu.”

Wei Ying frowns. “Never heard of it,” he says. “But I don’t know lots of things. And my memory’s shit. We can hit the library, maybe? See if we can find anything.”

At the mention of “library”, Wei Ying notices Lan Wangji perk up, his posture somehow much more interested now. Oh no, Lan Wangji is a nerd . That’s too cute. He tries not to laugh.

“Where is Wei Ying from?”

“Me?” Wei Ying asks, surprised at Lan Wangji asking him a question. “I’m originally from China. I know, not specific. I don’t really know more than that, though. My parents died when I was young, and I was adopted by an American family. Except. Well. They ended up deciding they didn’t want me. I was passed around foster families in the system until Uncle Fengmian and Madam Yu found me. Uncle Fengmian was friends with my dad, apparently, long before I was born. Anyway, they live in Minneapolis. That’s a city, about 40 minutes north of here. I live here with Jiang Cheng. Um. Here is … in Minnesota? In America? Does any of that make sense to you?”

“No,” he pauses. “I am sorry about your parents.”

Wei Ying was not expecting that, and stumbles a little before catching himself. “Oh. No, don’t be. I hardly even remember them, it’s not like I’m traumatized or anything!” Wei Ying laughs dismissively. Lan Wangji’s brows crease a little.

“One does not need memories to understand the loss.”

Wei Ying stops laughing. Lan Wangji’s voice is as even as ever, but he doesn’t think he’s imagining the sadness there. “No,” he says. “No, you’re right.”

They continue walking for a bit in silence. “Hey, what do you say we head back toward campus?” Wei Ying says at length. “Let’s hit the library and see if we can’t figure out what the fuck is going on.”

--------

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, staring at the large brick building before them. “Is this the library?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says. “One of them. A few of the departments have their own smaller, specialized collections. But this is the general one. If we can’t find answers here, maybe we can check … I don’t know. The history building?”

He jogs up the steps and beckons Lan Wangji forward. “Come on, slowpoke!”

Lan Wangji follows, walking deliberately. “Do not run.”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “Who are you, the law? Hurry up!” He grabs Lan Wangji’s arm and drags him into the building.

He finds a free computer, and pulls up a chair beside him for Lan Wangji to sit in. “Alright. Let’s see what we can find. What can you tell me about Gusu?”

“It is on the coast. There are many bridges over waterways throughout the city. It is mild in the summer. The winters are snowy, but not too long. It is east of Yunmeng. South of Lanling.”

It is the most words Wei Ying has heard Lan Wangji speak at once, and he nearly forgets to pay attention, caught up instead in the sound of his voice.. “Okay,” he says, typing rapidly. “Let’s see what we can find.”

What they find is … nothing. He can’t find any record of any of these places Lan Wangji named. He frowns. “It’s not pulling anything up.”

“Mm.”

“Here’s let’s try something else.” He pulls up a world map. “Okay, So we’re here,” he says, jabbing a finger at the approximate location of Minnesota. “And China is here,” he points at China, and zooms in. “Okay. Coastal. Lots of lakes, sounds like? Inlets? I mean, China’s pretty big, Lan Wangji. Does any of this map make any sense to you? Can you, like, point to Gusu?”

Lan Wangji’s frown is back. He considers the map for a long moment, before tentatively pointing to approximately where Shanghai is. 

“Okay,” Wei Ying says. “I … I don’t actually know how that helps to know.” He laughs. “It’s not like we can just pop over to Shanghai to check it out. It’s, like, six thousand miles away, or something. And I can’t afford a ticket. I don’t suppose you have any money?”

“I have money.”

Lan Wangji reaches into his pocket and pulls out the blue bag. “Lan Wangji!” Wei Ying hisses, grabbing his hand. “No swords!”

Lan Wangji raises an eyebrow at him, and shakes his hand free. He opens the bag, reaches in, and pulls out another bag. It looks very full and heavy. 

“Is that, like, filled with gold dubloons or something?”

In response, Lan Wangji opens the bag, and takes out a few round copper coins, a square hole punched through the middle, with elegant calligraphy etched on the face. “Oh shit,” Wei Ying says, breathing in sharply. “Okay. That looks. Um. Like a lot. You definitely can’t go spending that on eggs and coffee. Or plane tickets, for that matter.”

He sighs. He’s not sure what to do next. Lan Wangji is watching him expectantly. “Let’s just … let’s go back home. To my place, I mean. I think this is just too much for one day. You can stay with me for now, okay? We’ll just have to keep you out of sight from Jiang Cheng until we figure something out.”

He drops his head onto his arm on the desk and allows himself an indulgent, muffled, wordless yell into his sleeve.

“Shh!” someone hisses at him. 

He takes a deep breath and lifts his head. Lan Wangji is watching him.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

--------

“A-Cheng? Didi, are you home?” Wei Ying calls as he opens the door. There is no response, which means that, blessedly, Jiang Cheng must be out. There’s no way he wouldn’t have something to say about Wei Ying addressing him that way. 

“Come in,” he says to Lan Wangji, waving him inside. “He’s out. We can hang a bit before we have to hole up in the bedroom.”

He walks over to the couch and flops down onto it dramatically. Lan Wangji walks over and hovers over him. “Sit down!” Wei Ying laughs, taking his wrist and pulling him down onto the couch. “Relax a little! My back hurts just watching you, doesn’t it get tiring standing like that all the time?”

“No.”

“Well, relaxing still feels better,” he says, righting himself so he’s sitting next to Lan Wangji instead of nearly laying on him. “Do you want to play a game?”

Lan Wangji blinks at him. “I do not play.”

Wei Ying breaks into a wide smile. “Oh, well we can fix that.” He pops up to his feet and walks over and turns on the console. “How do you feel about saving the world from hordes of the undead?”

--------

“Holy shit, Lan Wangji, how the fuck are you so good at this?” Wei Ying cries as Lan Wangji’s character delivers a devastating combo attack, saving Wei Ying from imminent death. “With your help, I might finall beat the fucking game.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says dispassionately. 

“I’m serious!” Wei Ying yells as he makes a challenging headshot. “Shit, man. Handsome and good at video games? Marry me! Think about it. Our kids would be so cute.”

Lan Wangji’s character misses an easy shot, and Wei Ying pulls off the zombie that starts chomping on him and finishes it off. “Ridiculous.”

Wei Ying looks away from the screen and sees that blush in Lan Wangji’s ears, now spreading down the back of the neck. Interesting .

“Lan Wangji, are you saying I wouldn’t be a good wife?” Wei Ying teases. “I’m hurt! Wounded! I’d be the best wife! I’d honor you every day. Keep you nice and fed, raise such cute polite children, warm your bed -- hey!”

Lan Wangji drops the controller and rises to his feet. “I will take a bath before bed.”

Wei Ying blinks at him. “Sure,” he says, “but it’s only, like, 7:30? Kinda early to be thinking about bed?”

“I will bathe, and then I will meditate before bed at 9.”

“Oh … kay. Well, let me grab you a towel and show you the bathroom. Do you … know how to use a shower?”

It is Lan Wangji’s turn to blink. Wei Ying tosses his controller down next to Lan Wangji’s and stands. “Alright, I’ll show you. Probably best to get you tucked away in bed soon anway. It’s Saturday, so Jiang Cheng might be out late, but he’s not exactly … you know. Popular. Good with people. So, who knows.”

He leads Lan Wangji to the shower, grabbing a towel from the linen closet on the way. He demonstrates how to use the tap and turn on the shower. Lan Wangji simply nods at him when he asks if he understands how to use it, and then Wei Ying makes himself scarce.

He lies on his bed, the sounds of the water loud through the wall, trying very hard not to think about it. About anything, really, but especially not about Lan Wangji showering. But it has been a weird, difficult day and he doesn’t have a lot of energy left to control where his thoughts drift.

He hears the squeak of the tap turning, the water going silent, and the clinking of the shower curtain being pulled back. A few minutes later, the door opens and he looks up. “Lan Wangji, did you need a toothbru--”

He loses his train of thought. Lan Wangji is standing in the doorway, wet hair spread around his shoulders, trailing down the front of his naked chest. A few water drops break loose from the strands, carving a path down his abdomen to wear the towel is wrapped around his hips. 

It takes Wei Ying an embarrassingly long time to realize he is staring. He whips his eyes back up to Lan Wangji’s face. The man is definitely blushing. That is … not better. Wei Ying looks away. “I forgot to give you pajamas, huh? Sorry! I have some here. Um. None of the shirts are going to fit. That was my biggest t-shirt you had on today. Anything else is probably going to be uncomfortable. I have lots of sweatpants though, which should be … fine.” He is not going to think about how Lan Wangji looked in Wei Ying’s sweatpants. He is not going to think about it. He didn’t even notice. “Is … that okay? I mean, I don’t have an alternative if it isn’t. Jiang Cheng is a bit broader than me, we could see if he has anything that fits? But he’s shorter too, I’m not really that sure how it works. I’m happy to go steal some of his shit, though, if that would make you more comfortable--”

“The pants are fine,” Lan Wangji says. 

“Right,” Wei Ying swallows. “Right. You can definitely sleep shirtless. In … my bed. No problem.”

He hands the sweatpants over to Lan Wangji. “Okay. Well. Happy meditating? Sleep well?”

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying is not looking at him. He can’t look at him until Lan Wangji puts on some damn pants. “Yeah?”

“I can sleep on the floor.”

“What?!” Wei Ying whips his head back to look at Lan Wangji. No, mistake. He looks up at the ceiling instead, and feels the muscle in his neck seize up painfully at the sudden change in course. “Lan Wangji, you can’t sleep on the floor. It gets cold at night, plus it’s uncomfortable. We can … share the bed. It’s not like I haven’t shared it before!”

He laughs. Of course, those other times he’d shared his bed had been in a very different context than this. He definitely hadn’t ever shared his bed with a … a … a time-travelling wizard. A ridiculously hot time-travelling wizard.

“Don’t worry about me! Do your thing. I go to bed pretty late, so you’ll probably want the side by the wall so I don’t disturb you, okay?”

Lan Wangji hums, and Wei Ying slips past him out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. 

--------

Wei Ying stays up late usually. Tonight, he stays up late even for himself. Jiang Cheng stumbles into the apartment around 2am, having spent the evening at some official Chinese Student Union sanctioned event. Wei Ying wouldn’t have gone even if he hadn’t been busy babysitting his … visitor. He hates the official events. Even the free booze isn’t enticing enough to convince him to hobnob with the shitty elitist douchebags who frequent those parties.. 

Jiang Cheng barely even yells at him before falling into his room, which is evidence enough of how drunk and tired he must be. Wei Ying feels the sleep heavy on his own eyes, but the prospect of Lan Wangji, asleep in his bed, is too much. He pushes it down, forcing himself to play another round.

He makes it until 4:30am. A few precocious birds are beginning to sing outside by the time he finally gives up and heads to bed. 

He drags on his pajamas and approaches the bed tentatively. Lan Wangji is sleeping on his back. Completely still, arms crossed on his chest, as though he’s a vampire or something. That’s extremely funny to Wei Ying’s tired brain, and he starts giggling until a yawn overtakes him.

He pulls back the corner of the blanket and slips into bed next to Lan Wangji, trying very hard not to touch the sleeping man. 

The man’s profile is silhouetted in the moonlight streaming in through the window. 

He rolls onto his other side, and falls asleep. 

Chapter Text

Wei Ying is woken up a disgustingly short time after laying down as Lan Wangji rises and exits the bed. He grumbles, smashing his face down into his pillow.

“What the fuck. What time is it?”

“It is morning,” Lan Wangji answers.

Wei Ying extricates himself from his pillow. It is still dark. “No. No, this is not morning. In this world, the sun comes up in the morning.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t reply. He has moved to the middle of the room, pushing aside Wei Ying’s carefully-arranged piles -- okay, not so carefully, but he knows where things are in those piles! he has a system! -- and clears a space.

“What are you doing now?” Wei Ying says, too tired to open his mouth enough to actually enunciate any of the words. Lan Wangji seems to understand him anyway.

“I am exercising.”

“Huh?” Wei Ying says, as Lan Wangji suddenly tips forward onto his hands. Wei Ying’s brain fritzes out. The man is … is doing a perfect handstand. Hair cascading to the floor, shoulders rippling. The drawstring of the sweatpants dangling against the flexed muscles of his stomach.

“No,” Wei Ying says to himself, rolling away from the sight. “Too early.”

He can’t be expected to process that with his synapses firing through the syrup of his over-tired mind. He can’t be responsible for how his body reacts when his brain isn’t on call to shut it down. “I’m going back to sleep. Don’t … don’t leave the room, okay?”

--------

Wei Ying wakes for a second time, this time to the sound of his phone alarm. He grabs for it blindly, grumbling as he dismisses the alarm, wishing more than anything that he could just stay in bed all day.

He slowly begins to pull himself out of bed, groaning the whole way. He slithers out of the covers onto the floor, then flops dramatically onto his back, limbs spread eagled. 

“Wei Ying?”

“Shh shh shh, no talky.”

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying turns his head towards Lan Wangji with a pout. “Lan Wangji, so talkative this morning. Missing me? Just give me five … no, ten minutes, and then I’ll be ready to shower you with all the attention you deserve.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t react to the teasing, but he is looking deliberately away from Wei Ying. Wei Ying lifts his head to look down at himself, wondering if he’s missed something. No, he’s not naked. His shirt has ridden up around his ribs, but seeing as how Lan Wangji is topless he doesn’t think showing a little belly skin should be a problem.

He sits up with a yawn, stretching his arms overhead. “Okay, okay. You’re right, let’s seize the day. Carpe diem, or whatever. I’ve got a lot on the schedule. Did you … did you want to join me, or are you gonna shore up here for the day?”

Lan Wangji considers, his eyes back on him. “Whatever Wei Ying wants.”

Wei Ying swallows. Lan Wangji definitely shouldn’t be saying things like that when he’s half naked and in Wei Ying’s room. “Cool, cool,” Wei Ying croaks. “You can come with me then. It’ll be boring to stay here all day, and Jiang Cheng will probably be a dick. It’s not his fault, he can’t help it. Plus, we don’t know how long we’re going to be here, and I have one shirt that fits you -- and that’s if we’re being generous with the word ‘fit’, you know? So. Yeah. Clothes. We should figure out your clothing situation. And your living situation. And money situation.”

Wei Ying suddenly falls back into his splayed position on the floor, overwhelmed with the whole thing. “Clothes,” he says resolutely. “Clothes first.”

--------

With Lan Wangji dressed in the same t-shirt from yesterday and Wei Ying’s last pair of clean sweatpants, they pair head out to start the day. Wei Ying swings them by the student union first, grabbing a carton of chocolate milk and coffee for himself, and helping Lan Wangji select a pre-bottled green smoothie that Wei Ying is pretty sure is disgusting. 

They walk and eat, Wei Ying finding that the morning feels more enjoyable and less oppressive with Lan Wangji’s company. 

They arrive at Southfield Palliative Care and Hospice House slightly early. The receptionist looks up in surprise when she sees Wei Ying, blinking at him as though she thinks she might be seeing things. “Rosa!” Wei Ying calls happily, skipping up to the desk. “Good morning! I’ve brought a friend.”

“I see that,” the woman says, grinning in a knowing way as her eyes drape over Lan Wangji. “You seem in high spirits today. Have a good night?”

Wei Ying wills himself not to blush. “Oh, you know,” he says evasively. “This is Lan Wangji. He doesn’t speak English, but I figured there’s probably something we could find for him to do?”

“Sure,” Rosa says, reaching down and pulling a small stack of papers out of the drawer to her side. “Help him fill out the volunteer forms, and we can put him to work. Always happy to have more hands around here. Especially such competent looking hands.” She winks at him. Wei Ying giggles, a little too loudly.

He leads Lan Wangji over to a pair of plastic seats in the waiting area, and takes him through the form. “I’ve been volunteering here for the past couple of years,” Wei Ying explains. “They do good work here. Provide care to families that otherwise couldn’t afford it. But that means that they really can use more help from volunteers, so it’s kinda great that you’re here to help. Some of it will be menial tasks, but a lot of it is just providing some comfort. We’re here to work with the residents of the hospice house, although I go on calls with the nurses to palliative care patients’ homes when they really need me. Okay, so, skills. Well, you can definitely lift more than 40 lbs,” Wei Ying thinks back to Lan Wangji’s bare torso and then abruptly tries not to think about it. “Let’s see. Well, I assume you don’t speak Spanish? No, right. Okay. Um, you’ll probably just be doing random errands then. Unless. Play any instruments? Piano? They’ve got on in the residential area, although it’s pretty beat up.”

“Guqin.”

“Really?” Wei Ying says, looking up at him in surprise. “Wow. I don’t know why I’m shocked. It just seems unfair. Lan Wangji, you make the rest of us mortals look bad. I’ll mark it down for you. They have a whole course on Chinese Musical Instruments, so I bet there’s a guqin we could borrow. Maybe we can bring it next time. The residents really enjoy music, I bring my dizi and play for them sometimes, even though I’m not very good--”

“We do not need to borrow one.”

Wei Ying stops. “Huh?”

“I have it with me.”

“What? Where?” Wei Ying asks, brows furrowing, before he remembers. “Wait. You have a guqin in your magical bag of holding? Jesus. Of course you do. Well,” he taps the pen on his lip, thinking. “Maybe you could step outside to ‘fetch’ it, you know, unseen? Would you mind playing for them?”

“I do not mind.”

“Great! I’ll go tell Rosa you’ve gone to fetch it. Why don’t you step outside, come back in, maybe, 10 minutes?”

--------

"Where did you find him?"

Granny Wen is at his side, a sly smile crinkling through the deep lines of her face. They watch Lan Wangji, who sits at his guqin, hands flowing like water across the strings. The song is unlike anything Wei Ying has ever heard. It isn't so much a melody as it is sensation made into song. Like fingers combing through your hair, the hum of a lullaby, a cool shower on a hot day. Wei Ying thinks he can feel the most parched, cracked regions of his soul dug up into fresh turned earth, watered soft and dark and ready. 

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he says, voice hushed and awed.

She laughs, patting his shoulder with one of her strong hands. "Well wherever he came from, hold onto that one."

"Yeah," Wei Ying says without thinking.

"I'm making some dumplings. Come help me? These fingers aren't as quick as they used to be."

“Popo, you forget I’ve seen you play cards. I know exactly how quick your hands can be.”

“Accusing an old woman of cheating? The cheek!” she chuckles and flicks his ear. “Come on, impertinent boy. Help me cook.”

Wei Ying smiles and follows her to the kitchen. Granny Wen is one of his favorites. He truly cares for all the residents, and would do anything for any of them. But he’s got a soft spot for Granny Wen, one troublemaker to another. 

So he spends the next couple hours pleating dumplings, receiving explicit instruction from an unflappable Granny Wen on how to snag a man (embarrassing) and how to keep one (mortifying). 

“Nothing wrong with getting a little frisky in public. Makes a man feel good, to think he drives you to be a little wild. Back when my husband was around, we used to go to the theater and --”

“Popo, what are you teaching Wei Ying?”

“Wen Qing!” Wei Ying cries in relief. He doesn’t know if he could’ve handled hearing exactly what Granny Wen and her late-husband got up to in movie theaters. As-is, he’s not sure he’s ever going to full recover from the amount of blushing he’s done in the last hour. He’s probably going to be red forever.

“Oh, just passing on a little wisdom,” Granny Wen says with a laugh. “Have you seen our guest?”

Wen Qing raises her eyebrows. “I have,” she says. “He’s with you?” She’s looking at Wei Ying with that sharp look she gets when she’s being much, much too observant.

“Yeah,” he says, concentrating on the dumpling in his hands, determined not to let her see anything on his face -- not even entirely sure what he’s trying to hide. Is there a facial expression for ‘I’m platonically sharing a bed with a time-travelling wizard’?

“I see,” Wen Qing says and, holy shit, is there a facial expression for ‘I’m platonically sharing a bed with a time-travelling wizard’? “So who is he?”

“Lan Wangji,” Wei Ying answer. “He’s a friend.”

Wen Qing scoffs. “You have friends?”

“Excuse you!” Wei Ying says, fixing wide, hurt eyes on her. “Wen Qing! You wound me! Of course I have friends. I’m very lovable!”

She snorts.

“Rude,” he mutters. “I have lots of friends. You’re my friends, aren’t you? Wen Ning is my friend.”

“I don’t think two counts as a lot, hon,” she says, patting his shoulder sympathetically. 

“It does when they’re so great. The best people. Quality over quantity.”

At this, Wen Qing smiles, and Wei Ying laughs in triumph. “See? You agree. Speaking of the best people, how’s Wen Ning? A-Yuan?”

Wen Qing frowns, and Wei Ying’s stomach drops a little. “Wen Ning is having a bad day.”

“Oh. Is there anything I can do to help?”

She shakes her head, a mirthless smile curling her mouth. “Not unless you’ve got a spare set of healthy lungs lying around?”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he says darkly, his heart squeezing. 

“You’re still coming by tonight, right? A-Yuan has been asking about you. And you know Wen Ning would love to see you.”

“I’ll be there,” Wei Ying agrees immediately. “Only -- ah.” His eyes flick towards the door. Wen Qing follows his gaze. 

“Bring him,” she says decisively. “I want to meet the ‘friend’ of yours, anyway.”

“Ominous,” he says lightly. “Okay. We’ll be there. Want to do dinner? I’ll cook!”

“I already said Wen Ning is having a bad day, and you want to make it worse?”

“Qing-jie! I’m a great cook!”

“No,” she says flatly. 

Granny Wen cackles. “Why don’t you take some dumplings? We’ve made more than enough.”

“Popo, you’re the best!” Wei Ying cries, hopping to his feet and planting a kiss on her cheek. 

“I’m going to go talk to the billing team,” Wen Qing says. “It was good to see you, Popo. See you later, Wei Ying. I look forward to meeting your friend.”

She briskly walks out of the room. “I hope your friend is ready for that one,” Granny Wen comments, sounding delighted. 

“Me too.”

--------

“Ready to go, Lan Wangji?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says. He’s holding the guqin, and has just managed to extricate himself from the group of residents who had crowded to compliment and thank him.

“You coming back?” Rosa asks. “It’d be great if you did. They clearly loved you.”

Lan Wangji looks at Wei Ying, who shrugs. “She wants to know if you’ll come back. I come every week,” he says. 

“I will join for as long as I am staying with you,” Lan Wangji says. “I enjoyed playing for them.”

Wei Ying smiles radiantly at him. “He says he’ll be back. We’ve gotta run, got some errands to run. See you next week, Rosa!”

“Alright,” Wei Ying says as they’re back outside, starting the walk back towards the main thoroughfare of the town. “It’s time to go shopping. We need to get you some clothes. Then we can head home and we can change before heading over to visit Wen Ning.”

“Who is Wen Ning?”

“Oh, he’s a friend of mine. I hope you don’t mind, I’m heading over for dinner tonight. Wen Qing, his sister, invited us. You don’t have to go if you don’t want, but it’ll be fun.”

“I will go,” Lan Wangji agrees.

“Great! They’ll be so happy to meet you. Well, Wen Ning and a-Yuan will be. Wen Qing will probably grill you, but she does it out of love. Just … you know. Be ready for that.”

They continue on for a while, Wei Ying telling stories about the Wens, Lan Wangji listening mutely, until they arrive outside a large, rundown warehouse emblazoned with a bold lit up sign reading “THRIFT STORE AND SECONDHAND OUTLET”. 

They walk in together, the harsh fluorescent lights hissing overhead. Wei Ying navigates the long rows of racks with familiar ease. “I’m thinking three pairs of pants, probably five shirts, and a pair of all-purpose sneakers. We’ll pick up … you know, underwear, socks, the necessities at the Target. I’m not sure what size you are, so you’ll probably have to try on a lot.”

“Mm.”

“Do you want to look? Any preferences?”

“No.”

“Really? Nothing? Not even a favorite color?”

Lan Wangji pauses. “Blue.”

“Blue it is! I’ll grab some things, but you should look too. I know you’re not, like, familiar with any of our clothes, but it’s not rocket science, right? If you like it, grab it. I’ll make sure you don’t end up looking stupid.”

They leaf through the racks together, Wei Ying grabbing stacks of shirts and pants for Lan Wangji to try on. It’s partially because he needs to select multiple sizes, but it’s mostly because he feels giddy at getting to play dress up with someone like Lan Wangji. He suspects that he’ll look good in anything. Fuck, he’s managing to make Wei Ying’s sweatpants -- the ones he wears to do his hair, spattered in bleach stains -- look like they belong in a fashion spread. 

After he’s pulled enough options that he’s actually struggling to hold it all, he turns to Lan Wangji. “Let’s go grab a dressing room. You find anything?”

Lan Wangji is holding a shirt. He nods, then takes the stack of clothes from Wei Ying -- as if it ways nothing -- and follows him to the changing area.

“Alright, go in there and change. Come out when you’ve got something on and let me see.”

He’s pulls the curtain closed, and walks over to the nearby stock of shoes and begins sifting through to see if he can find any likely candidates for Lan Wangji.

He’s considering a pair of nearly new looking, rainbow patterned converse knockoffs, when he hears the curtain open. “Wei Ying.”

“Got something, Lan Wangji?” he says, turning to look.

His mouth falls open.

Lan Wangji is wearing a pair of white skinny jeans, paired with a baby blue pattern tee. It fits him well, too -- in that, it is tight without being constricting. With his black hair and the white ribbon, he almost looks like he could walk a runway. Which is absurd. He’s only in a t-shirt and jeans. And yet.

Wei Ying walks forward, taking a closer look at the shirt. He blinks at the pattern and feels dizzy. “Bunnies?” he asks.

Lan Wangji makes a noise, that Wei Ying would swear is almost shy. “I like rabbits.”

Fuck. Fuck , that’s illegal. It’s illegal to look like that and say something that cute. This is attempted murder. “I like it,” Wei Ying says stoutly. “Rabbits are … yes. Cute. Definitely good. Here, turn around, let me check the tag to see what size you are. It’ll help us narrow things down, so we don’t have to spend time on stuff we know won’t work.”

Lan Wangji turns as instructed, and Wei Ying reaches up, pushing the sheet of his hair aside, reaching for the tag. His fingers brush the nape of Lan Wangji’s neck, and he feels the man shiver beneath him. 

Fuck.

“Got it,” Wei Ying says, dropping his hands quickly and stepping back. “I’ll. Uh. Check the pants after you. Take them off. I mean, you know. Once you have pants another pair on.”

Lan Wangji nods and walks back into the dressing room. Wei Ying follows quickly and weeds out the shirts that won’t fit. He then leaves Lan Wangji to it, as he attempts to get himself under control. He hasn’t felt this much gay panic since he was thirteen and watched K.will’s Please Don’t music video on Youtube for the first time.

“Hey, Wei Ying! You survived Friday then, huh?”

He turns and sees Mianmian walking up to him, smiling happily. “Didn’t get arrested, I take it?”

“Hey Mianmian! Nope, my criminal record remains squeaky clean.”

She laughs. “All in good time, I’m sure. You just … what, hanging out here? Helping Jiang Cheng pick out clothes?

“No, I wish. He’d never let me. It’s like he took all his fashion cues from Grimace. But I have been informed that ‘hobo twink’ isn’t his aesthetic. Which, honestly, rude. My look is so much more than hobo twink. I have a wide range. I can do everything from goth lumberjack to fairy pirate, and I refuse to be boxed in like that.”

“And today’s look is?”

He raises his arms and spins a little, showing outfit -- ripped black jeans, red cropped tee, and a red and black flannel tied around his waist . “This is just straight up 2007 scenester. Nothing fancy or gay here.”

“There is definitely something gay here,” Mianmian retorts. 

“Takes one to know one.” He sticks his tongue out at her. 

At the moment, Lan Wangji pulls back the curtain again, dressed in a navy polo and some basic blue jeans. He stops when he sees Mianmian. Wei Ying watches as his eyes travel down to her bare legs, and then whip back up to her face, his ears glowing red. 

Oh .

“Mianmian, this is Lan Wangji,” Wei Ying says, switching to Chinese. “I’m helping him pick out a few outfits. Lan Wangji, this is my friend Mianmian. She goes to school with me. She’s a Sports Science major.”

“Hello.” Lan Wangji says, his eyes focused somewhere over her left shoulder, as though he’s not sure where to look.

“Hey. Good to meet you. How do you have the dishonor of knowing a-Ying here?”

“Mianmian!” Wei Ying begins to pout, but Lan Wangji cuts in. 

“It is not a dishonor.”

Mianmian’s eyes go wide as she laughs. “Oh, so I see you don’t know him that well yet.”

“Alright, that’s enough of that, you’re going to make him think I’m, like, a depraved reprobate!” Wei Ying says to her, switching back to English. 

“Okay, okay, I get it. I can tell when I’m not wanted. Have fun with your Lan Wangji, yeah?”

“Hey, Mianmian?”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck off, please.”

She cackles. “Fuck, Jiang Cheng’s rubbing off on you. I’m going, I’m going. See you around!”

She flips him the bird, which he returns, and then smiles and waves bye to Lan Wangji.

Wei Ying turns back to Lan Wangji and sees him still blushing furiously, head turned aside. 

“Let’s wrap things up here,” Wei Ying says. “I’m getting hungry, we can grab something to eat then head home to rest for a bit before heading over to the Wens.”

--------

They finish shopping and have a light meal on the way home. Back at the apartment, Wei Ying tries to convince Lan Wangji to join him for video games again, but the man refuses. “Do you have anything I can write with?” he asks, so Wei Ying sets him up at the table with a fresh spiralbound notebook and a pen dug out of the debris of his messenger bag.

It’s just the two of them. Jiang Cheng is at the lab until late on Sundays -- he and Wei Ying work there together, helping recruit for and coordinate the drug trials -- so they don’t have to worry about dodging him before heading over to the Wens for dinner. Wei Ying knows it’s not a long-term solution, to continue sneaking Lan Wangji in and out of the apartment under his brother’s nose. But, he still doesn’t understand the whole situation enough to know if it’s a long-term problem, so he chooses to put that thought aside for future Wei Ying to deal with. The good news is, Jiang Cheng is heading back to Minneapolis to stay with his parents for spring break, which will give them a couple weeks’ reprieve.

When 6pm arrives, Wei Ying  walks up to Lan Wangji to let him know they should be heading out. “Whatcha working on?” he asks curiously, when he sees the tidy columns that are a mixture of writing and some symbols that he can’t quite make out. 

“I am attempting to figure out how I am here,” Lan Wangji says as he looks down at the paper with apparent displeasure. “I believe it is probable that I was sent here by someone, likely using a talisman.”

“Right,” Wei Ying says. He’s staring at the configuration of symbols and characters. He doesn’t really know what he’s looking at, but he thinks it’s nearly familiar. “Can you explain it to me?” he asks.

Lan Wangji looks askance at him, considering, before he begins to point out the configuration, explaining the characters the different symbols are meant to represent in the twisted strokes, the array positions, how balance is achieved by stroke weight and size. “It’s like a puzzle,” Wei Ying observes. “But getting back … it’s going to be harder than getting here was, isn’t it? I only mean. If it was someone trying to get rid of you, then they probably didn’t care where or when you ended up, right? Whereas, to get you back, we’d have to send you back to a very specific time and place.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji agrees. “It will be challenging.”

They stare at the notebook, each lost in consideration of the seemingly impossible task. Wei Ying sighs and shakes his head. “Well, we’re not going to solve it tonight,” he says, “but it doesn’t seem impossible, at least. Not if you, you know. A wizard.” -- Lan Wangji makes a small frown at this, the tiniest downward twitch of a corner of his mouth -- “We should head out for now, though. We’ve got dinner plans, and also need to get the fuck out of here before Jiang Cheng gets back.”

Lan Wangji nods and rises, taking the notebook and depositing it into his bag. 

“I’m going to get ready. You get changed and meet back out here in 10 minutes and we’ll head out? I’ll call a car.”

Lan Wangji head to the bedroom to change, and Wei Ying takes the bathroom. His hair has fallen out of the short ponytail he wears it in. He brushes it back and reties it, noting that his undercut is a bit overgrown. He grabs his clippers and quickly runs them through the buzzed portions of his hair. Most of the color goes with it, a smattering of red shavings left behind in the sink. He’ll need to redo it -- maybe he can get to it tonight, after dinner. He pops his shirt off, shakes it out to get rid of the itch hair clippings, brushing off the back of his neck. His phone chimes. Their ride is here.

“Ready, Lan Wangji?” he calls as he walks out of the bathroom.

Lan Wangji is ready, standing in the living room in wait. He’s wearing the white jeans and a loose feather gray henley. “Looks good,” Wei Ying says, walking up to him. “Let me just --”

He reaches out and undoes the top to buttons of the shirt, then takes Lan Wangji’s hands, one at a time, skin tingling where he touches him, and casually rolls up the long sleeves to just above the elbow. 

He steps back to admire his work. Lan Wangji is standing very still under his appraising look. “Perfect,” Wei Ying breathes. He’d always known that men’s forearms just did things to him. But fuck, that’d been before he’d seen Lan Wangji in rolled up sleeves. He’s ruined for other men’s arms forever now. “Let’s go, the car is waiting.”

It doesn’t occur to Wei Ying until he opens the door and slides into the backseat of the sedan, cheerfully greeting the driver, that Lan Wangji has, of course, never been in a car before.

The man stands awkwardly at the open door for a moment, before following Wei Ying’s example and cautiously entering the vehicle. “Pull the door closed,” Wei Ying instructs, and Lan Wangji does as he’s told. 

The driver hits the gas abruptly, and the car lurches forward and then into a sharp u-turn. Lan Wangji slides sideways into the door and Wei Ying topples over onto him. “Seatbelts!” he laughs, embarrassed. He reaches up from where he’s partially sprawled onto Lan Wangji’s lap and grabs the belt over his shoulder, pulling it down and buckling the man in. 

“What--” Lan Wangji starts, but Wei Ying sits up and buckles himself in similarly.

“For safety,” Wei Ying says. “So we don’t go flying around the back seat if the driver makes any more turns like that last one.”

Lan Wangji accepts the explanation silently, eyes fixed on the blur of buildings and landscape as they drive.

“Careful you don’t get motion sick,” Wei Ying advises. “If you look at things moving by too quickly, you might be sick. I gotta imagine it’s worse if you’re not used to moving so fast.”

“I am used to moving quickly,” Lan Wangji says. 

“What, really? Like this fast?” Wei Ying asks, surprised.

“Mm.”

“How? How do you get around usually? You can’t have cars, right?”

“No cars,” Lan Wangji confirms. “I fly.”

Wei Ying makes a choked sound and gapes at him. “You can fly ?”

“Yes.”

Yes, he says. Just yes , like it’s obvious, like of course he can fly. Wei Ying is imaging it. Lan Wangji, flying through the sky, like an actual superhero. Or, maybe … does he have wings? Do he, like, grow wings? Wei Ying wouldn’t be surprised. Something about Lan Wangji with a glorious pair of angel wings just makes sense.

“Can you take me?” Wei Ying’s mouth asks, unbidden by the rest of his brain. When the rest of him catches up to what he’s said, he blushes, but he doesn’t back away from it. “Can you take me flying?”

Lan Wangji’s eyes look at him, a question in them, but Wei Ying isn’t sure what it is. 

“You don’t have to, of course!” Wei Ying backtracks suddenly, realizing that maybe it’s … rude? Presumptuous? “It’s just. It’d be really, really fucking cool. Like, so cool. We can go out into the arboretum -- it’s basically deserted out there year round. And you could. Um. Just show me? A little?”

He’s twisting, the words flying out of him. He should stop talking, but he wants to see it so badly and will never forgive himself if he misses the opportunity. 

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says, and directs his gaze back out the window.

Wei Ying takes that as a yes, and his heart is soaring.

--------

“Ying-gege!” a small but loud voice cries, and a moment later a small human projectile has made contact with his knees. Wei Ying stumbles backward a few step, Lan Wangji catching him by the shoulders before he falls over completely.

“A-Yuan!” Wei Ying says happily, bending down to scoop the boy up into a bear hug. “You almost knocked me over! You’re getting so big!”

“Yeah, I’m a big kid now!” Wen Yuan agrees enthusiastically.

“Too big to carry?” Wei Ying asks, eyes wide.

Wen Yuan stops and considers. “No,” he says slowly. “Not that big yet.”

Wei Ying laughs. “Some day, you’ll be so big you’ll be picking me up!”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be strong!” Wen Yuan shouts. 

“A-Yuan, meet my friend,” Wei Ying says, switching to Chinese. “This is Lan Wangji. He doesn’t speak English. Can you say hi to him in Chinese?”

“Hello,” Wen Yuan says, then buries his face shyly in the side of Wei Ying’s neck.

“Hello, a-Yuan,” Lan Wangji says seriously.

Wen Qing, who has hung back a little and watched the scene play out, walks forward at last. “Hi, Wei Ying,” she says perfunctorily. “Introduce me.”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes as he bounces Wen Yuan on his hip. “Wen Qing, this is Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji, Wen Qing.”

“Hello, Wen Qing” Lan Wangji says, saluting her with a bow. 

Wen Qing’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and she gives Wei Ying a look. He pretends not to see it. “Hey,” she says. “Come on in. Wen Ning is set up on the couch.”

Wei Ying turns to Lan Wangji to lead him through, and sees him looking hesitant. He wonders if this is too much, if he’s overwhelmed. “Hey,” he says, shifting Wen Yuan on his hip. “Are you okay? We can go if it’s too much.”

Lan Wangji shakes his head. “No. I am fine.”

“Is pretty gege scared?” Wen Yuan asks. 

And then, Wei Ying watches something inexplicable happen. Lan Wangji’s icy, stern face suddenly … melts. All of the frostiness in his expression drips away under the warmth of the way he looks at Wen Yuan. 

Wei Ying’s heart clenches as he sees it. That look -- he understands that look. He feels the same way about a-Yuan. Seeing Lan Wangji react that way makes Wei Ying realize he knows nothing about the man’s life. What he’s been torn away from. Does he have a family? A son, perhaps Wen Yuan’s age, he’s been separated from? Thinking it makes Wei Ying ache. They need to figure this out. He’ll help, however he can.

“Hey, a-Yuan?” Wei Ying says quietly to the boy in English. “Pretty gege is feeling a little scared. Can you give him a hug? Help him feel brave?”

“Yeah!” Wen Yuan says loudly and, without warning, flings himself towards Lan Wangji, shyness forgotten.

Wei Ying is scared he’s about to drop the boy on the floor, but Lan Wangji’s reflexes are not to be underestimated. He grabs the boy quickly, and the next second, Wen Yuan is clinging to him, his arms wrapped around the man’s neck in a hug as he says, “Don’t be sacred, pretty gege. I’ll help you be brave. I know how.”

Wei Ying nearly laughs. But then, Lan Wangji says, in that same serious voice, “Thank you, a-Yuan.” And it isn’t funny. It’s sweet, and Wei Ying is momentarily overwhelmed.

He swallows. “Come on, let’s go say hi to Wen Ning.”

--------

Wen Ning is sitting on the couch, in a cocoon of blankets and pillows, looking comfortable, although definitely pale. There are heavy dark circles under his eyes, and his face looks drawn and tired. Nonetheless, he lights up when Wei Ying walks in. “Hi, Wei Ying! I’m so glad you could come over!”

“Hey, a-Ning,” Wei Ying smiles. “I wouldn’t miss our Sunday dinners!”

“I wasn’t sure, with finals --”

“Naw, that’s just schoolwork,” Wei Ying waves a hand dismissively, “you’re more important. Besides, finals ended Friday. I’m officially on break for the next two weeks. Spring break!” he pumps his fists in the air as he plops down on the couch next to his friend and gives him a side hug, a little awkward in their seated position. 

“Are you going to go home to visit?” Wen Ning asks.

“Eh, I don’t know. Probably not. I’d much rather bother you all!”

“You’re not a bother,” Wen Ning says emphatically. 

Wei Ying laughs happily, knocking his shoulder into Wen Ning’s. “This is my friend, Lan Wangji, by the way,” he says. Lan Wangji walks over, bowing his head, as his arms are too full of toddler to salute properly. “Lan Wangji, Wen Ning. Wen Qing’s brother, believe it or not. He got all the sweetness.”

“Pretty gege, are you feeling better?” Wen Yuan asks, wriggling in his arms. 

“Yes. Would you like down?”

Wen Yuan nods, and Lan Wangji lowers him to the floor. The boy immediately runs over to his toys to start playing. He pauses before his blocks, and looks back at Lan Wangji, a serious expression on his face. He walks over to his pile of stuffed animals instead, appears to deliberate, and then selects a floppy, worn gray bunny, wearing a faded pink shirt with hearts and a bow tied around it’s ear. He brings the bunny back to Lan Wangji and hands it to him. Lan Wangji takes it gingerly, and Wen Yuan says to him, “If you get scared again, you can hug Nunny, okay?”

Lan Wangji nods, a tiny upturn at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, a-Yuan.”

“Jesus Christ,” Wei Ying says quietly under his breath. Next to him, Wen Ning huffs a nearly silent laugh. 

“Are you going to help cook or am I doing everything?” Wen Qing calls from the kitchen.

“Coming!” Wei Ying calls back, hopping to his feet. “A-Yuan, you’ve got everything covered here? You’re in charge until I come back.”

Wen Yuan nods. “I’m in charge.”

Wei Ying flashes a smile at Wen Ning and Lan Wangji. “Behave for a-Yuan, you two,”  he says, and goes to help Wen Qing with dinner.

--------

They spend a pleasant evening together. Granny Wen’s dumplings are delicious, of course, and they eat their fill until Wei Ying can barely move. Lan Wangji sticks to rice and the side dish of stir-fried bok choy. Wen Qing shoots daggers at Wei Ying when she realizes that Lan Wangji is vegetarian and he didn’t think to let her know ahead of time, but Lan Wangji says that he prefers to eat simply and thanks her for the meal. 

After the meal, They gather in the living room. Wei Ying takes the initiative to teach Lan Wangji a card game, and plays a few rounds with him and Wen Ning before Wen Yuan pulls his attention. 

Wen Qing takes his place in the card game as he lifts Wen Yuan into the air, balancing the boy on his feet, holding his hands as he makes engine noises with his mouth. “Fighter jet a-Yuan, making an emergency landing!” he says bending and straightening his legs quickly so the boy pops up, momentarily airborne, screeching with laughter.

“Dont get him too worked up or we’ll never get him to bed,” Wen Qing admonishes. 

“Ah, Qing-jie, so strict!” Wei Ying complains, even as he lowers Wen Yuan back to the floor.

“Somebody needs to keep you in line,” she says. Wei Ying sees her eyes knife sideways to Lan Wangji. Wei Ying thinks he should correct her -- she’s clearly getting the wrong idea here. Lan Nevermind that he’s only known Lan Wangji for barely two days, there are so many bigger reasons that her assumption is just … so wrong. But he can’t blame her for getting the wrong end of things. It’s not like Wei Ying has ever brought someone over before. 

Well. It won’t matter. They’ll figure out a way to get Lan Wangji home, and everyone will forget about the beautiful, quiet stranger Wei Ying brought around. 

Suddenly, Wen Ning begins to cough. They are shallow, frantic coughs. He bows around them, each one jolting through him. He wheezes between them, as the get closer together, his face turning red as he struggles.

Wen Qing throws her cards down and rushes over to him. “Controlled, a-Ning,” she reminds him. She puts her arms around his shuddering shoulders and pulls him forward to the edge of the couch. Wei Ying hurries over to his other side and helps her. 

“Lean forward. Try to relax. Breathe, didi. Slowly.”

Wen Ning nods his understanding, folding his arms over his stomach as he leans forward trying hard to repress the cough as he inhales slowly. 

She talks him through it, Wen Ning giving a few controlled, sharp coughs. Wei Ying grabs a handful of tissues and hands it to him. Wen Ning smiles through watering eyes as his breathing returns to normal.

“You okay, bud?” Wei Ying asks, grasping his shoulder as Wen Qing rubs the palm of her hand in circles over Wen Ning’s back.

“Yeah,” Wen Ning says, voice a little rough. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Wei Ying says with a pained smile.

Wen Qing frowns. “A-Ning. We’ve talked about this. You’ve got to try to clear your lungs before it gets like that.”

“Sorry, a-jie.”

She softens and pats his back consolingly as she stands. “Is your throat okay? Do you need some tea?”

Wen Ning nods, and Wen Qing bustles off to the kitchen and starts to kettle.

They stay long enough to accept a cup of tea, but head out soon after. Wen Ning has begun to doze on the couch, clearly exhausted, and Wen Yuan has fallen asleep in Wei Ying’s lap.

“I’ll see you next week, yeah?” Wei Ying says as he passes the sleeping toddler in Wen Qing’s arms. 

“Have a good break,” Wen Ning says.

“Don’t over do it,” Wen Qing adds.

“I will. I won’t,” Wei Ying laughs. He gives each of them a hug. “Love you.”

“Love you, too” Wen Ning says, patting his back.

Wen Qing’s squeezes him, tight and brief. “Take care of yourself.” She releases him. “Good to meet you, Lan Wangji.”

He nods. “Thank you for dinner.”

Wei Ying’s phone rings as the car pulls up outside, cutting the goodbyes short, and they hurry out the door and head home.

--------

It’s dark by the time they arrive back at Wei Ying’s apartment. Lan Wangji’s eyes are red, and Wei Ying realizes that maybe the whole bed-by-9pm thing wasn’t just a one off to get away from Wei Ying. 

“Tired?” he asks. “I didn’t realize how late it was, sorry. I lose track of time easily. You’ve gotta speak up or I won’t notice.”

“I am fine,” Lan Wangji says, but then yawns widely as Wei Ying pulls out his keys to unlock the door. 

Except. The door isn’t locked. 

In hindsight, this should have tipped him off. But at the moment, he’s too busy looking at Lan Wangji’s parted lips, the red of his mouth, to think. It isn’t until he’s opened the door and stepped inside that he remembers. 

Well. He doesn’t so much remember, as he’s forcibly reminded. “Wei Ying, who is that ?”

Oh. Shit.

Jiang Cheng’s home. 

Wei Ying stands frozen. Lan Wangji stands next to him, standing tall under Jiang Cheng’s withering glare. “Ah, this is my friend, Lan Wangji,” Wei Ying says in Chinese. “Lan Wangji, this is Jiang Cheng, my didi.”

Lan Wangji bows. Jiang Cheng’s glare intensifies. “And what’s he doing here?” he asks in English. 

Wei Ying has prepared for this. He’s been cobbling together a cover story in case anyone finds out Lan Wangji is staying with him, something plausible that won’t lead to more questions. “His landlord kicked him out. For renovations. A pipe burst. Everything flooded, and now his landlord is using the opportunity to do a full overhaul.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrow. “And why is he here ?”  

“I offered him to stay here until he can go back home.”

“ What ?” Jiang Cheng yells. “Without telling me or asking? What the fuck, Wei Ying?”

“Aw, come on, didi. I knew you wouldn’t mind if somebody needed help! My didi would never leave somebody in need stranded like that, his heart is too big.”

“Shut up! God, you just do whatever you want don’t you? And where’s he going to sleep , Wei Ying?”

“In my room,” Wei Ying answers easily, then regrets it immediately.

“ In your room ?” Jiang Cheng is spectacularly purple now. “Who is this guy? I’ve never even heard of him. Is he a student? Why haven’t I seen him around?”

He turns his attention to Lan Wangji, and Wei Ying’s stomach sinks. “Who are you?” he snaps, switching back to Chinese. “What are you doing with this idiot, huh?”

Lan Wangji’s eyebrows crease. “Wei Ying has offered me a place to stay.”

God bless Lan Wangji’s natural reticence, Wei Ying thinks, before Lan Wangji continues. “Wei Ying is not an idiot.”

Fuck .

“Well, I’m a bit of an idiot!” Wei Ying laughs, casually moving between his brother and Lan Wangji as he sees the former open his mouth to make an angry retort. “Jiang Cheng, I didn’t mean to surprise you. But you’ll be in Minneapolis anyway, right? Lan Wangji just needs a place to stay for a while. Please?”

Jiang Cheng’s face contorts. “I don’t know why you’re not coming home,” he says angrily, and Wei Ying recognizes the change of topic as his brother relenting. 

“Aw, did, will you miss me?” Wei Ying teases lightly, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “I told you, I have work to do for the lab. We’re behind on recruiting participants for the new therapy, I’m hoping to catch up.”

“Whatever, I don’t care,” Jiang Cheng says, twisting out of Wei Ying’s embrace. Then adds, “He sleeps on the couch!” before storming off to his room and slamming the door behind him.

“So,” Wei Ying says after a long moment, “that’s my brother.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says.

“Come on,” Wei Ying says, “let’s turn in. You’re tired. You can have the bed.”

Chapter Text

“Are you gonna be good here? Do you need anything? I feel bad just leaving you here like this, but I’ve gotta go into the lab and get some work done. I’ll be done by 5pm, I’ll come and grab you here? I know that’s a long time to just be, like, hanging out at the library, but it’s not like you have a phone so I can track you down if you go somewhere. Not that I’m, uh, keeping you pinned down or anything. You’re free to go wherever, I’m not your keeper, you know? But you don’t have a key, and --”

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying stops talking abruptly, somewhat relieved to have been saved from his own rambling. 

"It is fine.”

“Okay. Okay, Lan Wangji. If you need anything while I’m gone, well … I mean, I won’t be able to do anything. But. God, we need to get you a phone. I can probably buy you a cheap burner or something. I have a little financial aid money left. I’m supposed to use it for school stuff, but this feels like, you know, an emergency --”

“Wei Ying.”

“...right. Okay, I’m going. See you back here at 5?”

Lan Wangji nods at him once and turns back to the stack of Chinese texts spread before him. They’ve set Lan Wangji up at a table in the foreign language section of the library. The odds of there being anything that will be useful is extremely unlikely, but at least he’ll be entertained a little. Wei Ying spares one final look for the man as he sits perfectly upright, gaze on his book, fingers wrapped elegantly around a pen hovering diligently over the notebook. Lan Wangji’s eyes flicker over to him, and Wei Ying, aware that he’s been caught staring, smiles and gives a small wave of his hand before finally turning and walking out of the library.

--------

With classes out for the next two weeks for spring break, Wei Ying has agreed to cover for the other clinical trial coordinators at the lab who are spending their vacation either at home with family or on more wild adventures. As such, he’s basically putting in full time hours. Which is good, in some ways, because his bank account has already begun to feel the impact of attempting to clothe and feed a second person. He gets a small allowance from the Jiangs, but it wouldn’t be enough for two, and if he runs out of money before the end of the year … well. The Jiangs aren’t giving him anymore. Which might not actually be an issue, because Jiang Cheng would actually kill him if he found out Wei Ying had spent his money on Lan Wangji. 

Wei Ying breathes in deeply before he enters the WenQuish building. It’s not that he doesn’t like his work. He knows the work he does is important, meaningful. The project he’s been working on for the past year, involving a new therapy for treating leukemia, has made incredible progress, in part because of how quickly they were able to fill the study. 

But it is emotionally taxing. Other coordinators focused their efforts on speaking with doctors, hospitals. Wei Ying didn’t begrudge them the decision. But he knew that when you spoke only to the providers, you missed the people who did not have access to care. You relied on the attention and effort of people already at the limits of their capacity to pass information to people for whom suffering was routine. There were so many cracks to fall through, and it was frequently the most vulnerable who fell victim. 

Wei Ying focuses his efforts elsewhere. He turns to social media. To direct outreach to hospices. To word of mouth. The communities built by people with life-threatening or terminal illnesses are more connected, have more depth, have greater reach than any hospital. 

As a result of his approach, Wei Ying's studies fill quickly. But it also means that Wei Ying doesn’t have the buffer of hospital administrators and care coordinators. He talks to the patients. He knows their families, he knows their lives, he knows their pains. It's impossible not to care for them.

So when he gets to his desk and pulls up the information on the projects he’s covering, he can’t help but frown.

He must be reading it wrong. This can’t be right.

He reads the study requirements and the outreach plan multiple times before he finally accepts that he has read it correctly. 

He closes his eyes and tries to muffle the anger that spikes through him. After a few calming breaths, he writes an email.

--------

“What the fuck is this?” 

Wei Ying looks up from his screen, where he has been drafting a schedule for the psoriasis study. 

Wen Chao is standing in his cubicle, looming over him as he points angrily at his phone.

“I can only assume the latest iPhone? I don’t know, I can’t really keep up. I’d still have my nokia if my brother hadn’t threatened to use it as my murder weapon if I didn’t upgrade to a smartphone.”

Wen Chao glares down at him harder. “Not the phone . What is this email?”

Wei Ying raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I write a lot of emails.”

“The cystic fibrosis study. What is this about changing the entire patient recruitment strategy?”

“Well,” Wei Ying says slowly, “I think we should change the recruitment strategy.”

“And why should we do that?”

Wei Ying presses his lips together tightly against the biting things he wants to say. He takes a moment before answering. “Because, the whole point of the therapy is that it should be effective for nearly 90% of cystic fibrosis patients. Meaning, limiting the study recruitment to a small handful of affluent, private hospitals is causing unnecessary delays and hindrances in filling the study. Not to mention, you’re going to run into issues with skewed demographics.”

“Do you know how much this therapy costs? How much this trial costs?”

“I know how much WenQuish bears to profit once it’s approved.”

A muscle jumps in Wen Chao’s jaw. “Your proposal is denied. You’ll stick to the already accepted recruitment plan.”

He turns and leaves without waiting to hear Wei Ying out further.

Wei Ying stares daggers into his back. For all Wen Chao’s talk about cost, the fact is that the limited recruitment will cause the study to languish. The company will sink money into the trials that never progress, until they notice and the executives pull the plug. He’s read the studies. He knows the therapy has the potential to be a gamechanger. 

In his mind, he sees Wen Ning. Wen Ning doubled over, struggling to breath. Wen Ning bedridden for weeks from a cold. Wen Ning who never talks about the future. He sees Wen Qing’s terror that slips from behind her mask of terse, efficient care whenever she thinks no one is looking. He sees Wen Qing slipping extra food onto Wen Ning and  Wen Yuan’s plates. He sees their bare cupboards. 

He turns back to his laptop and prepares to send another email.

--------

Lotus Pier Siblings Chat

🌺 jiejie 🌺

[A photo of Jiang Yanli smiling into the camera. Jiang Cheng stands behind her trying hard to look grumpy.]
missing you
( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡

a-ying 🌈
awwww jiejie!!!!!
i miss u tooooo!!!
give didi kisses for me
(￣ε￣＠)

a-cheng 👿👿👿
WHO WOULD MISS YOU

🌺 jiejie 🌺
come visit soon a-ying
im starting to forget what you look like!

a-ying🌈
[A photo of Wei Ying blowing a kiss to the camera.]

--------

Wei Ying finds Lan Wangji exactly where he left him at the library. Same posture, same serious expression, not a hair out of place. The only thing that has changed is that a portion of the stack of books has moved from the right to the left of the table, still in precise, neat stacks.

Lan Wangji is currently focused on a small book of poems, which Wei Ying thinks is unlikely to be useful to his research. But, he seems intent, which gives Wei Ying an idea.

He approaches Lan Wangji quietly, tiptoeing up behind him. He holds his breath, and brings his mouth right down next to the man’s ear. “Having fun?” he whispers.

Looking back, he supposes maybe he should have known better than to sneak up on a man who carries a sword around with him at all times. But up until that moment the implications of Lan Wangji carrying a sword -- the implications being that he was trained in fighting and could probably use one -- had simply not occurred to him. Mostly because he’s never actually known anyone who just carries a sword around.

Lan Wangji doesn’t startle, doesn’t jump comedically the way Wei Ying had been anticipating.

Instead, quicker than Wei Ying can clock, he reaches back, latches his hands behind Wei Ying’s neck, and -- in a display of strength that Wei Ying is definitely going to be thinking about later -- pulls him over his shoulder and throws him onto his back on the table with a resounding crash. 

Wei Ying lands with a whoomph as all of the air is knocked out of his lungs. Lan Wangji's face is directly over his, his hands still clasped behind Wei Ying’s neck, as he stares down at him, his eyebrows slightly raised. They stay like that for a moment, before Lan Wangji suddenly drops his hands and stands up. Wei Ying tries to laugh, but he’s still trying to suck in air. 

“Is everything okay over there?” someone calls to him, peeking between the stacks and looking at the scene with incredulity.

“All good,” Wei Ying manages to wheeze out as he sits up, giving them a thumbs up to get his point across.

The student doesn’t look particularly convinced, but also seems relieved to not have to get involved in whatever is happening.

“God, Lan Zhan, what are you, a judo master or something?” Wei Ying says, rubbing his ribs as he spins to dangle his legs over the side of the table, carefully avoiding the books, which, somehow, miraculously, are still in their neat stacks.

“Are you hurt?”

His tone is as impassive as ever, but Wei Ying allows himself the indulgence of believing Lan Wangji is actually concerned. “I’m fine. No permanent damage, I don’t think. Although, I landed on your pen, and that’s definitely going to bruise.”

He lifts his shirt and tries to crane his neck back to look. “Am I turning purple? Can you read ‘BiC’ in it? Am I branded?” Wei Ying lifts his shirt higher and presents his back to Lan Wangji. 

Lan Wangji does not laugh at Wei Ying’s joke, but Wei Ying supposes it wasn’t actually that funny. He does look at Wei Ying’s exposed back, and then quickly away. “There is a mark,” he says. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s my fault for sneaking up on you. I didn’t actually stop and think that, you know, buff guy who does handstands for fun might have some actual skills and reflexes. More the dumbass I.”

Wei Ying pulls his shirt down and slides off the table. “Any luck today? What were you reading?”

“The texts were interesting. That book was particularly insightful,” Lan Wangji says. 

“What, ‘Ancient Chinese Love Poems by Lan An’?” Wei Ying says, picking up the book Lan Wangji had been reading when he arrived. “I always suspected love poems were just the thing for building a time machine.”

“He was my ancestor.”

“Wait -- what, really?” Wei Ying looks up from the book, slow to process this new information.

Lan Wangju nods. “He founded my sect.”

“But --” Wei Ying struggles to find the words, and then stops trying and just plows forward, “Lan Wangji, that doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been thinking about it, and it doesn’t make sense that you’re just from the past. None of the cities you talked about are in any of our texts. We have no record of them. You have magical powers , and that’s definitely not something that is, like, a thing in this world. I don’t think you’ve just fallen out of time. I think you’re from a completely different world .”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. He steps forward and takes the book from Wei Ying, turning towards a page near the front. He hands it back to him and says, “Gusu Lan.”

Sure enough, the words are written on the page. “The plot thickens,” Wei Ying murmurs, turning the book over in his hands. “We should ask the reference librarian about it. They might be able to point us in the direction of some other works, now that we have something to go off of,” he hops to his feet excitedly, book in hand, and starts for the front desk. “Come on, let’s go see what we can dig up!”

Lan Wangji doesn’t follow him. Instead, he begins to diligently return the books to the shelves.

“Can’t that wait?” Wei Ying laughs, the excitement of their discovery itching impatience through him. 

Lan Wangji’s eyes are like a physical weight, they’re so heavy with judgment. “No,” he says, before returning his attention to the task.

Freed from the pinning force of Lan Wangji's gaze, Wei Ying rolls his eyes -- not that anyone is looking to see him do it. He does it for himself, to relieve some of the tense, fluttery feeling in his stomach -- and hurries to help Lan Wangji.

The reference librarian frowns in confusion when Wei Ying hands the book over to her. He explains that they’re looking for other references to ‘Gusu Lan’, indicating the characters and providing an approximation of how it would be spelled when transliterated. She looks over it, opening the jacket, searching for something.

“This book isn’t part of our collection,” she says at last. “There’s no barcode, no card number. Nothing for me to look it up. You say you found it here?”

Wei Ying doesn’t miss a beat. If the librarian knows they found the book here, then they won’t be able to take it with them. She’ll probably add it to some pile to be properly catalogued, and who knows how long that will take. He looks sideways at Lan Wangji, who is standing silently beside him.  “Lan Wangji,” he says in Chinese. “What do you want for dinner?”

He doesn’t trust Lan Wangji to lie. He knows the librarian doesn’t speak Chinese, but he doesn’t want to risk Lan Wangji’s face giving anything away, or risk his disapproval of the deceit. If Lan Wangji is confused by the suddenness of the question, he doesn’t show it. “I do not care,” he answers, then pauses, before adding, “Something edible.”

Wei Ying laughs in surprise. Lan Wangji had sounded downright bitchy about it, and it delights Wei Ying. “Lan Wangji, are you implying that my cooking is anything but delicious?” he teases. He just registers Lan Wangji’s hum of confirmation as he turns back to the librarian. “Oh, my bad!” he laughs to her, “I misunderstood my friend earlier. It’s his book! He just wanted me to ask if you had any other books about Gusu Lan. My apologies! My Chinese is kinda rusty, to be honest. Which is rough, because my English isn’t that great either. Jack of two tongues, master of none!” he winks. “Not that I get many complaints.”

“Oh! That’s fine, no worries!” the librarian says, flushing. “I’ll see what I can find. I might need to reach out to the Chinese department for help in searching their collection. Is it urgent?”

“Anything worth doing is worth doing well!” Wei Ying chirps. “How long do you think it will take?”

“I can probably have something for you on Monday,” she says. “I’ll reach out and let you know. Do you prefer email or phone?”

Wei Ying scribbles down both and thanks her, taking the book and pocketing it.

--------

Back home, Wei Ying sets about making dinner for them both. He notices Lan Wangji watching him, eyes narrowed skeptically. 

“You gonna stand there and judge me, or did you want to help?”

He says it just to be antagonistic, but Lan Wangji takes it as an invitation. He walks up beside Wei Ying and gently nudges him out of the way where he’s roughly chopping a carrot, taking the knife from him.

“Hey!” Wei Ying protests, but Lan Wangji has already taken over, expertly dicing the carrots into uniform pieces. Wei Ying watches his hands, quick and dexterous, and huffs. “Of course you’re good at this. Lan Wangji, I’m going to need you to be shitty at something soon. Having you around is a real blow to my self esteem, you know.”

“What are we making?” Lan Wangji asks, ignoring the comment.

“I was going to make a vegetable curry,” Wei Ying says. “But feel free to take over. I’m not going to say no to a man who cooks.”

He steps out of the kitchen and takes a seat in one of the bar stools pulled up to the counter. “Let me know if you need help with the stove.”

Lan Wangji spares a withering look for him. “I am certain I can manage.”

Wei Ying shrugs. Truthfully, he’s also certain Lan Wangji can manage. The man hasn’t been nearly as flummoxed by the modern technology as Wei Ying would expect -- certainly he’s handling everything significantly better than Wei Ying would, were the tables turned. The thing is, Lan Wangji is observant. And he’s sharp . He watches, pays attention to the details, and he learns. He’s unflappable, which just makes Wei Ying want, very much, to make him … well, to make him flap , so to speak. 

The meal Lan Wangji prepares is adequate, by Wei Ying’s estimate. Objectively, he can tell that Lan Wangji has much more skill in the kitchen than he does. When Wei Ying cooks, the result is often … inconsistent. Undercooked and burnt bits cropping up within the same pot. Not so with Lan Wangji’s cooking. However.

“Lan Wangji, do they not have spices where you’re from?” Wei Ying says around a mouthful of bland curry. He hadn’t even known curry could be bland.

Lan Wangji levels a disgusted glare at him. Wei Ying swallows his food and smiles. “Okay, yeah, you’re right that time. ‘No talking while eating’ isn’t a thing, but ‘no talking with your mouth full’ definitely is. But seriously, Lan Wangji. Spices? Have you heard of them?”

The man continues to eat in silence, pointedly not engaging with Wei Ying. Wei Ying rolls his eyes, and then stands and fetches a bottle of sriracha from the kitchen. He dumps an inadvisable amount onto his plate, turning it bright red.

“Want some?” he asks, waving the bottle at Lan Wangji, who shakes his head once.

Wei Ying eats quickly, and has washed his bowl and is sitting on the couch reading Lan An’s poetry when Lan Wangji finishes. The poems are beautiful. He’s not particularly a poetry-person, but some previously unknown piece of him responds to Lan An’s words. He feels as though he is Alice peeking down the rabbithole. He is not yet tumbling down, but he can sense himself on the edge of something vast and strange and wonderful. He closes the book, pulling back.

“Want to play something, or you gonna work some more?” 

“I will work,” Lan Wangji says, setting up a space on the table to start back in on his arrays.

Wei Ying comes and sits next to him, looking at the pages Lan Wangji is writing on. “You must be eager to get home,” he says. 

“Mm.”

“Your family must miss you.”

Lan Wangji considers a line for a moment, before stroking the pen over it several times, making it heavier. Wei Ying watches, noticing how the heft of the line pulls the balance to the left, flooding the ‘root’ character. It makes Wei Ying’s brain itch. 

 “They are unlikely to notice my absence for some time.”

“Really? I don’t know, Lan Wangji, I feel like if I was your wife I’d notice if you were gone.”

“I do not have a wife.”

“Really?” Wei Ying says casually. “I thought everyone got married young back in the day. How old are you?”

“I am 21.”

“What, really?” Wei Ying says in surprise, leaning back so as to get a better look at Lan Wangji. “How is that possible? How can we be the same age? Jesus Christ, it’s official. I am now more inferiority complex than man.”

Lan Wangji looks up from the array he is working on. “You are also 21?”

“Yeah, believe it or not. I am a full grown adult.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes flicker over Wei Ying’s face, to his hot pink over-sized hoodie freshly stained with curry where he spilled a little, to his hair that is a mess of flyaways and frizz falling free from the stump ponytail he’s gathered it in. Wei Ying smiles and slumps demonstratively in his chair. “A picture of responsibility, huh?”

“Mm.”

“That’s all, Lan Wangji? Not going to compliment me on my maturity and poise?”

“I am unqualified to do so,” Lan Wangji returns his attention to his task. “Clearly there are different standards in this time.”

Wei Ying laughs, smacking Lan Wangji’s arm lightly. “Mean! You are mean, has anyone ever told you that?”

Wei Ying watches as Lan Wangji works, and he has a thought. “I’ll be right back,” he says quickly, and hurries off to his.

It takes some digging. He can usually find the things he needs pretty easily, but he hasn’t had cause to use this in a while, so it’s well-buried in the bottom of his closet. He emerges 10 minutes later and triumphantly presents an ink and brush calligraphy set to Lan Wangji. “This will be easier, right?” he says. “I forgot I had it. I went through a phase a couple years back where I wanted to learn calligraphy. And then I realized calligraphy is boring. But I still have this. I don’t know if the ink is any good, but I bet we can figure something out.”

“Thank you, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says as he accepts the set.

“Ah, it’s no big deal. I should’ve thought of it sooner! A pen isn’t really well suited for what you’re doing. You could’ve been working with something better for days, if I didn’t have such a shit memory.”

Lan Wangji unscrew the cap of the ink and looks inside. “It’s all dried up, isn’t it?” Wei Ying says anxiously. “We can get more tomorrow, probably. I’m not sure where … or I could order some online tonight. I bet we could overnight it. I have Jiang Cheng’s Prime login --”

“The ink is usable,” Lan Wangji says. He turns to a fresh page, dips the brush, and makes a delicate stroke down the page. He pauses, seeming to struggle with something, and then says, “Lan Zhan.”

“Huh?” Wei Ying says, not sure what he means.

“You may call me Lan Zhan.”

“Oh.” Something in Wei Ying’s stomach feels weirdly hot and jittery. It feels like Lan Wangji … no, Lan Zhan, has offered Wei Ying something intimate. “Well, Lan Zhan,” he says, testing it out, and finding that he likes it, “can I see what you were working on?”

Lan Zhan moves the notebook between them as Wei Ying takes a seat next to him. He’s copying his work in pen onto the new page with the brush. Wei Ying watches as he draws out the symbols and characters, and the itching feeling returns. Without really thinking, he reaches out and touches the “root” character. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “isn’t this too heavy?”

Lan Zhan looks where Wei Ying is pointing, the character now slightly smudged. “It is drawn powerfully to call to home,” he says.

“Sure,” Wei Ying says, “I get that, but. Isn’t it too much? To put some much power into such a stationary character when the whole point is there we’re trying to, you know, move you? You’ll never get anywhere with this. What if --”

Lan Zhan gives Wei Ying a thoughtful look, and then passes the brush to him. Wei Ying takes it, feeling a little foolish, but he can see it so clearly. He moves the brush to the paper and, in the upper left quadrant -- not quite opposite the “root” character, be up a little, lifting the energy, he draws “river” and “time” in short but bold strokes, not lifting his brush but allowing the strokes to twine together.

“Ah, I don’t know,” he says, suddenly embarrassed with himself. “I’ve probably ruined the whole thing. Sorry, I just … I don’t know.”

“Where did you learn this?” Lan Zhan asks. He is facing Wei Ying now, curiosity almost naked on his face. 

“Oh, uh. I did a little research over my lunch?” Wei Ying offers. “Not that I could find much. It’s all kept pretty hushhush, isn’t it? But. When I saw you doing it the other night -- I don’t know. It felt familiar? It’s just a puzzle, isn’t it,” he shrugs, “I’m good at puzzles.”

Lan Zhan hums, though he doesn’t seem entirely satisfied, and looks down at the page. “This is very clever,” he says. “I would not have considered this configuration.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” Wei Ying laughs. 

“Good,” Lan Wangji says seriously. Then, “Wei Ying. I would value your input on this task.”

Wei Ying blushes, then feels ridiculous. He’s blushing at that ? What would Mianmian say? What happened to his shamelessness? “Happy to help, Lan Zhan,” he says, “but I want something in exchange.”

“What do you want in return?”

“Tell me about your world, Lan Zhan.”

They spend the rest of the long evening together, sitting side by side, working through the array. Wei Ying had expected that Lan Zhan would be a poor storyteller, given his quiet manner. He was mistaken. Lan Zhan describes his world -- Cloud Recesses, the life of a cultivator, his studies, and even (breaking every one of God’s laws, if you ask Wei Ying) his ‘not-a-pet’ rabbits in perfect, beautiful detail. He doesn’t overstate anything. Every word is measured carefully, accurate but filled with warmth and expression: poetry, speaking a world into being all around them. 

It is well past Lan Zhan’s usual bedtime when they finally call it a night. Wei Ying insists on sleeping on the couch again, and as he tucks himself into the cushions, he thinks he can almost smell the tea and sandalwood of Lan Zhan’s home. He drifts off to sleep, heart filled with memories of Lan Zhan’s life as though he had stood beside him. 

--------

The world is hills of waist high grass, a pale blue sky overhead, bright dry heat all around them. Wei Ying sits on a man’s shoulders, his small arms, round with baby fat, reaching out for a butterfly that dances in the air before him. 

The man reaches out a hand to the butterfly, one finger extended. It lands, its yellow and brown wings opening and closing slowly like eyes. 

Beside them a woman riding a donkey stops and watches. Her robes and face are dusty with the road, but she wears a wide smile, unbothered by the dirt. Wei Ying reaches out for her, but the man isn’t ready for it. Wei Ying slips off his shoulders, tumbling down. The woman reaches out her arms for him, to catch him --

--------

Wei Ying crashes to the floor in a tangle of blankets, a hot, sharp pain shooting through his wrist.

“Wei Ying!”

Lan Zhan is at his side as Wei Ying hisses, sitting up and cradling his arm to his chest. “Fuck,” Wei Ying says, blinking back tears. “My poor wrist can’t catch a fucking break. I think I did something for real to it this time.”

“Let me see,” Lan Zhan says. He kneels next to him and takes Wei Ying’s wrist in large, gentle hands. Wei Ying hisses again, as Lan Zhan’s warm fingers carefully palpate the area. “It is not broken,” he announces, “but you should take care not to move it.”

“Well there goes my love life,” Wei Ying jokes. 

Lan Zhan either pretends not to hear him or not to understand. “Wait here,” he says, disappearing into the bedroom, and returning a moment later with the Magical Bag of Holding -- or qiankun bag, as he told Wei Ying it was called. He reaches inside and pulls out several strips of silk fabric. He wraps Wei Ying’s wrist -- not so tightly as to risk obstructing blood flow, but also stiffly enough that Wei Ying’ can’t bend his wrist. 

“Wow, thanks, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says as he tries to move against the brace. “Saves me a doctor’s bill I definitely can’t afford.”

“Were you having a nightmare?” Lan Wangji asks.

“Huh? No, not at all. It was … a good dream? I think? I don’t really remember. It was weird. It didn’t feel like a dream at all. Was I making noise?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says. “Wei Ying was talking. I came to check on you, and you fell.”

“I was talking?” Wei Ying frowns, trying to pull the dream back together. “What was I saying?”

“Mom.”

Wei Ying starts, surprised. “Mom? I was calling for … my mom?”

Lan Wangji nods. Wei Ying thinks he should be embarrassed, but he’s too confused to be embarrassed. He can’t remember ever calling out for his mother. He has no memory of her, it’s never really occurred to him to miss someone he never knew. He’s longed for parents, but in a distant, theoretical way. Never in a real, tangible way that would have him calling out for her in his sleep.

Lan Zhan stands and helps Wei Ying to his feet. “You should sleep in the bed,” Lan Zhan says.

“Naw, I’m fine out here. I thrash around in my sleep all the time, not the first time I’ve rolled out of bed -- or off a couch -- and won’t be the last.”

“You should sleep in the bed,” Lan Zhan repeats. Stubbornly.

“Trying to get me to bed, gege?” Wei Ying bats his eyelashes. If he can’t win an argument with stubbornness, then he’ll win it with shamelessness. “What would my brother say? Think of my reputation, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan stares at him and then, without warning, suddenly picks Wei Ying up and begins walking him to the bedroom.

“Whoa!” Wei Ying squeaks. “What the fuck , Lan Zhan? I injured my wrist, my feet still work! Put me down!”

He deposits Wei Ying in the bed. Wei Ying’s heart is thundering. He can’t tell if he’s angry, embarrassed, or just turned on. Probably some combination of the three. “Wei Ying will sleep in the bed,” Lan Zhan says, and then turns to leave. 

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m fine!”

“Goodnight, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and closes the door behind him.

Chapter Text

The rest of the week is fairly routine. Each morning, Wei Ying is woken by Lan Zhan making breakfast. It’s a nice change of pace from how things are in his normal life -- the one without handsome time-travelling strangers. It hadn’t taken long to get accustomed to being woken by a gentle voice and the smell of warm, sweet oatmeal and tea. Wei Ying thinks regretfully that once Lan Zhan heads back to where he’s from, Wei Ying will have to go back to phone alarms and burnt toast. 

After breakfast, they head out together. Wei Ying drops Lan Zhan at the library and heads into the lab. Work has been worse than usual. Wen Chao has developed a habit of appearing behind him, reading over his shoulder. It makes Wei Ying uneasy. It makes him feel like something is coming, and he’s certain he isn’t going to like it.

On Friday, he arrives at the office and finds his keycard doesn’t work. 

He frowns and attempts to swipe it through the card readers several times, but with no luck. “Hey!” he calls to the security desk, waving his card at the man sitting there. “My card isn’t working. Can you buzz me through?”

The man walks over to him, reaching out a hand for his card. “Ying Wei?” he reads. Wei Ying nods. “One moment.”

He walks back to the desk and makes a phone call. Rather than hanging up and buzzing Wei Ying through, though, he talks for a while before hanging up. He walks back over to Wei Ying. “Have a seat. Someone will be down to speak with you soon.”

Wei Ying doesn’t like the sound of that, but he takes a seat and waits. 

Twenty minutes later -- Wei Ying has started playing a game on his phone to distract himself from the anxiety of waiting -- Wen Chao walks over to him, followed by a man carrying a box.

“What’s going on?” Wei Ying launches in immediately, not liking the smug look on the man’s face.

“We’ve taken the liberty of clearing out your desk. As of today, you are no longer employed by WenQuish.”

“What?” Wei Ying says, his voice loud. “Why?”

Wen Chao motions to the man, who drops the box -- literally, drops it, Wei Ying hears something break, probably his ‘World’s Best Gege’ mug he bought himself to torment Jiang Cheng  -- and walks away. “I saw your email.”

“We’ve been through this already, Wen Chao. I send a lot of emails. You’re going to have to be more --”

“The email you sent to my father. After I told you to drop it.”

“And how did you see it?” Wei Ying asks. “I don’t think papa Wen would be too happy to hear you’re snooping through his inbox.”

“My father is very busy. He doesn’t have time to go through all his emails. His secretary does it for him.”

“Wang Lingjao,” Wei Ying realizes. 

“My father never would have gone for it anway. Recruiting for a study at a hospice ? Are you stupid? They’re practically dead already, it’ll make our results look like shit.”

Wei Ying’s blood is pounding so loudly that he can barely hear over the drumbeat of his pulse. “Isn’t the point of the drug to save the sick? The mechanism is perfect for advanced cases. Plus, there’s a very real chance it could help --”

“I don’t care,” Wen Chao says. “And neither will the board. We’re not doing it. Plus, you wanted us to go to Southfield to recruit? We want people who can actually pay .”

“That’s what insurance companies are for.”

“You think anyone at Southfield has insurance? Why do you think they’re going to Soutfield? It's not happening.”

“I sent that email on Monday. Why are you just firing me now?”

“The work needed to get done while the others are on break. I was going to wait until they were back, but you’re a fast worker.”

Wei Ying feels something sparking inside of him. Something electric and hot, and he wants to let it rip out of him, to burn Wen Chao to cinders. “I won’t let you --”

“Let me? It’s already done . Now get out of here before I call the cops on you for trespassing.”

--------

Wei Ying takes the box of his stuff back to the apartment. The immediate burn of anger has subsided from flame to the low, persistent heat of coals in his stomach. He dumps the box on the floor of the bedroom, sorting through the odds and ends -- loose pens, notebooks with whole pages ripped out -- no doubt by Wen Chao or his lackeys. He doesn’t care about any of that. He digs through the pile, then yelps. He pulls his hand back, his finger bleeding where he’s sliced it open on a piece of broken ceramic. The mug. 

He squeezes the cut with his other hand and hurries to the bathroom to run it under the tap. He’s bled a little on the silk wrap that Lan Wangji had tied around his wrist. He doesn’t have anything else to wrap with, so he leaves it on. He’ll go to the drugstore later and grab some bandages.

The cut on his finger isn’t too deep. He puts a band-aid over it, and goes back to sifting through the pile, more carefully this time, picking out the pieces of broken glass. 

He’s beginning to worry that it isn’t there -- that they missed it when clearing out his desk, that he’s going to have to risk going back and actually getting arrested -- when he finds it, the tassle knotted in the cap of a pen. His clarity bell. 

He works the small silver bell free, and holds it in his palm. Uncle Fengmian had given it to him as a child, the day they’d officially decided to adopt him. Had told him the bell was special, to ring it whenever he was feeling lost, and it would bring him the clarity to find his way home. 

Wei Ying doesn’t ring it. 

He puts the small bell in his pocket and decides that what he needs right now isn’t a way home. What he needs now is a plan.

--------

“Hey, Lan Zhan! Surprise, I’m out of work!”

Lan Zhan stands as Wei Ying approaches. “Wei Ying. What is wrong?”

That takes Wei Ying a little aback. Is he being so obvious? He forces a laugh and throws an arm around Lan Zhan’s shoulders. “What? Nothing! All good here. Maybe I just missed looking at your beautiful face, did you ever think about that?”

“Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan is rigid under Wei Ying’s arm. Reluctantly, Wei Ying removes it and steps back. “I got fired, okay? Turns out capitalism and caring about people are literally allergic to each other. Who knew, huh? Besides, you know. Everybody.”

Lan Zhan frowns. “What happened?”

Wei Ying huffs a sigh. “Exactly what I should have expected. If Jiang Cheng were here, he’d have some choice words for me. I’m so stupid. But I’m also right about this,” his eyes are glowing knives. “I’m right about this.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t know what he’s talking about, of course. Wei Ying isn’t going to unload it onto Lan Zhan, who has far more important things to deal with. Nonetheless, Lan Zhan nods once at him as though he understands. “What will you do?”

“I’m not sure,” Wei Ying says. “But, something. I need to do something.” He swallows. “I just want to do the just thing, you know? I’ll regret it if I don’t. I don’t want to live with regret.”

Wei Ying is looking down at his hands as he speaks. He doesn’t see it as Lan Zhan turns to him, eyes soft and surprised. He doesn’t see it as Lan Zhan’s hand moves, a small, involuntary twitch of his fingers, reaching for Wei Ying, before it drops again, and he clenches it in a fist at his back. 

“Let’s go home,” Wei Ying says, waving his hand as though swatting the thoughts aside. “It’s early, but I’ve had a long day already. I need a nap.”

“Wei Ying. Your hand.”

“Huh?” Wei Ying stops and looks at the hand he is waving around. “Oh. This. I just cut myself a little. Don’t worry about it.”

“Mm,” Lan Zhan hums unhappily, and grabs Wei Ying’s wrist suddenly, placing two of his fingers on Wei Ying’s pulse.

“What are you--?” Wei Ying starts, but then he feels it. Something that is both like warm rays of sun and cool water flowing softly into him -- a golden light that he feels knitting around the cut in his finger. 

As quickly as he’d grabbed him, Lan Zhan drops his wrist. Wei Ying stares down at his hand and then, disbelieving, removes the bandaid. The cut on his finger is gone, completely healed over, with no sign that there had been any injury at all.

“Holy shit,” he says once he finds his voice again. “Lan Zhan, you having healing powers?”

--------

On the way back to the apartment, Wei Ying peppers Lan Zhan with questions. Lan Zhan explains patiently how his ‘magic’ works. Lan Zhan doesn’t call it magic, though, his upper lip tightening a little with distaste whenever Wei Ying does. ‘Spiritual power’ he calls it. Which, in Wei Ying’s opinion, is both more boring and a lot more pretentious than just calling it magic. 

Lan Zhan explains how he can direct his spiritual power from his golden core to heal himself, and supply small amounts to heal others. 

“Can everyone in your world do this? Are they all like you?”

“I am regarded as a talented cultivator.”

Wei Ying laughs at that, some of the darkness that has settled over him lifting. “I don’t doubt it. Lan Zhan is good at everything, after all.” He sighs wistfully. “I wish I could do it. To be able to help people like that? That’d be pretty amazing.”

“Wei Ying does help people,” Lan Zhan says, but Wei Ying shakes his head. 

“Considering I just got, you know, unemployed trying to do just that, I can’t really agree.”

He unlocks the door to the apartment and walks inside, the dark creeping back in. “I’m going to go lay down for a bit,” he says. “And later, we’re going out. I need a drink.”

--------

The bar is quieter than usual for a Friday night, with most of the students gone for break. Wei Ying wishes it were busier, louder. He’s in the mood for noise and distraction. After they’d gotten back to the apartment, Wei Ying had shut himself in the bedroom, ostensibly to nap. In actuality, he’d sat in bed staring at the wall, as his thoughts swirled. Money, the Wens, Lan Zhan, the study, each thought chasing after the other, and at the center of it all, the axis on which it all spins, is Wei Ying.

He emerges from his room more tired than he was before, but he doesn’t see sleep coming anytime soon.

They take a seat in a booth near the back, and Wei Ying goes to grab a drink from the bar. 

“Jack and coke?” the bartender says as he sees him approach. 

“Make it a double, and we’ll be best friends,” Wei Ying says, flopping onto the bar dramatically.

“Replacing me after a week? You’re a fickle little shit, aren’t you?”

“Mianmian!” Wei Ying says, tilting his face to look at her, his cheek still pressed into the bar. “Nobody could replace you, my love! Your beauty! Your humor! Your kind heart!”

Mianmian narrows her eyes at him. “What do you want?”

“Can’t a guy just shower his best friend with love?” Wei Ying whines as the bartender returns with his drink and places it before him.

“$5,” he says. “Or are you starting a tab?”

“No, no tab,” Wei Ying says, reaching for his wallet.

“No tab? Who’re you kidding?” Mianmian asks suspiciously.

“Well, if I open a tab then I’m gonna run it up,” Wei Ying says, going for flippant and landing somewhere around bitter.

“Since when are you conscientious about spending money?” Mianmian asks. She grabs his wrist and stops him as he goes to put cash down on the bar. “Put it on my tab,” she says to the bartender, who nods once. She turns back to Wei Ying. “Spill,” she orders.

Wei Ying takes a long sip of his drink, then nods his head over to the booth where Lan Zhan is waiting. “I’ve got company.”

“Works for me,” Mianmian says, taking her drink and heading towards the booth without invitation. “I’ve been wanting to meet Mr. Tall and Dreary.”

“He’s not dreary,” Wei Ying mutters as he follows her back to the table.

Mianmian slides into the booth across from Lan Zhan, and Wei Ying joins her, feeling a little uneasy. “Hi, again,’ she says, “Lan Wangji, right?”

“Mm,” Lan Zhan says, nodding. 

“You and Wei Ying seem close. I’ve hardly heard from him all week. Tossed me aside for you, didn’t he?”

“Mianmian!” Wei Ying interjects, feeling himself go hot.

Her eyes are laughing and bright, and he can tell she’s just getting started. “So, I got fired today,” he says. Not an elegant distraction, but an effective one.

The laughter dies on her face, replaced by something sharp. “What happened?”

Wei Ying fidgets with the straw of his drink, swirling it in the glass. “Apparently going over your boss’s head when they’re being an unethical douchebag is frowned upon. Who woulda guessed?”

“Fuck. Details, a-Ying.”

“Well. I thought that we were in the business of saving lives. He thought otherwise.”

He stares down at the drink in his hands and suddenly needs to be a lot drunker, a lot faster. “I’m getting a shot. Mianmian?”

“Is that a good idea?” she says, making a sour face at him. “Do you really want Dark Wei Ying to come out?”

He laughs, standing. “You worry too much. It’s $1 shot night, I’m just being frugal.”

“Allow me. My father’s always saying philanthropy is important for our public image.”

Wei Ying closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before turning. “Wen Chao. With all due respect -- which is to say, none -- fuck all the way off.”

“Who are you to talk to him like that?” pipes in the women draped on his arm. Wang Lingjiao, Wei Ying realizes.

“Me?” Wei Ying gives a little half smile. “I’m nobody. Now if you really want to buy me those drinks, don’t let me stop you. Either way, I’m about to go get a whole lot less sober. So either pony up or fuck off.”

“He was right to fire you,” she snipes at him, turning toward Wen Chao with a simpering look. “Baby, you’re not gonna let him get away with that, are you?”

“Jesus fuck, ” Mianmian says disgustedly under her breath.

Wang Lingjiao gives Mianmian a once over and sniffs. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” Wen Chao says. “You can buy your own drink. But you,” he looks at Mianmian and smirks, tongue licking out of the corner of his mouth, “you’re free to join us. My treat.”

Wang Lingjiao’s face twists painfully, and she glares at Mianmian. 

“Interesting offer,” Mianmian says, tapping her bottom lip thoughtfully, “but, I think I’d rather french a dog. Now excuse us, you are interrupting.”

She turns to Lan Zhan and says, loudly, “So what were we talking about? Oh, right. So the most pathetic thing about nepotism and riding your father’s filthy coattails is how you’re basically always gonna be garbage, and you start dragging other garbage along behind you.”

“You dare--!” Wang Lingjiao screeches, grabbing Wei Ying’s glass off the table to throw at Mianmian. Wei Ying sees it coming though, snapping his arm out and grabbing her wrist. The glass falls to the floor and shatters.

“Don’t touch her!” Wen Chao yells.

Wei Ying has been in fights before. With his mouth, it’d be impossible not to have. Most of them had been with Jiang Cheng, so he’s used to fighting people who are fueled by anger. He knows that they tend to act instinctually, throwing obvious blows that are easy to dodge when you pay attention.

Unfortunately, he’s precuppied with holding back Wang Lingjiao, and isn’t able to duck in time. He braces for the hit, but it doesn’t happen. Lan Zhan has stood to his full towering height, Wen Chao’s arm in his hand. The man sinks to his knees, gasping in pain in Lan Zhan’s grip.

“What’s happening over here?” The bouncer runs up to them, frowning. “What the fuck are you doing? You can’t fight in here.”

“We were just trying to drown our sorrows in booze like responsible citizens,” Wei Ying says, “when these two came over looking for a fight.”

“Let him go, dude,” the bouncer says to Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan looks at Wei Ying, who translates. “Let him go, they’re getting thrown out.”

He nods and releases Wen Chao, who squeals as his arm drops heavily to his side. 

“Alright, get up and get out of here,” the bouncer says. “And you three. Wei Ying. If you do that shit again I’ll have to eject you too.”

“Thanks, Mel. Best behavior over here promises.”

The bounder, Mel, rolls their eyes and escorts Wen Chao and Wang Lingjiao to the door.

“Well, that was exciting,” Wei Ying says. “And now, shots.”

--------

“Alright, that’s enough for me,” Mianmian says, rising from the table, the better portion of which is covered with empty glasses. “A-Ying, I suggest you stop here too. I’d prefer if you didn’t drink yourself into your grave.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Wei Ying says thickly. 

Mianmian rolls her eyes as she scoots over him and out of the booth. “Don’t die, dumbass,” she says, and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “And you,” she turns to Lan Zhan, “whatever is happening here,” she points between the two of them, “take care of him, okay? I know he’s, like, a genius or whatever. But he’s also a dumbass. And we love him and don’t want anything bad to happen to him, right?”

Lan Zhan looks at her warmly and nods. “Of course, Mianmian.”

She smiles at him. “Alright. Goodnight, you two. Go home soon.”

Wei Ying waves to her, even as his eyes never leave Lan Zhan’s face. Once Mianmian is out the door, Wei Ying shakes his head, sips his drink, and gives a small laugh. “Lan Zhan, you’re so obvious.”

“What do you mean?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Mianmian!” Wei Ying says loudly. “‘Of course, Mianmian,’” he says, doing a poor impression of Lan Zhan. 

“I do not understand.”

“Maybe I should’ve let you stop Wang Lingjiao,” Wei Ying strokes a finger along his chin. “Women remember that stuff, you know. Now Mianmian will always think of me and my heroics whenever someone breaks a glass. It’s too bad, it could’ve been you!”

“Wei Ying.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, don’t look at me like that!” Wei Ying laughs. “I get it! I’ve seen how you look at her. Mianmian is really pretty! And a total spitfire. I approve. If you get stuck here, you could do worse than Mianmian. But I demand to be best man at the wedding, okay?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and takes the glass from his hands. “We should go home. You have had enough.”

“I could have more,” Wei Ying pouts, but then he notices how tired Lan Zhan looks, and relents. “Sure. Let’s go. I can always drink at home.”

--------

Wei Ying leans heavily on Lan Zhan on the way back to the apartment. He hadn’t realized it while he’d sat in the booth drinking, but once he’d been forced to stand and propel himself on just two legs, the task seemed suddenly much more challenging than usual. 

Thankfully, Lan Zhan is a solid support beneath him. He helps Wei Ying to the couch, and then returns and presses a glass of water into his hands. “Thanks, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. “Guess you took it to heart when Mianmian said to take care of me, huh?”

Lan Zhan hums a little, but Wei Ying isn’t really paying attention. His mouth tastes bitter, and it creeps through him. He wonders if Lan Zhan would’ve taken care of him if he asked him to instead of Mianmian. It’s a small, petty thought. But knowing he’s being petty doesn’t do anything to help the dark mood settling in around him.

“I will prepare for bed,” Lan Zhan says. “Does Wei Ying need anything?”

“Wei Ying is perfect. Great. Never wanted for anything,” he mutters. “Go, I’m fine.”

Lan Zhan looks conflicted for a moment, but Wei Ying waves a hand at him, and he turns and disappears into the bedroom.

Wei Ying is contemplating just falling asleep on the couch in his clothes, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He fishes it out, and sees that Jiang Cheng is calling. He frowns and strong;yl considers not answering it, uncertain that he has the energy to deal with whatever it is that would make Jiang Cheng call instead of text. But, he knows not answering will just have Jiang Cheng continuing to call and getting angier and angrier the longer Wei Ying doesn’t answer. Better to deal with whatever it is now.

“Hey, didi. How’s my baby bro? Missing big brother?” he says, hoping that maybe he can annoy him into hanging up. 

“Good, you’re alive,” Jiang Cheng says, and then, outrageously, does hang up.

Wei Ying stares at the phone. There are several unread text notifications, one from Jiang Yanli and six from Jiang Cheng.

🌺 jiejie 🌺
a-ying, zixuan said he heard something happened at work? is everything okay?

She’d sent it several hours ago. Wei Ying feels a stab of guilt, but doesn’t answer. He tells himself it’s too late, she’s probably already asleep.

Then, he sees the texts from Jiang Cheng

a-cheng 👿👿👿
RESPOND TO A-JIE
SHE’S FREAKING OUT YOU ASSHOLE

WHERE ARE YOU
IF YOU’RE DEAD IM GOING TO KILL YOU

did your fucking *boyfriend* murder you
i am going to drive back there and break both your legs

Wei Ying groans, and quickly calls Jiang Cheng back. He answers on the first ring.

“What?” Jiang Cheng snaps.

“Sorry, I just saw your texts. I was out with … with Mianmian.” It’s not a lie, but he doesn’t feel like actually talking about Lan Zhan to Jiang Cheng.

“Whatever, I don’t care!” Jiang Cheng yells into the phone, loud enough that Wei Ying has to move it away from his ear. “I only called because Yanli was worried. But try not to get murdered or whatever, I don’t want to have to miss classes for your funeral.”

“Aw, didi, I’d never ask you to neglect your studies.”

Jiang Cheng snorts so hard that Wei Ying worries he might give himself a nosebleed. Then, “Is that weird guy still there?”

Wei Ying, through the fug of whiskey, takes a moment with that. “Lan Zhan? He’s not weird,” -- that’s not entirely true, he’s aware, Lan Zhan may not be weird in a bad way, but he’s definitely not normal -- “but yeah, he’s still here.”

Even through the phone line, Wei Ying can feel the waves of displeasure radiating off of his brother. “ Lan Zhan ?” he says finally. “I thought his name was Lan Wangji?”

“Oh.” Right. “Yeah, well. They’re both his names?” 

“He has two names?” Jiang Cheng’s voice sounds clenched, as though he is speaking through his teeth. “How totally normal and not at all suspicious . You are a fucking idiot.”

“It’s not suspicious. It’s like. A nickname of something, I guess.”

“Don’t get blood all over the apartment when he murders you,” Jiang Cheng says hotly. “If you cost me the safety deposit, I will re-kill you.”

Wei Ying thinks of the hole in the drywall from where he’d accidentally, drunkenly fallen into it when he’d tripped over his stack of textbooks a month ago. The hole he’s carefully hidden behind a pile of laundry. He decides now isn’t the time to tell Jiang Cheng that he can kiss the safety deposit goodbye.

“Lan Zh-- Lan Wangji isn’t going to kill me, okay? Stop worrying about me. He’s a good dude who just needs a place to stay for a bit.”

“How do you manage to pick up so many strays all the time?” Jiang Cheng says, his tone sulky now.

Wei Ying pauses, his heart darkening. “Well,” he says with false brightness, “I guess like recognizes like.”

“What -- no -- shut up, I didn’t mean--”

“I’m drunk and I’m tired,” Wei Ying cuts him off. “And I’m not dead. Tell a-jie I’m fine.”

“Wei Ying, what happened at work--”

“Goodnight, Jiang Cheng,” he says with finality as he hangs up, and promptly turns off his phone.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. One moment, he’s sitting on the couch, contemplating how he’s going to tell Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli that he’s been fired, wondering how he’s going to pay rent or buy food -- and the next he finds himself being gently shaken awake by a large, warm hand on his shoulder.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, kneeling in front of him. “Come to bed.”

“‘m comfy here,” Wei Ying slurs in his sleepiness, curling into himself. He isn’t comfortable at all, he realizes distantly. He’s cold and a little cramped from where he’s tucked up into the corner of the couch.

“The bed is more comfortable,” Lan Wangji says reasonably.

“Can’t move,” Wei Ying pouts, turning his face into the cushion. 

“I can carry you,” Lan Zhan says, in a simple, matter-of-fact way, as though carrying Wei Ying is a reasonable thing to do. 

Wei Ying remembers what it felt like to be scooped up, held by Lan Zhan’s arms. He stands quickly, then wobbles on his feet as his blood pressure drops suddenly at the rapid change of position. Lan Zhan stands as well, putting a steadying hand on Wei Ying’s lower back. Wei Ying jerks away from the touch. “I’m fine,” he says. “You could’ve just let me sleep here.”

“You are injured,” Lan Zhan points out. “And it is your bed.”

“I’m too drunk to argue about this,” Wei Ying says as he walks to his room, swaying a little. 

He strips out of his clothes and begins to pull on pajamas, tripping a little as he struggles into the flannel bottoms. From the corner of his eye, he sees a small movement, and realizes Lan Zhan is standing in the doorway. He hadn’t realized that the man had followed him. He might have been a little less casual about stripping off his clothes if he’d been paying attention. But, Wei Ying finds that he can’t summon the energy to be embarrassed. “Like what you see?” he teases.

Lan Zhan isn’t actually looking at him. He’s staring at the wall, as though wanting to give Wei Ying privacy, but not trusting him to take care of himself just now. Which is fair.

Having successfully wrestled his mess of limbs into his pajamas -- they had been fighting him the whole time, like they didn’t know who was in charge here -- Wei Ying turns and falls into his bed. Once he’s there, though, something happens.

The irritation, the anger, the darkness that has been propelling him forward all night -- falls away from him, leaving him feeling raw and small and wounded underneath. Unbidden, a quiet, pathetic whimper escapes him.

“Wei Ying?”

Lan Zhan has left his sentinel watch by the doorway and is standing next to the bed, over Wei Ying. Somehow, despite being so tall and so wide, despite the fact that he is standing and Wei Ying is lying there in a tragic curl on the bed, Lan Zhan isn’t looming. His presence is quiet and sure, like the moon in the sky: constant and unchanging, tidally locked even as he the shadows move over him and concealing him in parts.

“Stay here,” Wei Ying says, reaching out a desperate hand for his steadiness as the world lurches into uncertainty around him. He wouldn’t say it, if he was sober. He wouldn’t ask it. He knows he wouldn’t even as he does. He let’s the alcohol ask for him.

Lan Zhan’s face is obscured, the light of the street split into bars through the half open blinds, a mask over his eyes. Wei Ying waits, and then says, “I don’t want to be alone right now. I’ve had a shit day and I don’t think I should be alone right now. Just … stay until I fall asleep?”

He doesn’t beg, he doesn’t say please. Not with his words, but he is pleading, with his whole body, for Lan Zhan to stay. 

Lan Zhan continues to say nothing, and anxiety begins to crawl, cold and clawed, up his neck. He drops Lan Zhan’s hand. “God. What am I -- that’s weird, right? Sorry. Ah, sorry, I’ll just --”

The bed sinks under Lan Zhan’s weight as he sits on the edge, turned slightly toward Wei Ying. “Would you like me to play for you?”

Wei Ying would, but even through the haze he knows it’s too much to ask. “Lan Zhan. You don’t have to. I’m being ridiculous, you’re probably tired. Ignore me, really. I’m just drunk.”

“I will play for you,” Lan Zhan says. “If you would enjoy it.”

He should say no. Lan Zhan is just being nice . This is probably just how things are, where he’s from. People are probably just nice and polite and putting aside their own needs for annoying strangers, because even annoying strangers probably know how to say ‘ no’ where Lan Zhan’s from…

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, a crumpled thing, discarded, hoping to go unnoticed.

Lan Zhan rises from the bed only to take a careful seat on the floor next to it. Wei Ying can’t see what he’s doing, can only see the back of his head, hair loose around his shoulders, shining ribbons of silver light reflecting back at him. The music starts, and enfolds Wei Ying in sleep.

--------

The next day, Wei Ying wakes feeling lighter than he has felt in … well. A long time. He can’t remember the last time he felt unburdened like this. As though he could --

The thought occurs to him, and once it’s taken him, he finds he can’t think of anything else.

“Lan Zhan, can you take my flying?” he says in a rush as he emerges from his room. The light outside is still watery with the early hours of dawn, but Wei Ying feels alert. Rested. Shockingly, not hungover. Lan Zhan is, of course, already awake, and moving through his morning exercises. Wei Ying tries not to stare, but he’s fairly certain he doesn’t succeed.

He knows that he shouldn’t be feeling this way. Everything that’s happening, everything that happened yesterday, should have him crawling into one of his ‘caves’, as Jiang Yanli calls them. She was always chasing after him, whenever he retreated as a child into one of the dark places inside him. Not always to pull him out. Sometimes just to sit with him, companionable in his darkness. 

But something had not only pulled him out of the darkness last night. It had shattered the darkness with bright, clear light. The result being that, today, the world feels wide and open around him. He feels it under his feet, waiting for him to step forward.

Lan Zhan slowly brings his feet back to the floor in a slow, controlled motion filled with grace that Wei Ying knows he can’t even achieve with both feet on the ground. His face is flushed where the blood has rushed to his head, making him look as though he is embarrassed or … well. Something hot and flushed and Wei Ying is going to stop thinking about that right now .

“I will show you,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying -- who has forgotten his own question in his determination to not stare at Lan Zhan -- splutters a little before he regains the thread of the conversation.

“Yes. Flying. Yes, we can go after breakfast? I know the perfect spot! As long as we don’t go too high. Which, do you go very high? Will you have to carry me? Will I be too heavy? I mean, I know you can carry me--” the memory sends his blood ricocheting against the walls of his heart “--but, like, is it different? In the air?”

“It will not be a problem,” Lan Zhan says, as he arranges his clothes back into a seemly order. “I have enough spiritual power, and my connection to Bichen is strong.”

“Bichen?” Wei Ying asks. 

“My sword,” Lan Zhan says, as though this should be obvious.

Wei Ying isn’t following. “Lan Zhan. What does yoru sword have to do with flying?”

--------

“This is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Wei Ying says as he watches Lan Zhan flying a couple of feet above the ground, skimming the seeded tufts of the tall grass, standing atop his sword in impossible elegance. It should look strange, he thinks. Maybe awkward or funny, the tall, powerful man zipping through the air on a thin blade, standing erect and still as a statue.

It isn’t funny at all. It’s incredible, and no part of Wei Ying feels anything but wonder. Except, maybe, the small part of him that is distracted by wanting.

They’re in the middle of the arboretum, far off the paths that any students might be hiking or running. Wei Ying doubts there’s anyone out here on the paths today anyway. Besides being break, it had been a wet winter. The snow and ice has long since melted, but the arb trails were still mostly a flooded, muddy wreck. He had tried his best to avoid the worst of it as he’d led Lan Zhan through. Lan Zhan, being Lan Zhan, had managed to avoid getting muddy. Wei Ying, being Wei Ying, had not.

Lan Zhan stops in the air before him, and reaches out a hand to Wei Ying. Wei Ying doesn’t need telling twice. He grabs Lan Zhan’s hand, electric with excitement, and, disbelieving, takes a step onto the sword. 

It doesn’t dip below him, as he’d been expecting. It’s solid and still, and it’s like taking a step up onto a ledge. Except, the ledge is a 2.5 inch wide blade floating off the ground, now bearing the weight of two full grown men. 

“Hold on,” Lan Zhan says. Wei Ying tentatively places his hands on Lan Zhan’s shoulders. Which definitely doesn’t feel like enough of a hold to go flying through the air together, but he’s also not sure what permission he has for touching.

His concern is taken out of his control when Lan Zhan reaches up, takes Wei Ying’s hands and pulls him closer, so Wei Ying is pressed against his back, his arms looped around Lan Zhan’s neck. “Do not let go,” Lan Zhan says.

“I won’t,” Wei Ying says, a little breathless, his mouth close to Lan Zhan’s ear.

One moment, they’re floating in the field, and it’s the most amazing thing Wei Ying has ever done.

The next momet, they’re moving, the sword slicing forward through the tall grass, not too fast, but not slow either. The wind moves over Wei Ying’s face and the earth rotates beneath his feet, and then he laughs, wild and windtorn, because he’s doing it. This is it. He’s flying.

They spend the morning like that, zipping through the grass, Wei Ying urging Lan Zhan to go higher and higher. Wei Ying knows it is reckless -- they could be seen -- but he doesn’t care. Flying feels like something he should have been doing his whole life. He feels lit with freedom and possibility in the air, but also more in his skin than he’s ever felt on land. 

The previous 21 years of his life, the closest he had come was swimming. He used to spend every moment he could in the water, floating, or cutting fast sharp lines through it. He felt loose and free in the water. But then, in the water, he needed to come up for air.

In the sky, he was the air.

He loosens his grip around Lan Zhan’s neck and throws one arm out wide, a single wing slicing through the wind. He imagines himself being buffeted higher by an updraft, caught beneath his outstretched arm, limitless. 

His other arm clings to Lan Zhan, not knowing how he’s going to let this go.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Wei Ying!” Rosa calls to him in greeting as he and Lan Zhan walk into the facility on Sunday, a beaming smile turned on them, excitement evident in every limb. 

“Heya, Rosa!” Wei Ying calls back with equal energy. “What’s got you so happy today? Have a good date?” he winks, and Rosa laughs, shaking her head.

“Hardly. Single as ever, here. Although you seem good at finding handsome men to follow you around. Maybe you could help a girl out?” she sees Lan Zhan and raises her eyebrows suggestively. Wei Ying squirms a little, looking pleased with himself. “But no, it’s even better than that.” Her eyes are sparkling, and Wei Ying leans in closer. “Wei Ying. You’ll never believe it. The residents, every single one of them, have just … improved.”

“Improved? What do you mean?”

“Just that! Every single one who had lab work done this week had good results come back! Better results. Even the ones who … well. Who shouldn’t be getting better.  And it’s not just that. You’ll see. It’s been a great week.”

Her eyes are wet, and she dabs at them a little. Wei Ying looks gobsmacked, but he signs himself and Lan Zhan in without further questions and walks back to the residential area.

The atmosphere when they walk into the communal space is markedly different from the last time they were here. The residents, often chronically tired and fighting stubbornly for cheerfulness in the face of their suffering, are now milling around energetically, chatting amiably with one another, with easy smiles that Wei Ying doesn’t recognize.

He stops and stares, taking it in with stunned delight.

“I can’t believe it myself,” Granny Wen says behind his shoulder. 

“Granny!” Wei Ying nearly gasps. “It’s incredible!”

Granny smiles. “I know. Everyone has just been so spry since last Sunday. I’ve got so much life in these limbs, I feel like I’m sixty again.”

Wei Ying laughs, his eyes shining as he wraps her up in a tight hug. 

“Wei Ying. I will go play.”

“Yeah, of course, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, patting his arm.

Lan Zhan walks to the front of the room and sets down his guqin on the low table, sitting himself behind it. The residents begin to murmur happily and take seats around him, settling in to listen. Wei Ying leads Granny Wen to her favorite armchair in the back, helping her into the seat. “I’m going to go make tea for everyone,” Wei Ying says. “You need anything?”

“Tea is perfect,” Granny Wen smiles, and Wei Ying bustles off, trying to reel in the joy in his heart, to channel it into something constructive rather than the wild, bursting feeling that longs to shake out of him.

He comes back a bit later, passing a tray around the room, pouring tea to grateful residents. Lan Zhan’s music fills the room, something different from last week: vibrant, hopeful, longing. It mixes with the powerful euphoric feeling that Wei Ying thinks might split his skin -- it’s so big, too big for him -- and turns it into something compact, dense and powerful and hidden, buried deep in him, until his whole body’s rhythm is overtaken by it. 

He brings Granny Wen her tea last, perching onto the arm of her chair. 

“The boy is something special,” she says, blowing on her tea and taking a sip.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying agrees, although he is a thousand miles away as he watches Lan Zhan play, following an impossible chain of thoughts.

But, then, many things had seemed impossible before Lan Zhan.

“You are too, you know.”

“Huh?”

Granny squeezes his knee affectionately. “Something special.”

“Granny,” Wei Ying complains, squirming under the compliment. “How’re you feeling, by the way?”

“Like a million bucks,” Granny Wen answers, “which is really saying something, because I used to give it away for the price of a mediocre meal and maybe some flowers.”

“Granny Wen!” Wei Ying whines, hiding his face in his hands. “You know people call me shameless? They’d die if they ever met you.”

“When you get to be my age, you’ve already burned through all your shame if you’ve lived your life well.”

Wei Ying shakes his head with a smile. “I can’t imagine you ever had a lot of shame to begin with.”

“True!” she says happily. “And I spent the little I might have had a long time ago.”

They sit together for a while listening, before Wei Ying remembers he’s supposed to be working. “I’ve got to go start preparing lunch,” he says, hopping up. 

“Make some extra for my grandkids,” Granny Wen says. She means Wen Ning, Wen Qing, and Wen Yuan. They aren’t actually her grandkids, but Granny Wen is the self-appointed matriarch of the little family, and they all have happily accepted her. 

“Is that okay?” Wei Ying asks quietly. “I don’t want to get them in trouble for taking food meant for the residents.”

He had been planning to sneak some out for them anyway, truth be told, but there’s still a knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach at the thought of causing trouble for them. 

“It’s fine,” Granny says. “I spoke with Donna in billing after Wen Qing left earlier this week. I’m paying.”

Wei Ying frowns, even as he bends down and kisses her forehead. “Does Wen Qing know?” 

“Of course not!” Granny says. “And don’t you dare tell her.”

“You’d rather she think I’m stealing? Granny, my reputation!”

Granny chuckles. “Wen Qing’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out, if she hasn’t already. But she’ll accept it, for Wen Ning and Wen Yuan. But we don’t have to rub it in and make it harder.”

“I love you, Granny.”

“Uh-huh. Go cook, you lazy brat,” she swats at him and he yelps and runs out of the room. “Love you, too.”

--------

Wei Ying finishes cooking for the residents, and packs up a portion of the food in a couple of tupperware containers to bring over to the Wens that night for dinner. He’s grateful to Granny Wen, but his heart feels heavy and tight with the regret that he’s not able to do more himself to help them. 

As they prepare to head out, Lan Zhan nodding politely to the residents, who are gathered around him, praising his playing, even though he cannot understand them, Wei Ying walks up to the desk.

“Rosa, any chance you all are hiring?”

She tilts her head at him, the cap of her pen bouncing against her lip. “Are you asking for you? You know we’d love to have you on staff, but we can barely pay the people we have.” She puts the pen down and looks at him with concern. “I thought you had a job. Don’t you work for WenQuish?”

“Not anymore.”

There’s pity in her face now. Wei Ying hates it, and dials up his smile to try to burn it out of her. “Well, let me know if you hear of anything, okay?”

“Sure, of course.”

“Thanks, doll,” he says, and turns and hooks elbows with Lan Zhan, who has finally managed to mutely free himself from his fan club.

“Bye, boys,” Rose calls after them. “See you next week?”

“Bye, Rosa!”

“Goodbye,” Lan Zhan says as they exit the building.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says after they’re outside, following him around to the back of the building, where he returns his guqin back to his qiankun bag. “Since when do you speak English?”

“I do not,” Lan Zhan answers. “I am attempting to learn. I used my time at the library to study.”

“But Lan Zhan ,” Wei Ying says, a little exasperated, “you should be working on the array! Don’t you want to get home?”

Lan Zhan pauses, just for a moment. Long enough that Wei Ying’s heart gets out one thunderous thump . “Yes,” he says.

Wei Ying does not examine the wilted flower feeling in his chest. 

“It will be easier for Wei Ying if I can speak the language,” Lan Zhan continues. Wei Ying tries to interrupt, to insist that it’s completely unnecessary, but Lan Zhan adds, “It is better to work on the array with Wei Ying than alone.”

“What? I -- come on, Lan Zhan, I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

Lan Zhan makes a sound that Wei Ying finds impossible to decipher. 

“Come on,” he changes the topic abruptly, wanting to avoid whatever dangerous waters lie ahead. “Let’s head over to the Wens early. I need some baby time.”

They walk together side-by-side in silence, Wei Ying’s thoughts tangled and uncertain, until he finds the thread he wants to pull the most. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “about the residents…”

Lan Zhan waits for him to continue, not rushing him, but attentive, patient. Wei Ying takes a deep breath. “Is it you? Are you healing them? Is that a thing you can do?”

“No,” Lan Zhan says, but the way he says it makes Wei Ying think there is more. “I am not able to heal the sick,” he continues, “however, I am able to help the body heal itself.”

“So it’s not just healing papercuts?” Wei Ying says, stunned and eager. “How? How do you do it? You touched me, but you aren’t touching all the residents, right? I mean, if you did, I certainly didn’t see it.”

“Mm,” Lan Zhan agrees. “No. Not touching. Music.”

“I knew it,” Wei Ying breathes. “I knew that didn’t feel like normal music.”

“I can infuse the music with spiritual energy. Different songs, different means to different ends.”

“What’s the limit?” Wei Ying asks. “Are you sure you can’t cure illness? Have you tried?”

“I … have,” Lan Zhan says. There’s something in his voice. Pain, maybe. Wei Ying wants to know what is behind it, but is afraid to push. “I cannot heal what the body is incapable of healing itself,” he says at last. “I can only soothe, and help the body along.”

“Well,” Wei Ying says, “whatever you’re doing, it’s incredible. Do you think … could you play for Wen Ning? Tonight?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says without hesitation. “I do not know if it will help. But I will play.”

It’s all Wei Ying can do not to wrap him in his arms right there, nearly overwhelmed by the need to just press him close and show him how much it means. How much Lan Zhan’s goodness and care means to him. “I’ve decided, Lan Zhan,” he says instead, “you’re not a wizard. Beautiful, dressed all in white, being so good and perfect -- you’re an angel. Cloud Recesses is just Heaven, isn’t it? It’s even in the name. How didn’t I see it before? Irreproachable, immaculate, never sinned in his life Lan Zhan!”

Lan Zhan does not reply, but the red in his ears says it all.

--------

“A-Yuan!” Wei Ying cries, sinking to his knees in the doorway before they’ve even removed their shoes or greeted Wen Qing. “My favorite child! My own son, whom I bore with my body!”

“Don’t confuse him,” Wen Qing says sharply. “It’s already hard enough trying to get him to understand who is family is without you saying things like that. The kid keeps trying to go home with strangers every time we go to the store.”

Wen Yuan, ignoring this conversation, launches himself straight past Wei Ying and wraps himself tightly around Lan Zhan’s legs instead. “Pretty gege!” he says happily, smiling up at him. “You came back!”

“I did,” Lan Zhan says, taking it all in stride with that same unflappable air of his. 

“What am I, chopped liver?” Wei Ying pouts, standing and taking off his shoes as he points one accusing finger at Wen Yuan. “After I fed you from my own body!”

“ Wei Ying.”

“Alright, alright, maybe not from my own body,” Wei Ying amends. “But I did come bearing gifts!”

“Gifts?” Wen Yuan says, perking up immediately. “I can have a gift?”

Whoops.

“It’s for everyone. I brought food!” Wei Ying says, handing a bag containing the tupperware over to Wen Qing, who accepts it without comment. 

“Snacks?” Wen Yuan asks hopefully.

“Sorry, buddy,” Wei Ying apologizes, “no snacks this time.”

Wen Yuan pouts, then looks up at Lan Zhan where he’s wrapped around his leg. “Snacks?” he says tearfully.

Lan Zhan looks contemplative, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his qiankun pouch. “Ah, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying starts, but Lan Zhan reaches into the bag and pulls out a small, snack-sized pack of goldfish crackers.

Wei Ying goggles at him. 

“Fish!” Wen Yuan crows, taking the baggy of crackers as he stands and lifts his arms to be picked up. 

Lan Zhan lifts him to his hip, as though it is a well-practiced motion, as though he picks up preschoolers all the time, and helps Wen Yuan open the bag.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says slowly, “where did you get goldfish crackers?”

“One of the residents gave it to me,” he says evenly, “as a thank you.”

Wei Ying laughs at that, shaking his head. “Well, I hope you know what you’ve done. A-Yuan will never leave you alone now. Between me and a-Yuan, you’re never going to have a minute of peace to yourself. It’s just going to be the two of us, bothering you every waking minute.”

“He is not a bother,” Lan Zhan says. “Nor is Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying turns to Wen Qing and gestures widely at Lan Zhan, throwing out his arms and waving them at him. “Do you see? Do you see what I’m dealing with? Impossible. He’s impossible. And also, possibly trying to kill me.”

Wen Qing rolls her eyes. “He’s not allowed to kill you. I have dibs.”

“You’re behind Jiang Cheng in the ‘kill Wei Ying’ queue,” Wei Ying points out helpfully. 

“You think your brother is a match for me?” she says, raising her eyebrows at him dangerously.

“When you put it like that, I’m pretty sure Jiang Cheng would step aside happily. Ladies first, after all.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, get in here. Why do you always stand in the doorway.”

“Easy escape?” Wei Ying offers as he follows her in.

“Hi, Wei Ying,” Wen Ning says from his usual spot on the couch when Wei Ying walks in. “Hi, Lan Wangji.”

Lan Zhan nods at him briefly, as he continues bouncing Wen Yuan lightly on his hip. Which is, seriously, the cutest thing, and yeah, Wei Ying might die.

“Hey, Wen Ning!” Wei Ying greets him enthusiastically, sliding up next to him on the couch, grabbing his face, and placing several sloppy kisses on his cheeks, just to vent some of his feelings. Wen Ning yelps and tries to push him off, but Wei Ying just laughs, pouting loudly. “First a-Yuan throws me aside, now my baby a-Ning rejects my love? My poor, motherly heart is breaking!” 

“Leave him alone, a-Ying,” Wen Qing scolds. “Don’t get him worked up.”

Wei Ying turns and sticks his tongue out at her, but let’s him go -- but not without ruffling his hair first.

Lan Zhan, who has watched this display with a strange, stony look walks into the room and sets Wen Yuan down on the floor. He then carefully removes the guqin from where he has it slung across his back in preparation for playing for Wen Ning.

“Oh!” Wei Ying says, remembering. “A-Ning, a-Qing. Would you mind if Lan Wangji played a little? He’s really, really good. He’s been playing at Southfield, and they love it,” he adds for context to Wen Ning, who hasn’t had the chance to hear Lan Zhan play.

“Would you mind?” Wen Ning asks shyly. “It would be nice.”

Lan Zhan nods. He places the guqin on the low coffee table, and kneels in front of it. Wen Yuan, seeing an opportunity, crawls over into his lap.

“A-Yuan! Come here!” Wei Ying says, reaching out for him.

“He is fine,” Lan Zhan says, situating himself so the boy is sitting easily in his lap as he reaches his arms out to play. 

“Well,” Wei Ying mutters to himself, “can’t really blame him for liking Lan Wangji better. Kid’s got taste.”

Wen Ning chuckles next to him. “You gotta bring snacks if you want to be the favorite,” he teases lightly.

“Noted,” Wei Ying says. “Next week, I’m gonna bring a wheelbarrow full of goldfish crackers.Then we’ll see who's the favorite.”

He nudges Wen Ning playfully in the shoulder. Then, Lan Zhan starts playing, and they fall silent under the warm touch of the music. 

He’s not sure how long he sits there listening to Lan Zhan playing. Wen Qing joins them after a while, taking a seat next to Wei Ying. “Hey,” Wei Ying says to her after some time, “can I talk to you about something?”

She darts a quick look toward Wen Ning, who is watching Lan Zhan play with a small, content smile, his eyes nearly closed. “Yeah,” she says, “come help me with dinner.”

There isn’t much to do by way of prep. Really, it’s just a matter of gathering plates and utensils, and heating the food Wei Ying brought over. Wen Qing oils a pan and adds the food, letting it slowly heat, as Wei Ying pulls plates from the cupboards.

“There’s a trial for a new cystic fibrosis therapy,” he says at last.

Wen Qing goes still, immediately alert. “WenQuish?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s … it’s really promising. I’ve read the papers.”

“They’ll never let him in.”

Of course, Wen Qing would see this right away. She would know, better even then Wei Ying, what kind of company WenQuish is. 

“Granny Wen said you were at Southfield again this week.”

It would be a non-sequitur, if they didn’t know each other so well. Wen Qing’s shoulder sag. “We lost our insurance.”

“ What? ” Wei Ying says, much too loudy. She glares at him, but he can’t help it. Without insurance, how are they … how can they…

“What happened?” Wei Ying asks, at a much more reasonable volume.

“The company dropped it from our benefits,” she says, her voice deliberately steady and calm, which is how Wei Ying knows just how scared she is. “We have to go to the open market now, but… I’m trying. But with Wen Ning’s … well. I can’t find anything. Nothing that we can afford.” She allows herself a bitter laugh. “It’s either medicine, or food and shelter. Although, actually, a month’s treatment costs more than we spend on food and rent in three months.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Wei Ying,” Wen Qing is by his side, her hand gentle on his arm, “I know WenQuish. Very well. They won’t do it. It’s not your responsibility to make it happen. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Wei Ying puts his hand over hers and smiles. “Qing-jie, when have I ever done anything stupid?” he asks sweetly.

She snorts, reaching up and flicking his ear with her other hand. “Promise me you won’t go making trouble for yourself,” she says. “I’m working on it. Wen Ning is my brother, I can handle it.”

“Of course, Qing-jie,” he says. He doesn’t cross his fingers behind his back. He knows Wen Qing can handle it. She’s smart, resourceful, determined. She loves Wen Ning. She can do it.

But Wei Ying can help. It’s not trouble, after all, since he’s already been fired. There’s nothing to lose.

Before they head home that night, he already has a plan.

--------

Wei Ying sits on his bed, laptop perched in his lap, a blue cast to his skin from the glow of the screen. He flexes his wrist, the silk wrap removed. It feels mostly better -- a little stiff, but otherwise fine. Wen Qing had looked it over, diagnosed him with a mild sprain and chronic stupidity, and deemed Lan Zhan’s first aid acceptable, but had instructed him that he should unwrap it every few hours to keep it mobile while it healed. 

He rereads the email he has written several times. Wen Chao is really an idiot. He removed pages from Wei Ying’s notebooks, anything he had deemed proprietary to WenQuish. But he couldn’t confiscate Wei Ying’s phone, and clearly had put in Wei Ying’s termination for Friday, not Thursday. Which means, Wei Ying still had access to the server through the end of the workday on Friday. He’d spent several hours going through and taking screenshots of everything.

He attaches the relevant images -- incriminating emails from management rejecting proposals, requirements for study participants based on income, barely coded emails from the higher-ups rejecting participants with insurance companies known to pay less. Wei Ying includes statistics on study participants, revealing them skewed largely towards the white and affluent. Compiled together, it is fairly damning.

He copies the email several times and sends it off to the handful of names he found during his search.

There’s no guarantee that this will work. He knows he’s playing with fire.

Wen Ning’s pale face is in his mind. Wen Qing’s hand on his arm as she reassures him that things are fine.

He clicks send, and feels no regret.

-------

On Monday, Wei Ying dedicates himself to his job hunt. They’re hanging around the apartment today, Wei Ying working on his laptop on the couch, Lan Zhan sitting at the table with a notebook and Wei Ying’s phone. Wei Ying has set him up with a language learning app, since he’d expressed a desire to learn English, and a pair of headphones. He can hear Lan Zhan scratching down notes, moving his lips silently around the foreign words. 

Wei Ying starts by looking for work related to his interest in having a career in biomedical research, but he knows even before he starts that it’s hopeless. He’d only gotten the position at WenQuish because of the Jiangs -- they were well-connected and had used those connections to get Jiang Cheng a job. Wei Ying had managed to worm his way in by attaching himself to Jiang Cheng and then fighting hard. 

Labs in general, though, were not clamoring to hire and pay undergraduates. He gets it, but it doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow.

The limited options for actual research-related work exhausted, Wei Ying starts sending out applications to whatever he can find. Cafes, retailers, grocery stores. He’ll take whatever he can get, assuming he can get anything. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan calls to him from the table as Wei Ying sends off what feels like his hundredth resume into the void. “There is .. a sound.”

Wei Ying looks back at him. Lan Zhan has pulled out one of the earbuds and is looking down at the phone with confusion. Wei Ying pops up from the couch and walks over, sees that it’s a phone call from a number he doesn’t recognize. His stomach clenches as he takes the phone from Lan Zhan and answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Wei Ying?”

“Yeah, speaking.”

“Hi, Wei Ying. It’s Clara, from the library?”

It takes Wei Ying a moment, and then he remembers the research librarian. “Oh! Hi Clara! Did you find anything about Gusu Lan?”

Next to him, Lan Zhan straightens with interest, turning towards Wei Ying.

“Actually, I did,” she says. “I have some information for you.”

“Hit me,” Wei Ying says, crouching down at the table next to Lan Zhan and stealing his pen and paper. 

“There are a few publications referencing Gusu Lan, as it turns out,” she says, “all by the same guy. A physicist, Dr. Xingchen Xiao.”

Wei Ying scribbles it down, waiting for more. He can hear her apprehension in the silence. “Oh no,” he says, “what aren’t you telling me, Clara?”

She laughs a little. “Well. Between us.”

“Yeah?”

“He has a bit of a reputation. For being … uh. Unhinged..”

Wei Ying laughs. “Oh, that’s not a problem. I’m good at unhinged.”

“He’s local. He did an adjunct professorship here years ago, but he doesn’t seem to have taught or published anything new in a longtime. I can send you his site?”

“Please,” Wei Ying says. “Thanks for your help, Clara!”

He hangs up and waits for the text. It chimes through a few seconds later. He clicks immediately, pulling up a page for Xiao Xingchen, theoretical physicist. The page boasts several books, with improbable titles like, “The Spiritual Dimensions of the Lower Dantian”, “Navigating Dimensions: Balancing the Yin and Yang”, and “Time and Dimensional Travel through the Physics of Tao”.

Wei Ying clicks the ‘Contact’ link at the bottom of the page, and is delighted to find a phone number. He dials right away, heart in his throat.

“Xiao Xingchen,” a gentle voice answers.

“Hey. So. What do you know about Gusu?” Wei Ying launches in.

A beat of silence. “Who is this?”

“My name is Wei Ying. I think I have someone you should meet.”

--------

Xiao Xingchen works out of his home, a small brickfront ranch in the suburbs, close to campus. Wei Ying and Lan Zhan sit across from him in his office as he looks at the book of Lan An’s poetry they’ve handed to him. 

He is younger than Wei Ying expected, with a quiet demeanor and a serene expression. He had greeted them without any hint of surprise or suspicion. Just a calm curiosity and gentleness, as he led them through his home before sitting down and waiting for them to start.

“This is mine,” he says, looking over the book. “I lost it years ago. Where did you find it?”

“It was in the Chinese collection at the University library,” Wei Ying says. 

The man shakes his head, a sheepish smile on his face. “I must have left it behind by mistake.”

“You mention the Gusu Lan in it,” Wei Ying says. “And in some of your other publications.”

“Yes,” he says. “I was always fascinated by the history of the Lan sect.”

“So you wrote it? This book?”

“I published it,” he says, “after I was given a copy of Lan An’s poetry. I thought it deserved to exist in this world as well.”

Wei Ying works very hard to keep his voice steady as he asks, “How did you get the poems?”

“First,” he says, folding his hands delicately and leaning forward, “I think it’s best if you tell me who you are and, more importantly,” he looks at Lan Zhan, “who your friend is.”

Wei Ying opens his mouth, trying to think of a way to answer without actually answering , not certain they can trust this man, but Lan Zhan speaks first.

“I am Lan Wangji, of the Gusu Lan,” he says, holding his arms out in a salute and bowing. “Lan An’s descendent.” 

Xiao Xingchen nods at this introduction. “I figured,” he says, “when I saw your forehead ribbon. Well, Lan Wangji. What are you doing here?”

“We don’t know,” Wei Ying chimes in quickly. “That’s kind of why we’re here. It seems like you might know something to help us get him back.”

The man frowns, looking between them. “You don’t know how to get back?”

Wei Ying shakes his head. 

“Ah. Well,” he stands and begins to pace slowly, thoughtfully. “My teacher,” he says slowly, “was from Lan Wangji’s world. From his time, it seems. Or, at least, close to it. Baoshan Sanren lived between both worlds, you see, and taught whoever wanted to learn.”

“Lived between both worlds?” Wei Ying says excitedly. “That's great! That means we can get him back!”

Xiao Xingchen nods, but he is still frowning. “Yes, but. I do not know how. I’m from here, I don’t have the power to move between worlds. Not on my own. And no one has seen Baoshan Sanren here in over a decade.”

“But it’s possible!” Wei Ying nearly yells. “If this Baoshan Sanren did it, then it’s possible!”

“Yes. Theoretically, it should be possible.”

Wei Ying turns to Lan Zhan, smiling wide, but it falters. Lan Zhan isn’t looking at Xiao Xingchen. He’s looking at Wei Ying, and it makes Wei Ying’s heart skip. He quickly plasters the smile back on, hoping Lan Zhan didn’t notice the slip. “What do you think, Lan Zhan?”

“I have heard of Baoshan Sanren,” Lan Zhani says. “She is well-known in my time. In my world. Her skill is not to be under-estimated. It may very well be beyond our capability to replicate.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, so modest! We can do it. I’m sure of it. Especially if … Xiao Xingchen, will you help us?”

“However I can,” the man agrees. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says quietly. He looks at him significantly, and Wei Ying leans in. “I was not sent here by accident,” he says in a cautious whisper.

Wei Ying blinks. “What do you mean?”

Lan Zhan seems pained, and repeats, more significantly. “I was not sent here by accident .” He looks at Xiao Xingchen as he says ‘accident’, and Wei Ying understands. 

Lan Zhan doesn’t know if they should trust Xiao Xingchen. After all, Lan Zhan has enemies , in a way -- in a very real way -- that Wei Ying finds hard to understand. Enemies who would send him across time and space and dimensions to get him out of the way. Enemies who might want him dead. Wei Ying nods slightly to show Lan Zhan that he understands. They will be careful, when it comes to Xiao Xingchen.

“What can you tell us about Baoshan Sanren?” Wei Ying asks. “Maybe some of it could help us.”

“I can do you one better,” Xiao Xingchen says, walking over to his bookshelf and removing a leatherbound journal and holding it out to Wei Ying. “How would you like to see her notes?”

--------

Xiao Xingchen allows them to take the journal with them, which seems like a reckless display of trust. Not that Wei Ying plans to abuse it. He passes the journal to Lan Zhan almost immediately after realizing Xiao Xingchen is going to let them take it with them. Lan Zhan is definitely the kind of person to take care of things, whereas half of Wei Ying’s textbooks are literally splitting in two along the spine. 

“Are you sure?” Wei Ying asks for probably the dozenth time. 

Xiao Xingchen smiles and nods. “I have another copy. Besides, you returned my copy of Lan An’s poetry. I owe you. And I did say I would help.”

“Thank you,” Wei Ying says. “Can we come back to talk about our findings? Would that be okay?”

“Please,” Xiao Xingchen agrees as he walks them to the door. 

Wei Ying smiles at him. He knows that they’ve just agreed to be careful with the man, but something about him puts Wei Ying at ease. He turns to grab his coat from where he’s hung it on the coat rack by the office door, when he notices a collage of photos hung on the wall, a hubbub of smiling faces. 

But Wei Ying is only looking at one of them.

He stares at it, a thrill of familiarity shooting through him. He’s seen this face before. He can’t place where, but he’s seen it, he’s sure. He reaches out, his finger brushing the photo. 

“Who is this?” he asks, his mouth suddenly very dry. He can feel Lan Zhan next to him, posture stiff with concern, but Wei Ying can’t stop staring.

Xiao Xingchen walks up on his other side and looks at the photo that has caught Wei Ying’s eye. “That? That’s more former colleague, Cangse Sanren.”

“Sanren?” Wei Ying says.

“She was Baoshan Sanren’s student.”

Wei Ying swallows. “Was?”

This is all he feels capable of. These staccato syllables, the only thing he can pick out of the noise in his head.

“I believe she died. A long time ago. I don’t know for sure. She was the last contact I had in that world --” Wei Ying makes a strangled noise, his finger twitching on the photo “--she and her husband, Wei Changze, just disappeared. I never learned what happened to them and their son.”

His voice is quiet with sadness worn smooth and round by years. 

“Do you have a photo of him?” Wei Ying says. He’s certain he’s floating over the room, watching the scene from the ceiling, no longer in his body. “Of -- of Wei Changze?”

Xiao Xingchen looks at him strangely, then walks over to another collage on the other side of the room and plucks out a photo, then hands it to Wei Ying. The woman, Cangse Sanren, stands smiling broadly, radiating joy out of the old photo, clad in white, as she stands next to a tall man with a peaceful expression. A man Wei Ying recognizes. He’s older here, but it’s the same man Uncle Fengmian had shown him in old photo albums.

“Holy shit,” Wei Ying chokes out when he finds his voice again. 

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says uncertainly, stepping closer.

“Holy shit,” Wei Ying repeats. “That’s my dad.”

Chapter Text

They throw themselves into working on the array for the next week. It’s frustrating work. Baoshan Sanren’s notebook is almost entirely filled with observations about the modern world, taking note of medicines and technology, working backwards to reproduce them with spiritual energy. While there are references to time and dimension travel, she apparently hadn’t felt it necessary to document the process in her notes.

Reading through her work is enlightening, even if it isn’t directly helpful. Wei Ying can see how she cleverly achieves balance within the arrays, using unexpected characters and positions, creating not so much a straightforward back and forth pull of yin and yang energies as she creates a sculpture. It reminds Wei Ying of the photos he’s seen of river stones, impossibly balanced, stacks of rocks built into the air in ever-more elaborate structures. 

It inspires him as he works at Lan Zhan’s side, but everything is wrong. It’s like a thought just outside of his grasp, his fingers brushing the edges, but unable to catch it.

When it gets to be too much, when his mind turns fuzzy, filled with the crackle of static, Lan Zhan will tap him on the shoulder and they will head out for a walk. Wei Ying doesn’t know how Lan Zhan can always tell that Wei Ying has reached his limit, but he does and Wei Ying feels a swell of appreciation for him. The fresh air, the sunshine, just moving helps. He’s never been good at sitting still for long. He can focus on things, despite what others think. If anything, he’s too good at focusing on things, the world falling away as he throws himself into the task before him. But he isn’t one to sit for long stretches and mull things over. Wei Ying does his best thinking in motion. 

His job hunt is going about as well as the work on the array is. Which is to say, not very well at all. He’s received polite rejection emails from two of the labs he’d attempted to apply to, which he supposes he should appreciate, because everything else is silence. It’s only been a few days, but worry is beginning to eat a hole in his stomach. Jiang Cheng will be home in three days. He’ll know that Wei Ying isn’t working at WenQuish anymore, and he’ll want to know why . That’s going to be an unpleasant conversation under any circumstances. But it’ll be a little easier if Wei Ying has another job, an income.

As it stands now, though, it’s a conversation he’s going to be having broke, unemployed, and while explaining that Lan Zhan is going to be their roommate for the foreseeable future. He feels a little nauseated whenever he thinks about trying to convince Jiang Cheng that Lan Zhan needs to stay a little longer. Even worse when he realizes that he’ll have to explain that he doesn’t know how long he’ll be staying. That, maybe, it will be permanent.

If he’s honest with himself, the squirmy feeling in his stomach at the last thought isn’t entirely nausea. 

He is not honest with himself. 

Wei Ying tells himself, there’s no way that he has done something as stupid as fallen for a time-travelling, dimension-hopping wizard in just two weeks of acquaintance. It’s unthinkable. Wei Ying might be stupid, but even he’s not that stupid.

He is not honest with himself.

Unfortunately, his time to think up an explanation, to find a job, to do anything to pre-emptively smooth out his upcoming fight with Jiang Cheng is cut short.

On Friday morning, a full two days before he is meant to return, Wei Ying is startled from his focus on the array by the front door crashing open and someone yelling his name.

He exchanges a startled look with Lan Zhan, quickly gathering the papers and stuffing them away out of sight as Jiang Cheng barges into the living room, tugging his suitcase behind him. 

“Hi, a-Cheng --” Wei Ying starts, smiling.

Jiang Cheng drops the suitcase and crosses his arms over his chest, his best glare fixed on them. “Wei Ying,” his voice is a snarl, “what the fuck?”

Wei Ying’s smile goes stale. Fuck, he is not ready for this. “What, didi?” he asks, putting on a facade of sweet, innocent confusion.

“What the fuck ?” Jiang Cheng repeats. Then, adds, “Why is he still here?”

Okay, so this is what they’re going to tackle first. Wei Ying breathes in deeply through his nose, as he let’s his eyes go wide, fixing Jiang Cheng with his best wounded puppy look. “Because he doesn’t have anywhere to go.”

“And why is that your problem?”

“Ah, a-Cheng, don’t be like that. I’m just helping out a friend! He’s quiet, you know, you won’t even notice him.”

“I’m noticing him now , aren’t I? Idiot! Doesn’t he have other people to bother? How do you even know this guy?”

His voice is dangerously low, the vein in his forehead pulsing. Oh, Jiang Cheng is really mad. Wei Ying tries not to grimace. He had expected Jiang Cheng to be annoyed, maybe, but not, like, actually angry . Well, Jiang Cheng is always angry, but really, really angry. He’s not sure he understands what’s happening, but his brother’s rapidly purpling face needs to be headed off immediately before this gets worse.

“Didi,” Wei Ying whines, “don’t be so mean! It’s fine!” Jiang Cheng’s face gets darker. That’s … probably understandable. Shit. Shit, what would jiejie do? “It’s the right thing to do, to help others, right?” he tries. That … doesn’t quite sound right, but it’s the best he’s got.

Jiang Cheng’s nostrils are flaring, his jaw clenched so tight Wei Ying is worried for his molars. “How long is he staying? He’s just, what, going to live here rent free?”

“We can’t make him pay,” Wei Ying says, a little desperately, “it’s a favor , didi.”

“I will pay.”

Wei Ying jumps, spinning to look at Lan Zhan. He hadn’t expected him to join in. They’d been speaking mostly in English. He’s kicking himself now, thinking maybe the English lessons weren’t such a good idea after all. Does Lan Zhan even know what he’s saying ? Lan Zhan doesn’t have money . Not, like, actual, belonging to this world and time currency, anyway.

“Lan Zhan …” Wei Ying tries, but Lan Zhan looks at him sharply, and repeats, “I will pay.”

Jiang Cheng snorts. “It’s not about money !” he yells. “But speaking of!” He points an accusing finger at Wei Ying, who flinches away from what he knows is coming. “What the fuck is going on with you, Wei Ying?”

“What do you mean?” Wei Ying asks. He knows what he means. He’s just trying to buy a little time, a couple more seconds, to figure out how he’s going to respond, what he’s going to say.

“Why is the peacock going around saying he heard you were fired ? Why do you keep avoiding the question? Did your dumbass actually go and get yourself fired?”

“Well,” Wei Ying starts, and Jiang Cheng actually roars in frustration, throwing his hands into the air.

“Are you serious, Wei Ying? What did you do? ”

“Nothing!” Wei Ying replies reflexively, then, “I mean. Nothing wrong! I was right. I did the right thing.”

Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I don’t deserve to get screamed at about this just because you came storming in here looking for a fight.”

“Wei Ying. What happened? ” his tone has changed. He’s still angry, Wei Ying can tell he’s still angry from the slits of his eyes to the thinness of his mouth. But there’s something else there, underneath. He’s worried. Somehow, that’s much worse. 

“I just. I had a disagreement with Wen Chao. About ethics,” Wei Ying offers lamely, trying to avoid saying more.

“Ethics,” Jiang Cheng repeats back to him. 

Wei Ying nods.

“You got in a fight about ethics with the son of the owner of the company,” he says, as though he’s a little dazed by it. “You are, without a doubt, the stupidest smart person I know. Do you have any sense of self preservation?”

It’s Wei Ying’s turn to scowl now. “You wouldn’t have stood for it either, a-Cheng. They have a cystic fibrosis therapy. One that can help a lot of people, and Wen Chao was tanking it. For money . Which wasn’t even a smart plan, even if the only thing you give a shit about is money.”

“So you decided to, what? Throw yourself on the sword? How does that help?”

“Well it helps me feel better.”

The glare at each other across the room. “What are you gonna do for money, then, genius? Are your morals going to pay rent?”

“I’ll figure something out,” Wei Ying says. It’s a fragile truce. Wei Ying can see that this is far from over. But Jiang Cheng has just spent the last two weeks with Jiang Yanli, and her imprint is still clear on him, her efforts to get her two brothers to stop fighting and get along. Jiang Yanli always had a way of getting to the love underneath the screaming and arguing between them.

“You’d better,” is Jiang Cheng’s parting shot as he picks his suitcase back up and disappears into his room.

--------

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says across the cafe table, his cup of tea sitting delicately between his hands. “I would like to help with money.”

Wei Ying looks up at him from his laptop where he’s been using the free wifi to send out more applications. After Jiang Cheng’s return, Wei Ying had decided the cost of two drinks was worth it to make themselves scarce around the apartment. He’d considered the library, but he’d never enjoyed sitting in silence. He found the library oppressive, in a way that made him fidget and struggle to focus. The low thrum of a cafe suited his temperament much better.

“You don’t have to do that, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. “I’ll get a job soon. It’s just a matter of time.”

He doesn’t know if he actually believes it when he says it, but he tries very hard to sound confident.

“I would like to help,” Lan Zhan says again. “I have money.”

“Those crazy coins, you mean? They’re not exactly valid tender here.”

“I have been researching,” Lan Zhan says. Of course he has, Wei Ying thinks. “I can sell the coins.”

“Lan Zhan! That’s too much! Those are, like, historical artifacts!” Wei Ying says, trying to keep his voice under control.

“Mm,” Lan Zhan hums dismissively. “Perhaps they are here. Which makes them more valuable. To me, it is money. Which is meant to be spent.”

Wei Ying tries to find a retort for that, some angle or counter-argument. But, he can’t. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin to sell that,” he says instead. “Or how much it’s worth.”

“The worth is inconsequential,” Lan Zhan says casually, sipping his tea. 

Wei Ying narrows his eyes at him. “Lan Zhan,” he says, suspiciously, “are you rich ?”

He raises an eyebrow at him across the table, as close to sardonic as Lan Zhan gets. “My sect is not poor,” he says. 

Which is, really, not an answer at all. But Wei Ying rolls his eyes anyway. “Of course you’re rich. When will I stop being surprised by you being disgustingly perfect.”

Lan Zhan frowns a little, but does not respond. 

“Well, we can look on eBay later, or something. Maybe get a listing. You really don’t have to do this. But far be it from me to turn down money from the wealthy.”

Across from him, Lan Zhan has the nerve to look smug about the whole thing. Wei Ying thinks he’d very much like to do something to wipe that smug look off his face. Something reckless and surprising, something maybe to fluster the man, really get him on the backfoot… 

Wei Ying turns back to his laptop, continuing to fill out the applications, pressing down into the keys a little harder than necessary.

He’s just sent off an application to work the stockroom at some fast fashion chain at the mall -- his stomach twisting with guilt even as he does so -- when he notices the new email sitting at the top of his inbox. ‘Re: New Information: WQ Therapy Trials’’.

His heart jumps into his throat. He’d nearly forgotten, with everything that had happened, about the emails he’d sent out last Sunday. He feels a stab of guilt that he could let himself forget, after he’d promised himself he would do everything he could to help Wen Ning. He needs to do better, he thinks, as he clicks the email and reads.

‘Meet me at 5pm, Burial Grounds Cafe.’

That’s it. It’s not a question, or even an invitation. It’s an instruction, and Wei Ying’s stomach flops in his abdomen. Something about the terseness of the email makes him anxious. He looks at the email ‘from’ line to try to see who has sent it, but he doesn’t recognize the email address. It’s clearly a burner, a random combination of characters giving no clue as to who had sent it. The subject line has been rewritten, so it doesn’t match any that he sent the other day, and there’s no email chain behind it.

Whoever has sent it is clearly working hard not to leave any obvious electronic trail. Wei Ying had not taken any such precautions when he’d sent out his media inquiries. The fact that this person had felt it necessary to do so makes him feel cold with low panic.

He looks at the time on his laptop. It is 4:25. 

He swallows. Part of him realizes that this could be a bad idea. He has no clue who this person is, or what they want. It could be anyone. It could be Wen Chao, for all he knows, waiting to exact some revenge for the incident at the bar.

But. They want to meet him in daylight, in a public place. Not exactly the best location to stage a murder. Or, even, threaten one. 

He looks over at Lan Zhan and clears his throat. “Let’s wrap up here,” he says. “I’ve got a meeting.”

--------

The Burial Grounds cafe is located on a side street off of Main, hidden between a tattoo parlor and a flower shop. Wei Ying hasn’t been here before, but only because when he needs caffeine he needs it quickly, so he usually goes wherever is closest. Now that he’s here, he thinks he’s been missing out. The Burial Grounds, he realizes, is very much his aesthetic . The man working the counter is nearing the line of becoming more piercing than man. Wei Ying immediately likes it. 

He orders a black coffee, even though he knows he really shouldn’t, he’s already jittery, and a seltzer water for Lan Zhan. The cafe is mostly empty, with a couple of tables near the back taken by groups of students studying. Wei Ying opts for a seat near the window. If he’s going to be meeting a potential murderer, he thinks it’s best that people at least see what’s happening. 

They’re a little early -- Wei Ying’s anxiety had driven him to head out right away, not wanting to sit any longer with the adventure itching under his skin. 

Shortly after 5:30, a man walks into the cafe. He’s tall, wearing all black, with long black hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He casts a look around the cafe, clearly looking for someone, when his eyes find them.

He walks up to them with purpose, and Wei Ying braces himself for -- something. He stops at their table, grabbing a chair without invitation and joining them. “Wei Ying,” he says. It is not a question.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, “that’s me. How did you--”

“Your photo is easy to find online,” the man says. “You might want to do something about that.”

“Right,” Wei Ying says, not liking this much at all. “And who are you?”

“Who is that?” the man says, as though Wei Ying hadn’t spoken at all. He’s looking at Lan Zhan suspiciously, and Wei Ying can see him sizing him up -- the breadth of his shoulders, his muscled arms. Wei Ying is very, very glad he brought Lan Zhan, and also very, very glad that Lan Zhan is built like a tank. 

“My friend,” Wei Ying answers. “I wasn’t going to come alone, was I?”

In truth, he would’ve come alone, if he’d thought he could shake Lan Zhan. But two weeks together was enough for him to know that it would be a fruitless task. Lan Zhan had an uncanny ability to know when Wei Ying was bothered or upset or nervous. If Wei Ying had tried to sneak off to an unknown destination without him in his current state, all that would’ve happened is Lan Zhan would’ve followed him instead of coming along openly. Which was stupid.

“Can you trust him?” the man asks, his voice sharp and serious.

“Can I trust you?” Wei Ying snipes back.

They stare at each other over the table for a long moment. Wei Ying can sense Lan Zhan next to him like a coiled spring. He doubts the man can sense it. Nothing about Lan Zhan betrays the tension Wei Ying can feel radiating off of him. He is sitting as still and serene as ever -- posture alert, but relaxed. Wei Ying knows better. He’s seen Lan Zhan’s reflexes in action. He’s been on the unfortunate receiving end of those reflexes. Lan Zhan isn’t one to be caught off-guard.

The man sighs, shaking his head a little. “You can trust me,” he says. “My name is Song Lan.”

“Song Lan,” Wei Ying says. “With the Minneapolis Tribune?”

“And several other publications,” he says, “and several other pen names.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, processing this. “That doesn’t sound that trustworthy, to be honest.”

“It’s a safety precaution, something you need to start considering.” Song Lan says. “Your safety,” he clarifies, at Wei Ying’ confused expression.

“Why?” Wei Ying asks.

The man leans back in his chair, his relaxed posture at odds with the tension in his face. “I’ve been investigating WenQuish for a while now. Your email … well. It’s just the tip of the iceberg, to be honest.”

Wei Ying nods. He’s not surprised. “Why did you want to meet?” 

“Because. Well. Because you need to know,” he looks uncomfortable. “My colleagues didn’t want me to come,” he explains. “But. God. You’re just a kid.”

Wei Ying’s eyebrows climb his forehead. “So you asked me here to patronize me?”

“No,” Song Lan says with a huff. “I asked you here because you need to know that I’m about to go public. And that means things are going to get rough for you.”

His skin goes cold, tingling with a spike of adrenaline. “Rough?” he says, happy to find his voice is steady. “How do you mean?”

“I mean,” he runs a hand through his hair, scrubs it down his face, “that there’s a lot more than just shitty ethics and morals going on here. There are laws being broken. Big laws. There are lives being ruined.”

Wei Ying thinks about Wen Ning and Wen Qing -- sick, broke, and being denied access to a therapy that would be life changing because of pettiness and money. “I know about lives being ruined,” he says. 

“Your life could be ruined,” Song Lan says darkly.

Wei Ying shrugs. He’s jobless, penniless, and at very real risk of being homeless if he doesn’t get a job soon. How much more ruining can there be?

Song Lan looks at him, and his expression is almost sad. “I’m not going to publish your name,” he tells him, “but it’s going to get out there. I get that you’re brave, kid, but you need to be prepared. Your family needs to be prepared.”

Wei Ying, who had been swirling the coffee around his mug, trying to affect a nonchalant air despite the vague panic beating through his veins, stops. He places the cup down slowly on the table, and this time his hand betrays the slightest tremble. “My family,” he says.

Song Lan looks at him pityingly. “This isn’t just going to be you,” he says, “WenQuish has money. And money means they have power. They’ll try to go after everyone.”

His heart feels like it’s stilled in his chest. He hadn’t thought about the Jiangs. When he’d sent those emails, he’d known it might come back against him -- he’d suspected it would, in some way. But he hadn’t thought about his family. About Jiang Yanli. About … oh god, about Jiang Cheng. He swallows, and thinks about Wen Ning. He did it for Wen Ning. Wen Ning, who deserves to live. 

“You should know,” Song Lan says, watching him, “that I’m publishing no matter what. I didn’t come here for permission. This is just me warning you.”

Wei Ying nods once, slowly. It feels surreal. “When are you publishing?”

“I’ll let you know,” he says. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying says. “Do you .. do you need my number?”

Song Lan stands, shaking his head down at him. “I’ve got it already,” he says. “You really need to do something about that.”

And then, he’s gone.

Wei Ying places his hands on the table, pressing them hard into the wooden top to try to stop them from shaking. His heart, frozen a moment ago, is racing. He can feel the panic coursing through his blood, prickling through his skin, blossoming in sweat on his palms and lip.

“Wei Ying?”

A large, warm hand settles on top of his. Wei Ying jumps, tearing his eyes away from the door Song Lan just disappeared through and looking at Lan Zhan. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, and the name is an anchor, pulling him back to reality, through the panic, through the adrenaline. WIth a twist of his wrist, he is holding Lan Zhan’s hand on the tabletop. Lan Zhan’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t pull back. He squeezes Wei Ying’s hand gently, and Wei Ying’s eyes flutter closed, just for a moment.

“Okay,” he says, feeling stronger, rooted. “Okay. We have stuff to do. How much of that did you understand?”

“Some,” Lan Zhan says. “Not much.”

They walk back home together, Wei Ying doing his best to fill Lan Zhan in.

By the time they’re standing outside the door to the apartment, Wei Ying is feeling fully settled again. Talking about it to Lan Zhan has helped, made it feeling less unknown, less foreboding. The situation isn’t any different, it isn’t any better. But, it’s happening. Things are already in motion, it’s too late to stop them. And even if he could, Wei Ying realizes that he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have done anything differently. 

--------

Wei Ying gets the text two days later, around midnight. He’s sitting on the couch, playing a game on his phone, Lan Wangji asleep in his room. Wei Ying has permanently taken over the couch as his new bed, despite Lan Zhan’s frowning displeasure. Wei Ying has insisted -- it was the only recourse that wouldn’t have Jiang Cheng screaming mad every morning. This way, at least, the amount of contact between Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan was limited. The better solution, in Wei Ying’s opinion, involved sharing the bed, but he didn’t actually want his brother to die an early death because the vein in his forehead finally popped.

He’s just passed level 203 on his puzzle game when his phone vibrates, a push notification coming through for a text message from an unknown number.

Wei Ying swipes down to open the text, and his stomach churns.

unknown number
today, the watchpost

He stares at the text for a long time. He knows what it means, but some part of him thought he’d have more time. 

But sitting there staring isn’t going to make things different. He heads over to the Watch Post website.

It’s the lead article on the page. “WenQuish BioTech: Money, Power and Corruption”.

It’s a more sensationalist headline than he’d expected from Song Lan, but he has to admit, it’s effective. He clicks, and starts to read. 

WenQuish BioTech: Money, Power and Corruption

Former employees of WenQuish BioTech come forward with allegations of fraud, embezzlement, ethics violations against CEO Wen Ruohan and son Wen Chao.

By Fuxue Zichen

Months after CEO Wen Ruohan appeared in court to answer to charges of corporate espionage, which were ultimately dropped, it appears that WenQuish BioTech has another scandal brewing.

Former employees of WenQuish have begun to speak out against practices ranging from morally reprehensible to felonies that may land the pharmaceuticals magnate in prison for up to 15 years. 

This reporter spoke to multiple informants, who spoke at length of the corruption within the organization.

The charge of nepotism, the least of the accusations levelled against Wen Ruohan, is itself noteworthy, as it involves Wen Ruohan’s son Wen Chao. Wen Chao, 25, was briefly embroiled in scandal 4 years ago, after he was charged with sexual assault by no less than four women. The charges were eventually dropped, after the victims refused to pursue the case further. 

“Wen Chao did it,” a former employee said, “he used to brag about it. Brag about how they scared the women into shutting up. He was proud that he had the power to do it. He was a known pig, and every woman in the office knew to avoid him.”

In addition to accusations of harassment and intimidation, there is also evidence that Wen Chao has been embezzling funds from research trials, pocketing money from insurance companies for marked up drug prices.

One informant provided evidence in the form of email records and study data of WenQuish’s intent to enroll overwhelmingly white and wealthy participants in their research trials, in order to collect larger payouts from insurance companies. “Prices are marked up by an additional 200% when billing these insurance providers compared to what others will pay,” they wrote. “The bottomline is money, and the sick and the poor are the ones paying the price.”

Wei Ying reads through the rest of the article, his mouth dry. There’s more. There’s worse. Extortion. Threats of violence. Retaliation. 

When he’s done, he sits and stares at his phone, processing what he’s just read. It’s … it’s so much worse than he’d thought, and he’d thought it was going to be pretty bad. The pieces he contributed -- they’re hardly a drop in the bucket of the scandal. Unfortunately, Wei Ying has a sinking feeling that that is worse .

Because Wei Ying knows that when Wen Chao reads this -- and he will read it  -- he will know that Wei Ying was involved. Wei Ying’s name will be connected to the whole thing, the whole mess of the scandal, even if he was just involved in revealing a small part. 

He can’t afford to stall any longer. He copies the pagelink and starts a new group text, hoping to get it over with in one swoop.

qing-jie 💉 , a-cheng 👿👿👿, 🌺 jiejie 🌺
https://watchpost.com/wenquish-biotech-money-power-and-corruption

He sends the link and waits. It doesn’t take long. Wen Qing is the first, his phone ringing 15 minutes later despite the late hour. He very much does not want to answer. 

“Hey--” he starts, but Wen Qing dives right in.

“Wei Ying,” she says, and she doesn’t sound angry. She doesn’t even sound calm, in the way that has always scared him the most. The way she sounds now is something Wei Ying has never heard before, and it makes him feel sick. She sounds small. Scared. “What did you do?”

“I would’ve done more,” Wei Ying says, his voice strong, determined. “I would do more than that for Wen Ning.”

“You idiot,” she says softly, and Wei Ying hardly even notices his tears.

--------

He falls asleep at some point, but it is shallow and fitful. He wakes up as Lan Zhan exits the bedroom, wearing only pajama bottoms as he walks over to where Wei Ying lays on the couch.

“Wei Ying,” he says, looking at him with concern. “You have been crying.”

“Ah, just a little,” Wei Ying says, sitting up and rubbing his sore eyes. “It was a rough night. Song Lan’s article was published.”

Lan Zhan frowns, a small crease between his eyebrows. Wei Ying, a little drunk with sleepiness and tears, acts on impulse. He reaches out, pressing his thumb into the crease and smoothing it away. “Don’t worry about me,” Wei Ying says, trying to smile. “You’re always worrying about me. I can’t be the one to give you wrinkles, Lan Zhan. The guilt would kill me.”

Lan Zhan reaches up and grabs Wei Ying’s hand, his eyes locked on his, bringing the hand to his bare chest. “I will always worry about Wei Ying,” he says, and Wei Ying can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest beneath his hand. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes, his heart pounding. “Oh,” he says, noticing for the first time, “you’re not wearing your ribbon.”

“Mm,” Lan Zhan hums. He stays there, kneeling by the couch in front of Wei Ying, his eyes asking Wei Ying a question he doesn’t understand. 

“It’s weird, seeing you without it,” Wei Ying laughs, searching for something to say to break the tension of the moment, “I’m so used to it now, you look naked without it.”

Lan Zhan raises an eyebrow at him a bare millimeter, and Wei Ying actually laughs now, patting his hand against Lan Zhan’s chest and pulling it back, his hand burning. “Go get dressed before my brother comes out here and has a heart attack when he sees you,” he says, as he sits up, stretching his arms overhead. “I told you, you’re not allowed to kill my brother.”

It’s still early, but Wei Ying wants to get out of the apartment before Jiang Cheng wakes up and sees his text -- to get himself out of the direct path of the incoming rampage. There aren’t many options available to them at 5:30am, but Wei Ying has never kept a normal sleep schedule, so he knows the 24 hours spots. 

They walk into Sunrise Cafe, and Alice, fresh into her morning shift, pops her gum at them with the hint of a question. “Roommate troubles,” Wei Ying explains as she leads them to a booth. She rolls her eyes in sympathy, and grabs a pot of coffee without Wei Ying even needing to ask. 

“Alice, have I told you that you’re my favorite person?”

“Tell me in tips,” she says. “Tea for this one?”

“Tea, please,” Lan Zhan says. It’s a shock, every time he replies in English. Lan Zhan really is incredibly quick. 

“I hope you got some decent sleep last night,” Wei Ying says over their menus after Alice has left. “Because we’re gonna be making ourselves scarce from the apartment. There’s gonna be a lot of yelling later.”

They make it through breakfast and Wei Ying has several mugs of coffee before the calls start coming in. Stil, he feels like he needs at least twice as much caffeine to be ready for any of these conversations, despite his leg bouncing under the table, his fingers drumming arhythmically against his collarbone.

Lan Zhan reaches out and stills his hand. Wei Ying smiles at him. “I’m alright,” he says, as he reaches down to look at his phone. It’s Jiang Cheng. Which, is to be expected. He sends the call to voicemail. “I’m not ignoring him,” he explains, though Lan Zhan didn’t ask. “I’m just gonna give him a little … time to process the information. Jiang Cheng can have a tendency to pop off a bit, it’ll be better after he’s calmed down a bit.”

It’s not a lie, entirely. Wei Ying’s brother does have a terrible temper, often driving him to say things he later regrets. It just isn’t exactly truthful to this situation, where Wei Ying is pretty certain that Jiang Cheng isn’t going to cool down at all. If anything, he’ll be working himself into a bigger and bigger head of steam.

Five minutes after Jiang Cheng’s call, his phone rings again. This time, it’s Jiang Yanli. This call Wei Ying feels even less prepared for. He can handle the yelling much better than he can handle his sister’s sweet, sincere concern. He groans and flops his head heavily to the table, pushing the phone away. He can’t actually decline jiejie’s call -- that would be heinous. But he can’t answer it either.

“So what is this? What’s going on with you?”

He looks up and sees Alice frowning down at him, working her stale chewing gum into a small bubble that gives a loud pop. 

“Oh, you know,” Wei Ying says flippantly. “Just more gay drama.”

She keeps looking at him, and Wei Ying feels himself compelled to the truth. Alice feels safe. Mostly, because he knows Alice will absolutely not care. He can tell her. It’ll be like a practice run for talking to his siblings.

He draws in a long breath. “Okay. Not so much gay drama, as I went to the media as a whistleblower against my former employer after being fired when I confronted my boss about unethical practices that I refused to participate participate in, and now the story has been published and it turns out the company is super vindictive and powerful and might try to go after my family for payback? I mean, potato, potahto, am I right?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Fuck,” she says simply.

“Yeah. Fuck,” he agrees. “And on the more manageable but no less shitty side of things, now I’m unemployed and, like, this might be the last meal I can afford for a while. I don’t suppose you’re hiring?” he smiles bitterly.

“I can ask.”

Wei Ying lifts his head from the table in surprise. “Wait. Really?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, why not?”

“Alice, I could kiss you.”

She grimaces at him, her nose wrinkling. “Please, don’t. Let me go talk to Mom.”

She returns a moment later with an older woman with the same bored expression who is so obviously Alice’s mother, that Wei Ying wonders if there was even a second person involved or if this was evidence of human asexual reproduction. “You’re looking for a job?” she says, in a tone that indicates she’s the type to cut the fat and get to the point of a thing. 

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says. “I--”

“Any experience in the food industry?”

“I worked in my family’s restaurant growing up. As a host.”

“Ever worked in a kitchen?”

“Not officially, but I can cook,” he lies. He can cook, in that he’s entirely capable of creating food that he can eat. The problem is that no one else seems able to stomach it. 

“Hm,” she says, considering him. “We don’t really have any openings that would fit you here.”

“Ah,” Wei Ying sinks a little. “I understand.”

“But you’ve got the right look for the cafe.”

“The cafe?” He’s not sure what she’s talking about, but she gestures at his outfit.

“You’re, what? Goth? Punk? Whatever. The whole black look, dyed hair, dark eye makeup” -- Wei Ying is not wearing any makeup and wonders just how dark his eye circles have gotten -- “you’d fit right in at Burial Grounds.”

“Burial Grounds?” Wei Ying repeats back, stunned. “You own Burial Grounds?”

“Sure,” she says. “It’s important to diversify.”

Wei Ying isn’t certain that owning a coffeebar in the same town where you own a 24/7 diner specializing in breakfast food is necessarily diversifying, but he keeps that to himself in the face of this unexpected stroke of good luck. “When can you start?” she says, and Wei Ying nearly cries in her face.

“Really?” Wei Ying asks, his heart jackhammering. “Whenever! I can start tonight if you need me.”

“Tomorrow,” she says. “Shift starts at 4:30am. You’re in school, right?”

Wei Ying nods. “My classes start at 1pm.”

“Not a morning person, huh? Well, that’ll change. You can work the early shift. 11:30am give you enough time to get back to campus?”.

“Yes! Yes, it’s perfect. Thank you! Thank you so much.” The relief floods through him that one thing, at least, is going his way.

“You’ve been coming in here for the last 3 years, you’ve never harassed my girls, you tip, and you don’t make a mess. You’re already better than 90% of my employees. Now get out of here if you’re not going to order anything else, you’re taking up a table.”

Wei Ying laughs, taking the check she drops on the table and walking it to the register with his credit card. 

They exit the diner together, and Wei Ying feels lighter. Not good, yet. There’s still too much happening to feel good. But better. Good enough that he thinks he can brave at least one call. “Hey Lan Zhan, I’m gonna step over there for a moment to make a call, okay?”

Lan Zhan nods at him and Wei Ying walks a few feet away to get some privacy before he dials Jiang Yanli’s number.

She answers on the first ring.

“A-Ying? Oh thank goodness,” she says, breathless with worry. He feels a stab of guilt that he made her wait. 

“Hi, jiejie. Sorry I didn’t answer earlier.”

“Oh, honey. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, a-jie. I was just at breakfast with a friend.”

“Was it you?” she says, her voice gentle, careful not to sound accusatory. “Was it you who talked to that reporter?”

He closes his eyes. “Some of it.”

“Oh, a-Ying.”

“I had to,” he says warmly. “I had to, jiejie.”

“Are you okay?” she asks again. He smiles a little. It’s so a-jie, to be worried about him first. 

“I’ll be fine. I even got a new job! Everything is fine with me, really. Are you okay?”

“Of course,” she says. “Zixuan says that his family is actually ecstatic over the whole thing.”

Wei Ying’s snort does the job of communicating how he feels about that. Jiang Yanli makes a sound in response that Wei Ying thinks might be agreement.

“Is Jiang Cheng okay?” Wei Ying asks.

Jiang Yanli pauses, just a moment too long, trying to find a way to soften whatever is to come. Wei Ying swallows. “A-Cheng loves you,” she settles on. “He’ll come to understand.”

So, that’s a no, then. Jiang Cheng isn’t okay. Wei Ying crouches down, hugging his arms around his knees as he holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “Did he get fired?”

“No, honey. Even if they do, that isn’t your fault. Is what you told that reporter true?”

“Every word of it.”

“Then you didn’t do anything wrong,” she says firmly. It warms him, to have her so adamantly on his side. 

“Thank you, a-jie.”

“Please call a-Cheng soon,” she says. “He’s really worried about you.”

“I will.”

“Take care of yourself too. We love you.”

“Love you more,” he says “Bye, a-jie.”

He hangs up, his heart heavy. Whatever Jiang Yanli said, Wei Ying knows that it isn’t a question of whether or not his brother loves him. He knows that, underneath their bickering and sniping, they’re brothers and they’ll always be there for each other. Or, they should be. That’s what’s eating him up. What he’s done, he did it without thinking about Jiang Cheng at all. And Jiang Cheng is going to suffer because of it. He’s going to face the consequences of Wei Ying’s actions, and it makes Wei Ying sick. Madam Yu’s voice is echoing in his head, her face imperious as she stares down at him. “Watch out for him,” she’d told him before they’d gone off to school together. “It’s the least you can do.”

And this … this isn’t watching out for Jiang Cheng.

He walks back to Lan Zhan, who’s been standing at a respectful distance, but whose eyes have been glued to him, worried and vigilant. Wei Ying contorts his face into a smile and throws an arm around his shoulders. “We’ve got some time to kill,” he says. “What should we do?”

--------

They end up spending most of the day hiding out at Burial Grounds. Wei Ying takes the opportunity to introduce himself to the barista as the new employee. Alice’s mom -- Donna -- has already called ahead and let them know.

The barista introduces themself as Tsou Dapeng, and is enthusiastic in their gloominess. Wei Ying finds it delightful, and marvels again that something has actually managed to work out for him. An added bonus is that Wei Ying is fairly certain that Jiang Cheng doesn’t know about Burial Grounds, and doubts that he’ll think to look for Wei Ying there. They take a table near the back and do a little work on the array, although they left their notebooks behind and there’s only so much they can do scratching out characters on napkins. 

Mostly, they talk. 

They’ve talked before, of course. Long conversations, even, about arrays, about cultivation, about a variety of nonsense topics that Wei Ying lands on in an erratic manner. Today, though, it’s different. Wei Ying thinks that, maybe, Lan Zhan can sense that Wei Ying doesn’t want to talk about just anything, but he also can’t talk about the things that are actually bothering him. Wei Ying wants to talk about it, needs to even, but it’s too hard. Too hard to explain the complicated feelings he has around his family.

Instead, he asks Lan Zhan about his family, and Lan Zhan, despite his usual reticence, answers.

“I have a brother. Lan Xichen, Zewu-Jun. He is older, the heir to our sect.”

“Is he as perfect as you?” Wei Ying teases.

Lan Zhan actually considers the question before answering, as though it is worth answering seriously. Lan Zhan’s manner of treating the things Wei Ying says as though they’re worthy of consideration is, Wei Ying thinks, one of his cutest traits. “Brother is better with people,” Lan Zhan says. “He is better at understanding what people want.”

“Do you find it hard to understand what people want?”

“I find it challenging to understand why I should care,” Lan Zhan says, so drily that it makes Wei Ying nearly laugh himself to tears.

“Holy shit, lan Zhan, you are fucking brutal. I bet you’re a blast at parties. And I don’t mean that in, like, the facetious I bet you're fun at parties way. I very much mean it. I but it is a blast to stand in a corner with you and just tear the room to shreds. Is your brother funny too?”

“Most people do not consider me funny,” Lan Zhan says. Which, honestly, is also hilarious to Wei Ying, because people not finding Lan Zhan funny just makes his dryness all the better.

“So who do you get it from then? Do you take after your mom? Your dad?”

This is apparently the wrong thing to say. Where before there had been an easiness between them, and openness in Lan Zhan’s body language that was new and, frankly, intoxicating, now it was as though something had shuttered down inside him. It’s so sudden that Wei Ying gasps. “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he says instinctively.

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “Do not apologize,” he says, pausing before he continues, “I do not know that I take after either of my parents, in this regard. My mother died when I was young. My brother and I were raised by my uncle.”

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says. “Look at us. A tragic pair of orphans.”

They sit silently together, Wei Ying kicking himself for bringing up the topic of parents. Of all people, he should’ve known better. Even if he hadn’t known Lan Zhan’s circumstances, he’d been on the receiving end of enough questions about his parents to know how that felt. 

He’s berating himself for his callousness, when Lan Zhan speaks again. “Does Wei Ying remember his parents?”

So they’re not done with this topic after all. Wei Ying shakes his head. “No. I was too young when they … when whenever happened, happened. God, I guess I don’t even actually know if they’re dead?”

This is something that has been eating at Wei Ying for the last week, ever since he discovered that photograph at Xiao Xingchen’s office. Were Wei Ying’s parents dead? Were they just … stuck? How had Wei Ying ended up here, if they were living in Lan Zhan’s world?

Xiao Xingchen hadn’t had any answers. He only knew that Wei Changze was born here, and Cangse Sanren wasn’t. That they’d moved to Cangse Sanren’s world together after she’d had Wei Ying, and then they’d disappeared completely. There had been letters for a few years, but then they’d stopped. Xiao Xingchen assumed the worst. 

After leaving the office, Wei Ying’s first instinct had been to call Uncle Fengmian. He had questions, he knew he had questions.  But the truth was, he couldn’t actually think of what any of them were.

As far as he knew, Uncle Fengmian hadn’t known Wei Ying’s mother at all. He had some correspondence from Wei Changze. Enough to know about Wei Ying. Enough to track Wei Ying down. Enough to want to adopt him. 

But there were so many holes. So many questions. But Uncle Fengmian didn’t talk about Wei Ying’s parents. Madam Yu tried never to talk about Wei Ying, if she could help it. 

So Wei Ying hadn’t called. His relationship with his adoptive parents was complicated enough without him calling and prying into the past.

Lan Zhan eyebrows are knit together again, Wei Ying realizes he’s been silent for a long time. “Maybe, if we can figure out a way to get the array to work, I can go with you and see if I can figure it our,” Wei Ying says. “Figure out what happened to my parents. Although, you’ll probably be sick of me by then.”

“No. I will not be sick of Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says. Wei Ying squirms. “I would like it if Wei Ying joined me.”

Wei Ying laughs at the sincerity. “Sounds like the perfect summer vacation.”

The sky is darkening outside as they chat at the cafe. Wei Ying learns about Lan Zhan’s uncle -- a strict man who seemed more interested in raising a rule-abiding man than a happy and fulfilled one. And there had been many rules. Wei Ying is appalled when Lan Zhan tells him about the 3,000 rules of Cloud Recesses, how he has them memorized. By parts, it encourages Wei Ying to open up in return. He tells Lan Zhan about growing up with the Jiangs. Madam Yu’s fiery displeasure. Uncle Fengmian’s favoritism and the discord it had sown between him and Jiang Cheng. Jiang Yanli’s perfection, besides her truly terrible taste in men. 

Eventually, the barista walks up to them and tells them the cafe is closing. Wei Ying looks around in surprise, noticing for the first time that the chairs are stacked on tables around them and the cafe is empty.

“Oh shit! Sorry, that has to be annoying.”

“Don’t worry about it,” they say. “You’re the one who has to wake up for the morning shift tomorrow.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” Wei Ying realizes. “I should probably get home.”

The word ‘home’ catches in his throat. He’d turned off his phone hours ago, and had gotten so caught up talking to Lan Zhan that he’d completely forgotten about it. Well. There’s no time like the present. He chews his lip as he takes the phone from his pocket and turns it on.

The notifications ping through, rapidfire, each one like a bullet. Shit. 

a-cheng 👿👿👿

answer your fuckign phone
ANSWER YOUR PHONE

yanli said you told her the article was you??
YOU FUCKING IDIOT
COME HOME
NOW

WEI YING

WEI YING

I AM GOING TO BREAK YOUR FUCKING LEGS

fine
dont you or your boyfriend dare come home tonight

“Fuck.”

“What is wrong?” Lan Zhan asks, looking down at the phone. “Your brother?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says. “Hang on, I gotta make a call.”

He hesitates for a moment before he dials, but he reasons that he doesn’t really have a choice.

“Wei Ying,” Wen Qing says. There is a question in it, unspoken but obvious.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Always worrying about me, Qing-jie. Haven’t told you not to worry about me?”

“Then stop doing things that make me worry. What do you need?”

Ah, Wen Qing. “Can Lan Zhan and I come over?”

She doesn’t even hesitate, understanding immediately. “I’ll get the couch made up. One of you will have to sleep on the floor.”

He sighs with relief. “Thank you, Wen Qing,” he says. “It’ll just be tonight. I just. I can’t go back yet. Just tonight.”

“You’ll stay here as long as you need to.”

Well, there’s no helping it. He’s going to kiss her as soon as he sees her, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. 

“Thank you.”

“Text when you get here, don’t knock. A-Yuan is in bed.”

He hangs up and turns to Lan Zhan. “Looks like we’re having a sleepover.”

--------

When they arrive at the Wens, Wen Qing opens the door before he even gets the chance to text and let her know they’ve arrived. She’s clearly been waiting for them. She reels Wei Ying into a quick, tight hug as soon as she sees him. He feels something catch in his throat, his chest tight, right up until the moment where she releases him from the hug and pinches his arm so hard he screeches. 

“Be quiet,” she hisses, “you’ll wake the boys!”

“You pinched me!” he says in an astonished whisper. “Fuck, Wen Qing, that really hurt! It’s going to bruise!”

“Good! I hope it scars. You can look at it the next time you’re going ready to do something horrifically stupid and maybe it’ll remind you to use your brain!”

She snakes her hand out to pinch him again, but Lan Zhan’s arm darts out, pulling Wei Ying back by the shoulder and out of reach. She looks at him, eyebrows high with surprise, before they drop again, comedically fast, into a scowl. “You’ll learn soon enough that the one you need to protect him from is himself.”

Lan Zhan says nothing, but his arm around Wei Ying’s shoulder tightens slightly. 

“Qing-jie!” Wei Ying whines as he wriggles out of Lan Zhan’s grip. “Don’t be so mean to me. I’ve had a bad day.”

“I’d tell you that you made the bed and to go lie in it,” Wen Qing snipes back, “but I actually made your bed. You know where the couch is. Go. I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Me too,” Wei Ying says. “My shift starts at 4:30.”

“Your shift? 4:30? It’s midnight.”

He shrugs, and she rolls her eyes. “Like I said,” she repeats to Lan Zhan, “protect him from himself.”

--------

Wei Ying takes the couch. “I am fine on the floor,” Lan Zhan said in a tone that brokered no argument. Not that Wei Ying hadn’t tried, but his brain is soupy and he really is tired. 

He sets an alarm for 3:45 -- just a few measly hours away -- and tries to sleep.

“I have classes after work tomorrow,” he says into the darkness as he lays down. “Will you be okay without me?”

There’s a slow, quiet hum in response. “I will manage,” Lan Zhan says. “Wei Ying will be back.”

After a few minutes, Lan Zhan’s breathing evens out, and Wei Ying lies on his back and listens to it. Sleep doesn’t come quick or easy for him. It’s another hour before he finally dozes off, dreaming about tumbling into the arms of a laughing woman in a dust bright world he doesn’t know.

Chapter Text

Wei Ying doesn’t know how he makes it to the cafe the next day. He doesn’t remember waking up, or walking there, or Donna meeting him, passing him the keys, showing him how to use the espresso machine and the POS system. The morning is a blur of steam, faces he vaguely recognizes from campus, the smell of espresso. 

By the time he’s relieved by the afternoon shift to head for class, he has a myriad of smarting burns covering his fingers and wrists that he doesn’t remember, his brain both fuzzy with sleep deprivation and buzzing with caffeine. 

His first class is in the largest lecture hall, and he shares it with Jiang Cheng. He waits a little distance from the room, sitting on a bench obscured by a large tree. He plans to walk into class a couple of minutes late, take a seat in the back, and leave quickly so he can avoid his brother. 

He scrolls through his phone absentmindedly to kill the time, and clicks over to his email.

It’s mostly spam, which is to be expected. Wei Ying has a tendency to sign up for things on a whim, then forget about it later. Meaning, his email is more junk mail than anything else. He scrolls through the ads and social media alerts, deleting as he goes.

He just catches himself as he’s swiping through. There are two in here that don’t appear to be junk at all. 

The first is from an email address he doesn’t recognize, with no subject line except the preview to the message within. He sees the word “WenQuish” and clicks. It is a link and a headline: WenQuish announces new outreach program for therapeutic trials . 

He sucks in a shaky breath and heads over to the article. 

WenQuish BioTech announced this morning an innovative new outreach program for therapeutic trials, designed to connect vulnerable populations, especially to underinsured and uninsured, with their life-saving therapies.

“This program is something we are very proud of,” CEO Ruohan Wen told the Minneapolis Tribune. “It has been in the works for months as we worked out how best to connect with these vulnerable populations, and to make certain that we were approaching them with sensitivity.”

The pilot program will focus on two of their therapeutic areas: cystic fibrosis and rheumatoid arthritis In addition to working directly with clinics and care facilities in low income areas, WenQuish is accepting direct applicants to the therapeutic trials as well. 

“It is our hope to be a model of philanthropy and empathy to others in our industry, and set a new standard,” Wen said. 

People looking to apply may do so on the WenQuish website, and are encouraged to speak with their care providers.

Wei Ying rereads it several times, disbelieving. It’s his proposal -- they’re using his proposal for recruiting participants into the drug trials, in an effort to save face against the accusations he helped levy against them. He would laugh, if his mind wasn’t too busy reeling with possibilities.

Wen Ning. He has to get Wen Ning enrolled. 

He types a quick reply to the email, thanking the anonymous sender -- Song Lan, no doubt -- then quickly sends the article to Wen Qing. She’s at work, she won’t be able to see it for hours yet. He tries to slow his breathing, his heart rate, back to a normal pace. 

He waits until he’s a bit calmer before he turns his attention to the second email, this one from a university email address. 

“Mr. Wei,

It has come to our attention that there are concerns regarding potential violations of our student Academic Code of Conduct. 

Your attendance is required at 1:30pm today at my office to discuss your academic status.

Sincerely,

Matthew Soule
Dean of Students”

Wei Ying blinks at the email. The emotional whiplash has him dizzy, the words coming unstuck from his mind as soon as he reads them. “Discuss your academic status”. That’s … not good. That can’t be good, but he’s too busy thinking about Wen Ning to spare any worry about it. He tries to tether himself back to the here and now, glancing at the time on his phone. It is 1:15pm. He stands, and heads off to the Office of the Dean. He’ll have to reach out to the TA for a recap of the lecture.

---------

“Mr. Wei,” says a tall blonde man with a sour face -- the dean -- “welcome. Come in.”

Wei Ying enters the office -- a stuffy room, lined with bookshelves filled with leatherbound volumes that appear to have been selected for aesthetic more than anything else. He settles into an uncomfortable wooden chair arranged across from a glossy, mahogany desk, and waits.

“I take it you know why you’re here,” the man starts as he lowers himself into an overstuffed armchair behind the desk that strikes Wei Ying as a poor choice for an office chair. He wonders how much time Dean Soule actually spends in his office.

“No, sir,” Wei Ying answers. Wei Ying has his suspicions, but he has his doubts that Dean Soule knows the real reason.

“We’ve received information that a portion of your final for Health Communication and Community was plagiarized.”

He doesn’t squirm. Everything still feels distant, as though it is happening to someone else. 

“From who?”

“That is confidential.”

“So I don’t get to know who has accused me or where the accusation is coming from?”

The man frowns at him. “We don’t want to leave room for retaliation. However, you will be given the chance to defend yourself. You will appear before the academic committee in a week.” He takes a stack of papers and hands them across to Wei Ying. “You’ll find the details in here.”

“Right,” Wei Ying says. He looks down at the stack, recognizes his paper, a portion of which has been highlighted. He flips through and sees a printout of a web page with another highlighted passage, dated for the previous year. It matches his paper exactly. He thinks, vaguely, that he should be angry. That he should say something, he should fight or defend himself. He feels nothing, until a name catches his attention, and anger flares bright and hot through his stomach. “Wen Ruohan?” he says, unable to keep the heat out of his voice. “What does Wen Ruohan have to do with this?”

“Mr. Wen is the head of the Alumni Board and will be on the academic committee hearing your case.”

“That’s fucked up,” Wei Ying can’t stop himself from saying. Dean Soule frowns harder at him, but Wei Ying isn’t cowed. “Wen Ruohan isn’t impartial. This isn’t going to be a fair hearing.”

“Why do you say that?”

Wei Ying opens his mouth to answer then, stops. Besides Song Lan, his siblings, Lan Zhan and Wen Qing -- nobody actually knows his role in the expose on WenQuish. Wen Ruohan and Wen Chao suspect, he’s sure of it, but nobody actually knows . It’s better, it’s safer -- for Jiang Cheng, for his family -- if he keeps it that way.

“Nevermind,” Wei Ying says, stuffing the papers into his backpack and standing. “Is that all? I have to get to class.”

But the man shakes his head. “I’m afraid you misunderstand,” he says. “You are on academic suspension until further notice, until such a time as the board clears you.”

“And if they don’t?” Wei Ying asks, even though he knows the answer. He asks anyway, because he knows they won’t clear him, evidence be damned. He needs to hear it.

“Then you will be expelled.” 

“What about my scholarship?”

“If you are expelled, the scholarship is forfeit and any money given for this or future terms will need to be returned.”

“Right.” He swings his backpack onto his shoulder and leaves without saying another word.

--------

It’s a warm day. Wei Ying finds a spot and stretches out on the quad. The sun beams down on him, the grass damp beneath him, and he lets himself get lost in the hot and cold pushing into his skin, letting sensation consume his thoughts so nothing else can get through. He’ll have to think about it soon. He’ll have to figure out his next steps soon. But right now, he just wants to lose himself. To not be Wei Ying, to not be a person, to only be a feeling thing stretched out on the grass.

Unfortunately, the world has other ideas. “Wei Ying! Why weren’t you in class?”

He forces himself to keep his eyes closed. Maybe, if he ignores him, then he’ll go away.

But, of course, he doesn’t.

“Why are you laying on the ground? Get up!”

“Didi. I’m tired. I’m taking a nap.”

“Don’t just sleep outside! Go home!”

Wei Ying does open his eyes now, blinking as he looks up at the shadow of Jiang Cheng, backlit by the early afternoon sun. “Am I allowed to come home now?”

“Since when do you listen to me anyway?” Jiang Cheng snaps, dropping his backpack next to Wei Ying’s head and taking a seat next to him. “Why weren’t you in class? Even you aren’t usually that irresponsible.”

“I had a meeting with the dean,” Wei Ying answers, continuing to look up at the sky, his eyes stinging at the brightness.

“What?” Jiang Cheng asks in surprise. “Why did you have a meeting with the dean?”

“Because,” Wei Ying takes a deep breath, opening his eyes wider, letting the pain ground him, “I’ve been suspended for plagiarism, pending the academic panel approving my expulsion.”

“What?!” Jiang Cheng shouts. “Plagiarism? Expulsion? What are you talking about? Wei Ying, what did you do?”

With a heavy sigh, Wei Ying sits up, turning to look at his brother at last. “Did you know that Wen Ruohan is on the academic committee?”

“...shit. Shit.”

They sit together like that for a while, some of the thoughts he’s been trying to avoid finally catching up to Wei Ying and demanding his attention. The drug trial might be accepting applications, but Wen Ning’s name is going to be flagged right away if they submit him. If Wen Ruohan gets any hint that Wen Ning has applied to the trial, they’ll never let him in. Wen Qing never told him exactly what happened with their parents and Wen Ruohan, but Wei Ying knows that there’s bad blood there. And it’s obvious to him, with clarity he lacked before, that Wen Ruohan is not a man to let a grudge go.

He’s thinking through how to get Wen Ning into the trial, what they’ll need to do to sneak him through, when Jiang Cheng breaks the silence. “You have to apologize.”

There’s a hollowed out feeling in Wei Ying, an open maw that feels like it’s swallowing him up. He’s so, so tired. “What are you talking about?”

“Apologize,” Jiang Cheng says firmly, as though it is an order. The way Jiang Yanli used to say to them when they were kids, fighting over a toy. “Make a retraction. Publicly. Go back and tell that reporter that you lied, say you were just mad that you got fired.”

The hollow place is a canyon screaming in the wind. “I didn’t lie.”

“Does that matter right now?” his brother’s voice is fiery. “You’re about to lose everything. Your whole future. Is that what you want?”

Wei Ying’s muscles clamp down around all the parts of him attempting to burst out of his skin. “It matters.”

“Wei Ying! For fuck’s sake. Just … fuck. Can you stop with this whole fucking hero act? You always do this shit, you know? Nobody asked you for this!”

“They didn’t have to ask. I know what’s right.”

“And what about you?” Jiang Cheng’s voice is low.

Wei Ying shrugs, plucking at the grass absentmindedly, staring off into the distance. “I’ll figure it out.”

He will. He’ll figure something out, if only because he won’t have a choice. That’s the thing, about time. It doesn’t stop just because the future isn’t what you thought it would be. It keeps going, it doesn’t care if you know your destination or not.

“What about me?” Jiang Cheng asks. 

Wei Ying stands, his back to Jiang Cheng. What about him? What about his brother? His brother who hadn’t agreed to this? Who hadn’t offered up his future? Was his brother’s future worth the price, was it a price Wei Ying was allowed to pay?

“I’m sorry.”

“No you aren’t,” Jiang Cheng says to his retreating back. “You promised we’d do this together, and you’re walking away. You’re not sorry. You’re never sorry.”

--------

Wei Ying goes back to the apartment. Jiang Cheng has another class, he knows, and won’t be home for a few hours. He digs a tattered duffel bag out of his closet and begins to stuff it full of clothes and other necessities for himself and Lan Zhan. They’ll stay with the Wens for a while, until he figures out what happens next. 

His phone is ringing in his back pocket as his brother’s words ring in his ears. Is he sorry? He doesn’t want to hurt Jiang Cheng, he knows that, but he also knows that for all his regrets, he would pay this price ten times over. If he can get Wen Ning in the trial. If he can help Wen Ning, he would pay any price.

He slings his duffel bag over his shoulder, his backpack over the other, and makes his way back to the Wens.

--------

Lan Zhan opens the door when he arrives, Wen Yuan propped on his hip. The man’s hair is distractingly dishevelled, and Wei Ying stares at him. He’s seen Lan Zhan wake up looking as perfect, as flawless as he did when he laid down. Seeing him now, the same poise and grace he always has, but his hair falling in messy tendrils around his face, cuts a blazing trail through Wei Ying’s dark mood. 

“Look, gege!” Wen Yuan says holding out a hand to him that is clenched around a plastic butterfly. He pushes a small button in the back and the butterfly flaps its wings. Wen Yuan watches it, then turns his big, excited eyes on Wei Ying, waiting for his reaction.

“Wow!” Wei Ying says, trying to be as excited as Wen Yuan wants him to be. “That’s so cool, buddy! Where did you get it?”

“Pretty gege gave it to me!”

“Cool! Did you say thank you?” Wei Ying says, turning a questioning look towards Lan Zhan.

“He did,” Lan Zhan says, even as Wen Yuan screeches a thank you and throws his arms in a tight hug around Lan Zhan’s neck. Lan Zhan hugs him back. Wei Ying thinks that he’d very much like to hug Lan Zhan as well.

They walk into the living room together, and Wei Ying is surprised to find Wen Ning not in his usual spot on the couch.

“He is in the kitchen,” Lan Zhan says, answering the unasked question.

Wei Ying finds Wen Ning standing at the stove, cooking a late lunch, a healthy pink flush on his pale cheeks. “You’re looking good today!” Wei Ying says as he walks over to him. 

Wen Ning smiles shyly, focusing on the pan of vegetables he is stir frying. “I’ve been feeling pretty good.”

He sounds surprised when he says it, and it occurs to Wei Ying that he doesn’t know if he’s ever known Wen Ning to feel good, to really have a good day. Right now, standing in the kitchen, cooking, smiling, blushing -- it’s like he’s seeing Wen Ning as he could’ve been, had he not been born with a disease ticking down like a timer over his head.

“That’s great,” Wei Ying smiles. He walks over to him and wraps him up in a hug from behind. “That’s really great, Wen Ning.”

Wen Ning laughs nervously, patting Wei Ying’s arm with his free hand as he stirs the veggies with the other. “Are you staying here tonight?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying sighs, tightening the hug a little. “Maybe for a few more days, actually.”

“Is everything alright? Are you and Jiang Cheng fighting?”

Wei Ying shrugs, finally releasing Wen Ning from the hug. “Maybe I just want to spend time with my favorite people, did you think of that?”

“We like spending time with you too.”

“Do you need a hand in here, by the way? I can help …”

“No!” Wen Ning says quickly, a little too loudly. Wei Ying can’t help but laugh at that. “No, I -- I like cooking. And…”

“A-Ning, are you saying you don’t like my cooking?”

Wen Ning blushes and doesn’t answer. Wei Ying chuckles. “I’m wounded. My best friend, my favorite person, saying such horrid things.”

It’s not fair to tease Wen Ning like that, though. The younger man stutters, clearly trying to figure out how to respond in a way that is both an apology and still keeps Wei Ying far away from preparing food. 

“I’m just messing with you, a-Ning. I’m well aware that I’m the only one who can handle my cooking. None of you has developed my iron stomach.”

Wen Ning visibly sags with relief. Wei Ying vents the swell of affection he feels for him with a tight squeeze of his shoulder.

Back in the family room, Wen Yuan and Lan Zhan are sitting on the floor together. The boy is describing the rules to some newly invented game involving the butterfly toy with grave sincerity. Wei Ying can’t follow exactly what the goal of the game is, but Lan Zhan is humming in agreement. “So what, is pretty gege your new favorite or something? No love for me?”

“Pretty gege is rich!” Wen Yuan answers, and, really, that’s not such a bad reason, if Wei Ying thinks about it.

“Is he, now?” Wei Ying asks, raising his eyebrows at Lan Zhan in question.

“I sold some of my items at the pawn shop in town today.”

“What?” Wei Ying gapes at him. “Lan Zhan! You went on your own? They definitely didn’t pay you enough! Why would you do that?”

Lan Zhan’s eyes flicker to Wen Yuan, and then back to Wei Ying. “I wanted to help.”

Whatever the feeling is in Wei Ying’s chest, it’s so overflowing that he is choking with it. “Lan Zhan. You’re too much, you know that?” he swallows the feeling down, his throat tight. “Look. Don’t do things like that. This isn’t your fight, okay? I’ve got it.”

“I wanted to help,” Lan Zhan says again. “I am happy to help.”

Wei Ying wants to object, but he finds he can’t. He gets it. Who could look at Wen Yuan and not want to help? He walks over and sprawls next to them on the floor, his limbs heavy even as he scoots Wen Yuan over to him. “A-Yuan, your gege is tired. Be my pillow!”

“I’m not a pillow!” the boy protests, shrieking with laughter as he tries to struggle free. 

A scuffle breaks out,  Wei Ying play-wrestles with him sleepily. He lets Wen Yuan win, of course, although he barely has to throw the fight. The little boy scrambles away and hides behind Lan Zhan, nearly climbing onto his back to escape Wei Ying.

Wei Ying pouts dramatically. “I’ll just have to lay my head on the hard floor, I guess!” he bemoans. 

“Use a real pillow, gege!” Wen Yuan scolds him. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says as Wei Ying pulls himself up onto the couch. “You are tired.”

Wei Ying does not stop himself from rolling his eyes. “What was your first clue?” he asks.

Lan Zhan frowns, then says, “May I play for you?”

God, Lan Zhan is so good. Too good. The kindness chafes against Wei Ying’s anger-raw skin. He knows that it would help. Knows that Lan Zhan’s music would be a balm against the sting of indignation and fear and every other emotion he’s had scratching away at him through the day.

But Wei Ying doesn’t want to be soothed -- he wants to pull back the layers of himself, his nerves exposed. He is a wild animal, and the pain makes him dangerous, makes him snap and snarl and scratch. He doesn’t want to be calmed. He wants to howl and tear.

“No,” he says, his voice cold and hard. It’s mean to his own ears, but he doesn’t apologize. He closes his eyes and steeps himself bitter. He senses Lan Zhan rise from the floor.  

“A-Yuan, come. We will let Wei Ying sleep.”

“Sleep is important,” Wen Yuan says seriously. 

He does sleep, drifting in and out of consciousness on the couch. At one point, he wakes up as a blanket is draped over him, Lan Zhan tucking the ends up under his shoulders. Wei Ying closes his eyes against the kindness, the concern on Lan Zhan’s face, unable to think about it.

--------

Wen Qing arrives home a little after 5pm. Wei Ying has been waiting for her, alert as her voice calls out to her brother. He jerks awake, sitting up quickly, getting slightly tangled in the blanket. “Wen Qing!” he says, struggling up from the couch. 

“Wei Ying? Don’t you have class?” she asks. 

“We need to talk,” he says as he finally manages to free himself from the blanket and get to his feet. He walks over to her quickly, taking her shoulder and steering her towards her room.

He closes the door behind them, and the words tumble out. “Did you see it? Did you see the article?”

“On my way home,” she acknowledges. “But Wei Ying, they’ll never --”

“We’re getting him into it,” he says firmly, brokering no room for debate. “We have to.”

Wen Qing’s fingers are drumming at her side, her brow furrowed with thought. “I know. I know we have to,” she says. “But they’ll never let him.”

“Then we don’t let them know it’s him.”

Her fingers still, her hand coming to her mouth to press against her lips. “How?”

He knew Wen Qing would agree. Wei Ying smiles, a little bitterly. “Lucky for us,” he says, “I know exactly what it takes to get into the trial. And I know how to fake it.”

--------

Wei Ying and Wen Qing spend the next week putting their heads together, leveraging Wei Ying’s knowledge of the drug trial recruiting process and Wen Qing’s connections and pragmatism. 

It isn’t hard. Wei Ying had designed the recruitment for the trial to have minimal barriers to access. The whole point had been to create a pathway for the underserved -- for people who maybe didn’t have the documentation or the paperwork that other studies required. He didn’t believe that a person’s status in the country should have any bearing on whether or not they could receive life-saving care, so in his proposal he simply hadn’t asked. It was not an approach WenQuish would have approved of -- but WenQuish had been desperate to move quickly with the new recruitment pilot after Song Lan’s article. As such, the proposal had been pushed through without changes. All that Wei Ying and Wen Qing needed was to find a doctor willing to sign off on Wen Ning’s lab results under a pseudonym. This is where Wen Qing came in handy. She had dropped out of medical school a couple years back when Wen Ning’s health had taken a turn for the worse and Wen Yuan had come under her care. But she had connections. Sympathetic former colleagues, who remembered her as the promising, bright young woman with unfortunate circumstances. Wen Qing was proud, but never too proud to beg when it came to her brother. Wei Ying respected her all the more for it. 

By the end of the week, Wei Ying feels confident as they hit the submit button and send Wen Ning’s application in to the research trial. “Well, Wu Qionglin, I hope you’re ready,” he says to Wen Ning. “Because you’re about to be the star pupil of the study!”

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice damp.

Wei Ying smiles back.

“Thank you, Wei Ying,” Wen Qing agrees. 

They’re sitting around the kitchen table, Lan Zhan playing music with Wen Yuan in his lap in the other room. The two have become practically inseparable in the last week, Lan Zhan’s patient and serious demeanor rubbing off on the young boy. Wei Ying would feel jealous, if he weren’t too busy being endeared.

He’s grateful to Lan Zhan, in so many ways. It’s not just the way he’s accepted the Wens into his care -- the way he insists on helping Wen Qing with money, the way he watches after Wen Yuan, the way he brings Wen Ning warm cups of tea throughout the day without asking. It is that, but it’s not just that. For the past week, Wei Ying hasn’t had a moment to spare for the work on the array, he’s been too busy with the study for anything else. Lan Zhan hasn’t complained. He hasn’t pushed or pouted or betrayed any impatience. Instead, he’s made things easy, he’s played music that has Wen Ning looking bright and happy. 

Wei Ying’s gratitude is overwhelming, too big to be returned. 

“How is your stuff going?”

Wei Ying pulls his focus back to Wen Qing. “What stuff?”

Her lips purse, and he can tell he’s about to get told off. “Your hearing with the academic committee is tomorrow. Have you figured out how they faked the article on that site? How they got their hands on your paper in the first place? Do you know what you’re going to say?”

Wei Ying doesn’t look at her. “I did look into the site,” he says, picking at a hangnail. “The think tank that published it, one of the biggest financial contributors is some company, Ever Sun. I have no idea what they do, but you’ll never believe who’s on the board.”

Wen Qing’s mouth gets tighter. “Does their name start with ‘Wen’.”

“Wen Xu,” Wei Ying confirms. “Another of Wen Ruohan’s sons.”

“That’s good though,” Wen Qing says. “You have proof of a connection.”

Wei Ying says nothing. He’d only ever looked into it to satisfy his own curiosity, not to defend himself. He isn’t going to defend himself, he’s already decided as much. It isn’t worth the risk, especially considering he knows it won’t change the results. The string of texts he’s received from Jiang Cheng only serve to convince him further. His brother’s anger at Wei Ying, at the school, at WenQuish -- his insistence that Wei Ying needs to fight, that Wei Ying prove his innocence, his insistence that he’ll defend Wei Ying -- it proves that Wei Ying has made the right choice. He can’t and won’t go back to change the things he’s already done, but that doesn’t mean he can’t protect Jiang Cheng now.

“What are you thinking right now?” Wen Qing’s eyes are shrewd as she watches him. 

“Nothing,” he says smoothly. “I should get some sleep. I have an early morning.”

He feels her eyes follow him out of the room.

--------

The next day, Wei Ying dresses in a pair of gray slacks, a slightly rumpled dark red button up, and his least beat up pair of chucks. He wears his hair down, to cover the dyed undercut. He flips his septum piercing up to hide it. In the end, he looks as respectable as Wei Ying ever looks. He digs through his bag of clothes he’s deposited in the corner of the room and pulls out his clarity bell, resisting the urge to ring it. He runs his thumb over the cool metal before shoving it into his pocket.

Wen Qing looks him over as he walks into the kitchen. She nods her approval. “Good luck today,” she says.

“It’ll be fine,” Wen Ning tells him reassuringly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Wei Ying smiles. “It’ll be fine,” he agrees. “I’ll be back later. Try not to miss me while I’m gone. Lan Zhan, don’t mourn my absence too much, yeah? I’ll be back, promise.”

“I will try,” Lan Zhan says as he bounces Wen Yuan on his knee. 

Wei Ying waves at the four of them, letting the sight of the four of them sitting around the table together steel his resolve.

The weather took a turn in the last week, a late season cold snap blowing through. Wei Ying stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks briskly. After he’s out of sight of the Wens’ home, he turns, not towards the university, but towards town, taking out his phone.

“Hi, Donna? It’s Wei Ying. I’m going to be available full-time starting today, if you have any extra hours I could take.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says, not questioning the change of circumstance. “Dapeng is going home for the summer, so we’ll need someone to cover their hours. But that’s not for a few months yet.”

“Everything helps,” Wei Ying says, as much for his benefit as hers as he stops outside a dilapidated storefront, the window filled with dusty odds and ends. “I’ve gotta go. Text me if you have anything for me?”

He hangs up, and takes a deep breath as he pushes open the door to the Southfield Pawn Shop. It’s exactly what he’d expect from such an establishment in a college town -- the shelves are filled with musical instruments, outdated cellphones, an assortment of laptops, cameras. The items that desperate undergrads had decided they could live without in favor of food and a place to live. 

He approaches the glass case where a man stands at a register. It’s filled with jewelry, cufflinks, several items that appear to be silver hairpieces, more elegant than anything else in the case by far. Wei Ying recognizes a few of Lan Zhan’s coins as well. 

“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asks. 

Wei Ying squeezes the bell in his pocket tightly as he removes it and places it on the glass. “I’d like to sell this.”

The man picks it up. Wei Ying flinches, but doesn’t move to stop him. He spins the bell between his fingers, shaking it hard. He frowns when it doesn’t ring. “Is it broken?”

Wei Ying blinks. “No,” he says. “It rings. It’s pure silver, by the way.”

The man shakes it again, but the bell is silent. “It’s pretty, but a bell’s supposed to ring,” he says. “I can give you $50 for it.”

“It rings ,” Wei Ying repeats, holding out his hand for it. The man shrugs and hands it back to him. Wei Ying looks at the little bell and gives it a demonstrative shake. It jingles prettily, like a delicate wind chime in a soft breeze. The sound stirs something in Wei Ying -- nostalgia, maybe. Sentiment.

He looks at the bell, turning it over. “It works,” he says, but makes no move to hand it back as he traces his fingers along the etching on the bell, following the dips and peaks of the lotus petals. 

Then, he stops, his fingers suddenly tingling. He brings the bell closer. He’s had the bell his whole life, has admired the flower design, the swirling patterns lightly etched into the petals. But that had been before he’d met Lan Zhan.

That had been before he’d been exposed to magic. Before he’d spent weeks tangled in the puzzle of the array. Before he’d known about Lan Zhan’s world, his mother’s world.

He looks at the swirling pattern now, and he sees that it is not just a design, not just pretty decoration. He feels it in his fingertips, the characters, the symbols pulling at something low in his stomach, asking for something dormant in him that he doesn’t know how to give. 

He rings the bell again, and, this time, he feels the tug in his core. 

It isn’t just a bell. 

It isn’t just a keepsake. 

“Ring it whenever you are feeling lost, and it will bring you the clarity to find your way home.”

He presses his finger into the symbol that is the characters for “wind” and “return”, stacked together, woven together, waiting to be imbued with power. 

“$50, take it or leave it,” the man says.

Wei Ying shakes his head, and leaves. 

The bell is warm in his hand. His head is spinning.

His feet take him to the river of their own accord. The sound of the water is what rouses him, reminding him of home. It is what guides him to the next step.

“Hello? Wei Ying?” Uncle Fengmian asks, his voice confused, concerned. 

“Uncle Fengmian,” Wei Ying says.”I’m sorry to call. I need to ask you something.”

“It’s fine, a-Ying,” his uncle insists warmly. It’s not fine, of course, and they both know it. Wei Ying can hear the footsteps over the line, the click of a door as his uncle moves somewhere more private. “What did you need to ask me? Do you need money?”

Wei Ying swallows, then let’s out an unsteady breath. “Tell me about my parents.”

There’s a shocked silence over the line “Your parents?” 

“Please.”

He hears a muffled creak, Uncle Fengmian sitting down, followed by a sigh heavy with emotion. “What do you want to know?” he asks quietly.

“Everything,” Wei Ying answers. “Tell me everything.”

So, he does.

--------

Jiang Fengmian and Wei Changze grew up together. They were friends since birth, their parents having been close before them, having immigrated to the US around the same time. Jiang Fengmian and Wei Changze had both been born in the US. They would have been friends either way, their demeanors, their personalities well-watched. But they also shared a bond as first generation Chinese-Americans -- sharing the otherness of being ‘too foreign’ for the mostly white suburbia where they lived, ‘too American’ for their Chinese peers. 

It was only natural that they’d chosen to go to the same college together.

Perhaps it was also only natural that they’d fallen in love with the same woman.

Wei Changze met Cangse Sanren in his Introduction to Religion course in college. She was a bright woman, smart, quick to laugh, and with a strong, burning sense of justice. The best friends had both fallen for her, but she had fallen for Wei Changze. 

After their senior year, Wei Ying’s parents had eloped. 

It drove a wedge between the friends. Jiang Fengmian felt betrayed, even as he knew that Cangse Sanren had never felt anything for him. 

He lost touch with Wei Changze until a year later, when he received a letter from his old friend, announcing that Cangse Sanren had given birth to a son named Wei Ying. Courtesy name Wuxian.

--------

“Courtesy name? I have a courtesy name?”

“Cangse Sanren insisted, apparently,” Uncle Fengmian tells him. “Wei Changze wasn’t going to argue with her. He never did. He would’ve found a way to give her the moon, if she had asked.”

--------

After the birth announcement, Wei Changze and Jiang Fengmian began a regular correspondence. They exchanged letters nearly weekly, but never saw each other again. All of Jiang Fengmian’s letters came from and were sent to an address in Southfield, although Wei Changze insisted he lived far away. 

Five years after their renewed correspondence, the letters stopped.

Jiang Fengmian continued to write, to send the letters. After several months, his letter were returned, with a note:

“I regret to inform you that I am unable to deliver your letters. I am uncertain of the whereabouts or well-being of Wei Changze and his family. I fear the worst. My condolences.”

Jiang Fengmian hadn’t wanted to accept it. So he started looking for them, trying to find any information he could. It had caused the rift between himself and Madam Yu to widen, rumors swirling in their small community about his devotion to Cangse Sanren. But he wouldn’t give up his search.

--------

“That’s how I found you,” Uncle Fengmian says softly. “I hired a private detective, gave him all the information I had, including the letter announcing your birth. There’d been a story about failed international adoptions. Your name was printed in the story after the … after what happened with that first American couple who had adopted you from overseas. As soon as I saw you, I knew. I knew you were Cangse Sanren’s son.”

His voice sounds choked. Wei Ying gives him a moment to compose himself again before he asks. “The bell,” he says, “the clarity bell you gave me. Where did it come from?”

“You had it with you,” he says. “You’d been found with it, all the way back in China. I took it when we adopted you, I thought maybe it had some hint about where Wei Changze was. But it didn’t. I never found them. I gave it to you because it always was yours.”

“You told me it would help me find my way home.”

“It’s what you told me,” Uncle Fengmian says. “You were so little, but you sounded so certain when you told me. It was clear that it was something that had been repeated to you many times. ‘ Ring it whenever you are feeling lost, and it will bring you the clarity to find your way home.’ ”

Wei Ying doesn’t know what to say. 

“Wei Ying,” his uncle says, “are you okay? Is something happening?”

“Thank you, Uncle Fengmian,” Wei Ying says. “I have to go.”

“Oh. Okay. Goodbye, Wei Ying.”

“Bye,” Wei Ying says back.

He opens his hand and stares at the bell in his palm before replacing it in his pocket.

--------

Wei Ying heads towards campus, back to the apartment he shares with Jiang Cheng. He’s held his brother at arm’s length too long. He’s delayed this conversation too long. They need to talk.

But first, Wei Ying needs coffee. Badly . 

He stops at a cafe close to the apartment, ordering a large black coffee as he tries to think of what he’s going to say to Jiang Cheng. He already knows he’s not going to be able to convince him to Wei Ying’s line of thinking. He doesn’t need him to agree, though. He just needs him to understand. 

He’s contemplating how best to approach the subject, lost in thought, when the barista makes an uncomfortable throat clearing sound. 

He looks up, and notices she’s holding his card out to him, looking awkwardly past him. “Do you have another card?” she asks. “It was declined.”

Wei Ying blinks and takes the card back from her. It’s his credit card, the one Uncle Fengmian gave him. The one he tries not to use, except for emergencies. Coffee had felt like an emergency. He has a debit card, but he also is keenly aware that he has about $0.51 left in his account. 

“What time is it?” he asks her.

She looks confused by the question, but answers anyway. “Just after 1pm.”

The hearing had been scheduled for 11am. He hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. 

The hearing was over. Had been over long enough for the word of his expulsion to get out. 

He realizes what’s happened and can’t help the laugh that jerks out of him. “She cut me off,” he says to no one in particular, shaking his head. “God, she didn’t waste any time --”

“There you are!” The voice is loud, cutting through the ambient music of the cafe. Several heads jerk towards the sound, including Wei Ying’s. 

It’s Jiang Cheng. Of course it’s Jiang Cheng. And he looks angrier than Wei Ying has ever seen him. 

“Hey, didi--” he starts, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t wait. He grabs Wei Ying’s arm in a crushing grip and begins to drag him out of the cafe. 

“Hey -- hey!” Wei Ying says, planting his feet once they’re outside, wresting his arm out of his brother’s hand. “What the fuck, Jiang Cheng, what are you doing?”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes bulge at him. “What am I doing?” he yells, throwing his hands up. “What are you doing? Where the fuck were you? You missed the hearing! They expelled you!”

“I know,’ Wei Ying says.

“ I know ,’” Jiang Cheng mimics back at him. “Well explain it to me , then!”

Wei Ying sighs, an unpleasant pulse behind his eyes. “Can we go back to our apartment first? I really needed that coffee, but we can at least do this over tea.”

“It’s not our apartment anymore,” Jiang Cheng says. 

Wei Ying’s stomach flips. “Hey, a-Cheng, are you kicking me out?” he teases. 

“Not me,” Jiang Cheng says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mom knows. She called me, and she’s pissed , Wei Ying.”

“I noticed,” Wei Ying says, not quite following.

“Mom cut you off.”

“Yeah.”

“She cut my allowance in half.”

That surprises Wei Ying. “What?” he exclaims, horrified.

“I don’t care!” Jiang Cheng snaps back at him. “Except. I can’t afford rent on my own.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says. He’s processing what Jiang Cheng’s told him. If Wei Ying is cut off, if Jiang Cheng can’t afford that place on his own --

“You need a new roommate,” Wei Ying realizes. Wei Ying has the cafe job, but it won’t be enough. Not now that he has thousands of dollars of scholarship money to pay back. On top of trying to help the Wens. On top of trying to feed himself.

“What were you thinking?” Jiang Cheng says. He’s still scowling, except that now he sounds more hurt, more betrayed than he sounds angry. “Mom is furious. She says you’ve shamed the whole family. You know how she is about saving face in the community.”

Wei Ying does know. He’s been told many, many times about what a disappointment he’s been in this regard. 

“She’s forbidden Yanli and me from talking to you.”

His heart is a block of ice. He wills it to beat, to keep going. “So why are you?” he asks.

Jiang Cheng glares at him, as though the question is offensive. “Idiot!” he says. “You’re my brother--”

“No,” Wei Ying says, heart cracking. “No, I’m not. You shouldn’t be talking to me.”

“Wei Ying! What are you--”

“I’ve got my stuff already,” he cuts him off. “The rest of it -- you can sell it, or trash it. Whatever. I have what I need.”

“Wei Ying! Stop!”

He doesn’t stop. He turns his back on his brother and walks away. Jiang Cheng doesn’t follow him.

--------

“I got in!” 

Wen Ning throws himself in a hug around Wei Ying’s neck. It’s unexpected, his young friend usually being too timid to initiate contact. Wei Ying pats his back awkwardly for a moment before the words sink in. When they, do he returns the hug with equal excitement, lifting Wen Ning nearly off his feet. His eyes meet Wen Qing’s face over Wen Ning’s back. She nods at him, smiling even as tears fall freely down her face.

“He got in!” Wen Yuan is chanting happily. Wei Ying doubts Wen Yuan knows what Wen Ning got into or that he knows what it means, but the excitement is infectious. 

“Congratulations!” Wei Ying manages to choke out at last. Wen Ning releases him, his smile radiant.

This , Wei Ying thinks, this was worth it.

Wen Qing steps forward, dabbing her eyes, and hugs him as well. “Thank you,” she whispers in his ear.

Wei Ying nods, not trusting himself to speak again.

Lan Zhan watches the scene with a warm expression. Wei Ying catches his eye. They look at each other across the room. Some is said between them in that moment, wordless. Wei Ying doesn’t know what it is, but he feels it, a tug not unlike the tug of the bell. 

The bell.

He has to tell Lan Zhan. 

It’s like being doused in cold water. Wei Ying shakes his head, his thoughts crystallizing around him. 

The future has settled into a shape in front of him. He can see it now, now that the chaos has been swept into order. 

Lan Zhan is not in it.

That evening is spent celebrating Wen Ning’s acceptance into the trial, all thought of Wei Ying’s hearing forgotten. Wei Ying does not resent it. He wants this evening to be a happy one. He wants to spend it celebrating. The rest of it, his expulsion, his debt, and Lan Zhan… it can wait a little longer. They splurge on pizza, and eat as Wen Qing explains the details of the study; it’ll last for a year, requiring daily medication and weekly doctor’s visits for lab work. Wei Ying knows it all, of course, but he listens and nods along. 

They stay up late, Wei Ying challenging Wen Ning to a racing game that even Lan Zhan and Wen Qing join in on, in turns. 

Eventually, long after Wen Yuan has gone to bed, Wen Ning nods off over the controller and Wen Qing declares that it is time for the rest of them to turn in. 

“Goodnight,” Wei Ying says to her.

She shepherds Wen Ning off to his room, but spares a moment for Wei Ying. She walks up to him and gives him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you,” she says again. “You stay here as long as you need to.”

So, he hasn’t hidden himself as well as he’d thought he had. “Thanks, Qing-jie,” he says squeezing her hand. “Don’t worry, you won’t get rid of me that easily.”

She rolls her eyes, and heads to bed.

“How did it go today, Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan is sitting on the couch, watching him. It seems Lan Zhan didn’t forget either.

Wei Ying takes a seat next to him. Too close. He scoots further away when he realizes, putting distance between them. His hands are clenched together in his lap as he looks up at Lan Zhan. At the beautiful man, who fell into his life out of another time.

The man who healed the sick.

The man who helped people without cause or request.

The man who had accepted the Wens with love and without question.

The man who took him flying. 

The man who belonged elsewhere.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says as he holds tightly to the pieces of himself. “I know how to get you home.”

--------

They go to the arboretum the next day.

They’d stayed up late the night before, copying the bell’s array onto notebook paper. Once they’d copied it down, it became clear how it worked. Unless a new location was entered, it would send the user back to wherever they’d been when last it was rung, plus whatever time had passed. This part unsettled Wei Ying -- he saw the logic of it, but he didn’t like it. It meant that, even as the user travelled between the worlds by the bell, they’d never be able to travel back to an earlier point in either world. It stopped the user from trying to change the past.

They take their time deciding where to send Lan Zhan, and then figuring out how to do it. They decide against sending him back to the inn. It’ll be weeks later, too long for there to be any evidence of who sent him here. Instead, they choose to send him back to Cloud Recesses. Lan Zhan wants to talk to his brother, to discuss what happened. “There are matters that require my attention,” he tells Wei Ying. “I was investigating a case when I left. I will need to know if it has progressed.”

Standing in the arboretum now, Wei Ying looks at the characters they have copied out, checking their work for a final time. 

“This should do it,” he says. “All you have to do is stand here,” he drags Lan Zhan to the center of the array he’s drawn in the dirt, “and then -- you know -- magic.”

“I will imbue the bell with spiritual energy and ring it,” Lan Zhan says, “which will activate the array.”

“Right. That,” Wei Ying says.

Lan Zhan is wearing his robes again, the light white fabric billowing in the breeze. His hair is gathered back in a topknot again, missing the silver ornaments he’d arrived with. Wei Ying realizes, with a pang of guilt, that he’d seen them in the pawn shop. Lan Zhan had sold them too.

He’s wearing his sword at his side, one hand gripping the handle as he holds the bell in the other. 

Wei Ying looks at him, trying to burn this into his memory, to carve Lan Zhan into his heart, never wanting to forget.

As though he could ever forget.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. His voice breaks. He swallows, and starts again. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “be careful, okay?”

Lan Zhan is looking at him. It’s too much. Wei Ying, turns his back, trying to steel himself. He can do this. He can do this.

He doesn’t have a choice.

A hand closes gently around his wrist.

Wei Ying turns. Lan Zhan is so close, he feels his breath on his face.

“Wei Ying. Come to Gusu with me.”

Something in Wei Ying collapses. Looking back, he doesn’t know how he stayed on his feet. How he didn’t fall into Lan Zhan’s arms. 

“Lan Zhan,” he says quietly. Lan Zhans eyes flutter closed for a moment, his lashes casting long shadows over his cheekbones. When he opens them again, they are dark, hungry for something. “I can’t.”

He barely manages it. He wants to go. Every part of him aches to go, to go with Lan Zhan, to be with Lan Zhan.

But he can’t. He needs to stay. The Wens need him. They can’t do it on their own. They need Wei Ying there, to help with the trial, to continue the charade of Wen Ning’s identity. To help with money and food. It’s not over. Their struggle isn’t even close to over.

He needs to stay. 

“I can’t,” he says, expecting his rejection to be the end of it. 

He is wrong.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan’s voice is strained. “Please.”

It is a knife wound ripping through him. Wei Ying does stagger this time, taking several steps away from Lan Zhan, their arms stretched between them where he holds Wei Ying’s wrist. 

“I said no!” Wei Ying snaps, pulling his hand sharply free from Lan Zhan’s grip. “I can’t. The Wens need me. I can’t just leave them like that.”

“Wei Ying…”

“Go,” his eyes meet Lan Zhan’s and he forces himself to stand straight, to look at him cold and hard. “Go, Lan Wangji.”

Lan Zhan’s arm, still stretched out towards Wei Ying, lowers back to his side. He draws himself up, lifting his chin. His steps back into the array.

Wei Ying turns his back and starts walking slowly away, refusing to watch.

He doesn’t see Lan Zhan go. 

Instead, he hears the ringing chime of the bell, as loud as the anguish clamped down in his throat.

He turns.

It is the field where he had taken Lan Zhan on a morning that feels as though it was in another lifetime. That morning, they had flown together, Wei Ying drunk on the sensation of the wind all around him.

It is the same field, except it is entirely changed.

It is empty.

Lan Zhan is gone.

Chapter Text

PART 2

--------

Cloud Recesses is beautiful in the early spring. 

The sky is a downy blue, white clouds tempering the bright sun, the light diffused, softening the edges of the world. 

Green comes like a secret through the sparse brown fingers of the trees, peeking up from the ground through the watery snow, a question. The cold springs are full to burst, the melted snowcaps running down to it, cracking through the surface of the ice, which fractures like glass.

Lan Wangji is on a hill. The wind blows through his hair, cold from where it has kissed the surface of the spring water.

His eyes are closed, and it is the change in the breeze -- the way it goes from dusty, grass-blown, and sunwarm to this damp, cold, familiar kiss of home -- that tells him it has worked.

He is hungry for his home. Hungry to open his eyes to it.

But there is a deeper hunger. One that, once he opens his eyes, will consume him in parts.

He lets himself stand there, eyes closed, for several long minutes, holding onto the image of a man standing in the tall grass: his back to Lan Wangji, his shoulders curled forward, the brown freckled skin of his neck, black hair burnt warm with sun. Lan Wangji allows himself to imagine walking forward, taking the man in his arms, and saying to him, “Come to Gusu.”

He allows himself to imagine this time that Wei Ying says “Yes.”

He shakes himself free of it.

He opens his eyes.

Lan Wangji is not in the grass field with Wei Ying any longer.

He is in Cloud Recesses.

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, the cold stinging, causing his eyes to water. His fist clenches around the hilt of his sword as he draws himself up tall. He takes the small silver bell he holds in his right hand and stows it in his sleeve as goes to find his brother.

--------

Cloud Recesses is busy, but quiet. It is not bustling, the way life had been in Wei Ying’s world, which was filled with noise and speed that bordered on frantic. As Lan Wangji walks into the center of Cloud Recesses, he is greeted calmly. He returns their greetings appropriately, but perhaps some of his impatience does leak out. “Lan-er-gongzi,” a disciple says to him, bowing low. “May this one be of assistance?”

Lan Wangji considers dismissing them, but he is so tired. “I am looking for Zewu-jun,” he says instead.

“Zewu-jun is in his hanshi.”

“Thank you.”

They salute again, and the disciple hurries off a few steps ahead of Lan Wangji, no doubt to announce his arrival to his brother. Lan Wangji slows his pace slightly, to give them time.

When Lan Wangji arrives at the hanshi, his brother is already standing to greet him, smiling at him in a way that makes Lan Wangji’s heart ease with the familiarity.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says, walking forward to grasp his brother’s arms, “it is good to see you. When did you get back? I was not told of your arrival.”

“I did not come by the gate,” Lan Wangji says. “I have just arrived. I have something to tell you.”

Lan Xichen leads him to a table and they take seats across from one another. Lan Xichen waits, watching him patiently, as Lan Wangji sifts through the events of the past several weeks in his mind, deciding where to start. 

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says at last, seeing his brother struggle. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Lan Wangji tries to think of it. What was the beginning? “I believe somebody is trying to get rid of me.”

Lan Xichen stiffens at this announcement, and for a moment something is bare in his face. “Are you hurt?”

“I am fine,” Lan Wangji answers, but his brother’s reaction has unnerved him. There was something in it, something almost like panic, that sets off an alarm in Lan Wangji’s mind. “Brother. How is Father? And Uncle?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t sigh or droop. They were raised to always sit properly, not to make extraneous noise or vent unnecessary emotions. But his body language shifts, slightly, and Lan Wangji sees some of the same weariness he feels mirrored in his brother. “I am glad you’re here, Wangji. Father is … it will be good for you to see him.”

He doesn’t say it, but Lan Wangji hears it. ‘One last time’ is unspoken, but there, all the same. “And uncle?” Lan Wangji asks.

“Uncle is strong,” Lan Xichen says. “His core is strong. He is in no imminent danger.”

“When did he fall ill?”

“About six weeks ago,” Lan Xichen says.

Six weeks ago. Around the same time that Lan Wangji was sent to Wei Ying’s world. “Is it the qi-depleting disease?” Lan Wangji asks, feeling that he knows the answer.

Lan Xichen nods. The skin around his eyes is thin, strained.

“You never replied to my last letter,” Lan Xichen says, examining him. “You say someone is trying to hurt you?”

“I do not know if their goal is to hurt me,” Lan Wangji says carefully. 

“What is it you are trying to tell me, Wangji?”

He looks at his brother, whose eyes are full of concern, whose shoulders are squared, whose spine is straight, and who still looks fragile with fatigue. 

“Six weeks ago,” Lan Wangji says. “I was at an inn in Lanling. I was on my way to Carp Tower, to speak with Jin Guangyao with regards to Sect Leader Jin’s illness.”

Lan Xichen nods. He knows this, which means that Jin Guangyao has told him. Lan Wangji tries not to think unkind thoughts about the man in his brother’s presence.

“When I entered my rooms that night I found myself” -- he struggles for a second for the word -- “transported. Elsewhere.”

There’s a pause between them, Lan Xichen giving him time as Lan Wangji thinks of what to say next,, before he asks, “Where?”

Lan Wangji wishes he had tea, something to do with his hands. He feels restless, the need to move itching under his skin in an unfamiliar way. He forces himself to stay still, hands clenched in his lap, as he answers. “Another world.”

He tells Lan Xichen. About the bright, loud world he found himself in. A world without cultivation. He tells him about the array, about the book of Lan An’s poetry, about the hard work to find his way back home.

But mostly. Mostly he finds himself talking about Wei Ying. Lan Xichen listens, his face soft and troubled as Lan Wangji talks about the brilliant man who took him in and cared for him without question when he found himself stranded in a strange land.

Because Lan Xichen is his brother, because he has always told Lan Xichen things, he tells him about flying together. He tells him about playing music for Wen Ning and the Southfield residents. He tells him everything.

“I hope I will find a way to thank this Wei Ying someday,” Lan Xichen says. “For helping you find your way home. I am surprised you figured out the array so quickly. Happy. And grateful. But surprised.”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says carefully. He hesitates for a moment.The bell hidden in his sleeve is silently ringing, a telltale phantom. He wants to keep it to himself, this small part of Wei Ying he has brought back with him. Then, he looks at his brother, and feels guilty. It is a selfish impulse, unbefitting a Lan, to keep this hidden.

He removes the silver bell from his sleeve and places it on the table between them. “We did not have to create the array entirely anew.”

His brother’s eyes widen as he reaches out and takes the bell in his hand, brings it close to his face, turns it over in his long fingers. “Wangji,” he breathes, “where did you get this?”

“It is Wei Ying’s.”

Lan Xichen's head jerks up. “How?” he asks, an edge to his voice that makes Lan Wangji nervous. It sounds suspicious, and Lan Wangji does not want his brother suspicious of Wei Ying. 

“He has had it since he was a child,” Lan Wangji says. “He did not know what it was. His mother gave it to him. Cangse Sanren.”

“Cangse Sanren ?” Lan Xichen says, nearly too loud in his shock. “A disciple of Baoshan Sanren?”

Lan Wangji nods.

“Mm,” Lan Xichen says, placing the bell back on the table between them. “Wei Ying sounds very clever, Wangji.”

It does not sound like a compliment. “Brother…”

“I know you grew very close to him,” Lan Xichen says gently. “But, Wangji. Somebody sent you there. They sent you away to get rid of you, and you just happened to end up crossing paths with this Wei Ying, a man who happens to have an item from our world that allows the users to cross between? A man who knows how to create arrays? You must see how it looks.”

Lan Wangji does see. He had seen it all along, how it was too perfect to be only coincidence. He had seen it, but he had also seen Wei Ying. The way Wei Ying would take pieces of himself in his hands and offer them to anyone in want. The way Wei Ying smiled so brightly that the world around him warmed with it. The way Wei Ying was good, so good. He had seen Wei Ying clearer than he has ever seen anyone.

“Wei Ying is not involved,” Lan Wangji says firmly, carefully to keep his face smooth.

Lan Xichen sighs quietly. “You don’t know that, Wangji. You need to be careful.”

“I am always careful.”

They stare at each other across the table, Lan Wangji’s expression flinty, uncompromising. Lan Xichen makes a sweeping motion, shaking out one of his long sleeves, as though brushing the conflict away. “Tell me about your investigation, prior to being transported to this other world,” he says, putting the argument away, for now.

Lan Wangji is not fooled into thinking it is over. He considers, briefly, not letting his brother do it. He imagines pushing back, dragging the argument out and laying it bare and kicking on the table between them.

But he is tired. 

Lan Xichen is tired.

“I was tracking cases of the disease, prior to going to Carp Tower. I spoke with others on my way.”

“What did you find?”

Lan Wangji frowns. “Very little. Which is strange.”

“How do you mean?”

It’s hard to put to words, why he finds it strange that so few have been impacted by the illness. He tries, speaking slowly. “It is strange,” he repeats, “that there is no connection between those falling ill. Jin Guangshan fell ill quite suddenly. Then, the entire Yueyang Chang Clan. Word of a few cases in Kuizhou. And now … father. Uncle…” he trails off.

“And even more, since you’ve been gone, I’m afraid.”

“Who?”

“Jin Guangshan passed about a month ago,” Lan Xichen says, “as well as Jin Guangyao’s young son, Jin Rusong. He fell ill around the same time and succumbed quickly.” 

There’s something stirring in Lan Wangji’s stomach. He feels the urge to move, a strong desire to be doing something. He keeps very still. “Brother. I would like to continue my investigation in Lanling.”

But Lan Xichen shakes his head. “We can’t. I know you want to investigate this, I understand. But we need you here now.”

Lan Wangji has always been still. Has always worn stillness with pride, a beautiful robe hanging from his shoulders. Today, it is chains.

He wants to break them between his hands, to leap to his feet, to refuse. But.

His home has always been here for him, and Cloud Recesses needs him. His brother needs him. They have lived in peace for generations, and now the world is turned up around them.

“I understand,” he says, chains rattling in his chest.

--------

Life in Cloud Recesses is much as Lan Wangji has always known it, for all that he has been away these last several months. He knows the rhythm of it, even if his life now includes duties it had not previously.

He is pulled away from his pupils to help his brother bear the burden of running the sect. Long days filled with demands made with low bows and hard smiles. Lan Xichen doesn’t make him speak, and Lan Wangji is grateful. Still, the endless hiss of voices scrapes him raw and he is forced to meditate at the end of each day in his jingshi as a headache pulses starbright behind his eyes. And yet, the silence holds no comfort, either. Instead, it hangs heavy on him, and he nearly bends under the weight.

He attempts to find his way back into the fold of his home, but it is a struggle. He feels the walls of Cloud Recesses pressing uncomfortably into him, pinching and squeezing as he tries to force himself to fit. It is as though he has changed shape. He tries. He knows this life, he can go along at this pace, he can do what is expected of him. But every chafe and press, every sharp corner reminds him of where Wei Ying has added to him, made him different, filled him where before there were holes. 

It isn’t that Lan Zhan resents his home. There are parts of his day that he truly enjoys. Despite his new responsibilities, he makes certain to find time with the Lan disciples. Currently, he is teaching one of the youngest classes, rows of serious-faced children with too-long Lan ribbons, no doubt placed there by loving parental hands.

That is, mostly his disciples sit in their proper place in neat rows. They are working on their calligraphy, their hands clutched around brushes as they draw clumsy characters over their scrolls, tongues clutched between teeth, little foreheads creased in concentration. In the back row, a disciple fidgets in his seat, forehead ribbon askew, as he looks around at his classmates, paying no attention to the smudged stripes on the page in front of him.

Lan Wangji rises from his seat at the front of the room, walking through the rows of students, nodding at their work, making small corrections, adjusting hands on brushes, until he reaches the antsy disciple in the final row. 

“Lan Jingyi,” Lan Wangji says in a quiet voice, “you are distracted. Study diligently.”

Despite Lan Wangji’s slow approach, Lan Jingyi is still caught unawares, jumping in shock, turning wide, dark eyes up at him. “Sorry, Hanguang-jun!” he chirps in a high voice, just the barest trace of a youthful lisp. 

Lan Wangji forces himself not to smile at the rush of fondness that flows through him. He is reminded of Wen Yuan, the same pleading expression in this boy’s eyes. “Is there something you are looking for?” Lan Wangji asks, correctly reading the boy’s distracted body language.

Around them, the other disciples are trying, and failing, to stay focused on their tasks. But Lan Wangji sees their brushes still, heads tilting in his direction. He wants to gather them around him, to sit in a semicircle, to tell stories and hear them laugh and watch them play the way Wen Yuan would. 

But these are Lan disciples, no matter how young.

“Yes, Hanguang-jun!” Lan Jingyi says, in a very un-Lan-like way, surprising Lan Wangji. “I was looking for the shell! We heard that Hanguang-jun fought a xuanwu by himself!” His eyes are huge now, round moons turned on Lan Wangji, the boy nearly trembling with excitement. 

“I did not,” Lan Wangji says truthfully, though he can’t help but feel guilty as Lan Jingyi’s face falls in disappointment.

“Told you,” another disciple hisses, “there’s no such thing as a xuanwu!”

“Is too!” Lan Jingyi snaps back, too loud.

“Do not yell,” Lan Wangji admonishes. 

“Yes, Hanguang-jun,” Lan Jingyi says, head hanging low.

Lan Wangji can’t help it. He reaches out, placing a kind hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Focus on your task,” he instructs, his voice soft as he walks back to his seat at the front of the room.

--------

This is Lan Wangji’s day:

He rises in the morning at maoshi.

He begins with exercises, physical and meditative, to keep his body strong, as well as his core.

He bathes. He dresses.

He eats the breakfast brought to him. It is the simple, plain food he has eaten his whole life. For the first time, he finds it bland.

He answers correspondence. Both Clan Leaders and commonfolk write to Cloud Recesses, pleading their cases, begging for the assistance of cultivators for a bevvy of concerns ranging from troubling to frivolous. 

He sits in counsel with Lan Xichen in discussions of economy and law and personal grievance masked as justice. 

He eats a late dinner, the day long with petty squabbles.

He meditates before bed.

He sleeps.

Some days, on good days, he has time to join the older disciples as they practice their sword forms. 

Once a week, he holds class with the youngest disciples.

These are his favorite days: the days when there is laughter, even quiet Lan laughter, that ricochets in the hollow echochamber of him.

There is also this:

Secretly, some nights, Lan Wangji leaves his jingshi under the stars, perhaps guided by moonlight, perhaps dark-blind to an empty sky, and sits in the high grass of the back mountain.

Some nights, he sits in the open field, guqin under his hands, and thinks about flying with arms tucked around his waist, the laughter he has collected in his heart like precious shells tinkling in him as he plays.

The song spins out under his hands, new and familiar. Notes he had begun weeks ago, before he had known what they meant, swallowed now into an empty world with no one to hear them. 

--------

It is in the sixth month of his return that Lan Wangji is urgently summoned to his brother’s hanshi during breakfast.  “Please let Zewu-jun know I will attend to him shortly,” Lan Wangji says. The disciple hurries to do so.

His brother’s summons has him worried, and he makes quick work of readying himself. Lan Xichen has always been respectful of Lan Wangji’s routine, knowing that he did not like to be interrupted. These days, Lan Wangji feels he would not mind intrusion, but he keeps these feelings to himself. 

When he arrives at the hanshi, he finds his brother standing, a small man in gray and yellow robes nervously fluttering his fan, an incongruously dark expression on his face.

“Zewu-jun,” Lan Wangji salutes as he enters. “Nie-gongzi.”

“Hanguang-jun,” Lan Xichen says -- he always uses his title in front of others, especially when discussing sect matters -- “thank you for coming so quickly. Nie-gongzi has news.”

“Yes,” Nie Huaisang says, nervously opening and closing his fan, his eyes wet, his lower lip stiff and trembling. He gives a sharp, loud sob and drops his face into his hands.

The brothers share a startled look over his head, Lan Xichen rushing forward suddenly, settling a hand on either shoulder and steering him towards a cushion.

“Nie-gongzi, why don’t you have a seat? I’ll have tea brought in.”

“Thank you, er-ge,” Nie Huaisang says, sniffling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I should have written, but I --”

Hiccups punctuate staccato pauses between his words as he tries to speak. 

“Take your time,” Lan Xichen says kindly. 

A tea service is set down before them, and Lan Wangji makes use of himself to pour three cups of tea for them as Lan Xichen dismisses the servant. Nie Huaisang takes a cup in shaking hands, spilling a little as he brings it to his mouth. It does seem to calm him some, though, and after a few sips and deep breaths he rasps out a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Huaisang, did you fly here in this condition?” Lan Xichen asks, his voice full of concern. “Does Mingjue know you’re here?”

Nie Huaisang flinches, setting his now empty teacup down. “He does not,” Nie Huaisang says. “He … da-ge … he … he’s not in much condition to know anything right now. He’s -- “ 

The breath goes out of him again. Lan Wangji does his best to wait patiently, but he can feel the tension in his brother’s body as he watches Nie Huaisang. Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen have always been close, even before they were sworn brothers. Lan Wangji doesn’t know the exact depths of their relationship -- he has never asked, and his brother has never told. But seeing the anxiety that is worming its way beneath Lan Xichen’s skin now, Lan Wangji thinks he recognizes something familiar there.

“Da-ge is sick,” Nie Huaisang chokes out at last. “It’s -- the qi disease, it’s -- he hasn’t woken up in three days.”

Lan Xichen's hand makes an aborted motion before he reaches out to Nie Huaisang, settling his fingers over the back of his hand. “How long has he been sick?”

Nie Huaisang shakes his head, tears shattering on the low table between them. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he says, voice thick. “You know da-ge. He would never tell me he was sick. I only found out after he was already bedridden. He was … he looks so …” he swallows. “I don’t know what to do. I thought that maybe …da-ge’s sworn brother. Please, er-ge,” he twists his hand around to grasp Lan Xichen’s fingers, “please.”

Lan Wangji watches as Nie Huaisang twists, unclear what is being asked. But Lan Xichen’s throat bobs as he swallows hard and answers, “Of course, Nie-gongzi. I will return to the Unclean Realm with you and attend to this personally.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes cut to his brother, who is not looking at him. 

“Thank you!” Nie Huaisang says, his voice cracking. “Thank you, Zewu-jun.”

Nie Huaisang scrambles to stand, nodding his head several times, his fan open and pressed against his breastbone. It is adorned with three birds, a kestrel and a canary standing at the base of a tree as a magpie watches from a high branch. It’s beautifully painted and strange. Nie Huaisang catches him looking and snaps the fan closed, saluting sloppily before he rushes out of the room.

Lan Xichen rises to his feet elegantly to follow him, when Lan Wangji speaks. “Brother. I would like to speak to you privately.”

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen turns distant eyes on him, “I have to go.”

He does. Lan Wangji can see that he does.

But.

Father is on his deathbed. Cloud Recesses needs a Sect Leader.

But. 

“You are needed here,” Lan Wangji says, tamping down his own desire -- the desire to give this to his brother. “Do not mix public and private interests,” he recites, the words acid in his mouth.

Lan Xichen makes a small gasping sound, as though Lan Wangji has hit him. He blinks at his brother several times, eyes shifting towards the door, then back to him. “Will you go?”

Lan Wangji should ask why. He should point out to his brother that his presence cannot stop disease. He only nods. “Thank you, Wangji. I trust you will handle things.”

“I will write.” 

Lan Xichen looks as though he wants to reach out to him. Lan Wangji, in that moment, wants him to. The memories of being small, being held in his older brother’s embrace, being comforted, having his rough edges smoothed over with gentling hands, are sweet and heavy in his chest. 

They do not embrace. They have not held each other in many, many years. Their love for one another is deeper than marrow, but intangible. 

“I will make preparations for my absence,” Lan Wangji says, and Lan Xichen smiles at him, a watery sun of affection through a gray sky.

Lan Wangji bows and exits. He will have to find someone to take over his classes, someone to handle his vital correspondence. He returns to his jingshi to begin to make arrangements, all the while ignoring the traitorous thrill of adrenaline in his veins. His days had been stretched out long and busy and the same before him, wrapped stiffly around his bones. Here is the knife to cut himself free, pulled from his brother’s heart.

He sits at his low table, arms folded as he runs a thumb over the bell hidden in the fabric of his sleeve, and begins to write.

--------

Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang fly out towards Qinghe and the Unclean Realm that same day. Lan Xichen manages to convince Nie Huaisang to stay long enough to take a meal with them before they leave, insisting it is too dangerous for him to fly off in his current condition without food. Nie Huaisang, who has never been a strong cultivator and who is certainly depleted after his long solo journey and the emotions of the day, agrees to reason and eats with them. He spends the slow meal fidgeting, eyes darting around the room as though expecting to see something or someone lurking. He catches Lan Wangji watching him and his lips twitch in an attempted smile, but it sputters like a dying candle. 

The guilt is a deep bruise, old and itching as Lan Wangji mounts his sword and is swarmed by the dusty memory of hands and sun. 

He tells himself he is not running away. His brother cannot go, so Lan Wangji will do this in his stead. He tells himself, his brother should not know the same loss he does. He knows, as well, that it would not be the same. Wei Ying lives out of reach but for the bell Lan Wangji carries and has sworn to himself he will never use. But, he lives.

It’s a slow trip toward Qinghe. Lan Wangji would be able to manage the trip easily in a day, were he on his own. But Nie Huaisang cannot match his usual pace even in the best of conditions, and he is far from his best now.

The sun is just beginning to glow somber in the western horizon, a single drop of red spilling through the water bowl of the sky, when Nie Huiasang tips sideways on his sword. 

Lan Wangji rushes forward, catching the smaller man by the arm before he falls off completely. “I’m sorry!” Nie Huaisang says, clutching him by the elbow and leaning heavily on him as his less powerful blade falters beneath him. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can keep going. I’m not … I need to rest.”

Lan Wangji nods. “There is a town,” he says. “It will be five minutes by sword, or twenty by foot. Can you make it?”

Nie Huaisang whines, a high whistling sound, but nods. “I can make it, if you help,” he says.

Lan Wangji frowns, but loops their arms together, trying hard not to think about the touch, and guides them to the town as quickly as he dares. 

The town is not as small as Lan Wangji had expected as they approached from above. The streets are full with people completing errands before nightfall, vendors shouting close of day deals into the hubbub of the market, children running underfoot, weaving through the adults like obstacles in a foot race.

“This way,” Nie Huaisang says, having sheathed his blade and plucking at Lan Wangji’s sleeve. Lan Wangji jerks his arm away instinctively. “Ah, sorry, sorry!” Nie Huaisang apologizes, holding his hands in front of him. “It’s just -- the inn. It’s this way.” He waves toward a large, slightly rundown building at the end of the row.

The inn is as crowded as the street, the tables full with groups of shoppers and travellers taking meals before nightfall. Lan Wangji is dubious that they will be able to find lodging here for the night. 

He finds that he has underestimated Nie Huaisang. 

He stands back and watches as the man approaches the proprietor, fan fluttering, eyelashes batting, as he laughs an insipid, tinkling laugh, more coy than humorous. The proprietor already seems suitably softened to Nie Huaisang by the time he takes a full purse from his sleeve and drops a small stack of coins -- far too many -- onto the wooden table top between them. The innkeeper’s eyes are almost as wide as his smile as he snatches the coins up indelicately, bows deeply, and scurries to clear away a table of drunken merchants who have begun to row. 

“I’m not entirely worthless.” Nie Huaisang is at his elbow, smiling behind his fan.

Lan Wangji says nothing, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t agree.

For all that his travel companion had been slumped into him as they made the last leg of their flight into town, barely able to stay upright on his sword, it strikes Lan Wangji that he seems perfectly recovered now. Perhaps it is the effect of alcohol and the strangers pressed around them, whom Nie Huaisang loops in and out of conversation the more he drinks. It is certainly not a scenario that Lan Wangji finds revitalizing, but Nie Huaisang’s cheeks are flushed and nearly happy as he appears to go more and more boneless across the table. Lan Wangji wonders how much longer before Nie Huaisang is ready to head up to their rooms. Lan Wangji is not sleepy, but he is weary. He longs for the solitude of his room, perhaps to play some music and try to drown out the noise of the inn around him. However, he is also reluctant to leave Nie Huaisang to his own devices, after having caught the man out of a nearly fatal fall just hours ago, knowing that he has not yet rested.

Nie Huaisang raps a stranger lightly on the elbow, and turns his attention back to Lan Wangji. “Lan-er-gongzi,” he says, the words slightly slurred, “do you know what the last thing was that my brother said to me before he fell ill?”

Nie Huaisang is leaning forward on the table, his glazed eyes suddenly damp. Lan Wangji shakes his head, just enough to show he’s listening, uncertain if he wants to continue this conversation. 

“He called me a disgrace,” Nie Huaisang hiccups. 

Lan Wangji forces himself not to look away from Nie Huaisang, who is twirling his fan through surprisingly dexterous fingers. “Da-ge and I are very different,” Nie Huaisang continues a bit dreamily, his audience apparently forgotten. “I was looking through my fans, admiring them, when he found me. He’s never understood my appreciation for beautiful things. He asked me where my sword was, why I wasn’t practicing. But I didn’t know. He ordered me to burn my fans. He would’ve made me do it, too, if a-Yao hadn’t shown up and stopped him. They argued, and da-ge said a sect leader has no need for such things. I told him I wasn’t going to be a sect leader.”

The fan, which had been tumbling elegantly in Nie Huaisang’s fingers, drops suddenly, falling to the table with a quiet clatter. Nie Huaisang watches it, but does not grab for it. A pool of spilled wine seeps into the paper, the ink running.

Lan Wangji, not knowing what to say, says nothing. In this moment, he thinks he and Nie Huaisang may understand each other better than they ever have. They both stare down at the fan as the ink bleeds, the finely rendered lines of the kestrel spilling out into a smudge.

Nie Huaisang’s hand whips out suddenly, snatching the fan from the table and folding it, shoving it into his sleeve. “I am going to find a server. More wine,” he says, pushing away from the table and stumbling slightly as he rises to his feet.

The noise of the inn is pressing in on Lan Wangji. It’s strange. For the past several months in Cloud Recesses, he has found the silence restrictive. Now that he is finally surrounded by noise, he finds that it is as hard to breathe as ever, the sounds pouring into his nose and mouth, filling his lungs like water.

He sits at the table, breathing through the noise, for a long while. Nie Huaisang has not returned. The crowd at the inn has begun to thin out a little, though it is still busier than seems normal. He’s peering through the crowd, attempting to spot Nie Huaisang, cursing himself for letting him out of his sight -- he had been quite drunk and richly dressed -- when a man in black robes suddenly collides with Lan Wangji, falling in a sprawl across his legs. 

“Ah, sorry!” the man says, scrambling to disentangle himself from Lan Wangji, but only further entangling them with his efforts. Lan Wangji, shaking himself from the stupor of suddenly finding a person in his lap, grips the man by the shoulders and hauls his struggling form off of him. 

“Sorry!” the man says again, bowing his head as he makes a shaky salute, his hands hidden in the caverns of his over large sleeves. Lan Wangji narrows his eyes and, with whip speed, grabs the man’s wrists in each of his hands, dragging them into view. The man yelps in surprise, and then shame as Lan Wangji glares at the white silk money purse in his hand, embroidered in blue clouds. 

“Lan-er-gongzi! What’s happening here?” Nie Huaisang rushes forward, flustered as he takes in the scene before him. 

“Stealing is forbidden,” he says flatly to the man. The man flushes, his fingers loosening around the purse, which falls onto the table with a heavy thunk .

“Please, please forgive me!” the man says, his eyes wild with fear as they dart around, looking for anywhere to land that isn’t Lan Wangji. 

“Ah, Hanguang-jun,” Nie Huaisang says anxiously next to him, “can’t you go easy on him? Look at him, he’s clearly hungry. Be easy on others. Be generous.”

He spares a look down at Nie Huaisang, whose mouth is hidden behind his fan as he watches Lan Wangji over the top. Apparently, Nie Huaisang’s many weeks of tuition at Cloud Recesses had made some impact after all, if he could quote tenets from the wall of discipline at Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji hesitates. Nie Huaisang is not wrong, and besides, the other patrons have begun to take notice of the disturbance, the proprietor looking anxiously over at them as he twists a rag between his hands, busily handling another group. But it is none of these things that makes Lan Wangji drop the man’s wrists.

He looks at this hungry man, young, dark-haired, gray-eyed, the hollows of his cheeks, and his heartaches with memory. 

Once released, the man moves to scurry away, but Lan Wangji stops him. “Sit,” he says imperiously. 

The man looks uncertain. He shoots a questioning glance towards Nie Huaisang, who shrugs lightly. 

“Ah, young masters, is there trouble here?” the innkeeper hurries up to their table, having shaken himself free from a group of customers at last, dipping his head in several apologetic bows before rounding on the man. “Mo Xuanyu, who let you out! Get out of here, before I send word to Mo Furen!”

“We are fine,” Lan Wangji cuts in quickly. 

“Fine, fine!” Nie Huaisang echoes. “I’m not sure what all this is about, really! But we are hungry. Three meals and --” he looks at Lan Wangji, who is watching Mo Xuanyu “-- two jars of wine.”

“Oh,” the innkeeper says, mouth slack before he catches himself. “Yes! Yes,of course, right away.” He hurries off, a little dumbstruck, but generous patrons are more important than curiosity.

Mo Xuanyu is still standing, glancing between the table and the door as though judging if he can make a run for it.

“Sit,” Lan Wangji says for the second time and then, since the situation clearly calls for more, “you are hungry. There is a meal coming.”

Sparing one longing look towards the door, clearly concluding that he would never make it, Mo Xuanyu takes a seat across from them. Silence drapes over the table, Lan Wangji observing the slumped, hangdog language written into the limbs of the young man seated across from him. He is about their age, although the way his robes sag on him, too-large for his thin body, makes him look younger. He has a yellowing bruise faintly discernible on his face, running from his right temple, over his eyes, to a split in his upper lip, recently reopened as he worries his lip between his teeth. He’s attempted to cover it with face powder, applied clumsily over the injury. He has the wild, pupil-blown eyes of a trapped animal.

“Mo Xuanyu,” Nie Huaisang says, “I am Nie Huaisang. This is Lan Wangji.”

Mo Xuanyu closes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. Now that the panic has settled, his voice is deeper than Lan Wangji has anticipated, given his frailty. “Please forgive me, I only--” but a server approaches, and Mo Xuanyu stops speaking, looking deliberately away.

Several bowls of food are placed on the table, along with two jars of wine as requested. Lan Wangji nods his thanks as they hurry away to help another group of patrons.

“Eat,” Lan Wangji says.

Mo Xuanyu opens his mouth to continue his apology, but Lan Wangji intercepts. “No speaking while eating,” he recites, taking a bowl and placing it in front of the hungry man.

Mo Xuanyu eats like someone who hasn’t seen real food in many days. Weeks maybe, Lan Wangji thinks, as he notes the knobby protuberances of his wrists. His mouth presses into a thin line. He thinks that, maybe, he will need to visit Mo Village. If things are this bad, if food is this scarce, then it may be a matter requiring looking into.

Lan Wangji retires to bed shortly before haishi, his weariness finally getting the better of his fear for Nie Huaisang’s purse. Mo Xuanyu had skittered away after their meal, no doubt to head back to his village. Nie Huaisang’s eyes had followed him, wine-warm and tittering. 

Lan Wangji’s room is overly warm, a fire stoked high, licking heat into the stone floor like an oven. Incense burns on a table, cloying and fragrant. Lan Wangji's head swims with it as he disrobes, a sheen on his skin beneath his many layers of silk. His evening meditation is cursory; Lan Wangji finds his attention distracted by disconnected rememberings -- a long laughing throat, a pair of bright, curious eyes, the fall of dark hair over red. His energy churns inside him, evading his grasp, slippery and unbridled. 

He gives it up as a bad job, and, with the storm rumbling inside of him, draws himself into the rough sheets of the inn bed and chases sleep like a sound on the wind.

--------

The sun is still low in the eastern sky when Nie Huaisang and Lan Wangji head out to complete their trip the following morning. It suits Lan Wangji, as the cool dewy breath of the morning whispers through his robes until they cling against his skin. Beside him, Nie Huiaisang clutches his arms around his chest, shivering. Lan Wangji had been surprised to see his travel companion had awoken so early, even more so when he noted the red of a headache threaded through the whites of his eyes, the pallor of his face. No doubt, the aftereffects of too much wine the night before. 

But Nie Huaisang was anxious to return to the Unclean Realm. He spoke little before they began their trip, saying only, “Let’s hurry,” his head already turned toward Qinghe.

It has been years since Lan Wangji last visited the Unclean Realm. He had still been a junior disciple, accompanying his brother and a small group on a trip for a nighthunt with the Nie disciples. Lan Xichen had said it was good for disciples from other sects to meet and work together like this, a ‘mutually beneficial learning opportunity’. Lan Wangji had allowed this explanation to pass without question, as it wasn’t a lie. However, he knew that his brother had other reasons for visiting the Unclean Realm. He was certain Lan Xichen knew that Lan Wangji knew, but … well. It was a complicated matter. If Lan Xichen did not wish to speak of it to him, then Lan Wangji would not press the issue. 

Back then, the Unclean Realm had not impressed Lan Wangji much. It was barren, stony, cold, with monstrous faces carved into the stone, ugly glares from the walls. He had found the accommodations as inelegant and overbearing as the people housed within -- brash and raucous, with hard manners and quick tempers. Watching the loud, tempestuous man that was his brother’s lifelong friend, Lan Wangji wondered at the strangeness of hearts. 

His opinion of the Unclean Realm is not entirely changed upon this return visit -- the grimacing beasts that peer out from every wall are no more pleasant now than they were back then. But this time, Lan Wangji can’t find himself dismissing either the stony landscape or stone-handed people the way he had before. He realizes that there is something beautiful in the wind-beaten skin of Qinghe. He wonders if the Unclean Realm has changed, or if something has changed in him instead.

As soon as they land, they are whisked away to a room tucked away deep in the hall. The room is cramped, windowless, with a handful of guttering candles coughing light into the darkness. Lan Wangji scowls as he is led within, towards a bed wherein lies a large man on his back, eyes closed, hands clasped across his chest as though he were laid in a tomb rather than a bed, missing only his blade. A woman leans over him, her fingers pressed into his wrist, a frown between her eyebrows.

Nie Huaisang pushes ahead of Lan Wangji, walking on heavy legs to cross the room and kneel at his brother’s side, hands clutching the sheets. The woman moves away, giving him space.

“How long has he been ill?” Lan Wangji asks her.

Her eyes slip to the bed, before moving back to him, settling somewhere around his collarbone. “About a week,” she says, brushing her silver hair out of her eyes. “His qi was already in poor condition before, but it was never an issue of a lack of energy. I’m afraid that the treatments we used to keep his excess yang energy controlled may have exacerbated his condition.”

“You are his regular doctor?” Lan Wangji asks.

She nods. “I have cared for three generations of the Nie family,” she says, her mouth thin. “Unfortunately, they are very short generations.”

There’s a loud, startled gasp from the bed. Lan Wangji and the doctor spin towards it. They find Nie Huaisang leaning over Nie Mingjue, trying to lift the man. “Help!” he squeaks desperately.

Lan Wangji crosses the room in three strides, pulling Nie Mingjue’s hulking form up by the shoulders. The man’s eyes are open, vessels popping in the whites, veins pressing out against his skin, as he breath scratches through his throat in strangled, rasping coughs. He chest spasms with the effort to breathe against something, his hands weakly clutching at the front of his robes.

Lan Wangji doesn’t think. He acts on instinct, pulling Nie Mingjue’s body to the edge of the bed, folding him forward. “Controlled,” he orders him, a strong hand pressing firmly into his back to demonstrate. “Inhale now.” Beneath his hand, Nie Mingjue’s back expands with a shuddering breath. Lan Wangji can feel the effort of it, the choking as he breathes around it. “Cough, now,” he orders and, at the same time, thuds a hard palm into the center of the man’s back.

A wet sound, as a blood flies from Nie Mingjue’s mouth in a grim spatter. The man pulls one deep, clean breath through his mouth before he collapses limp, only Lan Wangji’s quick arms to keep him from hitting the stone floor head first.

He positions Nie Mingjue back into the bed with the help of Nie Huaisang and the doctor. “Has this happened before?” Lan Wangji asks as he reaches down and takes the man’s wrist, placing his fingers on the pulse point between the ropy tendons.

He lifts his eye’s to the doctor’s. There is resignation there.

“No,” the doctor answers, Nie Huaisang too shaken to speak. “It has been quiet until now. A slow fading. Nothing so violent.”

“Slow?” Lan Wangji’s forehead crinkles. “Did he not fall ill only a week ago?”

“Oh! Oh yes, a week ago,” she says. “You will forgive me. The days have felt very long for this one.”

Lan Wangji nods, turning his attention back to feeling along Nie Mingjue’s meridians, to the pulse of his golden core. It is nothing like the blaze he feels in his own body, full and radiant in his lower dantian. Nie Mingjue’s core is gasping, a golden-scaled koi pulled onto the grass. He attempts to pass him some of his spiritual energy, but it turns syrupy slow as it presses into him, either reluctant or unable to enter. Lan Wangji frowns and folds the man’s arms back over his chest. Nie Huaisang and the doctor are watching him expectantly. Lan Wangji wishes he had something to tell them. “I would like to see Nie-zongzhu’s rooms,” he says. 

Nie Huaisang hiccups and nods to the doctor, as he kneels at his brother’s bedside again, head hung low, his face broken open. 

--------

Lan Wangji is left to search Nie Mingjue’s rooms in private, the servant who led him there exiting hastily. He wonders at being allowed this privileged access to a sect leader’s private quarters, but after an hour of searching for anything out of place or useful, the reason occurs to him. They have no concern with him being here because the room has already been divested of anything interesting. 

It isn’t that he expected a mountain of clues to present themselves. He doesn’t even know what he is looking for. The qi-depleting disease is strange, but he has no proof that it is anything other than an unfortunate illness. Only his suspicion.

The room is thick with dust in its owner’s absence and seems to hold no answers. There are no papers, no letters, no ledgers, no scrolls. One would never know it was a Sect Leader’s room at all, if not for the silver hair ornaments laid out on a table. Silver, and a glint of gold.

Lan Wangji walks over to the table for a second look. He lifts one of the ornaments, and considers the golden handkerchief beneath it, taking it with careful hands.

It is fine silk, embroidered with koi stitched in delicate golden thread. But it is not the handkerchief itself that interests him.

He lifts another hair ornament from the table and confirms his suspicion.

There is a break in the dust on the table where the ornament had stood, a silhouette relief where it had settled over the silver, leaving the wood beneath it clean. There is no such relief where the handkerchief had lain. The table beneath the handkerchief is covered in dust. 

Lan Wangji considers taking the golden token with him, but decides against it. It is only a handkerchief, and he already knows whose it is.

The question is, who placed it here and why.

--------

The guest quarters, for all the stone and austerity of the Unclean Realm, are warm and pleasant. There’s a bath waiting for him each night when he enters, sandalwood incense burning, a fond memory of home. 

He allows himself the luxury of soaking in the warm water, the heating talismans fluttering in the draft spilling into the room under the slip of the door. 

The day sloughs off of him dark and heavy, tiny hurricane whirls of dust and frustration in the water. He has spent the last week and a half speaking to as many of the residents of the Unclean Realm as he can, asking after Nie Mingjue’s business the week he fell ill -- any visitors, any letters, anything strange, any odd behavior. There is nothing.

Nothing, when there should be something .

Nie Mingjue is a sect leader of one of the great sects. His week should not be empty like this. It is not the life of a sect leader. But press as he might, Lan Wangji can’t get anyone to tell him otherwise. Everyone -- advisor, servant, disciple, everyone -- tells him the same thing. 

Lan Wangji has conducted enough investigations to know that this, in itself, is strange.

He wishes, not for the first time, that he had an easier manner. That he was warm, inviting people to share confidences. It would make things simpler. Lan Wangji is aware that he is aloof, intimidating -- that his presence puts people on edge, shuttering themselves away from the frigid wind of Lan Wangji.

Wei Ying would be better at this. Wei Ying was warm and bright, people turning toward him like flowers chasing the sun. 

As always, the thought of Wei Ying is dangerous. His heart is hollow as it crashes into his breastbone. 

Lan Wangji reaches down over the edge of the tub absentmindedly, reaching into the sleeve of his robe, fingers seeking the small bell hidden there. 

He tries not to. He made a rule for himself, not to seek it out, not to get lost in the longing. It is a rule he breaks more than any other. Tonight, his mind is a brilliant brush, painting out the swirls of Wei Ying’s laughter in riotous color.

His fingers close on fabric only. 

He frowns, turning over in the bath. He hands smooth over the robes, probing through the pockets of his sleeves, looking for the touch of hard metal.

There is nothing.

He stands, water crashing to the floor around him with the sudden motion. He doesn’t care. He steps out of the bath, not bothering to dry himself or dress, desperate hands running through every stitch, finding nothing but soft pliant silk.

His heart gives a devastating, grief-wail thrust against the cage of his chest, and shatters.

The bell is gone. 

--------

For all his icy composure, there is something terrible about the thunder in Lan Wangji’s face when he opens his door to a timid rasp of knuckles. The man standing on the other side, face pale and drawn, takes several steps back, hand flying to his chest, before he composes himself and salutes, bowing much lower than necessary, as though he is prepared to drop to the floor in supplication if Lan Wangji moves too quickly.

“Hanguang-jun,” the man says, head still bent to the floor. “You must come. Nie-zongzhu --”

The man’s voice breaks. Lan Wangji gathers the storm of his broken heart, wild and large, and squeezes it into diamond, sealing it away in the core of himself. “Lead the way,” he says, following the man to Nie Minjue’s sickbed.

The door opens and Nie Huaisang crashes into him, Lan Wangji catching him before he collapses to the floor.

“He’s -- he’s --” Nie Huaisang gasps, held up only by Lan Wangji’s hands on his elbows. 

The doctor walks out, somber, her cheeks wet. Lan Wangji directs a silent question to her, and she shakes her head. Lan Wangji’s hands tighten around Nie Huaisang briefly, before two people rush forward, sliding arms beneath his shoulders as they shuffle him away. 

“What happened?” Lan Wangji asks, standing on the precipice of the room.

The doctor dabs at her face, but her voice is steady when she speaks. “It was quiet. His core just … emptied until it was gone. His body wouldn’t take any of the spiritual energy we tried to pass him. I never expected --” her voice breaks, and she swallows the emotion “--I never thought it would be so quiet.”

“I must write to my brother,” Lan Wangji says. “Excuse me.”

--------

In Cloud Recesses, grief is locked away in the private caverns of the heart. No less deep, no less present, but always private. Always lonely.

The open-hearted mourning of the Unclean Realm is a beaten breast, torn open to sorrow. To say that Nie Mingjue was loved by his sect would be both true, and a terrible lie. Love would not begin to cover the scope of loyalty and admiration, the soul deep loss that has ripped holes through his clan.

Only Nie Huaisang remains tearless, dry like letters thrown to fire, turned to ash, and left in gray piles to be blown to nothing by the wind. Looking at him, Lan Wangji recognizes a sorrow that has nothing left to give, let alone tears to cry.

Lan Wangji writes to Lan Xichen, his brush slow and halting in the strokes that his brother will read with his quiet grace as a wing of his heart collapses into ruins. He considers writing to Jin Guangyao as well. He may not like the man -- his quick smile and mollifying words too slick, the man himself too slippery for Lan Wangji to like him -- but he knows that Jin Guangyao is now the sole pillar of his brother’s heart. Ultimately, though, he decides against it. He will leave it to others, to those who know him better, to find the words for Jin Guangyao. He hopes they will do so quickly, for Lan Xichen’s sake.

Preparations begin quickly. Fabric is slung in in funereal colors over the walls of the Unclean Realm. Lan Wangji takes the time to gather his things and make plans. He adds a postscript to his letter for Lan Xichen informing him of his next steps. He wants to stay for his brother, but his investigation in the Unclean Realm would be inappropriate in current circumstances, and Lan Wangji can’t help but to feel that he needs to keep moving, to act quickly. 

In truth, it is not just the investigation and his uneasy suspcisions that have Lan Wangji eager to move on. The missing bell is a toll, a soundless shaking in his blood, calling out to him. He believes he knows where to find it.

He finds Nie Huaisang hiding amongst the hedges of a stone pavilion, poking seeds through the bars of a birdcage at a small yellow and gray plumed canary. He startles when Lan Wangji approaches, spilling the seeds in his lap over the ground. “Lan-er-gongzi!” he says, “I didn’t hear you! Have you come to drag me back inside? The others have it in hand, I’m sure I’d just be in the way!” He bends down, scooping the birdseed back into his hands, rocks and dust coming with it. 

“Nie-zongzhu,” Lan Wangji begins; Nie Huaisang flinches so hard that a small gasp escapes him, “I am leaving to continue my investigation.”

“Investigation? So you do think there is something happening?” 

Lan Wangji pauses, always careful with his words. “There is more I would like to know.”

Nie Huaisang turns from him, back to his bird, pressing more seed between the bars. The bird hops forward and picks through the offering, spitting out a small stone. “I’ve always liked pretty things,” Nie Huaisang says, watching the bird. “I’ve never been any good at swords and fighting and cultivation. Da-ge tried so hard to make me take it seriously. He was a hard man, in many ways. People say we’re nothing alike. He helped me catch this bird,” Nie Huaisang pauses, looking sideways at Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji hums, not certain what is expected of him. “They’re supposed to have beautiful songs, but this one has never sung for me.” He whistles a sweet, soft song at the bird. It cocks its head to the side, curious and quiet. Nie Huaisang sighs.

Lan Wangji waits to see if there is more, but when Nie Huaisang says nothing, he speaks at last. “What do you know of Mo Xuanyu?”

Nie Huaisang stands, dropping the seeds back to the ground, dusting off his robes. The winged shoulders and broad, beast-headed belt, which had been imperious and powerful on Nie Mingjue, making him look young and shrunken. “Don’t ask me, I’m sure I don’t know,” he says, his hands twisting together.

“I believe he has something of mine,” Lan Wangji says. “I would like it back.”

The small man’s hands twist again, his shoulders sloping further forward. “He lives in Mo Village,” he answers at last. “He’s a nephew of Mo Furen. They say he’s mad, he’s not supposed to leave, but he must’ve snuck out that night. I really don’t know.”

It seemed to Lan Wangji that, for all he was saying he didn’t know, Nie Huaisang seemed to know a lot. Perhaps this was just the way of things for most people -- gossip was forbidden in Cloud Recesses, but outside his sect, others spoke so often.They had to be talking of something. 

“Thank you,” Lan Wangji says, then, stiffly, “I am sorry for Chifeng-zun’s passing. My brother held him in high esteem.”

“Yes,” Nie Huaisang says, eyes far away, looking at something in the distant sky. 

Lan Wangji bows, low enough to befit Nie Huaisang’s new station, and then a little lower to convey his condolences, before he takes his leave. 

He passes his letter to a servant with instructions to deliver it to Cloud Recesses with haste. Then, not wanting to wait any longer, he turns towards Mo Village and mounts Bichen, leaving the Unclean Realm behind, the stone glowing mourning white in the high noon sun.

--------

He approaches Mo Village in the early evening, a small welcoming party ready to greet him at the gate, having watched his approach with apparent eagerness.

“Lan-gongzi!” a haughty faced woman in ornate robes and adorned just to the wrong side of garish sweeps forward, her eyes sweeping over his white robes and forehead ribbon. “Welcome! We did not know to expect such distinguished company.”

“Mo Furen,” Lan Wangji guesses, saluting. Not, perhaps, the most polite greeting, but he is tired and finds himself out of words and low on patience. 

“Are you hungry? Do you need rest?” She turns to the woman at her elbow, snapping her arm out. “What are you doing? Go get a room ready! Prepare a meal, what are you thinking, standing here? And wine!”

The woman scurries off to follow the orders, making several quick bows as she leaves.

“Unnecessary,” Lan Wangji says. “I am not staying.”

“You must let us host you!” Mo Furen simpers, reaching out to loop her arm through his. Lan Wangji takes a step back, too quickly not to be insulting. Something metallic flashes through Mo Furen’s eyes, but she smiles the next moment as though it had never been there. “What brings a cultivator to our village?”

“I am here to speak with Mo Xuanyu,” he says.

There’s no mistaking the iron in Mo Furen’s face now. “Him? What business could you have with him? Haven’t you cultivators had enough of that one yet?”

Lan Wangji says nothing, standing very still as he waits.

“My son has so much potential,” she says. “I’m certain you’d agree, once you meet him. I’ve always said, he would do so well with a cultivation sect like the Gusu-Lan,” her eyes flicker to his headband. 

It is a good thing that Lan Wangji has so many years invested in keeping his face passive, unreadable. “Mo Xuanyu,” he repeats.

Mo Furen huffs, then waves to one of her entourage. “Take him,” she says in a tone clipped with disappointment. Lan Wangji bows shallowly, and follows at a sedate pace to Mo Xuanyu’s room.

Room is a generous word, Lan Wangji finds. It is a small shack, separate from the rest of the compound, the windows boarded and door bolted shut from the outside. 

“Is he always locked away like this?” Lan Wangji asks, not managing to entirely disguise his distaste.

“Ah, no, young master,” his escort says, moving to unbolt the door. “But he escaped recently and we had to take precautions. He’s mad, you see, a danger to others --”

Lan Wangji hums skeptically. “Leave,” he says. “I will handle it.”

The man looks stunned at being dismissed so abruptly, but clearly does not see fit to argue as he makes a hasty retreat to report back to his mistress.

The bolt is fragile with dry rot as he unlatches it from the door, a poor lock for holding in anyone dangerous. Bits of it fall away beneath his fingers, and he is tempted to crumble it to dust. He does not.

He slides it free, propping it to the side of the door, which begins to swing outward. He stops it with a hand, not wanting to startle the man within, and knocks three raps on the doorframe.

From within the dark room, there’s a shocked gasp of breath, the sound of hurried feet and the whisper sigh of fabric brushing together. 

Lan Wangji waits, glad he did not enter before the man had time to dress, surprised to have caught him in such a state at this hour. After a few minutes, there is silence in the room again, the stillness of a rabbit sighted by a hawk. He knocks again, this time to announce his entrance. Before he can open the door, it swings toward him, and he just steps out of the way.

Standing before him is a tall, lean man wearing rumpled red underrobes, his black hair loose around his shoulders, wearing a silver mask that covers the top half of his face. 

Lan Wangji blinks, wrong-footed, uncertain of what he is seeing.

Then, the man smiles. 

He smiles, and it is spring in Lan Wangji’s core, the ice of him melted away to green and flowers. 

He smiles, and Lan Wangji doesn’t need to hear him, doesn’t need to hear the wonderstruck “Lan Zhan!” that tumbles whisper soft from the wide pull of his lips.

He smiles, and Lan Wangji knows that smile. 

Diamond is the hardest material in the world, but it is no match for the blade of the smile, which cracks open the sorrow stone buried in him.

There is no force in the world that is a match for that smile.

“Wei Ying.”

Chapter Text

One moment, they stand across from each other, Wei Ying smiling, Lan Wangji’s head swimming in breathless wonder.

The next, they have crashed together, Wei Ying’s arms thrown around Lan Wangji, the mask pressed uncomfortably into the skin of his neck. Lan Wangji barely notices, lost in the smell of Wei Ying’s hair, the sound of his shuddering laughter, the weight of his body. 

“Wei Ying,” he says again, still in disbelief, his voice feather-soft, scared to shatter the illusion of Wei Ying clinging to him, as though if he speaks too loudly, if he wants to loudly, Wei Ying will break apart in his arms. 

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says into the curve of his neck, his lips brushing the skin there. He pulls back and Lan Wangji nearly grabs him. Nearly holds him there, cages him to his body. He doesn’t, letting his hands fall from where they had dug themselves into the red of Wei Ying’s robes. “Are you okay?” Wei Ying is asking, his eyes wide behind the mask. “I was so scared! What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Wei Ying.” He can’t stop saying it. He feels foolish. He swallows, desperately wrestling his words into some semblance of order. “How -- why are you here?”

The corners of Wei Ying’s mouth dip down. Lan Wangji hates it, wants to reach out, take the sides of Wei Ying’s face in his hands, make his mouth smile again. Wei Ying should always smile. 

He doesn’t.

“I … it’s all kind of crazy. Kind of a blur, actually,” Wei Ying says. He takes a full step back from Lan Wangji at last, running a hand through his hair, catching his fingers on the ribbon of the mask, causing it to slip down his face. He fumbles to tie it back in place. “There was this guy. He told me you needed my help. I don’t know, I probably should’ve asked some follow-up questions, but honestly my mind kinda went blank. I grabbed some shit, and he handed me the bell, and before I knew it,” he gestures at the room, “I was here. Locked in. Then, I panicked. Well, panicked more. I thought it was a trap.”

Lan Wangji isn’t certain he is following, but he nods. “The … mask?” he asks.

Wei Ying grins sheepishly. “Well, you know. I thought if it was a trap, if they were after, you know, me , then maybe if I could pretend to be the other guy I could buy enough time to figure a way out of it? Don’t look at me like that, I know it’s a dumb plan. But I didn’t have, you know, a lot of options …”

“This man,” Lan Wangji says, trying to fit the pieces of the broken story together. “What did he look like?”

“Uh, well. Kinda like me? A bit shorter, maybe. Thinner, if you can believe it. He looked beat to hell too, which is why I sort of shorted out and didn’t think it through. Guy with a bloody mouth and bruised face runs at you and says ‘Lan Wangji needs your help,’ you don’t really ask questions. And ... god, that’s really stupid isn’t it? I didn’t think -- why would you need my help? You’re you! And I’m -- well, what do I have to offer a literal wizard? And now I’m here and I’m probably just going to get in the way, but I panicked! Fuck, Lan Zhan, I’m an idiot, I shouldn’t have ...” He pauses, inhaling shakily. ”Do you? Need me?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t know how to answer. Does he need Wei Ying? Only in the way that he needs sunlight. The way that he needs music, and color, and sensation. He does not need Wei Ying like air or water. He does not need Wei Ying to pump his heart or fill his lungs. 

He does not need Wei Ying to live. 

Only.

Only he needs Wei Ying in the way that makes the world beautiful.

“Yes,” he answers. He immediately regrets it, the way the worry slices through the line of Wei Ying’s mouth. “I am unharmed,” he clarifies. 

He looks around, noticing the watching eyes of the Mo villagers. “Come,” he says, taking Wei Ying’s wrist and leading him back into the small room. 

The room is turned over, as though it has been ransacked. Lan Wangji raises his eyebrows in question to Wei Ying, who shrugs. “Some of it was me,” he says, “but, to be fair, it was pretty bad when I got here.”

Lan Wangji hums. He knows he should look around the room, sift through the torn papers, discarded talismans, search for answers or even for questions . But he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from Wei Ying. 

“So, what’re … did you know I was here?” Wei Ying says. “You’re gonna have to help me out with filling in the blanks here, Lan Zhan, I have no idea what’s going on.” 

He unties the mask around his face at last. There’s a sharp inhale as Lan Zhan sees what it was hiding. It is Wei Ying, his Wei Ying, but -- 

“Who did this?” Lan Zhan asks, his voice low and dangerous. 

A dark bruise encircles Wei Ying’s eye, so swollen that the skin is stretched, wide and glistening over a cut on his cheekbone. Beneath the injury, Wei Ying’s face is changed in other ways: his cheeks are deep pools around his mouth, his jaw sharper. Lan Zhan wants to grab him again, open his robes and pull him inside, safe against his skin, cocooned in Lan Wangji. 

“No idea,” Wei Ying says, as though it doesn’t matter. Lan Wangji frowns. “Some guy came in here with his gang, blustering about how I -- well, Mo Xuanyu, he called me -- was crazy and a dog -- which, rude -- and then started kicking me. I’m fine!” he adds hastily. “Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

This pronouncement does little to make Lan Wangji feel better. 

“I came here to find Mo Xuanyu,” Lan Wangji says, feeling that he owes Wei Ying an explanation, if he has been dragged into this somehow. “He stole the bell from me.”

“Ah, I wondered,” Wei Ying says, and he pulls the bell from his waistband. He looks at it for a moment, then stretches it out to Lan Wangji.

“How--” Lan Wangji starts, then shakes his head. “Wei Ying. It is yours,” he says, not moving to take it.

Wei Ying laughs. “What am I going to do with it? I can’t even use it. Besides, it’ll be safer with you.”

“It was stolen from me,” he reminds him, ears burning with shame.

“True,” he says, but he is smiling. “Be more careful this time? Actually, I’ve got a few things for you to carry for me, if you don’t mind? That is…” he pauses, chewing on his cheek, “if you don’t want to send me back right away. You seem like you’re fine, but maybe I could stay a bit?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says. He reaches out and takes the bell for emphasis. “Wei Ying’s help would be appreciated.

This earns him a beaming smile. The cut in Wei Ying’s cheek stretches further, and he winces. “I’ll help with anything,” he says, “but first, can you help me with this?” he waves a hand to indicate the bleeding wound. 

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. 

“Alright, hang on, I brought something for this.”

Wei Ying walks over to a corner, where there is a pile of robes. He throws them aside, revealing the items from his world he has brought along with him, hidden underneath. He lifts a white box with a handle and a red cross splashed across the front. “First aid kit!” he says triumphantly. “I stole it from Wen Qing, but I’m pretty sure she has, like, a dozen of these. She won’t even miss it. Here,” he walks over to Lan Wangji, takes his hand, and squeezes a bit of thick, oily looking paste from a tube onto the tip of his ring finger. “Put this on the cut? It’ll keep it from getting infected. I’d do it, but without a mirror and the way I’m shaking, I might poke myself in the eye.”

Lan Wangji nods, though he is certain his hands are shaking just as much if not worse than Wei Ying’s. He takes Wei Ying’s jaw in his other hand, as though to still him, tilting his head to turn the cheek towards him. He feels Wei Ying’s throat move as he swallows, and focuses very hard on the task in front of him. He dabs the ointment gently over the wound, the blood of the cut weeping around it. 

“I have some bandaids,” Wei Ying says, “but that might be a bit strange here, yeah? Although, if I keep the mask on …”

Wei Ying holds out a small rectangle to him. Instead of accepting the band-aid, Lan Wangji places his fingers on the pulse in Wei Ying’s temple and feeds a little spiritual energy through. The cut begins to close.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, reaching up and feeling where the skin has knitted together. “I forgot you could do that. I guess maybe I didn’t need to bring the kit after all.”

“You should wear the mask,” Lan Wangji says, pushing a little more spiritual energy through than is strictly necessary. “I came here to find Mo Xuanyu. It would not be strange if I left with him. I do not believe they will see through the disguise.”

“Lan Zhan, are you saying we should lie ?” Wei Ying gasps, hand flying to his chest in a caricature of shock. “My goodness, you’ve changed, gege! Next you’ll be staying up late, talking while eating, running places. Who turned you into such a degenerate, Lan Zhan? I should thank them!”

Lan Wangji’s hand stills on Wei Ying’s face as his insides flame. He pulls his hand back the next moment, as though he has placed it on a hot stone. “Ridiculous,” he says. Wei Ying laughs. 

“Where to?” he says, bouncing on his feet. “I can’t believe I’m actually here! This time you get to show me around, Lan Zhan! I mean. Not that you have to,” he says quickly. “I’m not gonna be a freeloader or anything. I really did come here to help!”

“I would be happy to show Wei Ying anything he wants to see,” Lan Wangji says. 

“Great! Then let’s go! I’m sick of this room, I’ve been stuck in here for hours, and up until about 20 minutes ago the company really sucked.” Wei Ying hooks elbows with Lan Wangji and tries to drag him to the door.

Lan Wangji doesn’t move. 

“Lan Zhan?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, looking away from him as he says, “you are not dressed.”

“Huh?” Wei Ying looks down at himself, at the red robes he has cinched closed, then back at Lan Wangji. “What are you talking about? I thought I was hanging out or something! I’m decent!”

The robes hang loose around him, the opening at the neck sprawling wide down his chest, revealing planes of bare, tan skin. Lan Wangji considers the clothing in Wei Ying’s world and decides that, perhaps, it is best not to approach this conversation from the angle of ‘decency’. “Those are underrobes,” Lan Wangji explains carefully.

“Underrobes,” Wei Ying repeats back flatly. His eyes linger over Lan Wangji’s robes. “Right. Okay. How many layers of robes am I supposed to be wearing?”

The answer is, apparently, too many for Wei Ying.

“Lan Zhan ,” Wei Ying whines, as Lan Wangji helps him into another robe he pulled from the wardrobe in the corner of the room. “I’m going to fall over if you put one more thing on me. Do you actually walk around like this all the time? I’m going to get heatstroke.”

“It is only three layers,” Lan Wangji says, his hands working a tie at Wei Ying’s waist. His fingers feel clumsy. “I wear six.”

“ Six ,” Wei Ying repeats back incredulously. “But, why? Is it just a, you know, you- thing, or is your whole coven like this? Is this some strategy to, like, guard your virtue? Because I don’t think a lover is going to be put off by a measly six layers if they manage to get you in their hands.”  

“Sect,” Lan Wangji says, ignoring the way his skin is tingling at the way the word ‘lover’ sounds on Wei Ying’s lips.

“Huh?” Wei Ying says as he adjusts the robes more comfortably around his shoulders.

“Not coven,” Lan Wangji says. “Sect.”

“Right. I guess I’m gonna have to actually learn that stuff so I don’t stick out too much.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t have a response to that. The idea of Wei Ying blending in is an impossible one. Maybe if he doesn’t speak but … again. An impossible idea. 

“What did you bring with you?” Lan Wangji asks instead as he takes a step back, clenching his fist behind his back. 

“Ah, not much,” Wei Ying says, walking over to the corner where he’s piled his items. “I didn’t really have time to pack anything, since I thought you were … well. I grabbed the first aid kit. Pretty much emptied out my medicine cabinet,” he raises a plastic bag, “and I grabbed the notebooks. Just in case. Oh, and my cellphone. It was in my jeans. Probably not gonna be much use here though. I’m guessing you don’t have 5G?” 

Lan Wangji blinks, and Wei Ying chuckles. He scoops up the items in his arms. “Will this all fit in your bag?”

They stash it in Lan Wangji’s qiankun bag, Wei Ying rolling his eyes as Lan Wangji takes and folds Wei Ying’s clothes neatly before doing so — ‘Really, Lan Zhan, why bother?’

Once everything is packed, Lan Wangji does a search of the room. It goes quickly, and reveals little. The discarded scraps of paper and talismans are nonsense, for the most part. Lan Wangji begins to suspect that maybe Mo Xuanyu was as mad as they said. The only item they find of any interest is a note written in a different hand than the incoherent scrawls. It says only, “Go now.” 

“He was sent for me,” Wei Ying says, looking at the page in Lan Wangji’s hand.

“Perhaps,” Lan Wangji says, although he finds he agrees. It was possible that Mo Xuanyu hadn’t known what the bell was when he stole it. It was possible he had figured out how to use it on his own. It was possible that he had just mentioned Lan Wangji to Wei Ying as an excuse. It was possible.

It was also extremely unlikely. 

“Let’s go,” Lan Wangji says. He wants to talk to Wei Ying. To tell him what has been happening. To hear about how Wei Ying crossed paths with Mo Xuanyu. To know what has happened in the months between them that has thinned Wei Ying so. But not here, where there are unknown eyes and ears.

They cross the courtyard together, Wei Ying masked again and in step at Lan Wangji’s side, slotting into the space as though Lan Wangji has always been an incomplete puzzle and Wei Ying the missing piece. 

Of course, they are not able to leave quietly, whatever Lan Wangji’s wishes. He had not expected that they would, whatever he had hoped.

Mo Furen rushes forward, followed by a cowed man in rich robes, and a younger man at her side with a haughty, petulant expression. “Lan-gongzi!” she calls. “Where are you taking him?”

“Mo-gongzi will join me in Cloud Recesses,” Lan Wangji says stiffly. 

Mo Furen scowls. “Him? He’s already been thrown out of the cultivation world! Hasn’t he embarrassed us enough? My son, Mo Ziyuan, though--” she tugs the young man forward by the arm. 

“That brute?” Wei Ying shoots back. “What’s he going to do, bring his lackeys to hold down the monsters while he punches them?”

The hair on the back of Lan Wangji’s neck rises as he realizes who this man is. “Are you the one who attacked him?” His voice is liquid and deadly, a venomous snake slithering between stones.

Mo Furen’s eyes widen, her arm shooting out protectively over her son’s chest. “Who said I did?” Mo Ziyuan snaps. “He’s crazy! Everyone knows he’s crazy. He only says nonsense!”

“Heh. Crazy, maybe,” Wei Ying laughs, a little madly, “but why’s that make it nonsense? Should I show them what you did to me?”

“He is coming with me,” Lan Wangji says, placing a hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder. “He will not be returning.”

He wonders if this is true. But if Mo Xuanyu -- the real Mo Xuanyu -- returns, then ... thief or not, Lan Wangji will not turn him back over to these people. What will become of him remains to be seen. There are too many questions left to be answered to know. 

“I wouldn’t go with him anyway,” Mo Ziyuan’s voice carries. “What else do you think he could want with a cutsleeve like Mo Xuanyu?” 

Lan Wangji doesn’t react. But next to him, he feels Wei Ying stiffen, feels his eyes dart to him, brushing over his face for a reaction. Lan Wangji doesn’t care about this family, about what they may think of him. 

Wei Ying doesn’t share his opinion. 

“A cutsleeve, you say?” he says, a simper crinkling along the edge of his voice. “Is that why you came into my room earlier? Shameful! You can’t just smack people around without talking about it first. There’s etiquette to this, you know.” 

Lan Wangji closes his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath. There’s a yell, a hiss of air, and he spins, unsheathing his sword and cutting down the stone that is pummeling towards Wei Ying’s head. 

“Disgusting!” Mo Ziyuan screams at him. “How can you--? Saying such vile things! Mother--” 

He looks to her for support. Her eyes are wild as she looks between her son and the cultivator who stands, sword drawn, radiating danger. She makes a decision and grabs her son, bringing her hand down across his face with an echoing slap. “Shut up!” she screeches, voice cracking with panic. “Lan-gongzi, please --”

Lan Wangji doesn’t wait to hear what she has to say. He drops Bichen to hover a few inches above the ground. He steps on and reaches out to Wei Ying, who smiles up at him and takes his hand, stepping into place behind him. He wraps his arms around Lan Wangji’s waist then, with a nearly silent huff of laughter ghosting along Lan Wangji’s neck, drops his hands lower. Through his boiling anger, there’s a lurch behind Lan Wangji’s navel and he nearly stumbles off the sword. “Bye bye!” Wei Ying cries happily. “This cutsleeve is riding off into the sunset! It’s a very happy ending! Roll credits!”

They rise into the air together and leave Mo Village behind. 

--------

They do not go far. Lan Wangji takes them to the town where he had first met Mo Xuanyu, determining that, first and foremost, he needs to feed Wei Ying. He had seen some of the hunger back in Mo Xuanyu’s room -- in the planes of his face, in the slip of his ribs beneath layers of fabric as he tied the robes closed around his narrow waist. In the air, though, with Wei Ying’s body flush against his back, Lan Wangji can feel his frailty in every press of bony wrist and hip and shoulder.

He doesn’t take him to the inn where he had stayed while travelling with Nie Huaisang. Mo Xuanyu was known there, and Lan Wangji wants to try to keep Wei Ying’s identity secret for now. 

Instead, he leads him to a small restaurant on the far edge of town -- far from Mo Village, less likely to be frequented by the higher class. He knows that this makes them more conspicuous -- his robes and ornaments stand out in most places, it is true, and Wei Ying’s mask isn’t helping the matter-- but it feels safer than the alternatives.

As he had suspected, they are subject to some quizzical stares. Heads move together to exchange low whispers around them. But, the food comes quickly and Wei Ying, apparently oblivious to the small stir they are causing, digs in with relish. 

“So, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says around a mouth full of food. Lan Wangji glares at him pointedly, and he swallows, rolling his eyes. “Right, god, I forgot. Look, break a rule with me just this once, yeah? I’m too curious to wait until the meal’s over, because I’m gonna be eating a lot .”

Lan Wangji bites his tongue to keep himself from telling Wei Ying just how little the rules actually mean to him when Wei Ying is there, when Wei Ying is the one who is breaking them.

What rules wouldn’t Lan Wangji break for Wei Ying?

“Anyway, as I was saying. What exactly is going on here? You mentioned you could use my help? What with?”

Lan Wangji pauses. He had said that. Although, truthfully, he had been admitting to something very different, to needing Wei Ying in a very different way. But, Wei Ying is smart. Brilliant, actually. And he has an understanding of disease that at least matched any doctor Lan Wangji had ever met, and an ability to see patterns where others saw only chaos. Perhaps it is because Wei Ying is a force of chaos himself.

“There is an illness,” Lan Wangji says. “I would appreciate Wei Ying’s help in understanding it.”

Wei Ying swallows a mouth of rice hastily to ask, “Are you sick? What kind of illness? Lan Zhan, if you don’t feel well--”

“I am fine,” Lan Wangji says. Seeing the skeptical concern persist on Wei Ying’s face, he clarifies. “I am not sick. It is an illness that depletes the qi. We would not have been able to fly here, were I ill.”

“Depletes the qi? What does that look like? What are the symptoms?”

“Weakness. Loss of consciousness. Near the end, qi accumulates in the lungs as blood. The progress of the illness depends on the state of the patient’s qi ahead of time.”

“Stronger qi, last longer?”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji agrees. Although. “That is what I had believed.”

Wei Ying puts down the bowl of rice he has been shovelling into his mouth to take a deep swig of wine. “Had believed? What changed?”

Lan Wangji frowns. “I have just come from Qinghe. The sect leader there, Nie Mingjue, succumbed to the disease quickly.”

“I take it that was unexpected?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Well, there can be complications or comorbidities with any illness. Hard to say without knowing more. Have you been able to do any contact tracing? I mean, have you been able to find connections between the sick? Times they were in the same room, or anyone who could have carried the sickness between them?”

“Some,” Lan Wangji says, “but not all.”

“Ah. Well, it can be tricky. First step would be to talk to people, figure out who they’ve been in contact with a couple of weeks prior to getting sick. Although, if they’re unconscious …”

“We can speak to those around them,” Lan Wangji suggests. Wei Ying nods. 

“It’s a start. What do you know so far?”

Lan Wangji fills him in, tells him about Jin Guangshan and Jin Rusong, about the Chang Clan, about visiting the Unclean Realm and Nie Mingjue’s death, and, finally, about his father and uncle, sick back at Cloud Recesses. Wei Ying reaches out and grasps his arm consolingly at the last part. Lan Wangji regrets when Wei Ying removes his hand to bring a finger to his lips, tapping them thoughtfully. 

“It’s taken out an entire village, but then somehow only infected a couple individuals other places -- and a disproportionate number of them powerful, influential cultivators? That’s sus as fuck, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji understands the sentiment, even if he’s a bit lost at the expression. He nods. “I suspect there is more at work here than a normal illness.”

“Same. Nonetheless, if we’re going to go snooping at sickbeds, I’m gonna have to insist on some basic protective gear. I’m not letting you get sick. Not on my watch.”

Lan Wangji listens attentively as Wei Ying begins to explain about personal protective equipment, viral vs. bacterial infections, droplet contagions, airborne disease, and more. But even as he listens, collecting Wei Ying’s words like treasure, he watches the knobs of his wrists and the tense way he pulls his bowl towards himself when the server comes around to remove the empty dishes. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says as Wei Ying pauses to drink, “how are you?”

“You mean aside from the whole transported into another world and being locked in a room for hours things? Well, I’ve got food, wine, and great company. I’d say I’m pretty good, Lan Zhan.” He smiles at him, and Lan Wangji would very much like to reach over and remove the mask and see what is behind it. 

“You are hungry,” he says simply instead, the question implicit.

“Time travel is hungry business,” Wei Ying waves his chopsticks dismissively.

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying sighs and drops his hand heavily to the table. “I’m fine, Lan Zhan. Drop it, okay?”

He doesn’t want to let it go. He wants to pull the truth out of him, yank it out by the roots so whatever has made Wei Ying so thin, whatever has filed him to points, will not be able to grow in him again. But there’s a sharpness to Wei Ying’s voice, and Lan Wangji chooses not to test the edge.

“Tell me about how you ended up here,” he says instead.

“Now that’s actually interesting,” Wei Ying says, sitting forward, his elbows on the table, hands cradling his chin. “I was at the cafe when I got a text from Mianmian that there was someone on campus running around babbling in Chinese and yelling my name. Which, you know. Got me interested. Security picked him up, and Mianmian thought he might be a relative or something, so she let me know. I got Dapeng to cover for me and went to go check it out. 

“You can imagine what it was like when I got there, and here’s this guy with a beat up face wearing robes and a top knot, you know? Security was happy to dump him on me -- they had no idea what he was saying -- and so I took him back to the apartment to question him, figure out what the fuck was going on. Not inside , obviously. Like, I have some common sense--”

Lan Wangji does not point out that Wei Ying had fallen asleep with him in the room the very first night they had met, with very little reassurance that Lan Wangji was not dangerous. 

“He told me his name was Mo Xuanyu and that he was a friend of yours. That you needed my help. So, you know the rest? I just booked it. Grabbed a few things, thinking he was gonna go back with me. But … that didn’t happen, obviously. One moment he was holding the bell standing next to me. Next moment he shoved it into my hand and jumped away. And then, I was here. Well, not here . You know what I mean. I was in that room. Locked in, and --”

He stops, his mouth still open. “Oh my god. Lan Zhan, I just realized. That means he’s still back in my world! Do you think he’s okay?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t have an answer, so he says nothing. 

“This is a mess,” Wei Ying says, dropping his head to the table. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji starts, then stops. He doesn’t want to say the next part, but … but it would be selfish not to. “Do you want to go back? I can --”

“No!” Wei Ying sits up so quickly he nearly tips out of his chair. “No -- ah, that is. I said I’d help you, right?”

There’s something that Wei Ying isn’t telling him. It makes something in Lan Wangji feel small and shrivelled. “How are Wen Ning and Wen Yuan?” he asks, hoping this isn’t the cause of Wei Ying’s reluctance.

From the happy warmth the beams out of Wei Ying, he needn’t have worried. “Good,” he says. “ Really good, actually. Wen Ning started the trial! It’s been going so well, Lan Zhan! I haven’t seen him doing this well since … well, since you played for him. It’s all worth it.”

Lan Wangji wants to ask what it’s worth, but Wei Ying has started to launch into details about Wen Yuan’s first days of kindergarten, and he gets lost in the stories. “Lan Zhan, I wish I could show you. He keeps drawing what he says are rainbows with clouds, but I swear to god, Lan Zhan. He’s gotta be a troll, because when Wen Qing showed me, we almost died. They look exactly like penises. Every time, I am not kidding. And his poor art teacher had to hang them on the walls at the school.”

Lan Wangji, who is familiar with children’s artistic endeavours from his pupils at Cloud Recesses, can imagine. He doesn’t laugh -- it is unseemly for a Lan to laugh at that -- but something must break through, because Wei Ying looks up from where he’s hidden his own laughter in his arm to look at Lan Wangji and absolutely dissolves into giggles. 

“Sorry,” he says after he catches his breath, dabbing his eyes on his sleeve. “I know, I know. But I’m not an adult and never will be, okay? Also, I’m just a little punch-drunk. I’m really tired.”

“We should rest,” Lan Wangji agrees. “It is late.”

Wei Ying snorts. “Sure, it’s probably, what, 8pm? Definitely bed time!”

In truth, it is well past when Lan Wangji usually turns in, the sun having set long ago. The adrenaline of the day, the thrill of seeing Wei Ying, has kept Lan Wangji alert. But now that the adrenaline is burning off, he can see the same weariness he feels reflected in the heavy droop of Wei Ying’s limbs. He pays quickly and inquires about where he can rent rooms for the evening. 

“Now?” the proprietor asks. “Good luck. I doubt there’s a free bed in the town tonight. Everybody’s traveling through, heading to the Unclean Realm to pay respects.”

Lan Wangji frowns. He should have realized and secured a room earlier, but he’d been so caught up with everything that it hadn’t occurred to him. “You might have some luck next door,” the proprietor says. “They might have a bed, but I’m not sure it will be -- ah -- comfortable lodging for one such as yourself.”

“Thank you,” Lan Wangji says, thinking to himself that, so long as there is somewhere to sleep, anything will do.

--------

“Lan Zhan. Did you bring me to a brothel? Gege, how dirty!”

Wei Ying’s tone is teasing, but Lan Wangji can see where his neck and ears have gone red, his smile more startled than amused. Lan Wangji says nothing, not certain what he could possibly say that would make this any less uncomfortable.

“Do you want the room or not?” asks the woman at the door, looking him and Wei Ying over with sharp, calculating eyes. “You’re not gonna find anywhere else tonight, that I can promise you. Safer here than roughing it outside, with so many travellers around.”

She’s right, and Lan Wangji knows it. Not that he doubts his ability to defend himself, but Wei Ying deserves a proper bed, not a night on the hard ground. “We will take the rooms,” Lan Wangji says. “Just the rooms,” he adds, just in case there is a question.

The woman rolls her eyes. “Obviously,” she says, looking pointedly at his ribbon. “But not ‘rooms’. Room. I’ve only got the one.”

Lan Wangji tries very hard to keep his face still when Wei Ying begins to giggle next to him. “That is fine,” he says. ‘Lies are forbidden’ chastises a voice in his head, which he ignores. After all, it isn’t really a lie, depending which part of Lan Wangji you’re asking.

The room they’re led to is small, just large enough to fit a bed and a bath. There’s a thick fog of incense, something floral beneath which is the lingering tang of sweat. “Should I bring water for a bath?” asks the maid as she stands in the door while they look over the room.

Lan Wangji nods, and she scurries off to begin the task of hauling pails of hot water in to fill the tub. 

Once the bath is full, Lan Wangji pulls the door closed. There’s no privacy screen, which he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised by. He looks over at Wei Ying, who is standing awkwardly in a corner, clearly unsure what to do with himself. “Ah, after you, Lan Zhan. I’m probably too tired for a bath anyway.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says sternly. “You need to bathe.”

It’s like he’s scolding one of the young disciples. He hates the way it sounds, and the way Wei Ying bristles. He tries again. “You are dirty from where they kicked you,” he says, his throat tensing. “You should bathe.”

Wei Ying looks like he wants to say something to that. His face goes hard, his mouth turned down in a vexed line. But instead of protesting, he sighs and the tension leaks out of him. “Fine. You’re right, of course. Fine. Can you, just … turn around? Or something? While I get undressed?”

Lan Wangji does. He can do this. He can keep himself from looking.

But he can’t keep himself from hearing. Wei Ying’s quiet steps to the bath. The slip and fall of fabric. The crisp splash of water followed by a soft gasp at the heat. The contented sigh that escapes him as he is fully submerged. 

“Alright,” Wei Ying says. “I’m -- well, not decent , but, you know. In the water, at least. I guess we’ll have to get comfortable with each other if we’re going to be travelling together. You can stop staring at the wall, I trust you.”

Lan Wangji tries to breathe around the feeling of want filling him up, to be worthy of that trust. He turns.

Wei Ying is in the tub, submerged up to his rib cage, arms spread out along the back, hair falling over the edge. His ribs are prominent, his shoulders wing-tipped. But Lan Wangji’s eyes slide over these details, drawn instead to the bright red, raised skin over Wei Ying’s heart. 

“Ah, Lan Zhan. You were right. I needed this bath even more than I needed bed,” Wei Ying says, luxuriant, eyes closed as he soaks in the hot water. “I never get to take baths back home. It’s always just showers -- in and out, got stuff to do, you know? This is nice.”

Lan Wangji hums just to show he is listening. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. The mark on Wei Ying -- it looks like it has been burnt into him. Like a brand. He wants to ask. He wants to know how it happened, who did it, who hurt him. But Wei Ying has made it clear he does not want to talk about himself, about what has been happening. So Lan Wangji pushes it down. Later, maybe. Maybe Wei Ying will let him ask. 

Wei Ying takes him time in the bath, until the water has gone cold and he begins to doze off. “Bed,” Lan Wangji says. 

“I can sleep here,” Wei Ying mumbles. “Comfy. You take the bed, Lan Zhan.”

“Wei Ying will get sick,” Lan Wangji scolds. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying ratchets his voice up into a whine. “I’m fine! Let me marinate in my bath water.”

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying huffs, opening his eyes at last and sitting up. “ Fine . But I’m coming under duress . I hope you can handle the guilt.”

“I will manage,” Lan Wangji says, turning his back to afford him some privacy as he exits the tub. 

Once Wei Ying is dressed, the lights out except for a single candle, a hush falls between them, soft as feathers. They both stand, looking at the bed, neither moving. “Ah, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says at last, breaking the silence, “this is stupid. We’ve shared a bed before. Unless you’re uncomfortable! If you’re uncomfortable, I can make a nest on the floor. Just let me have a pillow and a blanket, and I’ll --”

“No,” Lan Wangji says firmly. “We will share.”

There’s a fire burning low and dangerous in his belly, but Lan Wangji is not a man to be bested by his urges. Wei Ying will not sleep on the floor because Lan Wangji cannot control himself.

Wei Ying makes a shaky sound that Lan Wangji can’t quite parse in the dark. “Sure,” he says, “we’ll share.” 

It’s a large bed, done up in ostentatious silks. Lan Wangji wonders at it, at how a small brothel on the outskirts of Lanling can afford such finery. He slips beneath the sheets, as Wei Ying does the same beside him. He wants to live in this feeling, the jittery, happy heat beneath his skin as he feels the bed sag with Wei Ying’s weight. He reaches over and blows out the candle, letting darkness fold around them with gentling hands. “Night, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, a quiet whisper into the night. 

Lan Wangji plucks the words from the air and presses them to his heart. “Goodnight, Wei Ying.”

--------

“No! No, stop! Stop!” 

Lan Wangji wakes in a panic to the flailing, screaming man beside him.

“Wei Ying!” 

The room is dark. He reaches out to him blindly, hands grabbing at his thrashing bedmate. “Wei Ying!” 

Wei Ying screams again, his voice shrill with agony. “No! Stop, stop!”

Lan Wangji, with only a breath of hesitation, pulls Wei Ying to him, enveloping him in his arms. “Wei Ying. Wake up. You are dreaming,” he says, trying to soothe as his voice cracks. With one hand, he reaches over to the table and lights the candle with a flick of spiritual energy. A low, tender light laps over the room, confirming that it is only them: Lan Wangji holding a shivering, gasping Wei Ying in his arms. 

“L-lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks as the dream dissolves back into the recesses of his unconscious mind. Then, “Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” He pushes his palms into Lan Wangji’s chest to shove him away. Lan Wangji holds him tighter. 

“Wei Ying,” he says. “Stay.”

“But, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whimpers. “Fuck, this is so embarassing. I can’t believe I woke you because of a nightmare. I’m the worst!” He lets his head fall forward into Lan Wangji’s chest before he realizes, then jerks up, renewing his efforts to pull away. “I should’ve slept on the floor! You should’ve just let me sleep on the floor. God, I’m so sorry.”

“Wei Ying. It is fine,” Lan Wangji says warmly, daring to run a hand along the column of his spine, the way his mother used to whenever Lan Wangji had been overwhelmed with emotions too big for his skin.

Wei Ying shudders under the touch, some of the tension easing from his body. “It’s not fine,” Wei Ying mutters into Lan Wangji’s collarbone, contrarily. “You’re just too nice to me, gege.”

The feeling that Lan Wangji has in that moment, crushing a shivering Wei Ying to his chest, isn’t one he would describe as nice. Lan Wangji feels dangerous, something animal and wild straining against the surface of him, threatening to burst out with claws and teeth and taking.

But Wei Ying deserves nice. Whatever has happened to Wei Ying in these months apart, whatever has brought him to Lan Wangji screaming and fighting in his sleep, Lan Wangji will tend to with warmth, not all-consuming flame. 

He lays back on the bed, bringing Wei Ying with him, curled against his side, his face pillowed against Lan Wangji’s neck. “Lan Zhan--” Wei Ying tries to protest.

“Sleep,” Lan Wangji says. “You are safe. I have you.”

--------

The morning comes with gentle rain, a soft drumroll against the shutters. Lan Wangji allows himself to linger in the bed, Wei Ying wrapped around him as morning light crescendos into day.

They need to get moving. A servant has come knocking at the door twice already, only for Lan Wangji to quietly shoo them away, unwilling to wake Wei Ying, to disturb the steady rise and fall of his chest at Lan Wangji’s side. 

It is nearly midday when Wei Ying stirs at last, nuzzling into the warmth of Lan Wangji’s neck with a happy sigh. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes into him. Lan Wangji’s breath catches.

“Wei Ying.”

“Ah!” Wei Ying yelps, jumping away from him as though he has been shocked. He tangles in the blankets and falls backwards on the bed. 

“Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji asks, brows knit in concern.

“Hey! That’s my name! Don’t wear it out!” Wei Ying laughs, a little unhinged. Lan Wangji’s frown deepens. “I’m, um. Sorry if I drooled on you.”

He fights to free himself from the bedding, eventually managing it with Lan Wangji’s assistance. “Heh, thanks!” he says. “Wow, it’s late isn’t it? Lan Zhan, have you been in bed this whole time? Because of me? Why didn’t you wake me? You must’ve been so uncomfortable!”

“I was not uncomfortable,” Lan Wangji says.

“Well, inconvenienced, at least! You shouldn’t let me cramp your style like that!”

“Wei Ying is not an inconvenience,” Lan Wangji says, pressing as much earnestness into it as he can. Wanting Wei Ying to understand this, that Lan Wangji will give him anything, everything, gladly.

Wei Ying shakes his head. “There are so many people who would be happy to prove you wrong on that one, Lan Zhan. Next time I’m in the way, or encroaching, or … I don’t know. Being too clingy or needy, promise me you’ll say something, okay?”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. An easy promise, as Wei Ying will never take too much. 

“Alright. I’m taking that as a yes,” Wei Ying says. He stands from the bed, walking over to where his robes lay folded in a neat pile by Lan Wangji. “Thanks,” he says, back to Lan Wangji. “For helping me sleep.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says again, so that he doesn’t tell Wei Ying that he would hold him every night if Wei Ying let him.

He rises and joins Wei Ying in getting dressed for the day.

--------

They hit the road in the early afternoon, the sun just beginning to lower itself into the western half of the sky. Wei Ying sits atop a donkey. Lan Wangji had excused himself over lunch and returned twenty minutes later with the animal waiting outside, and met Wei Ying’s protest with stubborn, stony insistence.

Over their meal, they had decided to travel to Cloud Recesses by foot. Lan Wangji had said it would be better to take their time, talking to people as they went, stopping in villages along the way to trace any rumor of illness. Wei Ying had agreed, although he admitted that he was sad to miss out on flying some more. 

“I will take Wei Ying flying whenever he wishes” Lan Wangji had said, a feeling of smug satisfaction as Wei Ying groaned and said something about needing to be warned before Lan Wangji says nice things.

The road is soft with the morning’s rain, though it is slowly baking back to hardness in the hot sun, the air steamy and thick. 

Lan Wangji walks slightly behind Wei Ying, watching the small hairs on his neck curling in the humidity. 

“Do you want to ride for a while, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks. “It’s so hot, you’ve got to be getting tired. I’m dying.”

“I am fine,” Lan Wangji says. He isn’t tired, and though he finds the heat unpleasant, his robes are light enough even in his layers that he isn’t too bothered. Wei Ying looks at him over his shoulder and scowls.

“Ugh! Who gave you the right to look so put together after walking for hours in this weather? This is an outrage. I demand a recount.”

“A recount of what?”

“Fairness! Good fortune! Handsomeness votes! You’re clearly cheating, Lan Zhan. It’s not allowed.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. Wei Ying’s face is shiny and flushed, strands of damp hair clinging to his forehead where they have sprung loose from where he has pushed his hair back with the mask now resting on his head. A drop of sweat breaks loose from Wei Ying’s temple and slides down his neck, and Lan Wangji bites his cheek against the urge to lick it. “Wei Ying cheats as well, then,” he says, turning his eyes back to the road as his ears burn.

“Lan Zhan! ” Wei Ying groans, falling forward on the donkey to bury his face in its coarse mane.

The road to Cloud Recesses is well-travelled, and they meet many others along the way. Wei Ying, even masked and strange as he is, makes easy friends with the people they encounter. He has an ease of talking that Lan Wangji could never hope to master. Strangers open up to this strange masked man with the unfamiliar accent and manner of speaking, happily telling him about their families, their homes and their travels. Along the way, they glean what little information there is to be had about the disease. Most have heard of it, in the distant way that gossip travels from the cultivation sects into the wider world. Few are concerned about it, however. The devastation of Chang Village seems more a topic for rumor and speculation than one of worry. 

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” says one traveler. “Cultivators aren’t supposed to get sick, but it’s them that’s taking the worst of it, yeah?” he eyes Lan Wangji, as though expecting him to keel over. “It’s horrible, what happened at Baixue Temple.”

“Baixue Temple?” Wei Ying asks, eyes flicking over to Lan Wangji.

“Haven’t heard about that one yet? Not surprised, I only know because my sister’s husband’s brother was bringing a delivery up that way. This might’ve been, five days ago? And the whole place was dead quiet.”

“And it was the qi disease? How did he know?”

“He seemed sure of it,” the traveler says with a shrug. “But you could ask him, if you’d like. He’s a silk merchant in Caiyi -- Peng Xu.”

Wei Ying thanks him for the information and turns to Lan Wangji after they’ve parted ways with the traveler. “What do you think?” he asks.

Lan Wangji considers. “We should speak with Peng Xu.”

Wei Ying nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. He fidgets on the donkey’s back before sliding off, moving to walk in step at Lan Wangji’s side. “The more we hear about it, the more I’m certain there’s something strange happening. If the disease is contagious and deadly enough to take out whole villages and temples, then why didn’t it spread through the Unclean Realm, and Carp Tower? Or Cloud Recesses?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t have an answer, but he feels justified in hearing Wei Ying voice his own suspicions back to him. “Caiyi is the city outside of Cloud Recesses,” he says to Wei Ying. “We will make the necessary inquiries there before returning.”

--------

They do not rush their journey. Lan Wangji, who has always found travel to be a necessity that offered neither enjoyment nor hardship, finds that the experience is entirely different with Wei Ying for company. 

On the road, Wei Ying delights in pointing out things he sees that provide some spark of joy or interest. Nothing is too small to note, if Wei Ying finds it beautiful: a cluster of purple flowers, the flitting blue wings of a bird through the trees, a yellow butterfly that lands briefly on Lan Wangji’s hair.

Wei Ying reaches out to it, and it flutters away, dancing a circle around his head. Wei Ying laughs, then turns a soft look on Lan Wangji. “It’s crazy, you know? This is all like a dream I have sometimes.”

Lan Wangji considers this. Wei Ying seems plagued by bad dreams. There hasn’t been a repeat of the screaming nightmare from their first night at the inn, but the soft whimpers and tossing betray the landscape of Wei Ying’s sleeping mind. Each night, beneath the stars, Lan Wangji holds Wei Ying through whatever haunts him in his sleep until it passes, wishing he could squeeze him tight enough that the fear will have no place to take hold. 

“What dreams?” Lan Wangji asks. 

“A good dream,” Wei Ying says, his voice wistful. “I’m a baby riding on a man’s shoulders -- he’s dressed in white, just like you -- and there’s a woman riding on a donkey beside us. My mom, actually.”

Lan Wangji chances a look over at Wei Ying, and finds he is already looking at Lan Wangji. Their eyes lock together for a moment, until Wei Ying looks away. “Anyway. It just reminds me of this. It’s nice, travelling like they must have done. Maybe even over the same roads. Makes me feel connected to them, you know?”

Lan Wangji does know. He thinks of the gentian house, the pull he feels to it, to be where his mother was. 

When they arrive in Caiyi at last, it is with a feeling of reluctance and disappointment. Lan Wangji wishes to draw out their journey, finding that, as much as he wants to bring Wei Ying to Cloud Recesses, to unite the two things he loves, he mourns the end of their travels. The nearer to home they are, the sooner Wei Ying will leave.

They enter Caiyi and ask after the whereabouts of the silk merchant Peng Xu. There’s a startled edge to the people they speak to. They look at Lan Wangji with wide eyes and answer him in somber voices. It unsettles him. Lan Wangji is used to the quiet, high esteem with which the people of Caiyi treat him, but this feels different -- ominous, a secret waiting to be spoken.

Peng Xu’s shop is in the center of town. It is open and bright, the river breeze blowing through the hung silks. In the window, several sets of pure white Lan robes hang drying in the sun, elaborately painted clouds swirling over the cuffs and hem. A boy of about eleven sweeps the dust from their shoes out the front door behind them when they enter.

“Hanguang-jun!” a plump man with a serious face rushes forward. “Welcome. Are you here for the robes? I was going to send them later today, they’re still drying. I’m sorry for the delay, it was such a sudden order ...”

“I am not here for the robes,” Lan Wangji says, wondering what cause there is for anyone in Cloud Recesses to need robes made so hastily. “Are you Peng Xu?”

“Yes, that’s me. What can this humble one do for you, Hanguang-jun?”

Next to him, Lan Wangji hears Wei Ying quietly repeat, “Hanguang-jun,” under his breath with laughing wonder.

“You recently travelled to Baixue Temple?” Lan Wangji asks. 

Peng Xu blinks in surprise, the question clearly unexpected. “I did,” he says. “I returned a few days ago. Would you like some tea? I can close up for a bit, and my wife can bring some.”

They accept, and follow Peng Xu through to a backroom, where a woman sits bent over a stretch of silk, paintbrush in hand. 

“A-Dan, we have visitors,” he says stiffly. “This is my wife, Bai Meidan.”

The woman looks up and, upon seeing Lan Wangji, drops her brush. “Oh!” she says, looking down at the splotch appearing in the silk. She looks between the ruined silk and the visitors one more time, before standing and bowing. 

"Bai-guniang," Lan Wangji greets her, returning the bow. 

"Nice to meet you. Mo Xuanyu," Wei Ying says, bowing deeply, causing the woman to blush.

"A-Dan, can you bring some tea?" Peng Xu asks.

"Of course!" she says, and hurtling from the room.

Peng Xu leads them to a table. They wait in silence as Bai Meidan makes the tea, Wei Ying fidgeting as he sits, head swivelling to take in the room, though there is little to see.

“Do you paint everything yourself?” he asks Bai Meidan as he accepts his tea. “Your work is beautiful.”

The woman flushes, looking to her husband, then Lan Wangji, before replying. “Yes, thank you. You are very kind, young master.”

Wei Ying laughs. “Please, call me W-- call me Mo Xuanyu. No need to be so formal, I’m no one special.”

Bai Meidan nods dubiously and takes a seat next to her husband at the table.

“You wanted to know about Baixue Temple?” Peng Xu asks, hands resting on his tea.

“Yes,” Wei Ying pipes up. “We met your sister-in-law’s brother on the road. He told us some of what you had seen.”

“I returned from Baixue Temple a few days ago,” Peng Xu says. “I was delivering an order personally. I do that, sometimes, just to move around. I used to travel from city to city, before I married Bai Meidan and we settled down here in Caiyi. 

“I travel to Baixue Temple once a year. When I arrived this time, though, it was quiet. It seemed almost to be empty. I sat outside for a long time before somebody finally came. They seemed scared. When they brought me inside it was --”

He pauses, and his wife reaches over and takes his hand, pressing it reassuringly. “Everybody was dead. Or dying. I’ve never seen anything like it. I left at once, to alert the nearby town, and send for a doctor. I don’t know what happened after that. I returned home at once.”

“The person who let you in,” Wei Ying says after a moment of silence, “what did they look like?”

“A boy,” Peng Xu says. “I recognized him, he’s lived at the temple for years. His parents brought him there, due to his condition. He can’t hear or speak,” he says, seeing the questioning look on Wei Ying’s face. 

“Do you know how long they had been sick? When the illness struck?”

Peng Xu and his wife exchange a look. “I don’t know,” he says carefully. “But a-Lin might.”

“A-Lin?”

“The boy,” he explains. “I … well. I couldn’t leave him there, after everything. There was no one to take care of him. I left word with townsfolk near Baixue Temple, in case anyone comes looking for him, but no one knew where his family is.”

Lan Wangji feels a swell of warmth for the couple seated before him, for Wei Ying who’s expression has turned a little damp beside him. “May we speak with a-Lin?” Lan Wangji asks.

“I’ll get him,” Bai Meidan says. She rises and returns a moment later with the boy from the front of the shop. 

Lan Wangji looks him over as he sits at the table, scared and confused at being invited to tea with strangers. The boy is well cared for -- his clothes clean, his cheeks still holding remnants of baby fat, his hair brushed and braided back with care. Bai Meidan sits beside him and places a kind hand on his back. 

“He doesn’t speak, but he can read and write,” Peng Xu says. “They taught him at the temple. He’s not simple,” he adds, a little sharply, as though Lan Wangji and Wei Ying had implied otherwise. 

Lan Wangji nods, and takes a brush, ink and paper from his qiankun bag. He places them on the table and, hesitating for just a moment, hands the brush to Wei Ying. “Oh,” Wei Ying says, taking it from him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says. “It may be intimidating to be questioned by me.”

Wei Ying laughs, nudging Lan Wangji with his elbow. “Ah, Lan Zhan, you’re not scary!” Lan Wangji raises an eyebrow at him skeptically. Wei Ying laughs again. “Okay, maybe a little,” he agrees.

Lan Wangji watches as Wei Ying draws out their questions for the boy in his untidy writing, the page quickly becoming a mess of ink drops as he gesticulates to a-Lin, communicating through movement as much as the words on the page.

He hands the brush to a-Lin, who takes it and, ignoring the questions of the page before him, writes, Are you going to take me away? I don’t want to go.

He looks sharply at Wei Ying, accusatory and defiant. Bai Meidan’s hand stills on the a-Lin’s back as she turns her head to the side, not looking at them. 

Wei Ying shakes his head. “No. We’re not going to take you away,” he says, to Bai Meidan as much as to a-Lin. No , he writes on the page.

After that, things go smoothly. A-Lin, confronted with this masked stranger filled with movement and bold joy so rare in Gusu, begins to open before them, as Lan Wangji knew he would. There was no avoiding it, anymore than a tree can refuse to bud and blossom in the sun. When Wei Ying passes the brush to a-Lin at last, the boy is bouncing slightly where he sits on his heels, eager to help, his face serious as he writes.

They got sick two week ago.

Everybody got sick at the same time. 

Wei Ying takes the brush back from him, writing another question. Did anyone visit before everyone got sick?

He passes the brush back to a-Lin. The boy looks at the question then up at Bai Meidan with a worried expression. She reaches up and smoothes his hair down gently. “Tell them, a-Lin,” she says, taking his hand in hers and bringing it to the paper. 

There was a man. On the roof. I saw him. He gave me candy. 

Wei Ying looks at Lan Wangji, before writing the next question. What was the man doing?

He tries to hand the brush back to a-Lin, but he shakes his head. “Okay, a-Lin,” Wei Ying says. The boy isn’t looking at him, his eyes filling with tears. Wei Ying reaches out and paints a smiling face on the paper where the boy is looking, followed by, Thank you . 

A-Lin looks up, his lip quivering, and nods, before burying his face in Bai Meidan’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Lan Wangji says, rising to his feet. 

Peng Xu stands with him and walks him to the front, bowing as they leave. “Of course, Hanguang-jun. Please, anyway we can help. I know this is a difficult time. Our deepest condolences.”

Lan Wangji, who has reached out a hand to Wei Ying and is helping him to his feet, pauses. He turns slowly to Peng Xu. Has word of his father and uncle’s illness spread? Have the disciples been gossiping?

Something white flickers in the corners of his eye. The robes. The white Lan robes hanging to dry in the window. 

Understanding trickles in, cold and unpleasant.

The hastily placed order for white robes.

The somber voices following them through Caiyi. 

The startled eyes, surprised to see him.

“Your condolences?” he asks. 

Peng Xu rises from his bow. “Qingheng-Jun’s passing is greatly mourned. We pray for the recovery of the Cloud Recesses disciples.”

Lan Wangji is turned to stone -- his heart stops, his blood frozen in his veins. Only the churning light of his core remains. 

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying’s hand closes around his, and lightning crackles through him. Time unsticks, his heart beats, his blood pulses.

Lan Wangji bows to the family, and exits the shop. He unsheaths Bichen and steps on, pulling Wei Ying up beside him in a single movement, and the next moment they are in the air, Cloud Recesses rushing towards them, Wei Ying’s fingers between his, roots twining him into the earth against the buffeting roar of wind. 

Chapter Text

They arrive in Cloud Recesses to an empty courtyard. He heads for the hanshi first thinking that, perhaps, his brother is there to tell him this is all a misunderstanding, a rumor that has spun out of control. 

Before they’ve gone far, however, a woman in white robes rushes up to them, wearing the forehead ribbon of an outer disciple. “Hanguang-jun!” she says, too loudly for the silence. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

“What has happened?” Lan Wangji asks.

“Zewu-jun is still in the Unclean Realm,” she says, sparing a glance at Wei Ying, but addressing only Lan Wangji. “We have sent word. Lan-zongzhu passed two days ago.”

Lan Wangji merely nods, feeling ugly and unfilial when he realizes that, beneath the shock, there is little grief to be found. It is not that he didn’t love his father. But Lan Wangji’s heart has already mourned his loss many years ago. 

“I heard the illness has spread to the disciples,” he says. 

“Yes, Hanguang-jun. A dozen senior disciples fell ill three days ago, after Zewu-jun left.”

“Take me to them.”

She nods, and begins to lead them towards one of the larger buildings, where inter-sect conferences are held. 

The disciples are laid out in rows, white-robed doctors moving amongst them, pressing bowls of water to unresisting mouths, feeding spiritual energy with concerned frowns. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, grabbing his wrist before he enters. He turns and watches as Wei Ying unspools a tie around his waist. “Come here.”

Lan Wangji obeys automatically, and Wei Ying reaches up and loops the tie around his face, covering his mouth and nose. “Not the best,” Wei Ying says apologetically. “And maybe unnecessary. But promise me you’ll wear it for now, okay?”

Wei Ying sounds so strained and earnest, so at odds with his usual laughing, carefree manner, that Lan Wangji can do nothing but agree. “Of course,” he says, ignoring the confused look of the female disciple as she watches them.

Lan Wangji moves amongst the sick. A few are awake still, but hazy and addled, despite the lack of fever. He attempts to question them, but doesn’t get far. One of the youngest, a young man Lan Wangji recognizes from his sparring sessions, only recently graduated from being a junior disciple, moves his lips silently. Lan Wangji bends close. “Song,” he exhales. “Song.”

“We’ve tried playing for them,” the doctor standing at his side says. “But it doesn’t seem to help. Of course, none of us are as skilled as Hanguan-jun or Zewu-jun.”

“I will play,” he agrees, directing his wordsto the young man on the bed before him. Then, turning to the doctor, “How is my uncle?" 

“He is being tended to in his rooms,” the doctor says. “I saw to him earlier. His condition is largely unchanged, which is a miracle, considering…”

He trails off. Lan Wangji rises, thanking the doctor for his work, and walks back out to Wei Ying. He unties the black sash from around his mouth and hands it back to Wei Ying, who is holding his robes closed with his hands. 

“Come,” he says, unable to summon any other words, his tongue heavy with fear and grief. 

Outside his uncle’s rooms, Lan Wangji closes his eyes at the sharp edge of memory that slices into him. The fear, the unknowing, the waiting for a loved one to emerge from the doors, and knowing they won’t.

He opens his qiankun bag and pulls out a pair of silk handkerchiefs. He hands one over to Wei Ying, who smiles a little as he accepts, although his eyes remain sad and worried. “I guess I didn’t actually have to nearly disrobe in the middle of the courtyard after all, huh? Well, it’s for the best. Scandalize them early, I always say. Gotta set the expectations straight off.”

Lan Wangji ties his own handkerchief on first, then moves to help Wei Ying, who is struggling with his mask. “You may remove this here,” Lan Wangji says, unknotting the ribbon and sliding the silver mask from Wei Ying’s face. “You will not be recognized.”

“That’s a relief,” Wei Ying said. “I hate to complain, but it was getting stuffy in there.”

Handkerchiefs secured, they enter Lan Qiren's rooms. Wei Ying goes soft and silent beside him. 

The room is sparse even in normal times. Still, there should be scrolls laid out on the table, plans for future lessons, disciples' essays and reports. But Lan Qiren has not taught in months, and the space feels emptied and lonely, as though it is long abandoned. 

Lan Wangji walks over to his uncle’s bed. The man is breathing evenly, his face placid, as though he is merely sleeping and may wake to scold Lan Wangji for idleness at any moment.

Lan Wangji summons WangJi to his hands and begins to play. 

The Song of Restoration is well known to his hands by now. How many nights has he played it at his uncle and father’s sickbeds? Every night, fingers rough from playing the same chords over and over, hoping that something new will happen. This song, the first song Lan Wangji ever learned to imbue with spiritual energy under his brother’s secret tutelage. Back when they’d been children, naive and grasping for agency in a world that spun forward inexorably toward tragedy and loss around them, unheeding of the plea of their hands over strings. The notes tremble with melancholy as he plays, filled with impotent energy.

Still. What is there to do but to play and to hope?

“We’ll figure it out, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, quiet and nearly singing in harmony withLan Wangji’s playing. “We will.”

--------

Lan Wangji takes Wei Ying to the jingshi before he goes to play for the disciples. Wei Ying protests when Lan Wangji insists he needs food and rest -- “I’m not fragile, Lan Zhan!” 

Lan Wangji finally wins when, with a pang of guilt, he tells Wei Ying that his presence will be distracting. This explanation Wei Ying accepts without complaint, as though he is used to being thought a nuisance and is more willing to accept this than to allow anyone to care or worry for him.  

By the time he returns to the jingshi late that evening, his fingers are raw and cracked from playing and he is bone-weary with sorrow. 

Wei Ying pops to his feet when he walks in, a concerned smile on his face. “Lan Zhan! How is it? How are you? You look exhausted, come sit down, I’ll make tea.”

He rushes over and bustles Lan Wangji to the table, pushing on his shoulders until he sits. Lan Wangji lets him, letting himself enjoy the feeling of being cared for, if just for a moment. 

Wei Ying pours tea for him. Lan Wangji can tell by smell that it will be bitter. He accepts it graciously, warm with the sensation of Wei Ying’s eyes on him as he drinks. “Is it good? I don’t really know what I’m doing with tea. You know, it’s all coffee for me. I had a horrible headache those first couple days without my usual pot of coffee to kick off my day. Which, probably a good thing to kick the habit. I don’t even know if caffeine does anything for me anymore, I drink so much of it.”

“Thank you for the tea, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, setting the cup down. 

“Oh. Well, yeah, no problem, don’t mention it.”

Wei Ying is watching him, waiting for something. Lan Wangji, uncertain what it could be, finishes his tea quietly, despite the riotous noise of his body at the knowledge that Wei Ying is here. In the Cloud Recesses. In the jingshi. In his room, sitting at his table. Here, here, here his heart screams against his ribs.

“How does it work?” Wei Ying asks, voice breaking through the cacophony.

Lan Wangji frowns, unable to trace back what Wei Ying is asking. “How does what work?”

“The music. You said before, there are different songs for different things? Is it --” he hesitates, then swallows and plunges forward “--is it something you could teach me?”

Lan Wangji looks at Wei Ying, how his hands twist together in his lap, picking at the skin around his nails until they bleed. He reaches out and pulls his hands apart. “I can teach you to play,” Lan Wangji says. “The power comes from spiritual energy.”

Wei Ying nods, a guarded quality to his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he says. He fidgets, his hands pressed against his thighs to keep from picking his hangnails more. When he finally looks back at Lan Wangji, something raw and hopeful shines through. “My mom was from here, right? Do you think -- could I?”

Lan Wangji knows what he is asking. He has wondered himself over the spanse of months between them. “Cultivators begin to develop their core as children,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “It would be … difficult. I do not know of anyone who has developed a core so late. But--” he adds quickly as he sees that fragile hope beginning to crack “--if there is potential, I cannot see the harm in trying.”

Wei Ying sucks in a breath, apparently overwhelmed by even the possibility. “Is there? Potential? How would I know?”

In response, Lan Wangji holds his palm out to him. Wei Ying looks at it, startled, then places his own hand in it, shuddering at the contact. Lan Wangji pulls it toward himself and presses two fingers into Wei Ying’s pulse, directing his spiritual energy in, not to heal this time, not to give away, but to explore. He sends the energy through Wei Ying and traces his meridians like a map. And there. In the center of him, Lan Wangji feels it. A kernel of golden light, thready and wild, nothing like his own polished golden core, steady as the moon. But there.  

“Nothing, right?” Wei Ying says quietly, snapping Lan Wangji back to reality. “I mean, I knew, but couldn’t help but hope a little right? But if I had magic, I’d know, right?”

Lan Wangji takes Wei Ying’s hand and guides it to Wei Ying’s lower dantia. “Wei Ying,” he says, voice low and throaty, “it is there.”

“What?” Wei Ying says, eyes wide, before he breaks into a smile. “Lan Zhan, don’t tease me like that. I know I’m the last person who should be telling anyone off for teasing, but --”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan presses his hand firmly over Wei Ying’s. “It is there.”

Wei Ying’s hand stiffens under his. “For real?”

Lan Wangji nods. 

“Holy shit,” Wei Ying says. “Holy shit. You’re sure? Lan Zhan, that’s -- wow. I don’t know what to say. Can I -- Lan Zhan, can I fly?”

He looks so hopeful, so eager and determined. Lan Wangji knows that Wei Ying will very likely never fly. He has a seed of a core -- how, Lan Wangji cannot say -- but it is undercultivated, undertended. Weak and uncontrolled. Somebody cultivating such a core into something usable -- to being able to form a bond with a sword -- is unheard of. 

But if anyone were to attempt the impossible and succeed, it would be Wei Ying.

“Your core needs to be cultivated,” Lan Wangji says. 

“How do I do that?” Wei Ying asks, breathless, leaning in eagerly.

They are sitting very close together, Lan Wangji realizes. His hand is still pressed over Wei Ying’s low on his abdomen. He withdraws his hand, shaking out his sleeve over it, and sits back, improperly, to put some distance between them. “Meditation,” Lan Wangji answers.

“Really? Uh, anything else? Only,” Wei Ying squirms, “you’ll be shocked, I’m sure, but I’ve never really been good at meditating. I’ve tried. But it’s just so boring .”

Lan Wangji can imagine. Wei Ying is not one for stillness, movement is written into his body in every moment. Nonetheless, he knows that Wei Ying is not to be underestimated.

“I will meditate in the morning," Lan Wangji says. “You may join, if you wish.”

--------

Lan Wangji dresses and prepares for bed that night with his heart in his throat, beating hard in the pulse of his neck, threatening to escape through his mouth and spill his secrets to Wei Ying. His skin feels tight and thin, insubstantial for holding in all these new things that have grown inside him, that long for Wei Ying’s light, that turn towards him like hungry flowers, poking eager heads through the winter ground of Lan Wangji’s world. 

He slips out of his day robes, peeling them back layer by layer, shivering in the cool air of the jingshi despite the blazing heat within him. 

It is different, having Wei Ying in the jingshi, having him in his space. Knowing that Wei Ying will be in his bed. Different than sharing the bed in Wei Ying’s world, or at the brothel, or curling into each other beneath the starry sky. Those moments had felt stolen and secret, taken from dreams and held silent and precious in the cage of his chest. Unreal, and yet so real that after the world around him had felt pale and water-colored by comparison. 

But here. Here in his jingshi, it is different. Here, Wei Ying is folded into Lan Wangji’s life in a way that is so close to the bone it aches. This doesn’t feel stolen or secret. This feels bold, a declaration of wanting and belonging that strains against the shell of his reserves and demands to be screamed. 

Wei Ying walks out from behind the privacy screen, wearing only his trousers and a robe that hangs loose at the neck, slipping off his shoulder. Lan Wangji feels the large, loud thing inside of him growl hungrily at the sight of Wei Ying in his clothes. He wants to stop, he wants to quiet it. He doesn’t want that at all. He wants to set it loose with teeth on Wei Ying. 

He doesn’t.

Wei Ying stands across from him, as though pinned in place by Lan Wangji’s look. Lan Wangji seeks the stillness in him with relish. “Uh, Lan Zhan, we don’t have to -- I mean, I can--”

He rubs a hand along the back of his neck, looking down. “I just mean. What I said before. Back at Mo Village?”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking unhappy. Lan Wangji frowns, uncertain what Wei Ying is trying to say, but not liking whatever has made him so uncomfortable. “Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying lets out a long loud huff of air, not quite a sigh, followed by a mirthless laugh. “Okay. Okay, so. I should have said something earlier. Please don’t get mad? I mean, you’re allowed to get mad. But … please don’t?”

“Wei Ying.”

He looks up and flashes that stiff smile at Lan Wangji, the one that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Okay, so, what I said back in Mo Village … the thing is, I wasn’t just saying it to get a rise out of them. I mean, I was , I’m shameless like that, you know. But the thing is … it wasn’t entirely a lie.”

Lan Wangji’s heart lurches, the beast in him is all claws. “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice steady and quiet despite the roar in his ears. 

“I’m a cutsleeve,” Wei Ying says in a rush, as though if he gets the words out quickly they will hurt him less. “Well, kind of. I mean, I don’t only like men. Women too! Do you know the word for bisexuals, or is that too modern of a concept? Ugh, what am I saying, that’s not the point anyway. Only, what I mean to say it … is that, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think -- it’s not -- I wasn’t taking advantage! I don’t want you to think I was taking advantage. I’m not going to, you know, do anything, okay? I mean, I don’t just run around jumping every guy or anything. I wouldn’t do that to you, I’m not going to do anything to you, okay? It just felt like --”

He pauses. Lan Wangji doesn’t trust himself to move or speak, can do nothing but wait, to remember to breathe. 

“On the road, it felt different. We were just travelling together, right? It was just circumstance. But it’s …” he swallows. “I don’t want people thinking things.”

Lan Wangji stands very still. 

"Wei Ying," he says, his words carefully measured. "I do not mind."

He does not mind. No, Lan Wangji does not mind. He wants. His wanting is foamy-mouthed and wild and it scares him, how it growls and hungers for Wei Ying. 

"Really, Lan Zhan," Wei Ying says, not Meeting his eye. "It's okay if you mind. I understand if you mind, it would be okay.  But I promise, I would never do anything. You know that, right?"

Lan Wangji nods, not trusting himself to speak. Wei Ying would never do anything. Would never touch Lan Wangji the way Lan Wangji's skin aches for it. He knows. He knows that this is not what they have, that this is not for him to have. The beast within him rattles its bars, but Lan Wangji is its master. He makes the beast heel, he holds the key.

"I know Wei Ying is good," Lan Wangji says. Wei Ying makes a skeptical snorting sound, dubious of his own goodness. Lan Wangji frowns. "Wei Ying is good," he repeats more emphatically.

"Alright, alright," Wei Ying says, waving a hand dismissively. "Thanks, Lan Zhan. But still, if you don't want to share the bed…"

Lan Wangji has never done anything as undignified as roll his eyes, but he suddenly finds that he is sorely tempted. "We have shared a bed before, Wei Ying."

"That's different! This is your bed!"

"I slept in yours as well."

Wei Ying opens his mouth but the retort doesn't come. "Fine," he says, shoulders slumping in defeat. Lan Wangji radiates smugness at him, at a fight well won.

"Don't come crying to me after about how I'm taking advantage or anything is all, okay? I offered! You're the one who insisted."

"I did," Lan Wangji agrees.

Wei Ying walks forward and throws himself down onto the middle of the bed, stretching his long limbs out wide across it, open and vulnerable.

Lan Wangji looks at the length of him where his golden skin peeks out, his wrists and ankles exposed, the long column of his neck, as though he has been laid out to be revealed in pieces for Lan Wangji to consume.

He walks forward, and Wei Ying rolls to one side of the bed. Lan Wangji takes the blanket and drapes it over him, hiding the tan skin from his hungry eyes. "You spoil me, Lan Zhan," Wei Ying says, tucking the blanket up under his chin. "Be careful. I'm the worst about being spoiled. My a-ji… well, I'll keep on taking if you keep doing it. I'm a brat like that."

"Mm," Lan Wangji says. What he means is, Good. Take everything. It is yours, if you would have it . 

He settles himself into the bed, closer to Wei Ying than he should, unable to pull himself away.

"'night, Lan Zhan," Wei Ying says through a wide-mouthed yawn.

"Goodnight, Wei Ying," Lan Wangji says, far from sleep with the tingle of Wei Ying pulsing through his veins.

--------

Lan Xichen returns to Cloud Recesses the next day. Lan Wangji meets his brother at the gate, leaving Wei Ying in the jingshi practicing meditation. He is already experimenting with forms of moving meditation. It is an advanced technique, usually only successful for those with more refined cores. The task of moving while also finding and coaxing energy flows through your meridians is a challenging one, especially if the core is still small and unruly, complicating the task of grasping and directing the tangled strings of energy. Wei Ying is relentless in his efforts, though, and Lan Wangji will not dissuade him. 

Lan Xichen lands outside the gate and sheaths Shuoyue. Lan Wangji waits for him, not wanting to crowd his brother with condolences and worry. Lan Xichen walks to his side, sparing a bladed smile for him, the edge sharpened with sadness. “Wangji, I’m glad you are back,” Lan Xichen says. “When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday,” Lan Wangji says. “I am sorry I did not arrive sooner.”

“You could not have known,” Lan Xichen says, his voice like an autumn leaf. There’s a chill in the breeze, blowing winter towards them through these lingering vestiges of summer. Soon, Cloud Recesses will lose its green robes for burning colors. 

Lan Xichen tells him of the funeral in the Unclean Realm. “His people really loved him,” he says, a little choked.

“As did you,” Lan Wangji says.

“Yes. I did. And a-Yao. He’ll be arriving soon, he stayed behind a little longer to help a-Sang with some things."

Lan Wangji keeps his face smooth. He should be happy that Jin Guangyao is taking the time to come visit his brother. Lan Wangji is not good at this -- at providing comfort, at knowing what people need. Whereas Jin Guangyao always seemed to have the right words ready at any moment.

“How are you, Wangji? How are things here?”

“Uncle’s condition remains unchanged,” Lan Wangji says. Lan Xichen nods. Given the circumstances, it is good news. Better news than he might have hoped for. “There are twelve disciples who have fallen ill. None of them are in imminent danger, but their condition is not good. The doctors are monitoring, but there is little they can do. And we have begun preparations for Father’s funeral.”

He delivers the news dispassionately, as though he is reading a report, even as his insides roar. 

“Thank you, Wangji. I am glad you were here to help.”

Lan Wangji nods in acknowledgement, then pauses on the edge of the square. Lan Xichen stops beside him. “Brother. There is something else I must tell you.”

“Does it have to do with why you arrived back so late after departing the Unclean Realm?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t fidget. He never fidgets. “Yes.”

There’s another smile as Lan Xichen says, “I’m not upset, Wangji. What is it?”

“Wei Ying.”

Lan Xichen looks at him. 

“He is here,” Lan Wangji says.

“He is here?” Lan Xichen repeats. “How?”

Lan Wangji looks towards the hanshi, and Lan Xichen takes his meaning. They head inside, sealing the room with silencing talismans. “Tell me, Wangji,” Lan Xichen says, his voice threaded with weariness.

And Lan Wangji does.

--------

Jin Guangyao arrives shortly after Lan Wangji has finished explaining Wei Ying’s appearance to Lan Xichen. Lan Wangji is grateful for the distraction, as he uses the opportunity to escape his brother’s questions, the wary implications and distrust, to go back to Wei Ying. 

When he enters the jingshi, he is immediately met with the full force of the hurricane that is Wei Ying after having been holed up by himself in a room attempting to meditate for the last hour.

“Lan Zhan!” he cries, rushing forward with a grin too wide for his face. His hair is loose and tangled around his face, his robes crumpled, and the whole look is so wild and undone that Lan Wangji has to fist his hands in his robes to keep from touching. “You’ll never believe it! I was meditating a bit ago, and I felt something,” he gestures at his low abdomen. “I think I figured it out!”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says, trying very hard not to look at where Wei Ying is pressing a hand low on his stomach. 

“Lan Zhan, is that all I get? Just an ‘mm’? Is that all you have to spare for me when I’ve been so good?” he leans forward towards him, batting his eyelashes coquettishly. Lan Wangji does not reach out and grab him and show him how he would like to reward Wei Ying for being good.

“Brother is back,” Lan Wangji says. “I have been speaking with him about the situation.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, leaning back, his smile dropping from his face. “Right. Shit, sorry, Lan Zhan. I got so caught up in my own shit that I forgot. God, I’m the worst.”

“It is fine,” Lan Wangji says, meaning it deeply. “We will have dinner with him tonight, and with Jin-zongzhu.”

“Jin-zongzhu?” Wei Ying asks, brow furrowed. “Why’s he here?”

Lan Wangji hesitates. He has never spoken of his brother’s ties to Jin Guangyao to anyone, preferring himself not to acknowledge them. “Lianfeng-zun is Zewu-jun’s sworn brother,” he says.

The furrow between Wei Ying’s brow deepens. “I thought Nie Mingjue was Zewu-jun’s sworn brother,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying looks even more perplexed for a moment, but then Lan Wangji sees the pieces clicking into place. “ Oh! Got it. Wow, Lan Zhan, how modern!” he laughs. “This is good though, right? Good that they have each other?”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. “His presence will be a comfort to brother.”

Wei Ying stares at Lan Wangji for a moment before laughing again. “Lan Zhan, I’ll have you know, I’ve figured you out. So tell me, what did this Lianfang-zun do to incur the ire of Hanguang-jun, hmm?”

“I do not feel ire towards him,” Lan Wangji says evenly.

“Okay, okay, not ire, then. Distaste, maybe? Come on, Lan Zhan, I can tell you don’t like him. I can read you like a book.”

Lan Wangji is not used to being understood in this way, and finds that, even if it is uncomfortable, he doesn’t dislike it. In the past, it had seemed only his brother could look at Lan Wangji and see what was written there, to tender care to his brother’s feelings. Even their uncle either missed what Lan Wangji was feeling beneath his Lan mannerisms and etiquette. Or, perhaps, his uncle had simply not cared to acknowledge it. But here was Wei Ying, unwilling to simply let the garden of Lan Wangji’s inner life live small and shrunken in the shade. He is a beaming sun, washing him with light until the garden grows.

“I do not trust Jin Guangyao,” Lan Wangji admits, offering this dark ugly thing to the scrutiny of Wei Ying’s light.

Wei Ying doesn’t turn away from it. There’s no judgment when Wei Ying says, “Noted. We don’t trust Jin Guangyao.”

The ‘we’ is tendril of vine, tying them together. Lan Wangji tugs at it with his heart and finds the grip tight, unbreakable.

“It would be prudent to remain cautious around him,” he says.

Wei Ying laughs again.

--------

Lan Wangji arrives at the hanshi with Wei Ying in tow, the latter dressed in white robes, hair smoothed back into a bun and tied with a red ribbon that Wei Ying had produced from his pocket. “Lan Zhan, you’ve already got me wearing white, might as well throw a little red in there. Melding of the cultures, yeah?” he winked. 

They arrive at the hanshi and find it empty. They are led inside and seated at the table, laden with food and tea. “Zewu-jun will be back soon,” says the disciple attending to them. “He has gone to greet Lianfang-zun.”

Wei Ying figets next to him, head on a swivel as he takes in the room. “Your brother has an eye for decorating, yeah?” he observes, eyes lingering on the art adorning the walls. “I thought maybe art was, I don’t know, against the rules or something.”

“Art is a worthy pursuit,” Lan Wangji says stiffly. “So long as it is not pursued or valued in excess.”

“Right, right, all things in excess are bad or something,” Wei Ying nods, “but Lan Zhan, you should really have some art in your place! It’s so cold. It doesn’t even look like anyone lives there.”

“I do not need art.”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “Nobody needs art, Lan Zhan. It’s not about needing it. Art is just … art! You have it for prettiness, or because it speaks to you, or makes you think or feel things.”

Lan Wangji is still considering how to respond to that when they hear voices approaching outside the hanshi and soon Lan Xichen is there, holding the door open for Jin Guangyao, who smiles at them. He is wearing elaborate white robes, trimmed in golden embroidery that glimmers and flashes in the candlelight. “Wangji, it is good to see you.”

Lan Wangji rises to his feet, Wei Ying scrambling beside him to do the same. “Lianfang-zun,” he says, bowing.

Jin Guangyao returns the bow. “Who is your friend?" he asks, straightening. "I do not believe we have met," he says, addressing Wei Ying this time.

“Nope!” Wei Ying says, popping up out of his bow with jittery energy. “My name is Wei Wuxian,” they had agreed to use his courtesy name for introductions, “it’s good to meet you!”

“The pleasure is mine,” Jin Guangyao smiles. “Jin Guangyao.”

“And you must be Lan Zhan’s brother!” Wei Ying says, turning to Lan Xichen, who is looking at him with a bemused expression. “I can see why they call you the Twin Jades. You look so much alike.”

“It is good to meet you at last, Wei-gongzi,” Lan Xichen says, closing the door and moving towards the table, Jin Guangyao walking ahead of him. “I have heard much about you.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes dart to Lan Wangji. “Good things, I hope.”

“Indeed,” Lan Xichen says, taking a seat and gesturing at the others to do the same. “My apologies for being late.”

“It is my fault,” Jin Guangyao chimes in apologetically. “I was stuck at the gate. I did not bring my jade pendant with me. I left Carp Tower in a bit of a rush when I … when I got the news.”

A silence falls over the table. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Wei Ying says. Lan Wangji sneaks a glance at him and sees Wei Ying’s eyes look a little damp in the candlelight. 

“Thank you, Wei-gongzi,” Lan Xichen says as Jin Guangyao reaches out and places a small hand delicately on the back of his. 

They eat in silence after that. Lan Wangji notices Wei Ying is picking at his food, eating slowly compared to his usual worrying pace. He picks around the bitter greens, eating only the rice and watercress. Lan Wangji frowns. Wei Ying is so thin, has lost so much weight over the months they’ve been apart. He thinks of how greedily he ate on the journey to Cloud Recesses, the hunger evident in his face, and begins to pass Wei Ying portions of watercress from his own bowl.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, his face going red. “You don’t have to--!”

Lan Wangji scowls at him, passing another portion to his bowl. “No speaking during meals.”

Wei Ying’s mouth snaps shut, his eyes slicing over to Lan Xichen. Lan Wangji looks as well, sees his brother and Jin Guangyao exchange a look, eyebrows raised. He finds that he is unbothered by it, so long as Wei Ying eats.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says quietly, as though if he speaks softly then he can escape reprimand. “Really, I’m fine.”

Lan Wangji sets his chopsticks down, his bowl now emptied into Wei Ying’s except for the bitter greens. “You will need your strength if you are going to be working on your core.”

“But--”

“Eat, Wei Ying.”

To Lan Wangji’s delight, Wei Ying closes his eyes, shuddering, and begins to eat. There’s a satisfied, purring thing in his chest. He resists the urge to reach out and reward Wei Ying with a pet, like he would one of his rabbits.

The meal is a long one, as they linger over their food. Nobody seems particularly eager to speak, the topic at hand being so unpleasant. When the meal does end at last, it is Jin Guangyao who steers them into conversation, though he seems more interested in Wei Ying. 

“Wei-gongzi,” he says, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and placing it on the table delicately, “I don’t believe I am familiar with your family name. What sect are you from?”

Lan Wangji stiffens, regretting that he had not anticipated this. Of course Jin Guangyao will question Wei Ying. He should have prepared Wei Ying for this. He should have--

“No sect,” Wei Ying says, shrugging his shoulders. “Just an orphan making my way through the world.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jin Guangyao says. “Did you have no family to take you in?”

“I was taken in by some family friends,” he says. “Farmers.”

“I see. And how did you meet Hanguang-jun?”

Lan Wangji wishes he was better at this. Wishes that he knew how to interrupt and redirect the conversation, the way his brother would. But there will be no help from Lan Xichen, he knows, who sits rigidly, watching the exchange with a tight expression.

Wei Ying appears unflustered by the proceedings though, as if this -- this critical, digging questioning -- is easy and familiar. “Coincidence,” he says, taking a sip of the tea before him. “Lan Zhan and I happened to be in the same place at the same time. He helped me out when I needed it. He’s really great like that.”

“Wei Wuxian helped as well,” Lan Wangji says, surprising himself.

Wei Ying smiles at him over his cup, causing Lan Wangji’s ears to heat. 

“Hanguang-jun is kind to avail himself to others,” Jin Guangyao says. 

“He is very devoted to helping those in need,” Lan Xichen says, fondly.

Lan Wangji sits very still in the full weight of this combined attention, feeling as though if he were to move he would reveal himself to be all thumbs. 

“I know,” Wei Ying says. “It is what I admire most about him. That and, of course, he’s easy on the eyes.”

Never in his life has Lan Wangji felt so much like squirming . The heat in his ears is creeping down the back of his neck. He regrets wearing his hair in a top knot tonight. He can see from the delight dancing in Wei Ying’s eyes that his blush must be noticeable. He resolutely ignores the laughter there, not wishing to encourage it further. 

“Indeed,” Jin Guangyao says with a smile. “The Twin Jades are rare in their beauty.”

It is Lan Xichen’s ears that go red now. Jin Guangyao and Wei Ying share a look across the table, mischievous and pleased. Wei Ying raises his glass, toasting a job well done. 

“Wangji, I meant to tell you earlier,” Lan Xichen cuts in, clearly diverting the conversation away from these terribly embarrassing waters. Lan Wangji feels an overwhelming fondness for his brother in this moment. “I have a letter for you from a-Sang. He wishes to pass along his thanks for your assistance.”

“I was unable to provide much help.”

“That’s not how a-Sang sees it, Wangji. Your presence was helpful.”

Lan Wangji loves his brother, but he thinks that he sometimes tiptoes to the edge of dishonesty in moments like this, when his kindness outweighs the truth. 

“I’m sure a-Sang was happy to have you there,” Jin Guangyao chimes in, eyes shining. “I was grateful to know you were there, to provide some support. It is good that a-Sang was not alone for those final moments.”

To Lan Wangji’s surprise, Wei Ying nods next to him. “I’m sure you helped, Lan Zhan.”

“I wish I had been there,” Jin Guangyao continues. “I will miss him. It’s strange, to think I’ll never play for him again.”

Across the table, Lan Xichen leans over and places a hand on Jin Guangyao’s knee. Jin Guangyao smiles wetly at him, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Things have been challenging lately. After father, my son …”

Lan Xichen’s hand squeezes. Lan Wangji feels a pang of guilt, feeling that he has been ungenerous towards Jin Guangyao, who has lost so much in these past months. And yet. “Did you play for Chifeng-zun often?”

“We both did,” Lan Xichen answers for him. 

“Lan Xichen moreso than I. I’m not as good as your brother.”

Lan Wangji had known his brother often travelled to the Unclean Realm to play for Nie Mingjue, to help him manage his saber-sick qi. It is news to him, however, that Jin Guangyao had done the same. “I did not know brother was teaching Lan techniques to outsiders.”

A cold draft sweeps over the table. Wei Ying stills next to him momentarily, and Lan Xichen frowns. Jin Guangyao casts an anxious look between the brothers. “I couldn’t always be there for Mingjue. It was good to have a-Yao there to help. He’s not an outsider, Wangji.”

This is a lie. Jin Guangyao, whatever his relationship with Lan Xichen, is a member of the Jin sect. The leader of the Jin sect, now. It unsettles Lan Wangji to think of Lan Xichen teaching the man their sect secrets.

“What do you play, Lianfang-zun?” Wei Ying asks, breaking some of the tension.

“Guqin, mostly,” Jin Guangyao answers. “Although it hardly seems fitting to say I play at a table with Xichen-ge and Wangji. In truth, I know how to play a few instruments, all somewhat poorly.”

Wei Ying laughs, pointing at himself. “Same! For me, I just don’t have the attention span to be good at anything. How did you learn?”

“My mother taught me,” Jin Guangyao says in a firm voice as he places his cup down on the table and places his hands in his lap, where they grasp at the fabric of his robes. Lan Xichen stiffens next to him. 

Wei Ying does not notice, and plows forward. “That’s really cool!” he says excitedly. “Was your mom a musician?”

Jin Guangyao’s eyes flash up at him, the smile dropping from his face into a snarl. Wei Ying inhales sharply, jolting back from the sudden, hot anger. It is gone as quickly as it had appeared, a momentary glimpse of surprise on Jin Gunagyao’s face, as though surprised by his own reaction. Then, the smile is back, metallic, his eyes calculating as they sweep over Wei Ying. “No,” he says coldly. “She was not.”

“O...kay,” Wei Ying says slowly.

“I should be going,” Jin Guangyao says suddenly, rising from the table. “I have been away from Carp Tower for too long.”

Lan Xichen rises next to him. “Of course, a-Yao. I will walk you to the gate.”

“I’ll be fine, er-ge,” Jin Guangyao says softly. “I’ll have one of the disciples see me out. You’re tired, you should rest.”

Lan Xichen reaches out, his hand delicately skimming Jin Guangyao’s cheek. Lan Wangji looks away, wanting to give them some privacy, feeling like an intruder on this intimate moment. Beneath the embarrassment, though, there is something else. Something greedy and unpleasant. Jealousy, Lan Wangji realizes. He sneaks a look at Wei Ying, who is looking politely at the ceiling. 

"Thank you for your hospitality," Jin Guangyao says. "It was a pleasure to see you Wangji. To meet you, Wei Wuxian. Next time, I hope we meet under different circumstances."

They say their goodbyes, and Jin Guangyao takes his leave. The door closes and Lan Xichen walks to Lan Wangji’s side. “You should be kinder to a-Yao, Wangji.”

“I am not unkind,” Lan Wangji says.

Lan Xichen sighs, and reaches into his sleeve, pulling out a folded letter. “From a-Sang.”

Lan Wangji accepts it, not particularly looking forward to the prospect of writing back and initiating a correspondence with the new Nie sect leader. “I will attend to it,” he says.

“How are things in the Unclean Realm?” Wei Ying asks. “How is Nie-zongzhu?”

Lan Xichen’s mouth is a sharp line when he answers. “I wish I could say he was well. Mingjue will be greatly missed. Huaisang is devastated and overwhelmed. But he is recovered.”

“Recovered?” Lan Wangji frowns. 

“Huaisang had been ill for weeks. Not terribly, but it has been a challenging recovery.”

“He did not mention it,” Lan Wangji says. Nie Huaisang had seemed pale, but Lan Wangji had attributed it to the stress of his brother’s illness and the increase in his responsibilities. 

“No doubt he had other things on his mind,” Lan Xichen says. “We all do.”

His brother looks so tired. So much older than his years. “Goodnight, brother,” Lan Wangji says, bowing.

“Goodnight, Wangji. Wei Wuxian.”

Next to him, Wei Ying makes a sloppy approximation of a bow, and they leave to return to the jingshi.

---------

The jingshi is changed when they return. A screen has been added, bisecting the room, and a second bed has been brought in, tucked away into the back wall, across from the bath.

Lan Wangji scowls at it, freezing in the doorway at the sight. Wei Ying, who had been following behind him, jabbering away about the food, nearly bounces off of him. 

"Lan Zhan, what's--?" Wei Ying starts, peeking around him into the room. 

Lan Wangji had been ready for the laugh, but it still cuts. 

“Oh wow. I guess we should've thought of that, huh?" Wei Ying says, pushing past Lan zhan  to enter the room, hopping into the bed without bothering to remove his shoes. "Your brother certainly didn't waste any time. You should've told me he's so intense, Lan Zhan. He must think I'm defiling his little brother!" 

Wei Ying laughs again, then reaches down and finally pulls off his shoes. "I get it. I mean, you saw what Jiang Cheng was like, and he's the younger one! Not that you'd know it from how he acts. So bossy. Although, maybe we deserve it if neither of us can even think to have a second bed sent for. You could've been sleeping alone this whole time!"

Wei Ying reaches up and lets his hair loose from its ribbon and begins to rub his fingers through his scalp, eyelids sagging with pleasure. Lan Wangji fists his hands at his side, denying them the urge to replace Wei Ying’s fingers in his hair. 

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says, not sure how to tell Wei Ying that he is the cause of his brother’s tenseness.

“He doesn’t like me much, does he?” Wei Ying says.

Lan Wangji pauses, wishing that Wei Ying were less perceptive. 

“Brother can be protective,” he says at last.

Wei Ying laughs. “Good! It’s a big brother’s duty to dote on and worry about our didis! I’ll just have to convince him that I don’t have any nefarious intentions towards his baby brother -- convince him that Lan-er-gege is safe in my hands!”

There’s something simmering just beneath Lan Wangji’s skin. He wonders if Wei Ying can see it -- can see the bubbles of want as they roll just under the surface of him. He wonders if Wei Ying knows, or if he only sees the jade. 

“So what’s the letter say?” Wei Ying says, the heat of Lan Wangji’s desire going unnoticed. 

He ignores the melting happening within his body and reaches into his sleeve and hands the letter to Wei Ying.

“You don’t want to read it first?” Wei Ying asks, raising an eyebrow at him even as he opens the letter.

“You may read it out loud,” Lan Wangji says.

Wei Ying nods, shaking the paper out. 

“Oh, he’s got such pretty handwriting,” he notes with interest. “Does everyone here have such good penmanship? Er-ge, you must’ve been so horrified when you saw my writing. Was it even legible?”

“With effort,” Lan Wangji answers honestly, earning a bark of laughter from Wei Ying.

“God, I missed you,” Wei Ying says emphatically as his eyes travel over the letter. Lan Wangji wants to grab him, to tell him, to show him how much he missed Wei Ying. To ask Wei Ying to stay, so that they might never miss each other again.

He doesn’t.

“Huh,” Wei Ying says as he takes in the letter. Lan Wangji moves beside him. Wei Ying clears his throat, and reads:

“ Hanguang-jun, 

“I must thank you for your attendance at da-ge’s side during his final weeks. I have been distressed by my own neglect in conveying to you exactly how much your diligent attendance and care was a comfort to me and, I’m sure, to da-ge. It has been difficult and lonely since his passing. I find I am ill-suited to the quiet and emptiness that has descended on our home without da-ge here to fill the hall with his spirit. The quietness is new and unpleasant. It used to be, I would wake up even in the late hours of the night and hear music.

“The mood is somber here. Our people loved and respected him, and I am afraid that my own abilities do not lie in leadership. For my part, he was loved and respected as a brother. It may be selfish, but I believe my loss is greatest.

“What am I saying? My apologies, I meant only to thank you and wish you well. If there is anything that the Nie sect can do for Hanguang-jun, you need only let me know, and it will be yours.

“Thank you for your kindness.

“Nie Huaisang. ”

Lan Wangji blinks, slightly bewildered by the onslaught of Nie Huaisang’s mourning and effusiveness. Wei Ying, however, frowns at the letter. “That’s strange,” he says.

“Mm?” Lan Wangji asks, eyes sliding off the paper over to Wei Ying’s confused and serious expression. 

“The part about the music,” he says, pointing at the lines in the letter. “Who would be playing music at night? Unless it’s just meant to be, I don’t know, poetic license or something. But it doesn’t seem like it, does it?”

Lan Wangji shakes his head in agreement. 

“I got the impression from Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao that there weren’t many musicians in the Unclean Realm. I mean, surely they could play for Nie Mingjue if there were?”

“Musical cultivation is not a common talent,” Lan Wangji says. “The Lan techniques are a sect secret, not known outside of Lan Disciples.”

“Except for Jin Guangyao,” Wei Ying says.

Lan Wangji frowns. “Yes.”

There’s a crease between Wei Ying’s eyebrows, his mouth a deep line as he thinks. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Lan Zhan. I don’t know this world well. Does it make sense to you? Music being played in the middle of the night in the Unclean Realm?”

“No,” he admits.

“No,” Wei Ying repeats. “So who was playing it, and why did they stop?”

Lan Wangji has no answer, but watches as Wei Ying thinks, the machine of his mind turning. 

“Lan Zhan,” he says finally, “if there is music that can heal, does that mean that there is also music that can harm?”

--------

Lan Wangji wakes Wei Ying up at maoshi the next morning after a fitful night for both of them.

Despite Wei Ying's insistence that they would both sleep better in separate beds, the night had been long, interrupted by nightmares for both of them -- Wei Ying's filled with something dark and unhappy that he kept hidden from Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji's filled with pulse quickening panic whenever his body registered the missing weight and warmth beside it, spiralling him back to the long empty months where Wei Ying had been out of reach, until he woke up panicked and had to rise to look around the privacy screen to where Wei Ying slept in an uncomfortable looking sprawl to calm his racing heart.

It is not often that Lan Wangji wakes tired, used to the early hours before dawn, finding the morning dark inviting and familiar. Today sleep lingers heavy over him as he drags himself from bed, preparing himself for the day, waiting as long as possible to wake Wei Ying.

They had agreed to it the day before -- that Wei Ying would join him for morning meditation. As expected, though, morning-Wei Ying seems loath to fulfill the wishes of yesterday's-Wei Ying, groaning as Lan Wangji bends low and whispers his name to rouse him.

"Lan Zhan, if this isn't a dream and you're actually waking me up right now, I'm going to have to fight you. Like, actually fight you. And then you'll beat me, and how will you be able to live with that guilt? Let me sleep, er-gege, for your own sake. I'm only thinking of you."

It strikes Lan Wangji that Wei Ying seems fairly verbal and coherent for being as tired as he claims, so it is with little remorse and a small thrill of mischief that he takes hold of the blanket and whips it off of Wei Ying.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Ying squeaks, sitting up quickly enough that he sways a little with dizziness. "What if I’d been sleeping in the nude, huh? So mean! Do people know how mean you are?"

"Get dressed," Lan Wangji says, folding the blanket and placing it at the foot of the bed. "I will help you with your hair."

Wei Ying grumbles mutinously and colorfully enough to make Lan Wangji's ears red, but he obeys nonetheless, grabbing the set of disciple’s robes Lan Wangji had set out for him the night before. 

After he is dressed, Lan Wangji sits on the bed and Wei Ying obediently crawls over and sits on the floor between his knees. Lan Wangji manages to suppress the shudder of pleasure until Wei Ying's back is turned, and begins to tie his hair up with the ribbon.

"Thanks, Lan Zhan," Wei Ying sighs, leaning back a bit into Lan Wangji's hands. He reaches up and brushes his fingers through the short hair on the sides of his head. "Would you be able to help me with this later? It's starting to get really long, I'm sure I look shabby. I know the whole undercut thing isn't really in-style here, per se, but I'd rather be unfashionable than look like a mangy rat."

"Mm," Lan Wangji hums. "I will help Wei Ying."

"Oh, I see. You're all acquiescent now. Where was this Lan Zhan ten minutes ago when I was being torn so shamelessly from bed, hmm?"

"Wei Ying asked to join me for meditation," Lan Wangji says, tugging Wei Ying's hair a little more firmly than he means to, eliciting a small hiss of air that shoots like electricity up Lan Wangji's spine. "We will go meditate."

"And where are we going to do that," Wei Ying asks as Lan Wangji releases him, spinning on his knees to look up at him.

“You will see.”.

Wei Ying keeps up his whining as Lan Wangji leads him through Cloud Recesses, unrelenting even as Lan Wangji hears the earnestness fade, replaced by a rote quality. Wei Ying is curious, his full attention pinned on Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji, in turn, does not look back at Wei Ying or outwardly acknowledge him, even as every sense is attuned to him, every heartbeat calling to him. 

When they exit the main fareway of the Cloud Recesses and Lan Wangji continues forward down a path through the trees, Wei Ying pauses in his torrent. 

“Where are you taking me, Lan-er-gege?” he teases, but his tone is interested, curious. “Should I be worried? Lan-er-gege taking me somewhere hidden where nobody can find us?”

Lan Wangji is overcome with the mental image of himself pressing Wei Ying up against a tree, right here by the path, where anyone could see them, his mouth on Wei Ying’s swallowing the sounds if anyone were to come by, wild with the danger of being caught --

“Lan Zhan, what are you thinking?” Wei Ying asks, his voice close to Lan Wangji’s ear. It is only his years of training and poise that keep him from jumping as he is startled from his fantasies by the subject of them.

“We are nearly there,” Lan Wangji says, the words unnecessary, yet all he can manage to deflect Wei Ying’s attention from the fire he thinks must be visible, so hot it burns beneath his skin.

A moment later, they have cleared the tree line and he is rewarded with Wei Ying’s quiet gasp as they walk into the sweeping view of the back mountain. 

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Ying says, awestruck.

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says, happy to have something so beautiful to share with Wei Ying.

He walks forward, and Wei Ying follows after him, his wonder giving away quickly to excited babbling. 

“Lan Zhan, this is amazing! I’ve never seen anything like this. Well, you’ve seen Minnesota, it’s not exactly mountainous. Kinda flat. Although, Minnesota is beautiful too! I won’t hear of you ragging on my home. But this is -- wow, Lan Zhan, it’s just so -- what are all those white things?”

Lan Wangji stops abruptly, Wei Ying colliding with him. He lowers himself elegantly into lotus pose on the grass, his robes sweeping gracefully under him. Wei Ying stares for a moment, before Lan Wangji fixes an impatient look on him. Wei Ying smiles, and drops to sit next to him, his legs spread out long in front of him as he leans back on his elbows.

“Sit properly,” Lan Wangji admonishes. 

Wei Ying huffs and rolls his eyes. “Always so bossy, er-gege,” he complains, but sits up all the same.

Lan Wangji allows the gentle rustling of the breeze to guide him through his meditation. He can feel Wei Ying stirring beside him, fidgety and shivering. It is a little cool this morning, Lan Wangji realizes. Perhaps he should have brought an extra robe for Wei Ying, made him take one before he left. It hadn’t occurred to him. Lan Wangji himself is feeling a little warm, he always runs a bit hot, maybe he should give a layer to Wei Ying --

“Oh!” comes the startled cry to his right. 

He opens his eyes and sees Wei Ying staring down at his lap, where a snowy white rabbit sits, it’s pink noses twitching at Wei Ying’s robes. 

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, too loudly for all that he seems to be trying to keep from disturbing his furry companion. 

His eyes are perfect circles as he looks at Lan Wangji in amazement and then back at the rabbit in his lap. Lan Wangji feels the corners of his mouth pricking up into the unfamiliar shape of a smile. 

“Stay still and be quiet,” he says, “you do not want to scare them.”

Wei Ying immediately nods his head so rapidly that the rabbit gives a startled leap from his lap. 

“No, bunny, come back! I’m not scary, I’m not going to eat you!” Wei Ying calls after it, the sound only making it hop away faster.

A huff of air escapes Lan Wangji, and Wei Ying spins on him. 

“Don’t you laugh at me, Hanguang-jun!” he says with mock heat. 

Lan Wangji schools his face into an impassive mask.

“I said don’t laugh!” Wei Ying repeats, louder.

“I am not laughing,” Lan Wangji points out calmly.

“You’re laughing on the inside , Lan Zhan, you can’t fool me.”

Wei Ying turns from him and looks out over the hill. “Holy shit, Lan Zhan, this place is even more amazing than I thought. I can’t believe there are so many rabbits here! Is this your private little warren, Lan Zhan? Have you been raising them here as pets?”

“Not pets,” Lan Wangji says. “Pets are forbidden.”

“Sure,” Wei Ying says. “One of the million rules, right? But what are they all doing here then? I don’t know much about rabbit behavior, admittedly, but this seems a little off, doesn’t it?”

“This is their home,” Lan Wangji says simply. Then, feeling that perhaps he should be a little more honest, that it will be safe with Wei Ying, he adds, “I visit them here and bring them food.”

Wei Ying laughs delightedly, his mouth split wide into a crescent grin. “Lan Zhan! I thought you said pets were forbidden! And yet you come here and feed them and play with them?”

“They are not pets,” Lan Wangji repeats, firmly, even if he knows that he is bending this particular rule perhaps to breaking.

“Sure, Lan Zhan. Whatever you say,” Wei Ying says in a tone that clearly means he isn’t buying Lan Wangji’s explanation at all. “I can’t believe you have, like, a hundred bunnies and have been keeping it a secret from me. This might be the cutest thing you’ve ever done, Lan Zhan, and given how cute you are all the time, that’s really saying something.”

Lan Wangji is burning. Wei Ying is no longer shivering next to him, but he wonders if he can still get away with removing a layer of robes with the pretense of giving it to Wei Ying.

“Were you able to meditate?” Lan Wangji asks instead, his eyes landing on the piles of plucked grassblades at Wei Ying’s sides.

“Don’t know,” Wei Ying says. “I tried, but I don’t really know what meditation is supposed to feel like. I did sit here very quietly, though, which feels like it should count for something.”

“It takes practice,” Lan Wangji says kindly. 

It is something he has said many times to the youngest disciples as they are first learning the practice, still struggling with the wild threads of qi that wind through them, attempting to tame them into what will one day become their golden cores. 

“Do you come here a lot, Lan Zhan? It’s so peaceful.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji answers, looking over the windblown green. “I come here and play sometimes.”

“You play music for the bunnies? That’s too precious. It’s too much, Lan Zhan! I won’t allow it!” Wei Ying laughs then, because he is nothing if not contrary, “Will you play something now?”

Lan Wangji summons WangJi without hesitation, incapable of denying Wei Ying. He considers, looking down at the strings, a shy, embarrassed feeling creeping over him. But really, there’s no choice. There’s only one song he wants to play now.

The first notes are tentative, single plucked notes, wavering and lonely and uncertain. They draw out into long, yearning sounds that stretch through the empty space of the back mountain, echoing back to them, an unanswered question. 

Lan Wangji feels the notes pulled out of him, searching, each tethered to him, a string tied to his heart. The song reaches its conclusion and he lets the strings ring, not bothering to mute them. The song isn’t over, after all. Nothing has changed, there is no end, just a want that continues to ring. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his voice strained. Lan Wangji turns to look at him and is surprised to find his eyes are wet. 

“Wei Ying,” he says, reaching a hand to him, only to let it fall back to his side. 

“It’s really beautiful,” Wei Ying says, dashing his hand to wipe the wetness from his eyes. “Sorry, I’m kind of a sap. Unless, is that one of your magic songs? Did you magic me into a pile of mush?”

“No,” Lan Wangji says. Then adds, “I wrote it.”

“Wow,” Wei Ying says, breathless. “Of course you did. What’s it called?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t answer. He dismisses WangJi with a wave. 

“Come,” he says, rising to stand and offering a hand to Wei Ying. “We must return.”

Wei Ying looks taken aback, but then grins up at him and takes his hand, the skin to skin contact shooting needy fire up Lan Wangji’s arm. He squeezes a little, involuntarily. Wei Ying squeezes back. 

--------

They walk slowly down the winding path back to the jingshi, so that when they arrive there is only just enough time to make a quick breakfast before Lan Wangji’s first class. It is his day with the youngest disciples. He brings Wei Ying with him and then, to Wei Ying’s spluttering indignation, instructs him to sit in a back row. 

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying cries as the tiny Lans file in, casting curious glances at the loud stranger who is addressing Hanguang-jun so informally. “Are you expecting me to sit and take lessons with babies?”

“Making excessive noise is forbidden,” a high voice admonishes in a stern tone. 

Wei Ying’s eyes sparkle with delight as he looks down at the small boy glaring up at him, hands on his hips, forehead ribbon askew.

“Young master, please forgive this one!” Wei Ying teases, bowing low to him. “My humblest apologies for the disruption!”

Lan Wangji watches as Lan Jingyi looks at Wei Ying, a mix of scorn and curiosity on his young face, before nodding seriously. 

His class settles in, and Lan Wangji begins the lesson for the day. He has decided to change his plans for Wei Ying’s benefit, and begins to lead the young disciples through a guided meditation, describing in simplistic terms how to search for the qi and direct it through where their cores are slowly beginning to form. 

Perhaps he should have expected that Wei Ying would struggle to sit quietly through the class. Lan Wangji tries to ignore him, to focus on his pupils. Unfortunately, Wei Ying is making something of a spectacle of himself, apparently overcome by being surrounded by so many serious-faced children. 

As the disciples attempt to meditate, already a challenging task for a room of 7-year-olds, Wei Ying begins to put on a show. He huffs, he whines, he pulls faces. He drums on his legs, he folds little paper men and, whenever he thinks Lan Wangji isn’t looking, tosses them to the children who snatch them from the air with delight. 

Lan Wangji does his best to ignore him. Wei Ying, he has found, is most easily controlled by withholding attention. However, it is an ineffective tactic today with ten young Lans staring at him, enraptured. 

Lan Wangji is walking through the rows, deciding how to handle the situation, when he feels something at his back, a hand slipping along the tie of his robe. He turns and sees Wei Ying staring with hyperbolic innocence at the ceiling. Lan Wangji reaches a hand around his back and feels a slip of paper tucked into his robes. He removes it, and looks down at a paper man, a winking expression drawn over a kissy pout.

“Wei-gongzi,” he says in his sternest voice. 

Around him, ten disciples’ spines straighten with a snap, heads turned toward the front of the room. Wei Ying’s eyes widen, his mouth open with surprised delight as he turns to Lan Wangji. 

“Ah, Lan Zhan, you wanted something from me?”

“You are distracting the other disciples.”

“Who, me? Lan Zhan, I would never! I’m wounded!” he’s twinkling at him. 

Lan Wangji wants nothing more than to smile back at him.He does not.

“Do not tell lies,” he says.

“Do not tell lies,” the class repeats as one. 

Wei Ying’s eyes widen impossibly further. He looks like he’s just been handed a gift beyond his wildest dreams.

“Okay, Lan Zhan, okay!” he says in a singsong. “This humble one apologizes. Forgive me?”

Lan Wangji looks down at him, his smiling face. He knows, for all they are pretending to meditate, all the disciples are tuned in to the scolding happening at the back of the room. 

“Wei-gongzi will copy the sect rules as punishment.”

“What?” Wei Ying says, his smile slipping. “Lan Zhan, you can’t be serious. Aren’t there, like, 3,000 of them -- “

“Five times.”

Wei Ying gapes at him. Lan Wangji does not stare at his mouth.

--------

Class draws to a close without further disruption. Wei Ying shakes out his hand as he approaches Lan Wangji with an indignant smile. 

“I can’t believe you actually made me do that,” he says with wonder. “I knew you were mean, Lan Zhan, but I didn’t know you were that mean.”

There’s a loud scoff of outrage at this.

“Hanguang-jun isn’t mean!” Lan Jingyi is looking up at Wei Ying with a stormy expression. “‘Do not insult people!’ It’s against the rules, ben dan!”

Wei Ying goggles at him before bursting into laughter. 

“Lan Jingyi,” Lan Wangji says seriously. “Do not insult people.”

Lan Jingyi’s cheeks go red, to Wei Ying’s obvious delight, and he hangs his head, tracing a toe along the floor. “Sorry, Hanguang-jun.”

“It is not me you need to apologize to.”

“Sorry, Wei-qianbei.”

“Apology accepted, little Lan,” Wei Ying says, kneeling down to Lan Jingyi’s level, “on one condition.”

Lan Jingyi looks up at him, puffing out his cheeks in a pout. 

“What?” he says, suspiciously.

“Give me just one smile and I’ll let it go,” Wei Ying says, giving the boy a dazzling smile of his own.

Lan Jingyi, apparently in spite of himself, begins to smile, before he realizes. He snaps his face back to a frown, exaggerated and, in Lan Wangji’s opinion, almost painfully cute. 

“Do not smile foolishly,” he says, before turning and running away. 

“Running is prohibited!” Wei Ying calls after him. 

He turns to Lan Wangji. 

“He didn’t even say goodbye properly!” Wei Ying says, a hand fluttering to his chest. “Lan Zhan! What kind of children are you raising here!”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. “Perhaps Wei Ying is the one who owes Lan Jingyi the apology.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying falls into his side as he laughs. Lan Wangji glows with it. “That’s really a rule, huh? ‘Do not smile foolishly.’”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji acknowledges.

“Wow,” Wei Ying says. “I’m basically your sect’s worst nightmare, huh?”

Lan Wangji chooses not to answer.

--------

The library is empty when they arrive after classes. Lan Wangji leads Wei Ying inside, a bloom of pride in his chest to be showing him one of his clan’s treasures.

“Wow, Lan Zhan! I didn’t expect it to be so big!” Wei Ying says as he takes it in. 

“The Cloud Recesses library is renowned,” Lan Wangji says. 

“I believe it!” Wei Ying says, bouncing on his toes a little as he follows Lan Wangji through the stacks. “You think we’ll find something useful?”

“Cloud Recesses specializes in musical cultivation,” Lan Wangji says. “If your theory is correct, we have the best chance of finding answers here.”

Wei Ying hums skeptically. 

“Pretty big if,” he says. “It’s not like I have any idea what I’m talking about here.”

“I believe it is worth investigating.”

“And you just keep books about evil curse songs out in the open?”

“Not here,” Lan Wangji says, leaning down and flipping back one of the mats on the floor and removing a piece of wood to reveal a door. “The room of forbidden books.”

Wei Ying’s eyes sweep down to the hidden door, then up to Lan Wangji’s face. 

“Your life is so much more interesting than mine,” he says.

Lan Wangji makes a skeptical noise, then opens the door and leads them down a spiraling staircase to the room hidden below.

It is a dark, stone room, dry and fragrant with the smell of ink. Lan Wangji summons a small ember of spiritual energy and uses it to light the lantern by the door. He carries it to the table in the center of the room, the light casting an eerie yellow glow over the room. 

“So what are we looking for?” Wei Ying asks, looking around at the rows of books and scrolls awaiting them. 

“As Wei Ying said. A curse song,” Lan Wangji says. 

“And what does that look like?” 

Lan Wangji considers. 

“I will focus on reading the music,” he says. “I will be able to recognize what it means. Wei Ying should focus on reading the texts.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Wei Ying says, walking over to a shelf and pulling a book at random. “Divide and conquer!”

In the dark of the underground, time passes unmarked except for Wei Ying’s occasional excited exclamations followed by disappointed huffs. Nonetheless, Lan Wangji can feel the lateness of the hour in the tired sting of his eyes and his glassy focus that slides smoothly out of his grasp as he reads page after page of music. 

“Oh,” he hears Wei Ying say from where he sits bent over a book. 

Lan Wangji’s heart leaps, as it has at every false alarm so far -- hopeful and desperate. This time, though, the excitement is not followed by a disappointed groan.

“Wei Ying?” he says, walking over to where Wei Ying is sitting and looking over his shoulder.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. “I think I’ve found it..” He traces one finger down the middle of the book where the pages join. There is a jagged rip, where pages have been torn out.

Lan Wangji looks at the book, eyes skimming over the remaining pages. 

“Dual cultivation,” Wei Ying says, his finger moving to the words. “What --?”

“A technique where cultivators share their qi to increase their cultivation,” Lan Wangji says.

“Like when you passed spiritual energy to me to help me heal?” Wei Ying asks. 

“No,” Lan Wangji says, hoping Wei Ying cannot see his flush in the dim light of the room. “It is a means of passing yin and yang energy between … partners.”

Wei Ying gives him a confused look. Lan Wangji clears his throat, and clarifies, “Usually, married partners.

Wei Ying’s confused expression slides from his face, replaced suddenly by surprise and, then, embarrassed delight. 

“Lan Zhan!” he says, too loudly. “Are you telling me that you can -- can bang spiritual energy into each other?”

Lan Wangji frowns at him, which just makes Wei Ying laugh louder. 

“And here you’ve been trying to make me meditate ,” he says, shaking his head. “You’ve been holding out on me, er-gege!”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says. It comes out a little ragged.

Wei Ying swipes the tears from his eyes, tugging at Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “I’m sorry Lan Zhan, don’t look at me like that. You look like you want to hit me, I’m sorry, I really am.”

He turns back to the book. Lan Wangji forces his eyes to follow, dragging them away from the exposed skin on the back of Wei Ying’s neck, his teeth itching. 

“It says here that it works on the same principle as dual cultivation, but without the sex, apparently. Lans gotta take all the fun out of everything huh? Sorry, sorry, I’ll stop,” he says at the small noise that escapes Lan Wangji. “Listen to this:

“ The Song of Caibu was created as an alternative to dual cultivation. It allows a cultivator to take qi from their audience without necessitating physical contact.

“If played correctly to a willing partner, no harm should come to either party. 

“However, the song should not be played carelessly. Improper technique may lead to the demise of both parties. Once the flow of qi out of the body has been initiated, it may be deadly if not controlled. In turn, qi taken from an unwilling party will invariably result in the harm and potential demise of the recipient."

Wei Ying looks away from the page. 

“This is it, isn’t it?” he says. “Somebody stole the Song of Caibu, they’re using music to hurt people. This is why a-Lin survived Baixue Temple -- he couldn’t hear it.

“Lan Zhan. Whoever is doing this, they’ve attacked some of the strongest cultivators, right? All of that power … from what this says, there’s now way they can be holding it in their body, right?”

“It does not seem likely,” Lan Wangji agrees.

“Then Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, an urgent edge to his voice, “where is the qi going?”

Chapter Text

It is late, well past curfew, when they emerge from the library, the vandalized book clutched under Wei Ying’s arm. Nonetheless, Lan Wangji leads them to the hanshi; this is a matter worthy of waking his brother, regardless of the hour. 

Lan Xichen opens the door quickly after they arrive, wearing a robe loosely tied over his sleeping garments. Lan Wangji wonders if he had been asleep at all, or if he had been lying awake in bed, waiting restless for morning to arrive.

“Wangji, Wei-gongzi,” he says, frowning in his confusion. “What is it?”

“Brother. We have discovered the cause of the illness,” Lan Wangji says without preamble.

Lan Xichen’s eyes go wide. “Come in,” he says, stepping aside for them to enter.

They take a seat at the table and Wei Ying places the book down between them, open to the Song of Caibu. Lan Xichen picks it up and reads, his face growing darker as he does so. 

“You found this in the room of forbidden books?”

“Yes.”

“With Wei Wuxian?”

Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen’s eyes meet. Lan Wangji sits straighter, his spine iron. “Yes.”

Wei Ying’s gaze bounces between the two of them anxiously. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Lan Wangji says. 

“It is forbidden for any but a senior disciple of the Lan sect to enter the room. It is sealed against any who do not possess a jade pendant.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says. “Uh, well, I was just helping Wangji. He was there the whole time, he didn’t take his eyes off of me! And besides, I’m not even a cultivator. I can’t do anything with any of those books anyway.”

“Brother,” Lan Wangji says, wanting to take this scrutiny off of Wei Ying, who does not deserve it. “The missing pages.”

Lan Xichen sighs, looking back down at the book. “Yes. I think you’re right. I will speak with the Elders right away. Now that we know the source, we may be able to find a remedy. Although, it would be easier if we had the song to know what we were working against.”

“There is something else,” Lan Wangji says. His brother looks up at him, his eyes dark clouds. “Whoever is doing this had access to the room.”

Lan Xichen nods solemnly. “So it would seem.”

“Wait,” Wei Ying says, looking between them. “Does that mean it’s a Lan disciple? That seems … unlikely. Right? “

“Not necessarily a disciple,” Lan Wangji says. “Somebody with access to Cloud Recesses. Somebody with a jade pendant.”

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says, his voice strained, “he wouldn’t…”

“It’s not just that he has a pendant,” Wei Ying breaks in as he catches on. He shoots a look at Lan Wangji, who nods at him. He continues, “Jin Guangyao had access to Cloud Recesses and a pendant, which makes him a suspect. But we also know he visits the Unclean Realm often, and is a skilled musician.”

“A-Yao was with me in the Unclean Realm when the disciples fell sick,” Lan Xichen says. “And Mingjue did not get sick for many months after a-Yao’s last visit. Besides, what motivation could he have to harm Mingjue? Not to mention his father. His son.”

They sit with this, considering, when Wei Ying says, “He didn’t have his pendant with him. He said he left it back at Carp Tower. Is it possible someone took it from him?”

“He would have told me if he lost it,” Lan Xichen says, although he sounds uncertain. 

“I would like to go to Carp Tower to question Liangfang-zun,” Lan Wangji says.

Lan Xichen’s head drops for a moment. He nods it, conflicted and sad. “Do what you must, Wangji,” he says.

Wei Ying is fidgeting beside him. Lan Wangji glances over, sees the dark circle under his red raw eyes. “We will leave in the morning,” he says. 

“I will send word to Carp Tower to expect you.”

“Is that a good idea?” Wei Ying interjects. “Only, if they know we’re coming, won’t that give them time to, you know, hide the evidence?”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji acknowledges. “We cannot arrive at Carp Tower without announcement.”

“Yes, I would prefer if you don’t unduly strain relations between our sects for a theory,” Lan Xichen says, more than a little coldly. Wei Ying shrinks back.

That’s enough for tonight.

Lan Wangji rises. “We will need to rest before travel,” he says. “Goodnight, brother.”

“Goodnight, Wangji. Wei-gongzi,” Lan Xichen says, and bows them out into the night.

--------

They do not leave Cloud Recesses until late the next morning. Lan Xichen sends word to Carp Tower ahead of their departure, as agreed, and Lan Wangji and Wei Ying spend an hour sitting with the elders to provide details of what they found the night before. Lan Wangji then joins Lan Xichen to meet with the doctors and senior disciples to discuss the Song of Caibu and determine a path forward for potentially reversing the effects of the illness. 

“Do you think they’ll be able to find a cure?” Wei Ying asks as they finish their packing. 

“They are very accomplished cultivators,” Lan Wangji says.

“But not as good as you?” Wei Ying says, lifting one amused eyebrow at him.

“Mm,” Lan Wangji acknowledges. 

“So modest, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying smiles at him with the edge of a laugh. “Should we be going, though? Don’t you want to stay to help?”

Lan Wangji finishes packing his qiankun and belts it to his side, carefully considering Wei Ying’s words. “They want me to stay,” he says. “I believe my time is best spent tracking down the culprit and finding the missing pages.”

What Lan Wangji doesn’t say is that there are other reasons he is eager to leave Cloud Recesses, his brother’s cold reception of Wei Ying being chief amongst them.

Wei Ying accepts his explanation with a nod. “Makes sense,” he says. “Hopefully we can track it down quickly. Speaking of,” he looks up at Lan Wangji with a serious expression, “I’ve been thinking. We should pay a visit to the Unclean Realm. The way I see it, there are three suspects right now. The man with the candy a-Lin saw -- who could be anybody. Jin Guangyao, whose motive is dubious at best. And … Nie Huaisang.”

He’s looking at Lan Wangji, braced, defense at the ready, as though waiting for Lan Wangji to contradict him, to tell Wei Ying that he’s wrong.

Lan Wangji merely nods. “I agree,” he says.

“I know it seems crazy. Why would he hurt his own brother, right? But --- wait, you agree?”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. “Brother mentioned that Nie Huaisang had been unwell. It is possible he has been sickened by Nie Mingjue’s plundered qi.”

“Exactly,” Wei Ying says. “Plus, there’s something about his story that just doesn’t seem to add up. He mentioned music in his letter, which seems a little on-the-nose, you know?”

“I have questions as well,” Lan Wangji says. 

“Right. And, Nie Mingjue seems to have succumbed to this illness pretty fast, considering that, from everything I’ve heard, he was a strong cultivator.”

“There is another matter,” Lan Wangji says. “I found a handkerchief, clearly of Jin design, in his quarters. It had been intentionally placed there for me to discover. “

“I don’t like it,” Wei Ying says, chewing on the side of his cheek. “What’s this Nie Huaisang like? Seems like it could be a power grab to me. Second brother, angling for the crown and all that. It’s all very Game of Thrones.”

Lan Wangji hesitates. “I know Nie Huaisang from his days as a guest disciple at Cloud Recesses. He never seemed particularly interested in cultivating his qi, nor in the mantle of sect leader.”

“Mm. Curiouser and curiouser,” Wei Ying says. “Well, we’re not going to find the answers here. Let’s hit the road!”

They choose to walk to Caiyi on foot to retrieve the donkey Lan Wangji had purchased for their journey from Mo Village, left behind in the rush to Cloud Recesses and kindly tended by the Peng family in their absence.

It’s a pleasant morning, an early autumn breeze blowing chill through Lan Wangji’s robes, even as the sun begins to blaze with noon heat. Lan Wangji enjoys this time of year. Spring is a beautiful thaw, but autumn holds a special place in his heart, when the world around him starts to go red. When he was little, his mother used to tie red ribbons into flowers and braid them through his hair. He’d asked her, once, why she used red ribbons instead of blue. She’d laughed, kissed him on the nose. “Red is the color of luck, a-Zhan. And I'm very lucky to have you.”

“I bet it’s beautiful here when the leaves change,” Wei Ying says, startling Lan Wangji out of the memory. Wei Ying is walking beside him, arms draped over his head as he looks up at the trees. He is back in Mo Xuanyu’s red and black robes, which are rucked up slightly revealing his already muddy shoes. How had he gotten them muddy ? Lan Wangji wonders. The ground is dry. 

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, then pauses before adding, “it is my favorite season.”

“Really?” Wei Ying says, enthusiastic, as though it is the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. “Mine too! I mean, I love summer, everyone always expects me to say it’s summer. And, summer’s great! But there was no school in the summer, which meant no seeing friends. I just had to be home all the time, and …” he stops, struggles with himself for a moment. Lan Wangji watches him, sees the moment when the steel shoots through him with decision, “and home wasn’t a very fun place for me. Fall meant friends again, and I’ve just always associated it with that happy feeling.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says, turning over the pebble that Wei Ying has handed him, a rare treasure of Wei Ying’s inner world. He tucks it away inside himself, and then searches, feeling the need to provide a gift in return. “It is the same for me,” he says. “The feeling of happiness. It reminds me of my mother.”

Wei Ying sways closer to him, their shoulders brushing together. “I bet your mom was pretty amazing,” he says. “She’d have to be, to have a son like you.”

Lan Wangji feels a threadbare patch inside himself, the memory of his mother worn thin by the constant worrying of his hands as a child. Too thin, too precious now, to examine often, lest it wear away to nothing. 

“So,” Wei Ying says, his voice louder, heartier than it had been a moment ago, signalling a shift to a new topic, “speaking of parents, Lan Zhan. I’ve been thinking. We know that you got sent to my world by someone, right? And it seems likely that whoever it is did it to get you out of the way.”

He pauses, and Lan Wangji realizes that Wei Ying is nervous, waiting for Lan Wangji to say something. He’s not entirely sure what is expected of him. “Mm,” he offers.

“It’s probably related to this whole qi-song, right? And, if that’s the case, it might help us find whoever’s behind it if we track down who sent you back, and how.”

“It could aid the investigation,” Lan Wangji allows.

Wei Ying takes a large breath, clearly preparing for whatever request he wants to make. As though Lan Wangji would deny him anything. “I think,” he says in a rush of air, “that we should try to find Baoshan Sanren.”

Lan Wangji looks at Wei Ying discreetly. Wei Ying is looking decidedly away from him, an affected air of nonchalance, which does more to reveal just how much he wants what he’s asking for than any enthusiasm or begging could. 

Lan Wangji doesn’t ask him to clarify. He doesn’t explain to him that Baoshan Sanren hasn’t been seen for nearly two decades. 

“Mm,” he says, and lets Wei Ying’s smile wash over him like warm summer rain. 

--------

The journey to Carp Tower usually takes four days by ground. This ensures that the news of their visit will arrive well ahead of them, to give their hosts time to prepare. They set a grueling pace, and hope to make it in three. 

“Still enough time to stash the evidence,” Wei Ying grumbles to Lan Wangji, “but maybe we can at least catch them a little off-guard.” Lan Wangji nods, despite harboring doubts about the ability to ever find Jin Guangyao off-guard or unprepared. Still he feels confident that, with Wei Ying’s assistance, if there is anything to find, they will find it.

The first night, they make camp outside, beneath a persimmon tree, full with early fruit, about half a li off the road. Lan Wangji makes a fire and begins cooking their evening meal while Wei Ying busies himself with finding a spot to set up the bedrolls. “You’ve got to find the softest ground, Lan Zhan. There’s an art to this, you know? A lot of people just look and think ‘ground is ground!’ and will settle down anywhere. It takes a real connoisseur to find the best spot though. What you want to look for is a place a little off from the trees. Far enough away that you won’t get any unexpected roots in your back, but close enough that the ground is still partially shaded from the sun during the day. Like right here!” he says, triumphantly unrolling the bedroll with a flourish over a patch of ground that looks indistinguishable from any other to Lan Wangji. “Come try!” he says, plopping onto the bedroll and patting the space beside him.

Lan Wangji gives a final stir of the pot before replacing the lid, and goes to join Wei Ying. He is surprised to find that Wei Ying is, somewhat inexplicably, correct. The ground here is softer than it was where Lan Wangji had been kneeling by the fire.

“Good, right?” Wei Wing says eagerly.

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, watching as Wei Ying’s eyes sparkle with the praise.

“Told you! I was always in charge of finding where to put the tent whenever I went camping with Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli. Given, we were only ever camping in our backyard, or one of the farms, but still.”

Dinner that night is filled with stories from Wei Ying’s childhood, some improbable -- “and then I just lifted Jiang Cheng over my head and threw him into the lake!” -- and some revealing the frayed edges of other truths. “There was this tree in the backyard, it was taller than all the others, but it had this twisted knot right at the base, just low enough that you could use it as a step, kind of, to help get to one of the branches to climb. It kind of looked like a baby, so we called it the Ying Tree,” he laughs. “Also probably because that was always the first place they looked for me whenever I ran away. I’ve always been an expert tree climber.”

Perhaps to prove his point, Wei Ying walks over to the persimmon tree and pulls himself up onto one of the low branches.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, although it is not high and there really is no danger in it.

“Don’t worry so much, Lan Zhan, I’m fine! I’m great at climbing. Besides, the ripest fruit will be at the top!”

He begins to ascend the tree, testing branches before putting his full weight on them, staying near the trunk, until he has reached the apex. He shuffles out along a thin branch and gives several of the fruits an evaluating squeeze. Satisfied, he plucks a couple.

“Pretty good,” he says. “This one has a bit of a bruise. But this one,” he looks down at Lan Wangji, “this one is perfect. Catch, Lan Zhan!”

He tosses the fruit down to him, and Lan Wangji catches it easily. “A perfect fruit for a perfect man!” he laughs with a wink. 

Wei Ying picks several more of the persimmons, bundling them in the skirt of his robe, and precariously climbs back down the tree. Lan Wangji watches him, resisting the urge to hold out his arms. Wei Ying will not fall. He will not need Lan Wangji to catch him.

That night, before they sleep, Wei Ying inspects the bedrolls one final time. He looks over his shoulder at Lan Wangji, who is cleaning up from their meal and packing things back into his qiankun pouch so that they can start their journey again easily in the morning.

“Lan Zhan, I think maybe the ground’s a little better over here,” he says, picking up one of the bedrolls and dragging it so that it lays flush to the side of the other. “Do you mind, or --?”

“I do not mind,” Lan Wangji says. He wonders if Wei Ying is worried about nightmares again.

They settle in for sleep, side by side, Wei Ying curled into himself, his back to Lan Wangji,  Lan Wangji lying flat and gazing up at the stars through the reaching branches overhead. If in the night, they roll towards each other, wake up twined together with the practiced ease of lovers’ hands, neither of them mentions it. 

--------

A-Lin is glaring at them as Wei Ying pulls on the donkey’s lead with his full strength, succeeding in doing nothing more than eliciting a few derisive snorts from the animal, clearly unimpressed with his efforts.

“Lan Zhan, are you going to help me? This damn ass won’t move!”

The Peng family watches the scene, poorly concealed laughter in Peng Xu and Bai Meidan’s faces. “It’s our fault, I’m afraid,” Peng Xu says, as Bai Meidan hides her smile behind her hand. “A-Lin is rather fond of Little Apple and has been spoiling her.”

“Little Apple?”

“His name for her,” Peng Xu explains. “He’s been feeding her apples everyday. She won’t even look at grass anymore. You might not find her a suitable travelling companion.”

Lan Wangji reaches for his purse, counting out several coins and passing them to Peng Xu to repay him for the expense of stabling the donkey and providing for its apparently particular tastes. 

“I will help you find a more suitable pack animal,” Peng Xu says. “I believe the innkeeper has a mule he would be willing to lend you.”

“No!” Wei Ying says, leaning on the donkey’s neck and panting. The donkey steps to the side, causing him to slip, barely catching himself before he topples over. “I like Little Apple! Nothing wrong with some spunk, right? And besides --” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out one of the persimmons he has stashed there “--I can respect an animal with good taste.”

The donkey steps forward, nostrils huffing with interest. It lips the fruit tentatively, before biting it out of Wei Ying’s hand, nearly taking a few fingers with it. “Yikes! You beast!” he yelps, though it is oddly affectionate.

A-Lin is still watching with a grumpy expression, though his arms had relaxed from their stubbornly crossed position when Wei Ying fed the fruit to Little Apple.

“If you’re sure…” Peng Xu says.

“I’m sure,” Wei Ying says firmly. “So long as a-Lin doesn’t mind, that is.”

A-Lin, noticing that the adults are now looking at him, colors and looks away, staring at the ground. 

Wei Ying walks up to him, removing the small notebook and pen he has stored in his pocket -- the Peng family look at the strange items with interest, but don’t ask. 

Wei Ying scratches out something for a-Lin that Lan Wangji can’t see, and holds it out to the boy. A-Lin looks up at the notebook and reads whatever it is that Wei Ying has written. His eyebrows scrunch together as Wei Ying smiles brightly and nods his head. He takes another persimmon and holds it out to the boy.

A-Lin looks at the fruit for a long moment, before he nods and accepts it. “Great!” Wei Ying says, clapping his hands together excitedly. “We’ll bring Little Apple back unharmed within a few weeks, at most.”

“If you insist,” Peng Xu says, clearly bemused by the whole situation, but not wanting to pry further into the dealings of cultivators.

“What did you say to him?” Lan Wangji asks as they exit Caiyi, Little Apple reluctantly in tow.

“Who, a-Lin?” Wei Ying asks as he is pulled slightly off-course by a stubborn tug of the donkey’s head. “I just told him that we would make sure that Little Apple only got the best fruit to eat, and we’d take good care of her.”

“Is that all?” Lan Wangji asks skeptically.

“Ah well,” Wei Ying laughs, rubs his nose. “I maybe promised him that we’d return her with some fruit for him as well. I figured, if he kept feeding Little Apple fruit, he must like it too. Kids are like that, they want to share the things they like. It was just a little innocent bribery. And don’t!” he exclaims suddenly, turning a waving finger on Lan Wangji, “start lecturing me about bribery being against the rules! I may not have finished copying them yet, but I’m sure it’s on there. But is there anything so bad about making a kid happy?”

Lan Wangji feels the corner of his mouth twitch. “ Do not bribe a law enforcer, ” he quotes. “I think you are in the clear for any rule breaking.”

“Unless little a-Lin is just deep undercover,” Wei Ying laughs. 

--------

They don’t make it as far as they had hoped. Wei Ying is easily distracted by their fellow travelers, making polite but lengthy inquiries about their destinations, their lives, weaving in made up stories of their own reasons for travel. Each of them, Wei Ying finds reason to ask about Baoshan Sanren. "Just call me Johnny Appleseed! Except, instead of apples, I'm planting seeds looking for some kind of apparently almighty immortal not-wizard."

Wei Ying's personable nature is something Lan Wangji had anticipated and accounted for, mentally, in his calculations for their trip. What he had not anticipated, however, was Little Apple.

Lan Wangji wonders if he should have intercepted Wei Ying’s insistence on bringing the donkey along -- Little Apple is more of a hindrance than anything. But Wei Ying seems attached to the donkey. From over his shoulder, Lan Wangji catches the soft, far-away smile on Wei Ying’s face as he rides Little Apple.

They reach a town a couple of hours before haishi, and Lan Wangji suggests that they stop for the evening for a meal and room, rather than pressing on into the night.

“Good idea,” Wei Ying says, hopping down from Little Apple, pressing his hands into his lower back and leaning into them with a series of little pops. “I could use a real bed tonight, honestly. Sleeping on the ground followed by a day riding a donkey is hard going. I feel like my entire back is just knots.”

Lan Wangji could massage those pains away for him. He could lay Wei Ying out on his front on a bed, robes shrugged down revealing the expanse of his back. He could straddle his hips, dig his knuckles into that tanned skin, leaving red bruises behind as Wei Ying gasps beneath him --

“Look, there’s the inn!” Wei Ying says, pointing. “I’m starving, let’s go, Lan Zhan!”

He grabs Lan Wangji’s wrist and tugs him forward. Lan Wangji tightens his grip around Little Apple’s reins and allows himself to be led.

“One room or two?” the innkeeper asks after they have stabled Little Apple in the wood shed for the night, Wei Ying leaving an offering of his final persimmons behind (“we’ll have to buy more before we head out tomorrow.”)

“Two,” Lan Wangji says regretfully, just as Wei Ying says, “One!”

They look at each other.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, eyes wide and embarrassed. “Yikes, sorry. Right, make that two--”

“--one,” Lan Wangji says.

They stare at each other again.

The innkeeper makes an irritated huff. “Do you want something to eat while you two figure it out?” he asks.

“Yes, Lan Wangji says, his insides wriggling. “Dinner. And wine.”

The man leads them to a table, bustling back over a moment later with two bottles of wine and two cups.

“You have the best ideas, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying sighs as he pours himself some wine and takes a satisfied sip. “Nothing hits after a long day of travel like wine.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. He sweeps his sleeves out of the way as he takes the bottle and refills Wei Ying’s cup.

--------

They end up taking one room for the night. The innkeeper had returned after they completed their meal and, after an awkward silence, Lan Wangji had requested a single room. Wei Ying, who is a little glassy-eyed with alcohol, sagged with relief next to him. Lan Wangji warred with the satisfied feeling that welled up inside of him. If Wei Ying wanted to share a room, that meant that he was likely still having the nightmares, no matter how quiet the last few nights had been. 

Once in the room, Wei Ying turns to Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji knows what is coming.

“I will take the floor,” Lan Wangji says, heading him off.

“Lan Zhan. You’re paying for the room. You obviously get the bed.”

“I am paying for the room. I can decide who sleeps in the bed.”

“What? No, that’s ridiculous, it doesn’t work that way--”

Lan Wangji, deciding that he doesn’t particularly want to rehash this argument yet again, turns his back to Wei Ying mid-argument, takes out his bedroll and spreads it out on the floor, laying down while still wearing his travel clothes.

“ Really , Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, sharp and exasperated. “You are actually the most stubborn person I have ever met, do you know that?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t reply. He crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes, not so much preparing to sleep as faking it.

He hears Wei Ying’s huff and mutinous mutter, followed by the sounds of his footsteps and blankets being pulled back. He thinks, with dark satisfaction, that he has won: Wei Ying has relented to reason. 

Then the robe hits him in the face.

He blinks his eyes open in surprise and sees Wei Ying, disrobed down to his trousers, grinning over him from the bed, a wicked look in his eyes. “That’s not gonna work on me, Lan Zhan! You forget, I have a little brother. I’m used to all your didi tricks!”

He swings the balled up robes at Lan Zhan again, with a loud cackle.

Lan Wangji can’t believe it. He’s never -- it’s not --

It’s not proper . It’s so childish .

With a flick of spiritual energy, he summons one of Wei Ying’s discarded layers and catches it, wadding it into a ball and wielding it like a sword.

Wei Ying’s smile falters.

“Whoa, Lan Zhan, are you actually gonna --”

His next words are lost as the robe connects with the side of his head.

Wei Ying falls sideways in the bed. An arrow of panic shoots through Lan Wangji. Did he hurt him? He hadn’t been thinking clearly. Wei Ying isn’t as strong as him, what if he really hurt him, what if he injured him?

“Wei Ying,” he says, rising on his knees.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says. “Oh, it is on.”

Lan Wangji just manages to dodge out of the way of the attack, but Wei Ying has grabbed the final discarded layer now and circles it around on the backswing. Lan Wangji rolls to avoid it, ending up on his feet, robe in his hands, heart thudding with adrenaline. 

“I hope you’re ready, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says with a glimmer of teeth. “You’re about to face the pillow fighting champion . ”

“These are robes,” Lan Wangji points out, eyes gleaming. He shifts his footing to a more stable fighting stance. “But it will be an honor to take your title.”

--------

The weather turns inclement the next day. Heavy, sharp rain falls, stinging against Lan Wangji’s face. His robes are soaked through within the first hour on the road, and Wei Ying shivers atop Little Apple next to him, unnaturally quiet. Lan Wangji attempts to use a heating talisman to provide a little relief, but it is soon smudged and ruined in the rain.

“I miss cars,” Wei Ying grumbles next to him. “Hell, I miss public transportation. I miss the bus . Nobody should ever miss the bus, Lan Zhan. The bus is horrible. It’s the worst place. It is an actual manifestation of hell on earth. And yet, here we are. At least the bus has heat.”

Lan Wangji, who rode the bus with Wei Ying a couple of times back in his world, thinks that, while he doesn’t exactly long for it right now the way Wei Ying clearly does, he wouldn’t mind a little shelter.

They push on, travelling into the late afternoon, cold and miserable. When they reach a fork in the road, Lan Wangji notices a curl of smoke not far off. He knows the next town isn’t for several li yet, and Wei Ying has begun to slump sideways on Little Apple’s back. He leads them towards the smoke, and when they see the rundown shack it is issuing from, they don’t even discuss it. 

They knock on the door, but there is no answer. Wei Ying peers in through one of the windows. “Nobody inside,” he says. “No furniture either. It looks abandoned.”

Despite the shabby nature of the building, they’re pleased to find that, inside, it is dry and there’s a stack of wood in the corner. Embers are burning low from a snuffed fire, the source of the smoke the Lan Wangji had seen. There are other signs of occupation -- robes, hardly more than rags, piled in a corner, and what looks like it might be a doll -- a piece of cloth stuffed with grass that pokes out in places, tied together with string, with a face drawn in coal. Lan Wangji wonders at this, but wastes no time in stoking a fire back to life. If somebody is staying here, he’ll explain the situation and replace the wood. 

They shrug out of their wet robes, laying them out to dry, both avoiding looking at the other. 

“At this rate, we’re not going to get to Carp Tower for a week,” Wei Ying says bitterly. “Maybe we should’ve flown after all.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. “We could find somewhere to stable Little Apple in the next town, and make the rest of the way by sword.”

“Probably for the best,” Wei Ying nods. “So what do you want to do while we wait out the rain? Do you think it’ll last long?”

“It is the rainy season,” Lan Wangji says simply. 

“Great. Well, I guess we can tough it out, if it comes to it.”

Lan Wangji hums in agreement. They’ll have to, if the rain doesn’t let up. It’s too important for them to get to Carp Tower, to move the investigation along. They’ve already been delayed too much as is.

The heat from the fire fills the small room quickly, although Wei Ying continues to shiver. Lan Wangji takes one of the robes from the pile and drapes it over Wei Ying’s shoulders. “Thanks,” Wei Ying says. He reaches down and picks up the little cloth doll that has rolled to his feet. He turns it over in his hands a few times, and sighs. “I miss a-Yuan,” he says, taking Lan Wangji by surprise.

Wei Ying is huddled towards the fire, arms wrapped around himself as he stares at the flames, the light dancing across his features. Lan Wangji watches him. There’s a hollowed out quality to him, that makes Lan Wangji what to crack him open and look inside. 

“You can go back,” Lan Wangji says. 

Wei Ying flinches, pulling away from the fire. “No!” he says, with scared, wild animal eyes.

Lan Wangji feels a confused flush of relief, mingled with curiosity and concern.

“Wei Ying,” he says, his voice soft, reaching out a hand as he would to one of his rabbits. “Won’t you tell me what happened?”

He hand hovers over Wei Ying’s chest, just above the spot where the mark is burned into him. To his surprise, Wei Ying doesn’t move away.

“I --” he stops, and swallows. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He won’t meet Lan Wangji’s eyes. He’s hiding, Lan Wangji can see that he’s hiding. He reaches out with his other hand and takes Wei Ying’s chin gently, turning his head back towards him. “Wei Ying,” he says. “Please tell me. I want to help.”

Wei Ying’s eyes are hard, determined. He opens his mouth, and Lan Wangji can see that it is going to be a lie.

He can’t hear it. He can’t hear another lie from Wei Ying, another deflection, another shuttering down of walls between them. Before Wei Ying can speak, Lan Wangji presses his hand into the scarred skin over his heart. “Do not say it is nothing,” Lan Wangji says, his voice low and warm.

“Lan Zhan, please, I --” Wei Ying closes his eyes, breathes in sharply. “It was Wen Chao, okay?” he says, red blooming in his cheeks. He moves away from Lan Wangji, removing his hand. “It was Wen Chao. Jiang Cheng was right. Wen Qing was right. Everyone was right, and I was just … too stupid to see it. I don’t regret any of it!” he says, firing up and turning a heated look on Lan Wangji. “I just. I would’ve been more careful. It’s my fault for not taking him seriously.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says when Wei Ying stops talking and gazes into the distance with a dark expression, “what did he do?”

“He found out I was working at Burial Grounds,” Wei Ying says, his voice flat and expressionless. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly hiding it. He waited until I was closing one night, and ambushed me in the alley when I was taking out the trash. I tried to fight him off but …well. I haven’t exactly been in fighting condition for a while. He dragged me back in and --” Wei Ying’s voice cracks. Lan Wangji thinks he’s crying, but then the light of the fire moves over his face, and Lan Wangji doesn’t see tears there. Wei Ying looks angry. Looks dark and vicious in a way that sends shivers through Lan Wangji.

“Let’s just say, this isn’t the only scar,” Wei Ying says, his fingers tracing the red raised edges, “but it was more of the creative ones. He heated the stencil we have for making designs in the foam and used it to brand me. At least it’s cute, huh? I can just pretend that it’s art. A cute little sun, very beachy. The other scars aren’t as nice.”

Lan Wangji feels sick.

He feels dangerous.

He feels like gathering Wei Ying into his arms, removing the final layers of clothes between them, and pressing his mouth to every scar as though he can heal these old wounds through sheer force of emotion.

He knows Wei Ying would never let him. 

“What happened?” Lan Wangji asks. 

“Nothing.”

“But --”

“Nothing, Lan Zhan. After he’d had his fun with me, he left me there. Probably thought I was dead. I probably would’ve been dead if it weren’t for Wen Qing. I had my phone and called her. She came and got me to a hospital. They called the cops, of course, but I just told them it was an accident.”

“Wei Ying --”

“Lan Zhan ,” Wei Ying snips back, mimicking his tone. “Don’t. Don’t start. You don’t understand. It wouldn’t matter if I went to the police. Wen Chao is untouchable. It’ll do nothing but cause more trouble.”

Lan Wangji clenches his jaw, tries to master the anger that is clawing through him. “When did this happen?”

“About five months ago.”

Five months. So soon after Lan Wangji left. If only he’d stayed. If only he’d stayed a little longer, with Wei Ying --

“It doesn’t matter,” Wei Ying says. “He’s made his point, and I got the message. He won’t do anything else. The main thing is, Wen Ning is getting treatment. They’re all safe. It’s all the matters.”

“It is not,” Lan Wangji says stiffly, “all that matters. Wei Ying matters.”

Wei Ying fixes a crooked smile on him at this pronouncement. “That’s sweet, Lan Zhan, but I think you’ll find that you’re wrong about that.”

Lan Wangji is not wrong. Not about this. He was wrong to leave Wei Ying. He was wrong not to understand the danger that Wei Ying was in. He was wrong not to drag Wei Ying to Cloud Recesses with him, to safety. He --

He shakes his head. No. He tamps down the impulse. No, he was not wrong about that. He will not -- he is not --

“Wei Ying matters,” Lan Wangji repeats. 

Lan Wangji is not his father. 

He will not imprison Wei Ying to protect him.

Lan Wangji will not allow fear to control him. 

He will protect Wei Ying, no matter what he has to give up to do it. But he will not give up Wei Ying’s freedom.

“Alright, I’m calling it. I’m too sober for this conversation.” Wei Ying walks over to where his robe is stretched out, drying, and reaches into the pocket, removing a bottle of wine. “I got a couple for the road,” he says to Lan Wangji. “I thought it might come in handy between towns. And look! I was right.”

He sprawls out by the fire, and takes a drink straight from the bottle. “Sure I can’t tempt you, Lan Zhan?”

Later, he’s not sure what makes him do it. It was impulsive, irresponsible. None of the things that Lan Wangji tries to be. 

But in the moment, Wei Ying is looking at him, holding out the bottle with an impish smile and distant flat eyes, and Lan Wangji takes the bottle and drinks.

“Oh--” Wei Ying says.

Lan Wangji remembers the taste of it, surprisingly sweet, even as it burns the back of his throat, makes his nose sting. He remembers handing the bottle back to Wei Ying, as the heat in his throat spread through his chest. His stomach. Up his neck into his ears. 

Then, he remembers nothing.

--------

Lan Wangji has had headaches before. Usually, induced by being subjected to the petty politicking of self-important men. These headaches he handles with grace, knowing he will be able to meditate soon and the pain will recede once he has cleared his mind.

He is unused to the dizziness. The rolling nausea of his stomach. The way the light burns even through his eyelids. His limbs feel heavy, and weariness wraps around his brain like morning fog. He wonders if he can let sleep take him again, and push off this day a little longer.

Then, he registers that he is hearing voices.

“Are you still hungry? We can take you to town, get you something to eat,” Wei Ying says, his voice quiet and gentle.

“They won’t let you sell you anything. Not if I’m with you.”

The second voice is high, young. A girl’s voice, derisive and bitter.

Lan Wangji sits up, just managing to stifle a groan as his body protests, the room lurching with a particularly painful throb of his head.

“Lan Zhan! You’re awake!” 

In a moment, Wei Ying is at his side, holding out a water skin. “Drink some water. Can you get my medical kit out of your qiankun? I have something that can help with the headache. Do you have a headache? You look like you have a headache.”

Lan Wangji nods -- opening his mouth feels like a gamble he’s not willing to make at the moment. He casts a look around him for his robes, then realizes he is wearing them. They are the same ones he wore yesterday, twisted uncomfortably around his shoulders, as though someone else has dressed him. He feels grubby with the knowledge that he slept through the night in his travelling clothes. He’ll need to change into a spare set before they head out. He reaches down to his hip and rummages through the qiankun bag until his fingers land on the hard, plastic handle. He draws it out and hands it to Wei Ying.

“Thanks,” Wei Ying says. He pops the kit open and takes out a bottle, twisting off the lid and tapping a couple of pills into his palm. “Swallow these,” he says. “With the water. Don’t chew.”

Lan Wangji does as instructed, his stomach rolling a little with the water. He wills himself to keep it down.

“I can see why you don’t drink now, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, a smile creeping over his face. “I never would’ve thought you were such a lightweight. I didn’t know it was possible to be that much of a lightweight. One swig of wine, and you were gone. How are you feeling?”

“Bad,” Lan Wangji says. Then, “I do not remember what happened after drinking.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says. “I kinda thought you might not. Don’t worry about it, Lan Zhan, nothing happened.”

Wei Ying is fidgeting, not looking at Lan Wangji. There’s a strained, perhaps embarrassed quality to the way he says it. Panic joins nausea in the burble of Lan Wangji’s stomach. 

“Wei Ying, if I did anything--”

“No no, Lan Zhan, you were fine!” Wei Ying says, waving a hand at him.

And then, Lan Wangji sees it.

Wrapped around Wei Ying’s wrist.

A familiar white ribbon. 

He lifts a hand up to his forehead, and feels that it is bare. Lan Wangji isn’t sure if it is the room that is moving, or if it is him.

“Oh, I have it here!” Wei Ying says in a rush, noticing Lan Wangji’s distress as he touches his forehead. “Don’t worry! Here, you can have it back.”

He begins to struggle with the knot of the ribbon, trying to untie it with a single hand without success. He makes a motion as though to add his teeth to the effort. Lan Wangji can’t take it. He grabs Wei Ying’s wrist before he can put his mouth on the ribbon and begins to untie it with dextrous fingers.

“Thanks,” Wei Ying says.

The knot comes free, and Lan Wangji unloops the ribbon from around Wei Ying’s wrist. There’s a red mark, a slight bruising on the delicate skin of his inner wrist. Lan Wangji frowns, rubs his thumb along the mark. A flash of memory, of himself holding the end of the ribbon and tugging Wei Ying down onto the bedroll--

“I am sorry,” he says, the shame pounding in his ears. 

“No, Lan Zhan, don’t. It’s fine! I’m fine!”

It isn’t fine, though. Lan Wangji takes a deep breath and lets Wei Ying slip his wrist free of his grip.

“We have a guest, by the way,” Wei Ying says. “Or, I guess I should say, we’re the guests. This is her place -- Lan Wangji, this is a-Qing. A-Qing, our sleeping beauty has awoken. This is Lan Wangji.”

Lan Wangji finally tears his eyes from Wei Ying to look at the girl. She’s young, not quite a teen yet. Her hair is in an unbound, wild tangle around her face. Her robes are thin and torn, rumpled and dusty. She looks as though she has been living rough for a long time, although her face isn’t as thin as he would expect from a child living on the streets.

Lan Wangji rises from the bed, getting a little shakily to his feet, hoping that neither Wei Ying nor this strange girl notices. “Hello, a-Qing,” he says, bowing slightly.

She snorts at him, a little disbelievingly, and rolls her eyes. For all that they are clouded over with white, he notices that she follows his movements as he stands from his bow. 

“A-Qing was just telling me,” Wei Ying says, “that this is her place. She sleeps here most nights, before we so rudely barged in. Although, I maintain, that she definitely scared me more than we scared her. Not to mention, she’s got a pretty good swing,” he rubs the back of his head and winces. “A-Qing is not one to mess with, Lan Zhan. Especially not if she’s got a stick.” He says this final part in a reprimanding tone, as though Lan Wangji had been considering otherwise. He frowns at Wei Ying, who affixes him with a toothy smile.

“It’s my place,” a-Qing says, sticking her chin in the air defiantly. “I have a right to defend it from smelly bums, even if they’re cultivators!”

“Damn straight you do!” Wei Ying says enthusiastically. “We’re sorry for inviting ourselves in, but we really were just trying to escape the rain. We were going to replace the fire wood.”

“I don’t care about the wood,” a-Qing says. “But if you’re going to treat it like an inn, then you should pay for lodging!”

Lan Wangji, for all that he is mystified by this bold, rude child, is equal parts transfixed by the way Wei Ying is bouncing on his heels, evidently delighted by her sharp tongue, the way she has her arms crossed defiantly in front of her as she manages to give the impression of looming for all the she is several heads shorter than both of them.

“Of course I’ll pay,” Wei Ying says. “I wouldn’t stiff the owner of such a fine establishment, especially not one so hospitable as yourself.”

As he says it, Wei Ying extends a hand towards Lan Wangji and clicks his fingers expectantly. Lan Wangji can do nothing but hand over his coin purse in bemusement. “Here you go!” Wei Ying says, counting out what is, quite frankly, an irresponsible amount of money into the girl’s hand. Her eyes go wide in shock before she catches Lan Wangji looking, and schools her face back into passive disdain. 

“All settled up here?” Wei Ying says. “Then please, let us treat you to a meal in thanks.”

The girl narrows her eyes dubiously at the offer, but, eventually, her hunger seems to win out. “Fine,” she says. “But I’m ordering whatever I want.”

“Sure, yeah, of course,” Wei Ying says. “Lan Zhan, let’s go!”

--------

At the first teahouse, the owner greets them genially enough, before spotting a-Qing. “Oh, girl, get out of here!” he says to her, shooing at her with a rag. “One moment, please,” he apologizes to Wei Ying and Lan Wangji. 

“The girl is with us,” Lan Wangji says, intercepting as he goes to chase her out of the store.

“Oh,” the man stops mid step, looking between them and the ragged child who is now standing half hidden behind Lan Wangji. He chews his cheek. “Oh, well. My apologies, I just remembered, I need to close up. I have -- uh -- errands to run that can’t wait.”

The next moment, they find themselves politely bustled into the street, the door swinging closed behind them.

“What --?” Wei Ying starts.

 A-Qing snorts. “I told you.”

Unwilling to give up so easily, they continue to try places, but at every turn they’re met with closed doors.

“What is happening?” Wei Ying asks in bemusement. “A-Qing, did you insult everyone’s mothers or something?”

“Probably,” a-Qing shrugs. “But that’s not why they’re doing it.”

“Then why…?”

“She’s cursed.”

An old woman working a steamed bun kiosk is looking at them over her wares, her eyes sharp on a-Qing. 

“Cursed?” Lan Wangji asks.

The woman sucks at her teeth. “That’s what I said. Figured she must not’ve told you, if you’re walking around with her. But that one’s cursed. Brings bad luck wherever she goes.”

“I’m not cursed!” a-Qing shoots back, stamping her foot in the dirt. 

“Did she tell you what happened in Yi City?”

At this, a-Qing goes very still. Lan Wangji notices the sudden change, but doesn’t take his eyes off of the old woman, not wanting to draw attention. “If the child is cursed, why was a cultivator not called in to help her?”

The woman snorts. “Who can afford it? Who’s going to pay for a blind orphan?”

“A good person?” Wei Ying says heatedly. The woman looks unabashed, shrugging one shoulder as she leans on her cart.

“We will help her,” Lan Wangji says. It’s inappropriate to offer. They’re in Lanling Jin territory now, after all, if just on the outskirts. The girl falls under their oversight. If there is a curse -- which Lan Wangji remains unconvinced of -- then it would be an insult for a Lan cultivator to come in uninvited and handle it. 

“I’m not cursed!” a-Qing yells again, stepping forward with her hands on her hips. “I have nothing to do with Yi City.”

“Ma’am,” Wei Ying chimes in suddenly. “Will you let us buy some food from you? Then we’ll leave and get out of your hair.”

The woman frowns, looking down at a-Qing, then at Lan Wangji -- his pristine, white and blue robes, Bichen at his side, the silver adornments in his hair.

“Unless you think Hanguang-jun’s money is cursed as well?”

At the name, the woman’s eyes shoot from his hair piece to his face in recognition. Lan Wangji does not acknowledge it. 

“Fine,” she says, “just hurry up. If people see her eating here,I’ll never make another cent.”

Wei Ying leans down to a-Qing to describe to her what is available at the booth and relaying her order to the woman. Three minutes later, they’re walking away with a bag stuffed with steamed buns and the eyes of the woman boring into their backs. 

They wait until they’ve made it back to a-Qing’s shack to eat. A-Qing begins shoving the buns into her mouth in single bites, as Wei Ying looks on with amusement. “So when did the racket stop working for you?” he asks her as she reaches for another bun. 

“What do you mean?” she asks stiffly. “What racket?”

“Well, you can obviously see,” Wei Ying says. “The way you managed to land that blow to my head when you came in is proof enough of that. But you didn’t seem to want anyone in town to realize. Made a whole thing out of not looking at anyone, not being able to see the food --”

“What’s it matter to you?” a-Qing snaps, grabbing another bun and shoving it whole into her mouth.

Wei Ying shrugs. “No judgment here. I know what it’s like to beg, far be it from me to judge you for what you need to do to survive.”

Lan Wangji frowns. When has Wei Ying been a beggar? Is it a lie to comfort the girl? But, then, he is so thin …

“...so I was just wondering when it stopped working.”

“Couple weeks ago,” the girl says, swallowing the mouthful of food with effort. It makes Lan Wangji’s eyes water. “After everyone got sick.”

Nothing about Wei Ying changes at this explanation from a-Qing, but Lan Wangji still feels his awareness sharpening. He himself continues watching a-Qing, stops himself from leaning forward to hear better. 

“Is that why they’re saying you’re cursed?”

A-Qing scowls at him. “I’m not cursed,” she says again. “I have nothing to do with it. I don’t even know most of the people who got sick!”

“Maybe Lan Zhan and I can check it out, see what’s actually going on, clear your name. If it’d make life easier for you.”

A-Qing pauses in reaching for yet another bun, as she sits back and affixes her white eyes on Wei Ying. “You’re not scared?”

Wei Ying puffs up his chest a little. “We don’t scare easily. Finish eating, and then you can take us there and tell us about what’s happened.”

--------

The city is still, an eerie silence hangs thick as fog. A-Qing leads them through the weaving streets, intent on her destination as Lan Wangji and Wei Ying follow.

Lan Wangji is uneasy. The city has the impression of being deserted. Except for the smell. 

They pass store fronts with spoiled meat, the stench spilling into the street from under doorways mingling with the sick sweet smell of rotten vegetables. At one stall, a dog with a patchy coat and protruding ribs snarls as they pass. Beside him, Wei Ying trembles, clutching Lan Wangji’s arm in a crushing grip. Lan Wangji moves them quickly past, keeping an eye on the animal, but it shows no interest in them. 

Near the center of town, a-Qing leads them into a shop with a faded sign, the window stuffed with glassy-eyed dolls. “This is some horror movie shit,” Wei Ying says under his breath, “and we’re the dumbasses walking towards the spooky sounds. Don’t worry, Lan Zhan, you’ll be fine. You’re clearly the pretty, competent main character. Whereas I’m the one whose about to get chased through the street topless. Remember me fondly.”

Lan Wangji isn’t about to let anything happen to Wei Ying, though. He tightens his grip on Bichen as they follow a-Qing into a back room. She approaches a pile of robes on the floor with a gentle manner, and Lan Wangji  becomes aware of the sound of labored breathing.

“Hey, Popo,” she says in a loud voice, “I brought some men to help us. They’re cultivators.”

“Cultivators?” comes a wheezing, thin voice. “How--?”

Lan Wangji steps forward into view. Bundled under a pile of robes is an old woman, her face lined and pale, eyes glazed with fever. “We are here to help,” he says.

Wei Ying joins him, crouching next to the old woman, reaching out to take her frail wrist in his hand. He presses his fingers to her pulse. He is smiling at her, but whatever he finds there shows in the tightness around his eyes, a crease between his brows. “Popo, a-Qing brought us here to help. Are you hungry? We’ve brought some food.”

Taking the cue, Lan Wangji reaches into his bag and pulls out a couple of the buns and hands them to Wei Ying. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even seem to notice he’s there. “A-Qing,” the woman rasps, “it’s dark, you need to leave--”

Daylight streams in through the windows. Wei Ying looks at Lan Wangji with concern as a-Qing clasps the woman’s hand. “Popo, can you tell us what happened to you?” Wei Ying asks.

“You need to speak up,” a-Qing snaps at him. “She can’t hear well, she’s old. How can you expect her to answer?”

Wei Ying apologizes, and repeats his question, louder this time.

“A ghost,” the woman says. “He comes in the dark. A-Qing, you need to leave, before he comes back --”

“We will keep a-Qing safe,” Wei Ying insists, taking her hand and stroking it comfortingly. “Tell me about the ghost.”

The old woman closes her eyes, her breath rattling in her throat. “Black as night,” she says, “can’t see him. Just … music.”

Lan Wangji and Wei Ying’s eyes meet. “Okay, Popo,” Wei Ying says. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle it.”

“Can you help her?” a-Qing asks, her voice sharp even as it shakes. Lan Wangji takes Wei Ying’s place at her side, holding her wrist. She has no core -- he hadn’t expected her to. It takes longer to find her qi as it roams untamed through her meridians -- weak and fading. He attempts to pass some of his own energy to her, but meets the same resistance he has before. There is a light touch on his shoulder, and he gives a minute shake of his head. 

“I think,” Wei Ying says, “that we need to catch a ghost.”

--------

They escort a-Qing back to the shack, Lan Wangji carrying Popo with them. “Be careful with her! She’s an old lady, not a sack of rice!”

“Lan Wangji is careful, a-Qing. Don’t worry,” Wei Ying says.

“I don’t know why we have to leave,” a-Qing frowns, not for the first time. “It’s her home. Can’t you just get rid of the ghost? What kind of cultivators are you?”

“We’ll handle it, but we promised your popo we’d keep you safe,” Wei Ying says. “Are you trying to make Lan Zhan a liar , a-Qing?”

She scowls at him in response. “I don’t care.”

“It will be best if you are out of the way,” Lan Wangji says, not unkindly. A-Qing’s scowl deepens, and she crosses her arms in a sulk. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, “I need to go to town and send a letter to Brother to let him know of Yi City. If they have made progress, they may be able to help the people there.”

Wei Ying nods. “No worries, Lan Zhan. I’ve got things handled here.”

It doesn’t take Lan Wangji long to find a messenger to dispatch his letter to Cloud Recesses. He finds a group of merchants traveling to Caiyi, who are eager to deliver the letter for him, happy to accept his gratitude and his coin. It should arrive in a couple of days, pending any delays on the road. In the meantime, though, Lan Wangji isn’t planning to leave Yi City on its own. This so-called ghost is the best lead they’ve had yet, and he’s not going to let the opportunity slip past him.

He returns to the shack a couple of hours before sunset, where he finds a-Qing and Wei Ying in a spirited debate about the best way to work the ‘orphan angle’. “See, what you want to do is go for the parents and the grandparents. Remind them of their own kids, and that’s when you get the good shit instead of the scraps.”

“Yeah, but you’re forgetting,” a-Qing says primly, “I’m blind. ”

They fall silent when Lan Wangji enters, Wei Ying jumping to his feet and hurrying over, looking a little abashed, although Lan Wangji hasn’t said anything. “Get your letter sent? All good, Lan Zhan?”

“Yes,” he says. “Brother should be able to have help to Yi City within four days. We should also alert Jin Guangyao of the crisis when we arrive. It is within their oversight.”

“Should you have sent the messenger to Carp Tower instead then?”

Yes, is the answer. But Lan Wangji did not, for reasons that they both understand, and are best not spoken of in front of others. He does his best to communicate this to Wei Ying without words.

“Right,” Wei Ying says. “Right, nevermind. So they’ll be here in four days. What do we do now, though?”

“I will go to Yi City tonight and observe the ghost for myself.”

“What? No!” a-Qing yells. She’s looking at them aghast. “You can’t! Do you have a death wish or something? I thought you were going to banish it. Stop it from getting in!”

Wei Ying is looking at him, head tilted to the side, appraising. “Okay,” he says. “If you’re going, then we gotta do something about the whole music thing. Hang on, I got this. Lan Zhan, do you have a candle?”

Lan Wangji digs one out of his qiankun pouch -- (“that thing is so handy, I’ve gotta get one”) -- and hands it to Wei Ying.

“Alright. A-Qing, give me a piece of scrap fabric.”

“I'm not your maid,” she snaps back, even as she does as asked. 

Within a couple of minutes, Wei Ying has created four small buds of fabric and wax. He hands a pair to Lan Wangji. “Warm it up with your fingers, then press it to your ear. Not inside, please, I don’t want to try to fish something out of there. Just so it seals over the hole.”

He takes the extra pair and demonstrates. “Not 100% perfect, but I think it should be good enough so long as we don’t get too up close to the actual music. That’s why Popo is still hanging in there -- can’t hear it well. It must dampen the effects.”

Lan Wangji agrees, but he is too distracted by Wei Ying picking up his own small rucksack to say so. “Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says. “You should stay here.”

Wei Ying snorts in response. “Like fuck I should. You think I’m letting you fight some qi-draining ghost on your own? Besides, if we’re right about … you know,” his eyes dart sideways to a-Qing, who is listening intently, “then it’s more dangerous for all involved if they attack you. My power wouldn’t even be a blip on the radar, but Hanguang-jun …”

“You do not know how to fight,” Lan Wangji says reasonably. “You have not trained.”

“Oh, I know how to fight,” Wei Ying says, eyes flashing. “You think because I don’t have a sword I can’t fight? I’m not helpless, Lan Zhan.”

“That is not what I meant.”

Unbidden, Lan Wangji’s eyes drag down to where the sun is burned into Wei Ying’s chest beneath his robes. He only realizes when Wei Ying’s hand flies up to the spot, as though shielding it from Lan Wangji’s eyes.

“I’m not helpless ,” he repeats, and this time his voice is rigid and brittle as iron. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t patronize me, Lan Zhan. I have survived more than you can ever imagine.”

Lan Wangji holds Wei Ying’s gaze for a long moment. He doesn’t think Wei Ying is weak. He has never thought Wei Ying was weak. He knows better. He has seen the strength of him. But he also has seen the scars and, more than anything, he wants to protect Wei Ying from adding to them.

But it is not his place to tell Wei Ying where to go, or what risks he is allowed to take. He cannot stop him, and he should not try.

All Lan Wangji can do is, if the time comes, protect him. And this time, when the time comes, Lan Wangji will not fail. Lan Wangji reaches down to his side and unbuckles the short dao he carries and passes it to Wei Ying.

“We should leave now,” Lan Wangji says. “Before it becomes dark.”

Wei Ying opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again. “Yeah,” he says fervently. “Yeah, let’s go. A-Qing, stay here. We’ll be back in the morning.”

“No, you won’t,” she says. “You’re both idiots.” She walks over to the pile of robes she has stacked in the corner, next to where Popo is sleeping, and lays down, facing the wall.

Wei Ying starts to walk towards her, then stops, shaking his head sadly. “Come on, Lan Zhan. Let’s go get this asshole.”

--------

Night spills like ink into the sky of Yi City, the darkness more complete for the emptiness. There are no candles burning in windows, no cozy fires warming rooms against the autumn chill. Lan Wangji and Wei Ying spend the hour before sunset going from door to door. They find few survivors. Home after home is filled with the dead, for all appearances asleep in their beds. The tragedy builds in Lan Wangji, rainwater pressing against a dam. But for all that it is sadness and rain in Lan Wangji, Wei Ying burns. He sees it in his eyes, in the way he is still, in the way he moves. There is fire swirling molten through Wei Ying, and Lan Wangji watches with dread. Anger leads to rash behavior, and the last thing they need is for Wei Ying to act impulsively. For all that Wei Ying has insisted that he is not helpless, for all that Lan Wangji knows that Wei Ying is not helpless, Wei Ying is not a trained fighter. Not the way Lan Wangji is. He does not know the difference between the fire that can be wielded and the fire that can burn you.

In one small home, really just a room, they find a family. The parents are long dead, the smell of decay thick. Beside them, a teenage girl, breathing shallowly, an infant clutched to her chest.

Wei Ying walks forward and gently takes her hand. “Meimei,” he says, “we’re here.”

She doesn’t respond. Lan Wangji can tell that she is too far gone. Wei Ying moves and presses a hand to the cheek of the infant. He exhales, a shuddering breath. “Lan Zhan,” he says. “Please. Tell me we can stop this.”

“We will find whoever is responsible,” Lan Wangji says. 

Wei Ying’s hand clutches around the girl’s shoulder and he stands. “Yes,” he says. “We will.”

Lan Wangji and Wei Ying stand within arm’s reach of each other in the street as the last blush of pink is pressed from the horizon. Lan Wangji warms the wax plugs between his fingers and presses into his ears, checking to confirm that Wei Ying has done the same. In the dark, in the muffled silence, the world feels sleepy, as though it has tucked itself under a heavy blanket to await the morning. 

There is nothing for many long hours, except the figures of animals moving through the dead town, the swoop of bats through the moonlight. They wait so long that Lan Wangji thinks that, perhaps, the ghost is done here. After all, what does this town have left to offer him? He has already taken everything from them.

Then, Wei Ying’s hand clamps down around his arm, and he points.

On a rooftop several streets away, a figure, darker than the black sky lit by the gibbous moon. He stands, hair and robes billowing in the wind. Lan Wangji squints and makes out the shape of a flute pressed to his lips.

Lan Wangji rushes forward. The man, the ghost, whatever he is, must have seen them. Lan Wangji is aware that his white robes are like a beacon in the dark. As he approaches, the man leaps, not to run away, but charging for him.

Good , Lan Wangji thinks. He is not a violent man, but this is a fight that he wants. 

Their courses collide on a rooftop, the clay shingles shattering beneath the force of it as sword meets sword.

It is a man, then. Not a ghost, for all his pallor beneath his sheets of unbound black hair. He smiles at Lan Wangji -- not a smile like sun and warmth, not a smile like Wei Ying’s. It is a smile filled with sharpness and teeth, his eyes wide and burning cold with wild thrill.

He spins out of Lan Wangji’s guard, but Lan Wangji is ready for it, swinging Bichen up in a tight arc to catch the descending blade of his sword with ease. The man’s mouth opens, and Lan Wangji can just hear the dull bark of the laugh. With a twist, ducking low beneath the junction of their blades, the man slides down the roof, alighting on the street below. Lan Wangji turns in pursuit. He will not get away from him. Lan Wangji will not allow it, not when a city lies dead around them. 

His swordsmanship, his athleticism is no match for Lan Wangji. With a slice of his blade, Lan Wangji catches the man in the shoulder. He staggers, but does not stop, and Lan Wangji realizes with a jolt of horror that the man is not trying to escape. He is running directly for Wei Ying. 

“Wei Ying!”

Wei Ying’s feet are planted. In his hand is the knife Lan Wangji had given him. His face is stone, not trace of fear, only determination to meet whatever is coming head on.

Bichen clutched in one hand, Lan Wangji summons WangJi with the other and strikes. He cannot aim precisely in the rush, and the chord strike ripples in vicious waves, knocking down both the man and Wei Ying. It is enough for Lan Wangji to close the gap. He raises Bichen and brings it down in a vicious swing. The man raises his own sword just in time to catch the strike, but Lan Wangji feels the crack of bone through the blade as the man’s wrist snaps backward and the sword falls from his hand. 

“Surrender,” Lan Wangji says, the bladepoint at his throat. Blood beads at the tip, running down the side of his pale neck.

The man grins. His eyes flicker to something over Lan Wangji’s shoulder, and it is all the warning he has.

Bichen meets the stroke of another blade, a second figure exploding into the fight. They are blurred, their face a blank mask, like wet ink smeared across a page. Lan Wangji does not spend long considering it, as he meets every new slice of blade with his own. In his periphery, he sees the smiling man rise to his feet, lifting his flute to his lips with his good arm.

“No!” 

The word cuts through the wax, and Lan Wangji looks away from the figure he is fighting just long enough to see Wei Ying throw himself at the other man. The flute falls from his hands, dropping to the ground. Wei Ying brings his foot down on it, and the instrument splinters. Wei Ying smiles in triumph just as the man grabs his sword again and lunges.

“Wei Ying!”

Wei Ying sees it coming, but he isn’t quick enough. He dodges, but the blade still catches him, slicing into him with a splatter of blood.

The dam inside Lan Wangji bursts.

Fire may burn, but nothing can overwhelm like the rush of water.

Lan Wangji becomes a wave.

The blurred figure is thrown back beneath his force as Lan Wangji descends on the man grinning over Wei Ying’s collapsed body. The man looks up just in time to see Bichen -- a strip of glowing silver in the moonlight. The smile falters as the sword connects with his throat.

Lan Wangji doesn’t wait. He swoops down, gathering Wei Ying in his arms, Bichen still raised before him.

The blurred figure doesn’t attack, but mirrors Lan Wangji’s actions, running forward to grab their compatriot. Lan Wangji realizes what is going to happen in a brief instant before the figure reaches into their sleeve. He throws Bichen, but the next moment both the figure and the man are gone, leaving behind the acrid smell of a spent talisman and, with a thunk, the figure’s belt, cut free where the blade had caught it.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, turning him over to cradle him in his arms. 

Wei Ying blinks up at him. “What?”

He is bleeding, red blood bright against his pale skin. Lan Wangji tears a strip from his robes, his hands shaking too hard to reach for the bandages in his qiankun pouch. He presses it to the wound below Wei Ying’s collarbone. “Wei Ying.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

Lan Wangji takes Wei Ying’s wrist in his hand and begins to guide his spiritual energy into him. Except … he can’t. The energy won’t go, no matter how hard he presses. Fear is a hole growing inside him, pieces of himself falling away to it. Lan Wangji searches for Wei Ying’s qi, for the small wild core within him. 

It is there. It is still there, but it is unravelling.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, choked with panic.

Wei Ying reaches a hand up to the side of his face, removing the wax plug in Lan Wangji’s ear. “Guess these did work after all,” he says.

Lan Wangji grasps his hand, pressing it into his cheek, as Wei Ying’s head lolls to the side, revealing where one of the wax plugs is missing.

He doesn’t have time to think about it. He doesn’t have time to do anything but act. WangJi lies on the ground next to him. Lan Wangji grabs for the instrument. It snags on the belt cut from the blurred figure, and Lan Wangji realizes that there is a qiankun bag attached to it.

He rips it open, desperate for anything that can help, anything at all. Inside, he finds talisman paper, cinnabar sticks, guqin strings, a small book, and a single torn leaf of paper. The Song of Caibu. A shock of revulsion rolls through him as he takes the paper and tucks it into his sleeve, nestled next to the bell. He can do nothing with it now, but it is too precious to lose.

He turns back to Wei Ying, pale and bleeding before him. The light inside him is faint, his core already so small, so weak. He drops his wrist and places his palm flat on Wei Ying’s lower dantian instead. He feels it and notices, with profound relief, that it doesn’t appear to be dwindling any longer.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying stirs beneath his hand. The relief is so powerful that Lan Wangji sways.

“Wei Ying.”

He barely recognizes his own voice, and is only just aware that he is crying when a tear breaks from his chin and falls onto Wei Ying’s cheek.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, don’t cry,” Wei Ying says, a smile on his face, reaching up to wipe at Lan Wangji’s eyes even as he winces in pain. “You’re too pretty when you cry, it’s unfair. You’ll break my heart.”

“Wei Ying. I am sorry.”

“Sorry? Lan Zhan, you didn’t stab me. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. He didn’t hit anything important. I can breathe.”

“Your core --”

“Ah, well. I’m alive aren’t I? I… I can feel it. I only heard the last couple of notes before I hit him.”

“I am going to carry you,” Lan Wangji says. He shoves the items back into the stranger’s qiankun pouch, and then adds it to his belt. Then, he loops his arm behind Wei Ying’s knees, the other carefully cradling his shoulders to his chest so as not to jostle him as he stands. Wei Ying whimpers a little, but is otherwise silent. 

“I’ll be fine, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again. 

--------

He makes it back to the shack with Wei Ying in his arms, risking sword flight to get him there as quickly as possible. He finds it abandoned. He shoots a quick look to the corner and finds the pile of robes that had served as a makeshift bed is empty. A-Qing and Popo are nowhere to be found.

He starts a fire with a flicker of spiritual energy, careful to keep a hand on Wei Ying as he lowers him gently to the floor, cradling his head in his lap. The resistance to his qi has dampened -- he is able to push a few tendrils of power into Wei Ying’s sluggish meridians. 

“Feels good,” Wei Ying says as they settle in, Lan Wangji able to focus on pouring more energy into him. “You feel good, Lan Zhan.”

“Do not speak,” Lan Wangji says. 

Wei Ying laughs weakly. “Lan Zhan, did you just tell me to shut up? You’ve gotta be nice to me, I’m injured.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, pained.

“Okay, okay,” Wei Ying relents, his eyes sliding closed. He is silent for only a moment though, before adding, “Would you believe me if I said this isn’t the worst I’ve had?”

Lan Wangji’s hand convulses around Wei Ying’s wrist. 

“I’m just saying. It could be worse. What’s a little stab wound?”

Lan Wangji ignores this, reaching up to slowly peel back the bloodied robes around the wound. The bleeding has stopped, he notes with relief. That’s the worst of the danger out of the way.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, reaching up and grabbing the hand pulling back the ruined robes. “Will you play for me?”

“I can’t,” Lan Wangji says. “I need to pass you energy.”

“I have enough energy, Lan Zhan. I’m full of it, I feel it everywhere. I’m not sick, I promise.”

Lan Wangji hesitates. He doesn’t want to let go. 

“Please,” Wei Ying says. “Come on, er-gege, do it for me.”

Lan Wangji squeezes his wrist. “I will sing.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says. “Oh, yes, please.”

There are no words to the song. It does not need words. The meaning is in the notes, filled with love and yearning. He hums for many long minutes, letting the song spool over into itself time and again.

On the third repeat, Wei Ying joins in. Lan Wangji nearly stops him, scolds him to rest. But Wei Ying opens his eyes, watching Lan Wangji. His voice is higher than Lan Wangji’s, brighter. If Lan Wangji’s voice is the earth, rich and dark, then Wei Ying’s is everything green that comes from it. 

They sing together, Wei Ying weaving something through the gaps of the song, filling in the emptiness. Together, the song transforms -- a question that has found its answer.

Chapter Text

Wei Ying drifts in and out of sleep throughout the night, his head in Lan Wangji’s lap. Lan Wangji keeps vigil, not even allowing himself to meditate, alert even as the adrenaline burns out of his system, leaving behind only the tired, crumpled feeling he has as he strokes Wei Ying’s hair.

He didn’t protect him. His one promise, sworn to himself, and he had not kept it. He feels as though he is a child again, kneeling outside the gentian house as snow falls in soft piles around him: shivering with promises that mean nothing, that he cannot keep.

Dawn arrives at last, the warm light filtering sparsely through the slats of the walls. Wei Ying stirs and looks up at Lan Wangji through heavy lashes. “Lan Zhan?” he says, a tiny frown forming between his eyebrows. Lan Wangji reaches down and strokes his thumb over it. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Are you hungry?”

Wei Ying sits up slowly. Lan Wangji’s lap feels cold, bereft. 

“Yeah, actually,” Wei Ying says. “Starving.”

Lan Wangji nods and sets about preparing breakfast for them both. He himself isn’t hungry -- he’s too miserable for hunger -- but Wei Ying will need to eat to heal. Spiritual energy can only do so much. 

“Where’s a-Qing? And Popo?” Wei Ying asks, looking around the shack as though he thinks they may be hiding. 

“They were gone when we returned,” Lan Wangji says. “I do not know where they are.”

“You don’t think--” Wei Ying starts to ask, then swallows hard, unable to complete the thought.

“No,” Lan Wangji says, answering the unspoken question. “There was no sign of struggle. A-Qing’s doll is also gone. I do not believe they were harmed.”

Wei Ying sighs and slumps a little with relief. “Good. God, if something happened to them because of me--”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji puts down the chopsticks he is using to stir the pot and looks at Wei Ying, at how he is clutching his arms around himself, at the way he chews the skin of his thumb. “Even if something did happen, it would not be your fault.”

The tension doesn’t ease. If anything, Wei Ying seems to wind tighter, his eyes growing wider as he takes a particularly vicious bite of his thumb. “I fucked up,” he says. “I should’ve listened to you, I was just in the way, like you said. You would’ve caught them, if I hadn’t been there. I distracted you, I should’ve--”

“Wei Ying stopped the music,” Lan Wangji says. “You broke the dizi.”

At this, Wei Ying’s hand drops a little, so he is no longer worrying the skin with his teeth. A small triumph. “What? No, that was just--”

“If you had not,” Lan Wangji interrupts, “then more people would have died. I may have been sickened.”

Silence settles between them, and Lan Wangji returns to stirring the pot as Wei Ying wrestles with the knowledge that his assistance, his presence, is appreciated. A novel concept, apparently. 

“Still,” Wei Ying says, unable to allow a positive to go unchallenged, “they got away. We were so close.”

“One of them got away,” Lan Wangji corrects him. Wei Ying cocks his head to the side in question. “I killed the other.”

“What?” Wei Ying yelps, then grunts in pain as he accidentally twists his healing shoulder. “He-- he’s dead?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says. He is certain of it. “I cut his throat.”

Wei Ying is silent. Lan Wangji looks up from the pot of simmering porridge just in time to see him sway. 

“Wei Ying!” Lan Wangi drops the utensils in his rush to catch Wei Ying as he falls.

“Wei Ying?”

“Holy shit,” Wei Ying says, blinking rapidly. “Whoa, sorry. That just … I don’t know. I mean, I know it was life or death. I know what the purpose of a sword is. I know that he was trying to kill me. But I still, like … I don’t think it really hit me, until just now, how we were in … like, actual mortal peril.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t know what to say to this. He helps Wei Ying sit back up, keeping a careful hand on his back. Wei Ying is trembling beneath his touch, his robes slightly damp with sweat.

“I think I need a drink,” Wei Ying says. “That’s a thing, right? A little medicinal brandy? Not to get drunk, but just to like, steady my nerves.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t know if it will help, but he isn’t about to argue. He fetches a bottle from his bag and passes it to him. Wei Ying accepts it with shaking hands, fumbles with the stopper. Lan Wangji takes it from him and opens it, handing it back. “Thanks,” Wei Ying says, and pours it into his mouth. Some of the wine spills over his chin, and Wei Ying wipes it away with a sleeve.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says. “Yeah, that’s better. I’m okay. Thanks, Lan Zhan. Sorry for being so dramatic. I just--” he pauses, looks at the bottle in his hand. “Lan Zhan. Did you bring wine?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t drink.”

“No.”

“But, then-- did you bring wine for me?”

Lan Wangji’s ears are burning. “Wei Ying enjoys wine.”

Wei Ying’s face cracks into a smile, warm despite the pallor of his face. “Yeah he does,” he laughs. “Well. Thank you. I appreciate it, a lot.”

“Breakfast is ready,” Lan Wangji says. He walks over and spoons some of the porridge into a bowl for Wei Ying, passing it over to him. 

Wei Ying takes it happily, immediately beginning to shovel the food into his mouth. “Oh my god,” he says thickly around the mouthful of food. “Fuck, Lan Zhan. Logically, I know this is bland as shit, but I’ve never tasted anything so perfect in my life. Like, emotionally. My soul needed this food.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says, feeling pleased as he watches Wei Ying eat, even messy and rude as he is. Lan Wangji eats alongside him, just for the company, taking small bites of his meal in silence as Wei Ying heaps him with praise between -- and during -- mouthfuls of food.

--------

“So, what do we do now?” Wei Ying asks once their meal is finished and they have cleaned up. “Should we head straight to Lanling? Or chase after the blurry guy?”

Lan Wangji’s face crinkles slightly. “We should wait for the Lan cultivators,” he says.

“Do you think?” Wei Ying says. “Won’t your note be enough to let them know what’s up? We’re taking an awfully long time to get to Carp Tower.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. “I have found something.”

Wei Ying looks up at him with interest. “Yeah? What’d you find?”

Lan Wangji reaches into his sleeve and pulls out the torn sheet of paper. “The Song of Caibu.”

“What?” Wei Ying gasps. “You found-- that’s the-- way to bury the lede, Lan Zhan!”

Lan Wangji wasn’t trying to do any such thing, having been rather distracted at the time with a bleeding and semi-conscious Wei Ying. He chooses not to point this out. “I have been studying it,” he says.

“And?” Wei Ying asks breathlessly. “Can you undo it?”

Lan Wangji hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Yes,” he says. “We should be able to create a counter-song that will cease the siphoning of the victims’ qi. However, there is no way to reverse the damage that is already done. The healing will be in their hands.”

“But we can stop the dying,” Wei Ying says adamantly. “Lan Zhan, that’s-- that’s amazing. We need to get to Yi City! There are people there, we can help them!”

“We will go,” Lan Wangji agrees, “As soon as I have composed the counter-song.”

“Right. Right, carts, horses, etc.” Wei Ying is breathing heavily as he leans back. “How long will it take? Can I help at all?”

“I believe I have the theory,” Lan Wangji says. “I just need to practice.”

“Right,” Wei Ying says. “Okay, you do that. I’ll stay out of the way, over here. Being quiet so as not to interrupt.”

“There is more,” Lan Wangji says. 

Wei Ying’s eyes go wide. “What the fuck, Lan Zhan, how much more can there be?”

Reaching down to his side, Lan Wangji unbelts the stranger’s qiankun pouch and hands it over to Wei Ying. “The ‘fuzzy dude’ left this behind,” he says as Wei Ying takes it, “it possibly contains clues as to their identity.”

“Cool cool cool,” Wei Ying says, looking overwhelmed as he starts to open the bag. “You work on the magic song to cure the dying, and I’ll snoop through the bag. Divide and conquer. It worked for us before!”

Lan Wangji summons WangJi and begins the work of composing a counter to the curse song, as Wei Ying rummages through the bag. He watches Wei Ying for a few minutes, unable to help himself. Wei Ying, dazed by everything a moment ago, is focused now. He has taken out the notebook, eyes moving slowly as he reads over the pages. Lan Wangji’s favorite expression on Wei Ying might be his smile, but he finds that he likes this, too -- the intense, dedicated look he gets when he’s focused on a task.

It reminds Lan Wangji that he’s supposed to be doing the same thing, and he drags his eyes away from Wei Ying to begin his work. 

--------

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says some time later. Lan Wangji places a quieting hand on WangJi’s strings. 

Wei Ying has the notebook open in his hands and is looking at him, in a way that makes Lan Wangji think that Wei Ying has been waiting to tell him something important. He has a shivery quality, something both excited and anxious. Lan Wangji turns towards him, giving Wei Ying his full attention.

“What is it, Wei Ying?”

“Did you have a chance to look at this notebook?” he asks. “Do you know what it is?”

Lan Wangji shakes his head. “No,” he says, wondering what it could be that has Wei Ying strung so tightly. Another curse? A clue about where the stolen qi is going?

Rather than explaining it, though, Wei Ying thrusts the notebook forward so Lan Wangji can take a closer look. 

It is a small book with a pliable leather cover and a leather cord used to wrap it closed. The pages within are surprisingly smooth, almost glossy, and off-white. There are thin, faint blue lines running across them. Lan Wangji frowns at it. He has seen things like this before. 

“This is from your world.”

“Yep,” Wei Ying says. “It’s a journal for fancy people who can spend money on having an aesthetic. But that’s not all. Look at the page, Lan Zhan.”

Wei Ying reaches over and points to the first page of the notebook. Lan Wangji can’t make out the English words -- he’s out of practice -- but the characters--

“Cangse Sanren,” he reads. Wei Ying is staring at him, looking so shaken that Lan Wangji reaches out to take his hand and steady him.

“Property of Cangse Sanren,” Wei Ying says. “It’s my mother’s notebook.”

Lan Wangji squeezes Wei Ying’s wrist gently. “Lan Zhan, it’s filled with notes about ... well, about a lot of things. A lot of it, though, is about the bell. She made it for me.”

His breathing has turned rapid, shallow. It startles Lan Wangji, who looks closer at him now. His pupils are blown open, sweat prickling along his face. “Wei Ying,” he says, squeezing a little more firmly now. “Breathe slowly.”

Wei Ying turns a wild, panicked look on him, but tries to do as he’s told. “Oh god,” he says, “I need to lay down a moment.”

Without further warning, he pitches forward and Lan Wangji catches him, shifting so that Wei Ying is lying on his lap. 

“Sorry,” Wei Ying says as he shakes. “This is just … it’s--”

Lan Wangji hums, and begins to absentmindedly scratch his fingers through the short sides of Wei Ying’s hair. They stay like that for several minutes, until Wei Ying stops shaking and his breathing returns to normal.

“Yikes.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I … yeah. I’m fine,” he sits up. “Lan Zhan. Do you think that person-- do you think that it could have been--?” Wei Ying swallows with effort, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. “Could that have been my mother?”

Lan Wangji wants to say no, to reassure Wei Ying that his mother couldn’t be involved. He wants to say yes, to allow Wei Ying to have hope that his mother is alive. 

He cannot lie. 

“I do not know,” he says.

--------

They make their way to Yi City in the early afternoon. Lan Wangji has completed a version of the counter-song that he believes will work -- the next step is to try, and make refinements as he goes.

It is an exhausting task. Wei Ying insists on accompanying him, although there is little he can do besides finding the survivors, whispering comfort to their unconscious forms as Lan Wangji plays. 

The countersong works. The victims don’t awaken -- too drained of qi for that, needing time to fully recover. But their meridians have reopened, their spiritual energy flowing again, so that Lan Wangji is able to pass some spiritual energy to them.

This is how they pass the days as they wait for help to arrive -- making their way slowly through Yi City, from building to building, home to home, sifting through the dead to find those whom they can help. Lan Wangji can see the weight of it in Wei Ying’s every movement, watches as the light in his eyes changes -- not gone, but transformed from summer sun to the banked embers of fire. 

In the evenings, when it becomes too dark for them to continue their search, they retreat to a small, abandoned home for study and sleep. Wei Ying spends his time poring over the notebook and the talisman papers they found in the qiankun bag, as Lan Wangji plays Rest. Yi City is thick with the wandering dead, confused and frightened, and Lan Wangji does what he can to console and encourage them to move on.

“I know why you ended up in my room,” Wei Ying says that evening as Lan Wangji puts WangJi aside, completing his work for the night.

Lan Wangji waits for Wei Ying to continue.

“The array here, it sends the user between worlds to wherever the last person to use the array was, right? It leaves some kind of signature behind. The bell uses the same array. I think my mom made it that way so I’d always end up wherever she was. But these talismans,” he waves his hand towards a stack of the papers, “somebody tried to change the array. Poorly, from what I can tell. I don’t know where they were trying to send you, but they were apparently trying to break the connection between the array and the signature. But it didn’t break it entirely, so you just got … thrown a little to the left, or something. Heh, what are the odds. I’ve never been lucky before. Here, check it out.”

He hands over a few of the talismans and loose pages to Lan Wangji. “You can see here, where they tried to change the destination. It’s … well, it’s really sloppy.”

Lan Wangji takes one of the pieces of paper, looking it over. “It is different writing than is in the book,” he notes.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, rubbing the side of his nose. “I thought so too.”

Wei Ying is shifting his weight between his feet, looking at the paper in Lan Wangji’s hand. “Probably not my mom, then,” he says, his tone intentionally light in a way that betrays that there is deep feeling beneath it. “Which is a relief, right? Good to know that my mom isn’t trying to, like, murder people or something.”

Lan Wangji hands the paper back to him, their fingertips brushing together. He resists the urge to grab his hand and lift it to his lips. “Wei Ying,” he says, “it is alright if you are sad.”

“What?” Wei Ying runs his thumb over the pads of his fingers where they touched. “No, I’m not-- don’t be ridiculous, I wouldn’t be--”

The words spin out into nothing. The room feels larger than it did a moment ago, as though the nothingness of the words has created more space for them to slip apart from one another. Lan Wangji reaches across the void. 

“My mother--” he says, pressing the words out through the tightness in his throat. “She killed my father’s teacher. I do not know the reason. I do not know if anyone does. But it did not stop me from loving her.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says. “Oh, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji reaches for more words. He wants to tell Wei Ying, to tell him about his mother, and her open smile and easy laughter. About how there used to be someone who looked at him and saw him -- who sought out out the joy within him and treated it as though it were precious. Someone who saw the sorrow and took it with gentle hands and didn’t let it hide away to take root and grow in the dark. 

He tries, but the words are buried too deep. Instead, Wei Ying reaches for him, taking his hand and squeezing it. “I hope you’ll tell me about her, someday,” he says.

That night, they head to bed at the same time. 

The night is long, the night is quiet. But with their bedrolls spread out side by side, as they turn towards one another, their hands reaching, fingers brushing in the dark, it is not lonely. 

--------

When the Lan cultivators finally arrive, Wei Ying and Lan Wangji have finishedcombing through the city. Lan Wangji explains to them what happened, what they had discovered, and hands over the Song of Caibu as well as his own composition. 

“I have made two copies,” he tells the startled cultivators. “One of you, return with a copy to Cloud Recesses immediately.”

With this settled, Lan Wangji takes Bichen and reaches out to Wei Ying. “Come,” he says. Wei Ying mounts the sword, a familiar smile on his face. 

“Finally,” Wei Ying says, “let’s get to Carp Tower.”

--------

Lanling is beautiful, objectively. Lan Wangji knows this, the rolling hills, the trees already red-leafed and shivering in the fall wind. Still, as they approach the city, drawing nearer to Carp Tower, he can’t deny the distaste that settles on his tongue, more potent than the sweet foliage scent of the air.

They fly low over the edges of the city, and he feels Wei Ying tense. The buildings here are poorly built and rundown. Dotting the rows are burnt out shells of homes. There is little movement, as the people on the outskirts of Lanling huddle together around communal fires for warmth, either too tired or too hungry to move. Or both. 

As they approach the center of the city, though, things begin to change. The ramshackle buildings are replaced by sturdier structures, better cared for. The streets slowly become more lively. Soon, this gives way as well. They cross over a tall white-stoned wall capped in golden parapets, and Wei Ying gasps at what lies beyond: the manicured gardens with winding marble paths picked out amongst the flowerbeds, in bloom even this late in the year; the crystal waters of the man-made ponds, flush with golden scaled koi; the people draped in silk and dripping jewels as they flutter painted fans and scatter careless laughter like seeds. 

“Lan Zhan,” he says, the whisper just audible as the wind rushes past them. “What the fuck?”

Lan Wangji has no answer, as he has often wondered the same thing. Cloud Recesses is wealthy, it’s true, and there is poverty in Gusu. It is something that gnaws at him, making his insides twist with guilt and the need to do something, though he doesn’t know what. Yet it is nothing compared to the disparity in Lanling. The wealth of the Lanling Jin dwarfs that of the Gusu Lan, and yet so does the poverty of Lanling far outstrip Gusu -- the walls erected between the poor and the affluent not only figurative but literal.

Their flight takes them to the steps of Carp Tower itself, the heads of the richly dressed men and women below turning to follow them. It is rude to fly over the city on a sword, but after days of delay, the displeasure that the city itself sows through him is enough to make Lan Wangji disregard the protocol. It is not a rule, after all. He can live with the impropriety. 

They dismount at the bottom of the steps leading up to the tall white and gold building before them. Jin Guangyao stands at the top of the stairs, ready for them.

“Hanguang-jun!” he calls down to them. “Wei-gongzi! We were expecting you several days ago. Was your journey a difficult one? I did not expect you to arrive by sword.”

They climb the stairs, each of them bowing respectfully. “Lianfang-zun,” Lan Wangji greets him. “We were delayed.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Jin Guangyao says, his dimples deepening. “You both look tired. Please, come. We have had rooms prepared for you both, awaiting your arrival. You’ll forgive me, I have business to attend to now, but you will join me for dinner?”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji accepts.

Jin Guangyao waves a pair of women over to them, each of them dressed in pink robes trimmed in gold, heads bowed, perhaps under the weight of the many large golden combs and ornaments they wear in the hair. “A-Lian and a-Hua will show you to your rooms. Please let them know if you need anything to make your stay more comfortable.”

With a final parting bow, Jin Guangyao sweeps away. The women cast a pair of twin smiles at them and lead them through the halls silently.

Well. Lan Wangji is silent. Wei Ying, with so much new stimuli to comment on, is keeping up a steady chatter with both women, sharing his thoughts on everything from the gardens to the drapery to the prettiness of their escorts. 

“There sure is a lot of gold here,” Wei Ying says, his tone deliberately neutral.

“Carp Tower is famous for its beauty,” a-Hua says.

“Carp Tower is definitely opulent,” Wei Ying is saying, “but I think any fame for beauty must be referring to the people, not the decor.”

To make sure they catch his meaning, perhaps, Wei Ying grins rakishly at the pair, and they giggle. It is a grating sound, Lan Wangji thinks. High-pitched. Like the sensation of nails on stone. Wei Ying looks back at him. “What do you think, Lan Zhan?” he asks. “Isn’t the company here particularly beautiful?”

Lan Wangji schools his face into indifference. Wei Ying laughs. “Although, I have to say,” he turns back to the women, “I’m not sure there’s any face in the world that can compete with the great Hanguang-jun’s. Don’t you agree?”

A-Hua, eyes fixed to Wei Ying, smiles skeptically. On his other side, though, a-Lian looks back at Lan Wangji, a fleeting, shy look -- carefully constructed of heavy lashes and blushing cheeks -- then glances away. “Ah, I see you agree, a-Lian!” Wei Ying all but yells. “You have great taste!”

Lan Wangji wears the weight of their gazes like an itchy woolen robe, poking and scratching the hidden planes of his flushed skin. Lan Wangji bites his tongue, the pain sharp, nearly hard enough to draw blood. Wei Ying can do what he wants, he reminds himself. Wei Ying is not his. 

He allows himself, for one terrifying and wonderful moment, to imagine dragging Wei Ying away from the women, into one of the many rooms of Carp Tower, pressing him against the wall and scrawling his name over him with his tongue. Mine .

“Your room, Hanguang-jun,” a-Lian says in a sweet voice. Lan Wangji wrestles his mind back from daydreams of his hands sliding beneath layers of robes, dragging red trails with his fingernails over the flushed skin beneath. 

“Thank you,” he says, but makes no move to enter, as a-Hua continues to lead Wei Ying farther down the hall.

“Eh? Where are we going?” Wei Ying asks, looking back over his shoulder at Lan Wangji. 

“To your room,” she says. “It’s this way.” She places a small, delicate hand on his arm to lead him away. Wei Ying doesn’t move, looking back at Lan Wangji with a reluctant expression.

“But, I usually …” Wei Ying starts, then slams his mouth shut, red curling up his neck. “Ah, nevermind. Is it close, a-Hua?”

“Yes, just a few rooms down,” she says, her fingers curling in his sleeve and tugging gently.

Wei Ying nods, dragging his eyes off of Lan Wangji to follow her to the room. Lan Wangji watches them. “Hanguang-jun?” a-Lian says. “Is there anything you need?”

“No,” he says, rather too sharply. A-Lian jerks away from him where her hand had reached out to brush over his arm. 

“Of course. I will leave you to rest,” she says, and, with a bow hasty enough to be rude, scurries away. Lan Wangji barely notices. Wei Ying is leaning against a door four rooms down as a-Hua stands too close, her head turned coquettishly towards the floor even as she looks up at him through her hair. 

Lan Wangji, unable to bear it any longer, storms over to them. Wei Ying turns a lopsided smile on him, an impish light in his eyes as Lan Wangji approaches. “Lan Zhan,” he says in a way that makes Lan Wangji want to reach out and pull him close by the hair, “a-Hua was just telling me about her work here at Carp Tower. Did you know, we are not the only illustrious guests they are hosting? Nie-zongzhu arrived yesterday and she has been tending to him. I was just saying, Lianfang-zun clearly is a man with a good head on his shoulders, to entrust such honored guests to a-Hua’s care.”

A-Hua, who had stiffened under Lan Wangji’s stony glare, goes pink at this. “I should return to work,” she says, dipping her head. 

“Go, go!” Wei Ying laughs. “Don’t let me keep you! We’re all good here, a-Hua!”

She glances up at him, a pretty, shy thing that is mostly a flutter of lashes, and then turns to leave, joining a-Lian where she waits for her at the end of the hall, exiting in a titter. 

Wei Ying watches after her, a smile still playing on his lips.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji chastises, a swell of irritation at Wei Ying’s distraction.

Wei Ying looks back at him, eyebrows high on his face, one corner of his mouth twisting up even higher, giving him a fey quality. “The Jins sure do seem to keep pretty girls around, don’t they?” he says.

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says stiffly. 

The smile screws up even tighter. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says with a teasing lilt, “are you saying you didn’t notice how very pretty our escorts were? Even with a-Lian batting her doe eyes at you?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says again, “you should not act so shamelessly.”

The smile droops a little. “What do you mean? Who was acting shameless? What’s so wrong about being nice to a pretty girl? Unless,” the smile returns, “Lan zhan, er-gege, are you jealous? Really, a-Lian was very pretty, and definitely into you! But I'm sure a-Hua wouldn't say no to some attention from the beautiful Hanguang-jun."

Lan Wangji is grateful, not for the first time, for the inscrutability of his face. “Do not flirt if you do not mean it,” he says sharply.

Wei Ying laughs, open-throated and full. “Who says I don’t mean it, er-gege? Is it so wrong to admire pretty things?”

Lan Wangji scowls at him. “Come,” he says, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him into the room. 

Wei Ying yelps, then laughs and lets himself be dragged inside.

The room is as opulent and as overdone as the rest of the hall, but Lan Wangji, who has visited Carp Tower many times for cultivation conferences as the second heir to Cloud Recesses, cannot help but notice that it is one of the lesser rooms. For all that it is draped in gold fabric, the walls painted with snow white peonies, the wood polished to smooth glistening perfection, it is small, dim. The fireplace crowds the room, making it stuffy and claustrophobic. There is a single window, in the shadow of a large tree, blocking the natural northern light. 

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Ying whines, a hand pressed dramatically to his chest as Lan Wangji pulls the door closed. "You’ve gotta give a guy a little warning before you go manhandling him like that. My heart! My libido!”

Lan Wangji’s ears heat. The bed is so close. He could push Wei Ying back onto it, his knees would collapse, he’d fall onto his back, and Lan Wangji could crawl over him.

He squeezes Wei Ying’s wrist where his hand is still clamped around it, before letting go. “You must be careful,” he warns Wei Ying. “Carp Tower is not a safe place for gossip.”

Wei Ying flashes an unimpressed look at him. “Lan Zhan. Come on. Obviously. Our helpers out there could not have been less subtle. Clearly, they’re used to people being too overwhelmed by them batting their eyelashes to take notice of their wheedling for gossip. Unfortunately for them, I’ve been travelling with the prettiest person in the world -- this or any other -- for weeks now, and I am one hundred percent immune to any less pretty faces.”

Lan Wangji’s heart skips, and then rushes to make up for the lost beat. His body feels too full, as though there is too much blood rushing through his veins. 

“I figured,” Wei Ying continues, apparently oblivious to Lan Wangji’s plight, “that I would just turn a little bit of it around on them. If there’s one thing I’m good at, Lan Zhan, it’s girl talk. Girl talk is a universal language, it crosses the multiverse. Thanos could snap away everyone, and there would still be girl talk.”

“What did you discuss?” Lan Wangji asks.

“Mm, a lot, actually,” Wei Ying says, pressing a finger thoughtfully against his plush lips. “A-Hua is definitely good at getting people to spill their secrets. Unfortunately for the Jins, people who like to get secrets are also typically people who like to tell them. A-Hua was just telling me all about all the visitors they have hosted since she started working here about a year ago. She’s quite pretty,” his eyes shoot over to Lan Wangji, “as we’ve established, so it seems the former leader, this Jin Guangshan guy, was … fond of her. Used to keep her around, to show her off. That is, whenever his wife wasn’t around.” Wei Ying’s face screws up in distaste. “That guy, by the way, sounds like a fucking jackal. But Jin Guangyao has retained her services in a slightly different manner, from how she tells it. She’s sharp, you know. For instance, she noticed that lately Nie-zongzhu has been visiting more than he used to. Despite the fact that he now has a whole sect to run on his own. She’s often assigned to him, you see, while Jin-zongzhu is busy seeing to other visitors.”

Lan Wangji takes a moment to turn this over in his head. “Who are the other visitors?”

“Ah,” Wei Ying says, “see, that is the part I thought was interesting as well. Who is visiting the great Lianfang-zun that is more important than a fellow sect leader, the brother of his dearly departed sworn brother, no less? But here’s the interesting part, Lan Zhan,” he leans in closer. Lan Wangji resists the impulse to draw backs. “She doesn’t know.”

Lan Wangji blinks. “She doesn’t know?” he repeats.

Wei Ying shakes his head. “That’s what she was saying to me when you came over. Apparently, whoever it is that Jin Guangyao is meeting, the meetings are being conducted in secret. No maids, no servants of any kind. No disciples, no advisors. Nobody sees them enter or leave. It’s all very mysterious.”

It is mysterious. Mysterious, and suspicious. Sect leaders attend to private, confidential matters regularly, of course. It is part of their responsibilities. Lan Xichen would tell him as much, Lan Wangji is certain. But suspicion rings like a plucked string, loud and insistent.

“Jin Gunagyao is very busy today,” Wei Ying continues casually. “A-Hua and a-Lian have been busy keeping his other visitors entertained while he works.”

Lan Wangji understands. “You believe he is conducting a secret meeting.”

Wei Ying smiles. “I do,” he says, “and I was thinking. I have an idea for how we might manage to be a fly on the wall.”

--------

They spend their remaining hours before dinner putting together a plan to execute Wei Ying’s idea. When a-Hua arrives to escort them to the room where they will be dining with Jin Guangyao, Lan Wangji is equal parts anticipation and resolve. It is a good plan, after all. If they are right about who the other secret guests are in Carp Tower tonight, then it will work. 

They enter the room to find that Jin Guangyao has not yet arrived, but they are not alone. “Hanguang-jun! I only just heard that you were here and would be joining! It’s wonderful to see you.”

Nie Huaisang, who had been standing near the curtains on the opposite side of the room, peering out at something in the courtyard beyond, hurries over to him, fan popping open to flutter demurely over the lower half of his face as he stops and notices Wei Ying. “And who is your friend?” he asks. “I admit, when I heard that Hanguang-jun was traveling with a companion, I was expecting … well. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Uh,” Wei Ying says, eyebrows high with surprise. “Likewise? And you are …?”

The fan flutters faster. “Oh! Sorry, I’m sorry. How rude of me.” He shoots an anticipatory look at Lan Wangji.

“Nie-zongzhu, this is Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian, this is Nie Huaisang, sect leader of the Qinghe Nie.”

“Oh!” Wei Ying says, his surprise poorly concealed. “Nie-zongzhu! It really is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ah, Wei Wuxian, I don’t know about that!” Nie Huaisang snaps his fan open and closed rapidly. “But I am glad to have company. I’ve been waiting here for san-ge -- that is, Lianfang-zun, for what feels like ages! I had hoped to speak with him before dinner, but I’m afraid I’ve been waiting all day. Carp Tower is lovely, of course, but there’s only so many places one is allowed to go.”

Next to him, Lan Wangji can feel the delight radiating off of Wei Ying. Whatever he had expected of the Nie sect leader, one of their key suspects, this small, anxious man with loose hands and a perpetually startled expression clearly wasn’t it. Lan Wangji cannot blame him, and had rather suspected that Wei Ying might be more drawn to Nie Huaisang than he himself ever had been.

“Do you mean to say that there are many places one isn’t allowed to go, then, Nie-xiong?”

Lan Wangji flinches at the familiarity, opens his mouth to scold Wei Ying, but Nie Huaisang giggles and swats Wei Ying on the arm with his fan as he casts a nervous look around the room. “I don’t know, I really don’t know!” he squeaks. “Don’t we all have our secrets, Wei-xiong?”

“Yes,” Wei Ying says. “I suppose we do.”

Lan Wangji has a strange feeling, as though everyone is dancing, and he has missed a step and fallen out of sync. “When did you arrive, Nie-zongzhu?” he asks, searching for footing.

“Yesterday,” Nie Huaisang says. “I have some sect business that I am hoping for Lianfang-zun’s assistance on, but unfortunately I have not yet found time to meet with him. When I heard you were here, well. I’m not certain he’s going to have any time to help me at all now.”

“You got here yesterday and you still haven’t seen him?” Wei Ying asks, tilting his head. “Do you know what he’s been busy with?”

Nie Huaisang huffs out an agitated sigh. “Don’t ask me, I don’t know. I’m sure it’s important. What sect leader business isn’t?”

Lan Wangji feels incredulous at this assertion. In Lan Wangji’s opinion, much of the sect leader work Lan Xichen’s time has been consumed by is of little import. He keeps this to himself. 

“Leading the Qinghe Nie is hard enough, and it’s a fairly … well. Straightforward sect. Da-ge always--” he pauses, swallowing hard, pain a winged shadow across his face “--he admired that. Honesty. Forthrightness. Loyalty and honor. Whereas the Lanling Jin--”

He snaps his fan open again and brings it back to his chin. “Not! That I’m speaking unkindly of our hosts! I only mean. The Lanling Jin sect is more challenging, in many ways.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Wei Ying says, his tone light, flattering rather than accusatory. “Are you close with Jin-zongzhu?”

“San-ge and I have known each other many years,” Nie Huaisang says. “I have sought out his assistance often.”

“Not in interior decorating though, I hope,” Wei Ying says, eyeing the gaudy golden curtains with disdain.

After that, the conversation shifts to lighter matters. Nie Huaisang and Wei Ying, apparently forming a fast friendship, begin to talk in low, excited voices, disparaging the decor, the clothes, and the general -- as Wei Ying puts it -- vibe of everything. Lan Wangji leaves them to it, allowing his attention to drift, his gaze moving around the room as he orders his thoughts. 

Nie Huaisang arrived the day before, and Jin Guangyao has not made time for him. It is strange, to say the least. And now, here they are, waiting for Jin Guangyao to arrive for dinner -- a sect leader and an heir, brothers of Jin Guangyao’s sworn brothers. Whatever has Jin-zongzhu occupied must be very important, indeed.

The sun, already beginning to set early as the days grow colder, has sunk well below the horizon by the time they hear voices approach outside the room. “A-Su. Please go back to our quarters. We will talk about this. Please, my love. Don’t cry. I must make our excuses to our guests, and then I will be there and I will explain everything.”

Lan Wangji and Wei Ying’s eyes meet just as the door to the room opens and Jin Guangyao enters, his smile a little harried but still present.

“Gentlemen!” he says, sweeping forward into a deep bow. “My apologies for the delay. I have found myself busy and unable to extricate myself from my duties. I am sorry to say that I will not be able to join you for a meal, I am called away by other matters that simply cannot wait.”

He rises from the bow, his eyes darting towards the door, a dark and troubled look crossing his face, but his smile never slipping. The effect is unpleasant and sends a shiver like cold fingers down Lan Wangji’s neck.

“Ah, san-ge, I’ve been waiting since yesterday,” Nie Huaisang says with an anxious edge from behind his fan. “Can you find a little time now? I really have to be getting back.”

“Huaisang, I am busy,” Jin Guangyao snaps, causing Nie Huaisang to jerk back as though struck. “Can’t you handle anything on your own? You’re a sect leader now, Nie-zongzhu, start acting like it!”

Nie Huaisang makes a wounded sound, something between a hiccup and a sob. Wei Ying reaches over and places a comforting hand on his arm. The livid expression in Jin Guangyao’s face collapses, and he looks momentarily as though he is about to fall into an apologetic bow before he thinks better of it. 

“Huaisang,” he says, in a careful, fragile voice, “I will speak with you in the morning, I promise. I must attend to this.”

Nie Huaisang hiccups again, but nods his head, waving his fan in understanding. 

Jin Guangyao pauses, clearly conflicted, but turns to Lan Wangji. “Please feel free to begin making whatever inquiries you see fit,” he says. “If you need anything, please let a-Hua or a-Lian know. They will be able to accommodate you.”

Lan Wangji nods his understanding, even as his thoughts begin to whirl. If Jin Guangyao leaves now, then they won’t have the chance--

“Jin-zongzhu,” Wei Ying says suddenly, releasing Nie Huaisang’s arm and stepping forward, a smile on his face, an open, friendly tilt to his head, “we’ve had a long, challenging journey to see you. Not to make it sound too daring and heroic, but there was blood, sweat and tears involved. At least have a drink with us before you go. You can spare some time for a toast, surely?”

Jin Guangyao studies Wei Ying for a long moment, his eyes never leaving his face, although Lan Wangji has the distinct impression that he is thoroughly assessing Wei Ying from head to toe. He sighs, the pause just on the edge of being too long to be polite. “Of course,” he says, “I can spare time for a toast with my guests.”

He walks over to the table, where a pretty young man has set out trays of food, wine and tea. With a sweep of his robes, he takes a seat, gesturing towards his guests to join him with a smile and a beckoning hand. “Come, come. My apologies for my rude manners earlier. I can of course spare a moment for my brothers.”

Wei Ying walks over first, plopping down with little grace or ceremony. Nie Huaisang takes a seat on his left, nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of his robes. Lan Wangji takes a seat on Wei Ying’s right. 

“Allow me!” Wei Ying says, reaching out and beginning to pour wine into three of the cups, before pouring tea for Lan Wangji. He leans over him as he does it, a strand of hair that has broken loose from his top knot tickling Lan Wangji’s nose. He stops his eyes from fluttering closed, from reaching up and running his fingers over the rough strands of Wei Ying’s hair, so different from his own.

Wei Ying settles back, a little closer to Lan Wangji now, their legs pressed together at the knee. He lifts his cup to the table in toast. “What shall we toast to?” he asks, puckering his lips and bringing a finger to them in thought. “I know!”

He turns to Nie Huaisang and raises his glass, “To new friends!”

He turns to Lan Wangji, “To beauty!”

He turns finally to Jin Guangyao and reaches his cup out towards him and lifts it high. “To brotherhood!”

It happens so suddenly, and is gone so quickly, that Lan Wangji might have thought he’d imagined it if he were any less disciplined. As it is, he has no doubts about the flash of red through Jin Guangyao’s eyes, the way his fingers tighten on his cup until his knuckles are white and livid. “To brotherhood,” he repeats back and drinks.

Wei Ying throws his own drink back, immediately reaching out to refill the empty cups.

They drink several more rounds together as they eat, Lan Wangji sipping his tea slowly as Wei Ying laughs happily, keeping cups filled as Jin Guangyao’s eyes dart towards the door and Nie Huaisang turns louder and redder by degrees at Wei Ying’s other side. Soon, Nie Huaisang has thrown his arm around Wei Ying, laughing tears into his shoulder at some anecdote Wei Ying is telling involving Jiang Cheng and a very angry goat. 

“He squared up with it and, I swear to god, he ran at it to headbutt it. He would’ve cracked his skull if Uncle Fengmian hadn’t seen what was happening a moment before and grabbed him by the collar. Imagine, this furious 8-year-old, morally outraged at a goat. Naturally, little Petunia and I had to become best friends after that.”

“Petunia?” Nie Huaisang asks, his voice loud and shrill with delight.

“A pretty name for my prettiest girl!” Wei Ying says. “Never met a lovelier creature than my little Petunia. Until I met Lan Zhan, that is,” he amends, nudging Lan Wangji amicably with his elbow. 

Lan Wangji says nothing. As the night has progressed, Wei Ying has gotten closer. Now, he faces Nie Husaisang, his back leaning fully into Lan Wangji’s side. He flings his arms so enthusiastically as he speaks that Lan Wangji nearly reaches up and encircles his waist just to keep him from falling over.

“Huaisang, Hanguang-jun, Wei-gongzi,” Jin Guangyao speaks up loudly over the laughter, rising to his feet. “I really must be going now. It has been lovely to spend this time with you. Perhaps, tomorrow, we can make it a real meal, if you will indulge me.”

“Ah, Jin-zongzhu!” Wei Ying leaps to his feet. “The fun’s been all mine! Thank you for being such a gracious host and humoring me!”

Jin Guangyao smiles, a little stiffly. He inclines his head to Wei Ying in acknowledgement, before turning towards Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang where they have risen to their feet, Nie Huaisang a little unsteadily. 

“Goodnight,” he says, extending his arms to bow to each of them.

As he does so, Wei Ying slips behind him, unobtrusively, quickly reaching out and dropping something small and white into the gap between his robes and his belt. Lan Wangji returns the bow. “Thank you, Lianfang-zun.”

Jin Guangyao rises and leaves the room, sparing only one confused glance for Wei Ying, who beams at him, radiating innocence and good humor.

“Well,” Wei Ying says, walking back over to Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang, “I guess we should call it a night. You’re looking a little worse for the wear, Nie-xiong, and it’s nearly Lan Zhan’s bedtime. He turns into a pumpkin if he’s not in bed by nine.”

Nie Huaisang titters, swaying a little. “Yes, yes. You’re right! Please, take dear Hanguang-jun here to bed.”

He winks so boldly and sloppily over his fan that it is nearly grotesque. “Sleep well, Wei-xiong,” he says as he nearly falls out of the room, “or whatever it is you’ll be doing.”

Lan Wangji watches him go, then stares at the closed door for another couple of moments until he feels he has regained his composure enough that it is safe to look at Wei Ying.

He is wrong. 

Wei Ying’s eyes dart away from Lan Wangji, almost guiltily, his face and neck red. Lan Wangji isn’t sure if it’s embarrassment at Nie Huaisang’s words or the effects of the alcohol, but Lan Wangji’s eyes follow the red down Wei Ying’s chest where his robes have parted slightly in his drunken state, and he can’t help but wonder how far down the blush goes.

Wei Ying blinks rapidly a few times, seeming to come back to his senses. “Quick, get it out,” he says, hurrying over to Lan Wangji, nearly bouncing on his toes. “Hopefully we aren’t out of range, although it’s really good on this pair. I splurged to get earbuds with crazy bluetooth range because I’m always walking all over the place without my phone and it’s really annoying when your podcast keeps going in and out.”

Lan Wangji reaches into his qiankun bag, feeling around and removing the thin, smooth rectangle that is Wei Ying’s phone and handing it over.

“Alright,” Wei Ying says, holding down the power button as the phone chimes on. “Let’s figure out what Jin Guangyao is up to.”

Wei Ying, fiddles with the phone swiping through several screens. Lan Wangji isn’t entirely sure what he’s doing, but a moment later Wei Ying whoops in triumph. “We’re connected!” he says happily. “Alright, I’m recording. Let’s hang out here, since we’re getting a signal. I don’t want to risk moving around. If it starts to drop, we’ll figure it out.”

He’s speaking quietly. There’s a tinny voice piping from the phone, distant and small. Wei Ying presses a button, and the voice is suddenly louder, clearer. It is a woman, sounding shrill and distressed.

[Tell me! Tell me the truth, for once!]

[A-Su,] Jin Guangyao’s voice now. [My love, don’t you believe me? There is nothing to tell! Who has done this? Who has turned you against me?]

[You deny it? You deny that you -- that our son -- our son, how could you? Rusong--] her voice breaks into a sob, then a startled shout. [Don’t touch me!] 

[A-Su, please. What are you saying?]

[Are you denying it? That you-- you killed him?] 

Wei Ying’s eyes widen as he looks up from the phone at Lan Wangji, who feels him to be the mirror of his shock. 

[Rusong was sick, a-Su. It was the disease--]

[The disease that also killed your father? The disease that made you head of the Jin sect?]

Silence this time, for too long.

[A-Su,] Jin Guangyao’s voice sounds dangerous now. [What is that in your hand? Give it to me.]

There’s the sound of a scuffle, a loud noise and a women’s gasp.

[This is what you use to accuse me? This letter?] Another pause, punctuated by distant sobs. [Who gave this to you?]

[Does it matter? It’s true, isn’t it? That I’m ... that you knew that I’m … that we’re--]

[A-Su. Have I not been a good husband?]

A shuddering wail. [You knew. You knew that you’re … that he was my father--]

[Yes,] Jin Guangyao’s voice is casual, now. Unconcerned. [Yes, I found out after. It was too late by then to do anything.]

[Rusong--]

[Was a liability. He would have been my -- our undoing. It’s better this way, a-Su. Surely you can see that.]

[No!] A sob. [You’re a monster! Get out! Get out!]

[You need to calm down first, a-Su. You’re making yourself sick. Why don’t you lay down for a bit? I’ll play you some music.]

“No!” Wei Ying gasps, dropping the phone. “Oh no, Lan Zhan!”

[What are you doing? Let me go! Let me go!]

A tinny melody begins to pipe through the phone. Lan Wangji grabs it, pressing random buttons until the sound stops. Wei Ying doesn’t wait. He turns and runs from the room.

“Wei Ying!” Lan Wangji runs after him.

Wei Ying is tearing down the hallway, careless of the surprised shouts that follow him. Lan Wangji catches up to him, grabbing him by the shoulder so abruptly the Wei Ying’s feet slip out from under him and he falls backwards into Lan Wangji with a yelp.

“Is everything okay?” a sweet, worried voice calls to them. A-Hua runs briskly up to them, eyes wide and scared. 

“A-Hua!” Wei Ying cries. “Where is Jin-zongzhu’s room? You have to take us! It’s urgent, somebody is in danger!”

The young woman gapes, fear and confusion mingled on her face as she looks between Wei Ying and Lan Wangji. “What -- danger? What do you--”

“No time!” Wei Ying yells, grabbing her by the arm. “Go, take us now!”

A-Hua turns to Lan Wangji, speechless, her lips trembling. “Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, taking pity on her. 

“Gah!” Wei Ying roars. “There’s no time for this! He could be killing her!”

“Who’s killing someone?” comes a slurred voice from the end of the hall. Nie Huaisang stumbles out of one of the rooms, his outer robes messy, clearly tied back on in haste. “Is it worth yelling about? Some of us are trying to get to sleep, Wei-xiong.”

Wei Ying releases a-Hua, who stumbles. Lan Wangji catches her, and she turns to bury her face into his chest. He grasps her by the shoulders and places her firmly back onto her feet before hurrying over to Wei Ying, who is now accosting Nie Huaisang. 

“Jin Guangyao’s room!” he says hotly, shaking Nie Huaisang. “Do you know where it is? Can you take us there?”

“I don’t know!” Nie Huaisang squeaks. Then, “End of the hall, take a left, big golden door with the carved peonies.”

Wei Ying doesn’t wait for more, tearing off in the direction Nie Huaisang had indicated. Lan Wangji follows him, hand already on Bichen, ready to draw, fear a fist around his heart as he wonders if they’re going to have to fight their way out of Carp Tower.

They find the door, and Wei Ying reaches out to fling it open. Before he can, though, Jin Guangyao emerges, yelping with surprise to find Wei Ying standing there with a blazing look on his face.

“Wei-gongzi!” he says, hand pressed over his heart. “Did you need something? Where are a-Hua and a-Lian? Were they unable to help you?”

“Where is she?” Wei Ying demands, attempting to push past Jin Guangyao and into the room beyond. 

“Who?” Jin Guangyao says, in genuine confusion.

“A-Su -- Madam Jin. Let me through!”

Jin Guangyao frowns. “Do you know Qin Su?”

“Where is she?” Wei Ying repeats. 

“A-Su is sleeping,” Jin Guangyao says, confusion freezing into cold. “What business do you have with my wife?”

“Sleeping, is she? Did you play her a little lullaby first?”

Lan Wangji sees it as if in slow motion. The red flash in Jin Guangyao’s eyes, the sneering curl in his lip, as his hand shoots up for Wei Ying’s throat. Lan Wangji grabs the collar of Wei Ying’s robe and jerks him back out of reach, placing himself between them. “Jin-zongzhu,” he says, his voice nearly a growl. “We must speak to Madam Jin. It is urgent.”

Jin Guangyao affixes the dangerous look on Lan Wangji. He clutches Bichen tighter, hairs prickling along his arms. He’s never seen Jin Guangyao look like this. Look -- angry. Out of control.

The next moment, the look is gone. 

He blinks, as though adjusting his eyes to sudden brightness. “Wangji,” he says, “I -- what is the meaning of this?”

“We have reason to believe Madam Jin has been harmed,” Lan Wangji says evenly. 

Wei Ying snorts. “More like, you tried to kill her to shut her up!”

“What? This -- is this a joke? It isn’t a very funny one --”

“Jin-zongzhu!” There’s the sound of several pairs of feet against stone, and the next moment they are joined by three young cultivators. “Is there trouble?”

“I -- no,” Jin Guangyao says, drawing himself up tall and smiling his benevolent smile. “I’m afraid our guests are confused. I’m not sure of the source, but I am certain that this can be cleared up easily.”

“It can be cleared up if you bring her out here!” Wei Ying yells.

Lan Wangji takes a steadying breath in through his nose, never letting his eyes leave the Jin cultivators standing in front of them now at Jin Guangyao’s side. 

“Madam Jin is sleeping,” Jin Guangyao says. “You may see her in the morning if you have business with her. For now, I must insist that you both head back to your rooms for the night. We can discuss this tomorrow.”

The three Jin cultivators step forward at Jin Guangyao’s nod. Lan Wangji and Wei Ying are shuffled along a few steps as Jin Guangyao turns back to enter the room.

Wei Ying seizes the opportunity. 

Without so much as a look in Lan Wangji’s direction to warn him, Wei Ying spins around the Jin cultivators and jukes hard for the open door, shoving Jin Guangyao aside to enter.

Jin Guangyao falls to the floor with a yell. Lan Wangji, with no choice left to him, draws his sword. 

It is three against one as the Jin cultivators unsheath their own blades in response, but they are too slow. It becomes immediately clear that these cultivators have luxuriated in the comfort of Carp Tower for too long. Their movements are slow and clumsy, dull from wine and food. He wonders, as he brings Bichen down and knocks their blades aside like brittle tree branches, who has been going on night hunts for Lanling. Surely not these cultivators, who use their swords like a baby deer acclimating to its legs. 

Still. Lan Wangji is outnumbered, even before Jin Guangyao shouts for help. “Wei Ying!” he yells. They need to leave. They have to get out of Carp Tower now, before it’s too late--

“Lan Zhan, help me!”

Wei Ying is standing in the doorway, struggling with the weight of a small woman in his arms. With a ferocious swipe of Bichen, Lan Wangji breaks through the cultivators, running forward.

“We’ve got to get her out of here!” Wei Ying cries. Lan Wangji takes Qin Su from him, draping her unconscious form over his shoulder as he grabs Wei Ying’s wrist and pulls him down the hall, away from the Jin cultivators who are clambering back to their feet.

“Stop them!” Jin Guangyao cries behind them. “Stop them -- ah!”

“Sorry, san-ge, sorry! I didn’t see you there!”

Lan Wangji doesn’t stop to look. They tear through Carp Tower, past startled servants and guests, past disciples who gape at them in shock. In the back of his mind, Lan Wangji knows that they can’t do this. That their actions are bringing trouble to Cloud Recesses, to Lan Xichen -- that they are kidnapping the wife of one of the most powerful sect leaders in the world.

And yet.

And yet, Qin Su is limp on his shoulder and Wei Ying had risked it all to save her, and he would not abandon Wei Ying to the consequences of a just heart.

They erupt into the open courtyard, their pursuers hot on their trail, and Lan Wangji realizes he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t fly all three of them -- small as Qin Su is, he won’t be able to manage all three of them on Bichen. The sound of footsteps and shouting grows closer. There’s no other choice. They will have to fight their way out. Lan Wangji passes Qin Su to Wei Ying, ready to face down an army of Jin cultivators if that’s what it takes to protect Wei Ying, ready to take on the world, when--

“Over here!” a voice rings like a bell through the courtyard. He turns and sees her, a woman with a lined face waving at them from a carriage, ready and waiting. “Bring her here, quickly!”

“Who are you?” Wei Ying asks as they run over, Lan Wangji depositing Qin Su at the woman’s side.

“Bicao -- her maid,” the woman says, tears streaming down her face, as she pulls Qin Su into her lap.

“I have a lot more questions, but we don’t have time,” Wei Ying says. “Can you get her out of here?”

“Yes, I think so,” Bicao says. 

Wei Ying nods and, without missing a beat, reaches out and takes Qin Su’s hair ornament. “Quick, give me her outer robe.”

Lan Wangji does as Wei Ying says, no time to ask questions. Wei Ying pulls the robe around his shoulders, quickly pinning the ornament into his hair. “Let’s go, Lan Zhan.”

They burst out of the carriage just as the Jin cultivators begin to pour into the courtyard. “There!” one of them yells.

Several rush forward at them. Lan Wangji lifts Wei Ying, who makes a show of going boneless in his arms, his face carefully hidden in Lan Wangji’s chest, and mounts Bichen, shooting high into the air at a dangerous speed.

“Archers!” he hears the call from below. 

“Make sure Bicao and Qin Su make it out, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says in his arms. 

Lan Wangji’s heart clenches around the words, around the danger. He hums, turning to watch as the arrows are released. 

The Jin cultivators’ archery is as poor as the rest of the cultivation. The arrows fly wide of them as they rise into the dark sky, and Lan Wangji easily avoids them, even weighed down as he is by Wei Ying. He lingers over Carp Tower just long enough to watch the carriage, unnoticed in the chaos, pull out of the courtyard and away from the fight. 

He is distracted just long enough for a single Jin arrow to find its target. It is not well shot, there is little force behind it, but he feels the arrowhead lodge into his back, beneath his shoulder blade. Bichen lurches suddenly, and Wei Ying yelps, throwing his arms around Lan Wangji’s neck. “Lan Zhan?” 

Lan Wangji shakes his head slightly, and the next moment they’re off, Lan Wangji flying them out of Carp Tower as quickly as he can manage, pushing down the pain, until he barely feels it.

The shouts from the courtyard quickly grow fainter, but he knows better than to believe they have shaken their pursuers. Wei Ying peeks over Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “There’s four of them following us on swords,” he says. “But we’re losing them. Don’t slow down, Lan Zhan, we can lose them.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji manages. “Hold still.”

Wei Ying does as he’s told and Lan Wangji pushes them forward faster, recklessly so for all that he is carrying Wei Ying in his arms. The pace is brutal, even for a cultivator as strong as himself, but he doesn’t dare ease up. He can feel where his core is attempting to direct energy into the throbbing wound in his back, but he doesn’t let it. His robes are cold and clinging to him where the blood has soaked through, but it doesn’t matter. He pushes every ounce of energy he has to spare into flying, into fighting the darkness that is hands attempting to drag him under. 

“Lan Zhan, I think we’ve lost them,” Wei Ying says. Lan Wangji doesn’t know how long they’ve been flying, but the sky is beginning to lighten around them, a quiet flush of pale yellow across the eastern sky. “Let’s get to the ground before it gets light, we’ll be easier to find in the air.”

They land roughly, Lan Wangji barely managing to stay on his feet. Wei Ying nearly falls out of his arms, spinning just in time to catch Lan Wangji as he collapses.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying cries. “What’s wrong? Are you--” Wei Ying gasps. “You’re hurt! Oh shit, Lan Zhan, why didn’t you say?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says. He feels himself being lowered gently to the ground as his own legs give out. 

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Okay. No, okay, you’re fine, Lan Zhan,” it comes out strangled. “I’ve got you, Lan Zhan. I promise, I promise, I’ve got you.”

“I trust Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, and lets himself be pulled under into the welcoming dark.

--------

He kneels on hard stone, shivering. A thin sheet of cold snow swirls in small wind funnels around him as he waits.

His mother’s house always looks lonely at this time of year, without the gentian flowers. He wonders if she is lonely too.

Lan Zhan doesn’t want his mother to be lonely. His hands clench into fists in the front of his robes. 

“Zhan-er,” a-Huan walks up to him. “You will get sick. Come home. You need a hot bath and some food.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the door of his mother’s house. 

“She’s not coming.”

He clenches his fists tighter, so tight it hurts. She will come. She always comes. She will come out, and she will laugh, and pet his hair, and tell Lan Zhan that she loves him.

The gentian house looks lonely in the winter, but Lan Zhan and his mother are never lonely when they are together. 

Lan Huan sighs, and kneels next to him. “I will keep you company,” he says. 

Lan Zhan nods. They will wait together, and when mother comes she will be happy to see them.

They wait in the cold, the snowing growing into piles around them. 

They wait long enough that his knees no longer hurt.

They wait long enough that he is no longer cold.

“...Zhan?”

Lan Huan’s voice sounds distant, scared. Lan Zhan wants to tell him it’s okay. Mother will come out soon, and it will be okay.

A hand brushes through his hair, gently tugging on his ribbon. He knew she would come. “A-niang,” he says.

“Help!”

Lan Zhan tries to open his eyes, but  he can’t.

“Help!”

Why do they sound so scared? Who needs help? Is it mother?

“Help! Over here! Help!”

He opens his eyes with effort. She is looking at him. And then, it isn’t his mother. Silver eyes blink down at him, fearful and shining. 

“Lan Zhan.”

--------

He is lying on his stomach, the ground shuddering and rattling beneath him, hard against his cheek. There is noise -- the sound of wheels squeaking as they spin on an un-oiled axel, crunching along the ground -- and there are voices. 

Lan Wangji moves to sit up, when there’s a sudden, vicious jolt. The pain is sharp, radiating from a white hot spot in his back. A groan escapes him. 

“Lan Zhan!” It is quiet, barely a whisper, but close enough to be heard.

He opens his eyes, and Wei Ying is there, kneeling next to him, surrounded by …  radishes? “Wei Ying?” he tries, but it doesn’t come out. His mouth feels gummy, his mind syrupy slow. He frowns and tries again. “Where--?”

“We’re nearly to town, sweetheart, don’t worry!” Wei Ying says, much louder this time. “Don’t worry, we’ll find someone to set you right in no time! Although, I think a proper bed would do it!”

The words tangle together in Lan Wangji’s brain as he attempts to make sense of them. Something about them feels wrong. Something about the way Wei Ying is speaking feels wrong. He tries, but it just gets more jumbled together. He is so tired.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says, the same bright voice, but gentler now as he reaches down and brushes the hair out of Lan Wangji’s face. The confusion seeps away. Whatever is happening, Wei Ying is here. He reaches up and places his hand over Wei Ying’s cupping it to his cheek. It is fine, so long as Wei Ying is here.

---------

He is a child. He is weeping.

Lan Zhan is sitting in the grass, a small white bunny in his lap, a red stain on its side. “A-Zhan! A-Zhan, where are you?”

It is Lan Huan. Lan Zhan wants to call back, to answer him, but it is against the rules to make excessive noise. He reaches down and strokes the fur between the bunny’s ears, gently, fighting against the sobs that have clumped together and become stuck in his throat. 

Turning inward, he finds a thread of golden light. He presses a finger to the bunny’s forehead and attempts to push it through. This should work, he knows it should work.

“Zhan-er!” Lan Huan says, spotting him at last and running over. “What are you-- ? Oh, no.”

Lan Zhan turns his large, wet eyes to his brother, his bottom lip trembling, as he raises his arms and holds out the injured bunny to him. “Dada,” he says, “help.”

“Oh, a-Zhan,” Lan Huan takes the bunny in his hands. It is limp.

Lan Huan holds the bunny gently, his expression sad and crumpled as he looks at Lan Zhan.

“Please,” Lan Zhan says. “He won’t wake up.”

Chapter Text

When Lan Wangji wakes again, the world is clearer. The pain in his back has dulled, less sharp, less demanding. He opens his eyes and recognizes that he is in a cart, surrounded by a crop of radishes. Wei Ying is leaning up against a lumpy bag of the vegetables, eyes closed, snoring lightly. 

Lan Wangji pushes himself to a seated position.The wound in his back protests, but it is nothing he can’t bear. He nudges at the injury with his spiritual energy and feels where it has slowly begun to knit back together. He wonders how long it has been. By the time they had landed, he had been in no condition to heal himself, his energy depleted by the long, frantic flight and the effort to stay conscious as he bled freely. 

Lan Wangji realizes suddenly, that he is no longer wearing his own robes, but a black set, too tight through the shoulders, too short in the sleeves. No doubt, the ones he had been wearing were ruined by blood, but he’s uncertain why he hadn’t been changed into one of his own spare sets. With a sudden stab of panic, he reaches up. His forehead ribbon is gone.

He looks at Wei Ying. He wants to ask him what happened, to make certain he’s okay. But he sees the dark bruises under his eyes as he frowns through a dream. No. Wei Ying needs rest. Lan Wangji can wait for answers.

He folds himself into lotus pose instead, and begins to meditate, concentrating his qi on the injury in his back, determined to heal quickly. He can’t afford to be injured. Not now. This fight is far from over. 

--------

“You’re awake!”

Lan Wangji opens his eyes and is nearly blinded by Wei Ying’s smile, the rush of fondness at the warm relief in his eyes nearly bowling him over. “Wei Y--”

And then, Wei Ying is on him. He launches himself across the cart, frantic as he all but throws himself into Lan Wangji’s lap, his hands on Lan Wangji’s face, a finger pressed against his lips. “Ah, sweetheart, save your energy!” Wei Ying says loudly. “You’re still recovering! I’m so sorry, it was so careless of me! I can’t believe I thought you were a boar and shot you! It’s a good thing I’m not very good with a bow.”

Wei Ying stares him in the eyes as he says it, only darting them away once to look towards the driver of the cart. Lan Wangji nods once to show his understanding, and Wei Ying sags with relief, hand falling from Lan Wangji’s mouth, leaving behind a scorching, throbbing heat. 

“He awake?” the driver calls back to them, turning to look over his shoulder. “Hi there! You’re looking good for a man who took an arrow!”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says, not trusting himself with words at this moment. Not when there’s clearly some backstory here that Wei Ying has been weaving. Not when his mind has inconveniently emptied itself of anything but Wei Ying’s weight in his lap and ‘sweetheart’ ringing in his ears. 

“Glad to see it,” the driver says. “We’re nearly to town, I was worried we were gonna have to carry you to an inn, and that wasn’t going to be pleasant for anyone.”

“Town?” Lan Wangji asks Wei Ying. 

“Tianjin,” Wei Ying says. “Zhao Peizhi found us by the road and offered to take us into town when I told him what happened. We were really lucky.”

“I’ll say,” Zhao Peizhi says. “You want my advice, don’t let that one have any weapons. You’re lucky he didn’t hit anything important. Although, he did a pretty good job cleaning up the damage, too. Had you all stitched up by the time I found you.”

“I am very lucky,” Lan Wangji agrees warmly. He takes Wei Ying’s hand and squeezes it. 

Wei Ying squirms -- which, seeing as how he is in Lan Wangji’s lap, is distracting. Lan Wangji inhales sharply, willing himself to keep it together. 

They arrive in Tianjin a little less than an hour later. Zhao Peizhen drops them off at an inn, waving away their deep bows of gratitude. “It was nothing,” he says, “we have to look out for each other, after all.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji hums. He reaches for his coin purse and pulls out several coins, and presses them into the man’s hand. “Thank you,” he says.

Zhao Peizhen looks at the money, then up at Lan Wangji with wide eyes. “Ah -- yeah. Of course.”

Lan Wangji bows again, then turns to walk into the inn, wanting a bath and a private conversation with Wei Ying. He hears Wei Ying offer some laughing explanation behind him, before he is back at Lan Wangji’s side. “Not really keeping up the whole commoner ruse very well if you go around giving kind farmers more than enough to feed a town for a month.”

“It would not have fed a town for a month,” Lan Wangji says dryly.

Wei Ying laughs. “Whatever you say, Lucille Bluth.”

They head straight for their room, Lan Wangji requesting that a meal be brought up to them. The innkeeper smiles at them knowingly; at the way Wei Ying’s arm is wrapped around Lan Wangji’s waist, at the way Wei Ying plays into the act, calling him sweetheart and pressing himself against Lan Wangji’s side until his ears burn. In truth, he needs Wei Ying’s support, still weak on his own legs. He needs to get his core back to full strength; he needs to eat and meditate and rest.

Wei Ying helps Lan Wangji to the bed. “Alright, robes off,” he orders sternly, reaching out to pull the robes off of Lan Wangji’s shoulders.

Lan Wangji’s hands shoot up, grabbing Wei Ying’s. Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “I need to look at your injury, Lan Zhan. Plus, who do you think put you in those robes? Your honor is intact, sweetheart, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen already.”

Lan Wangji knows it’s true. They’ve seen each other in very little before. But they hadn’t been sitting in a bed together, Wei Ying tugging Lan Wangji’s robes down and calling him sweetheart. Lan Wangji looks at him, at the way his gray eyes flit over his face, to his mouth, down his neck to the exposed skin of his chest. He feels it like a physical touch, heat blooming beneath the stroke of his eyes, sliding over him and pooling low in his stomach. Already desperate for more, at risk of spilling over the dam of his restraint.

Lan Wangji wants. Wei Ying’s tongue peeks out through the press of his lips, wetting the dry skin there. It would be so easy, to grasp the back of his neck, to weave his fingers through his hair, to pull him in and take that tongue into his mouth, to ease the wanting and to have instead. To quell the furious desire by taking Wei Ying in his hands, in his mouth, devouring the fire of him until they melt together. 

He does not.

He will not take these things from Wei Ying. He will not take things that are not his. Wei Ying is not his. He will not.

He closes his eyes, his breath leaving him in an unsteady rush. 

“Does it hurt?” Wei Ying asks, his voice as soft and gentle as the hands shifting the robes down Lan Wangji's shoulders. 

Lan Wangji doesn’t know how to answer. He hums quietly, torn between the warmth of Wei Ying’s fingers drifting around the edges of the healing wound on his back and the memory of cold stone and snow.

--------

“We need to find Qin Su,” Wei Ying says as he steps around the privacy screen back into view, continuing to squeeze bathwater from his hair.

Lan Wangji puts down his brush, carefully shifting aside the letter he is writing to allow it to dry. He shakes his sleeve back out, covering his wrist where his forehead ribbon is tied. 

“You’ll need to play the counter song for her,” Wei Ying continues. “And I want to talk to her about what we heard. I’ve listened to it again, and I have questions. We know that it was Jin Guangyao behind this now, but I still don’t really understand why or where all that qi is going.”

“I agree,” Lan Wangji says. “We will find her.”

“We’ll need to be careful though,” Wei Ying says. “As far as the cultivation world is concerned, we just kidnapped Madam Jin. And speaking of,” Wei Ying continueys, coming to sit next to Lan Wangji at the table where he is writing. “We should probably get our story straight.”

“Our story?” Wei Ying is sitting so close, their arms brushing together. Lan Wangji can smell the sweet oil he’s combed through his hair. He breathes through his mouth and tries to focus.

“Right,” Wei Ying says. “We obviously can’t use our names. We need some kind of cover story, something believable so people won’t know we’re, you know, us.”

This is reasonable, but not Lan Wangji’s strong suit. He nods. “What do you have in mind?”

“Ah, well,” Wei Ying shifts back, leaning away from him. Lan Wangji nearly sways back towards him. “I kind of told that farmer that we were … you know. Together. Married. You probably noticed, what with all the ‘sweetheart’ stuff.” Wei Ying rubs the back of his neck embarassedly, stealing a glance up at Lan Wangj, “I’m sorry, I was kind of panicking and it was the first thing I thought of. You did great picking it up, though. I never would’ve thought you’d be such a natural actor, Lan Zhan!”

Lan Wangji sits very still, hoping not to give anything away. He turns this over in his head, lets it settle in, before he feels it is safe to speak. “That is acceptable.”

“Wait -- really?” Wei Ying asks in surprise. “I mean, you don’t have to--”

“It is a reasonable story,” Lan Wangji says, a little too forcefully. He can feel his ears turning pink, but he plows on. “We are married. Do we have names?”

Wei Ying blinks at him, his mouth hanging slightly open. “I didn’t actually think that far yet,” he admits. “Just that, we were out hunting for a bit of a honeymoon, of sorts. We have a farm in the countryside. Our friends are watching over it while we travel. We wanted to have a bit of a vacation before we settle in and start a family. Don’t worry,” he adds quickly, “I made it believable. Told him all about how I badgered you into marrying me -- how we were childhood friends and I basically annoyed you into it over the years. Best day of my life, when we got married,” he grins impishly, “and then the best night after. Ah! Don’t look at me like that, er-gege! I had to really sell it, you know?”

Lan Wangji unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, where it has gone very dry. “I see,” he says, “is there anything else?”

Wei Ying fidgets with the hem of his robe. “Um. No, I think that’s it.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji hums. “We should think of names.”

“Hmm,” Wei Ying taps a finger against his lips. “How about Wu Rulan? And you could be … Lai Zhou?”

Lan Wangji nods, unable to do anything but agree, his thoughts preoccupied with the imagined lives Wei Ying had conjured for them. 

“So, what now?” Wei Ying asks. “We probably shouldn’t hang around here too long.”

“I will send a letter to my brother,” Lan Wangji says. “I need to let him know what we have discovered.”

“Do you think--” he hesitates for a moment, before plowing on, “-- do you think your brother will believe us? It's just that, if I told Jiang Cheng that his best friend -- well, no, bad example, Jiang Cheng doesn’t have friends--”

Lan Wangji looks down at the letter. He would prefer to speak with Lan Xichen in person, to explain to him what happened, what they have heard. But they cannot go back to Cloud Recesses. Not now, not until things have settled. The best thing he can do for his brother right now is to stay far away. But Lan Xichen needs to know about Jin Guangyao, for his own safety. Jin Guangyao was behind the Song of Caibu. He was responsible for the demise of one of his sworn brothers already. What was to stop him from doing the same to Lan Xichen?

He pushes down harder on the coil of fear that has been threatening to spring since he came back to his senses. Lan Xichen is a powerful cultivator, and he is no fool, for all that he is kind and open-hearted. And besides, they have the counter song now. Lan Xichen will be fine. He has to believe it.

“Brother has always trusted me. He will not treat my words carelessly.”

Wei Ying’s mouth goes thin, thoughtful. “But that doesn't mean he will believe you.”

Lan Wangji considers carefully before answering. “He will not act rashly. He will want to speak with Jin Guangyao.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“It is out of our control,” Lan Wangji answers, continuing to repress the fear that is attempting to spring free. “Brother trusts me. I also trust him.”

“Well,” Wei Ying says, “unless you have any other ideas, I do have a thought about where we can go next.”

Lan Wangji looks at him inquiringly.

“Nie Huaisang knows something,” Wei Ying says, “I’m certain of it. He wanted us to find something at Carp Tower.”

“We cannot go back to Carp Tower.”

“No,” Wei Ying agrees, “but maybe we can go talk to Nie Huaisang.”

---------

That night, Lan Wangji wakes as Wei Ying stirs next to him.

He sits up. It is dark -- dark enough that he can barely see, except for a strip of light beneath the door from a lantern the innkeeper keeps burning in the hallway. He can just make out Wei Ying’s silhouette as he walks over to the door and bends down.

“Wei Ying?” he whispers.

“Ah, did I wake you, Lan Zhan? Sorry.”

“What is it?”

“Somebody just--” Wei Ying starts. “Actually, Lan Zhan, do you mind if I light a candle? I’m not sure either.”

Lan Wangji reaches for the candle beside the bed and lights it with a flick of spiritual energy. Feeble yellow light spills into the room. Beside the door, Wei Ying smiles at him.

“Show off,” he says quietly. He is holding something in his hands -- a folded piece of paper. 

Wei Ying walks back over to the bed, climbing in next to Lan Wangji, sitting on his knees and shaking the paper open in the candlelight. “It’s a letter,” Wei Ying says. 

Lan Wangji frowns, shifting so that he can read over Wei Ying’s shoulder. 

Cloud Recesses is dull this time of year. Full of peonies and little to attract someone of your discerning tastes.    

Consider visiting Xinglu Ridge instead. I hear there is much to interest a traveler.

Apprehension uncurls low in his stomach. Beside him, Wei Ying is worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Somebody just slipped it under the door,” he says. “Peonies .. is that--”

“The Jin,” Lan Wangji says. “They are in Cloud Recesses.”

He feels a twist of guilt and pain at the thought of his brother being subjected to the bluster of Jin cultivators. Cloud Recesses, decimated as it had been by the qi depleting disease, is in no position to antagonize the Jin sect, which is exactly what Lan Wangji and Wei Ying have done.

“Hey,” Wei Ying says, touching his arm lightly, “your brother will be fine. Like you said -- you just have to trust him. Plus, he’s not alone, right? Your uncle?”

Of course. His uncle will have recovered, at least somewhat, from the illness now that the counter song had made its way back home. Lan Wangji lets the thought soothe him, trying not to focus on how his uncle will react to hearing that Lan Wangji has instigated the conflict. He hopes that Lan Xichen, at least, won’t say too much about Wei Ying.

“Who wrote it, do you think?” Wei Ying asks.

Lan Wangji looks down at the delicate handwriting, vaguely familiar, and the smooth snowy quality of the paper. “Xinglu is in Qinghe,” he says. 

“Nie Huaisang,” Wei Ying guesses. 

“It is possible.” 

“So, are we doing it?” Wei Ying waves a hand at the letter. “Are we going to Xinglu?”

It could be a trap. The letter’s appearance is unnerving. It means that the author -- be it Nie Huaisang or not -- knows where they are. Knows that they are fleeing the Jins, knows that they are searching for something. Do they know what they are searching for?

Still, he has no other plan to offer. The truth is, they are searching for so much, and the only lead they have is back in Carp Tower, and they cannot go back to Carp Tower. They need to find Qin Su, to cure her of the qi disease. They need to find the combatant from Yi City. They need to figure out where the stolen qi is going. They need to prove Jin Guangyao’s guilt to the larger cultivation world. The list is long, and has no obvious beginning. They might as well begin in Qinghe, which is, at least possibly, neutral territory.

“It may be a trap,” Lan Wangji says.

“Yeah, maybe,” Wei Ying shrugs. “But it’s also the closest thing we have to a lead. Come on, Lan Zhan. Let’s have a conversation with Nie Huaisang.“

Lan Wangji can’t think of a good reason to disagree, but as he tucks the letter into his bag, returning to the bed and extinguishing the candle, he can’t help the discontent that is winding through him. 

He spends long hours staring at the canopy overhead, the soft sound of Wei Ying’s breath evening out into the cadence of sleep, wondering what awaits them in Xinglu.

---------

They head out around midday. Lan Wangji isn’t certain that their plan isn’t a reckless one. His instincts are telling him that they should keep their distance from the cultivation world, Nie Huaisang included. Wei Ying’s insistence that Nie Huaisang knows something does not ameliorate Lan Wangji’s misgivings. If anything, it has added to them. He also feels that the Nie sect leader is hiding something. He is less than certain that he is on their side.

The journey is slow. The days are growing noticeably shorter, with less daylight to travel by. They no longer have Little Apple, having left her with the Lan cultivators, and Lan Wangji, though he is mostly healed, is still recovering spiritual energy after having used so much to flee Carp Tower. Wei Ying himself is still recuperating from the Yi City battle. It makes the road that much more challenging, but they don’t dare to risk travelling by sword during the daytime, in favor of maintaining their cover as newlywed farmers, enjoying their travels.

The weather is turning as well. Cold has blown in with the change of leaves, and frost begins to settle over the grass in the evenings the farther north they travel. 

After the first morning that Wei Ying awoke with chattering teeth, Lan Wangji had insisted on moving their bedrolls as close to the fire as possible, offering him his extra robes to curl into. Wei Ying had refused the robes, insisting that the blue and white would give them away. “If it gets too cold, we should just share a bed roll! Gotta conserve body heat, Lan Zhan!”

He had laughed as he said it, wiping his dripping nose on the back of his hand. But that night, Lan Wangji had stopped him as he began to set up his spot by the fire. “Wei Ying. Come,” he had said. Wei Ying had blinked at him in confusion, before catching Lan Wangji’s meaning as he had sat up and pulled back the blanket. 

“There’s not really a lot of room,” Wei Ying had said, even as he wriggled under, snuggling up to Lan Wangji’s chest. “Oh wow, you’re really warm.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji had said, draping an arm over Wei Ying’s waist to pull him in closer on the narrow bedroll. Wei Ying was stiff at first, but soon he relaxed against Lan Wangji with a sigh.

Lan Wangji woke the next morning with his nose in Wei Ying’s hair and all the contentment of a purring cat. They slept like that every night thereafter, every moment precious, every moment a bittersweet pain. He treasured it, as he would treasure anything that Wei Ying would give him. 

It takes them nearly two weeks of hard travel to make it to Qinghe by foot. They pass by villages and towns, never stopping for longer than it takes to restock supplies, not wanting to risk leaving any trail behind that can be followed. Lan Wangji, recovered from his injury, has suffered little discomfort beyond the desire for a bath in clean water -- his golden core keeping away the worst of the hunger, the weariness, and the cold. 

Wei Ying has not fared so well. Lan Wangji has watched him grow more dour with each passing day. He looks better fed than he had when Lan Wangji had first found him in Mo Village. But the cold and the long days of walking are taking their toll. Wei Ying’s silences weigh heavily on Lan Wangji. He wonders if he should suggest to Wei Ying that he should return to his world. This isn’t Wei Ying’s fight. These aren’t his people to care about. He has his family, and the Wens, and his own life awaiting him. With a pang of guilt, Lan Wangji wonders about how Wei Ying’s absence is being felt by those he left behind. He wants to ask, he wants to tell Wei Ying to go back.

Except.

Except he doesn’t want Wei Ying to go back. He doesn’t want him to go back to a world that made him so thin. To a world where he faced violence alone. To a world without Lan Wangji.

“There’s a town ahead,” Wei Ying says needlessly, rousing Lan Wangji from the spiral of his thoughts, gesturing at the buildings dotting the landscape. 

“We should stop for the night,” Lan Wangji says. “We are close.”

Wei Ying perks up next to him. “Stop in town? At an inn?” he asks, so eager that Lan Wangji wants to smile, despite the regret at the hard nights that have led to this excitement at the prospect of a bed.

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says. “I would like to bathe.”

Wei Ying laughs, some of his brightness and joy returning, peeking through the gray expression that has plagued him for days. “A bath, a bed, a roof -- I’ll take it all!”

It is still early when they reach the town. They discover that they are in Handan Village. It is a gray, dreary place on the periphery of Xinglu Ridge, near the eastern border of Qinghe. They locate the inn quickly, determined to secure a room, both agreeing that they’ll think better with clean clothes and a good meal. 

Lan Wangji insists that Wei Ying bathe first. He is met with weak protests, but Wei Ying eventually gives in with what, for him, is very little fight, proving just how worn down he is from travel. As Wei Ying bathes, Lan Wangji takes a trip into town. He needs to buy himself a better fitting set of robes to keep up the disguise -- and, perhaps, an extra set for Wei Ying as well. The black robes he has been wearing, Mo Xuanyu’s, are fairly nondescript, but Lan Wangji wants Wei Ying to have a set of his own robes. He remembers shopping in Wei Ying’s world, and how it had felt to wear clothes that Wei Ying had bought just for him.

He browses the market, looking for the clothier, allowing himself to fall into the rhythm of Qinghe. It is different from Caiyi -- more brusque, people moving with gruff but friendly efficiency. There is chatter, but it has a deliberate air, as though the speaker and the listener both have better things to be doing with their time, even if they are enjoying the company. Floating above the noise, the streets are filled with the smell of fried food and meat. Lan Wangji passes stall after stall of golden dumplings, chi faan, and cong you bing, the fragrance of the oil so rich it makes his eyes water. He stops at each stall, buying an assortment of foods to take back to Wei Ying. He knows that Wei Ying does not enjoy the food that Lan Wangji prepares. He is gracious about it, in his way, eating with little complaint beyond the familiar lament that none of it is spicy enough, but Lan Wangji suspects that the food of Qinghe will be more to Wei Ying’s liking. He decides that, later, he will bring Wei Ying here and buy him whatever he wants.

The clothier’s shop is only a few streets down from the inn. He enters to the sound of a bell tinkling and is greeted by a tall, broad woman with a baby tied to her chest. “What are you looking for?” she asks abruptly. Lan Wangji, used to the slow trading of formalities and titles, feels a swell of gratitude for both his anonymity and the straightforward manners of the Qinghe people.

“I am looking for robes for myself and my husband,” he says. 

Her eyes pass up and down his robes, sharp and evaluating. He stands steady under the gaze, despite feeling keenly aware of the exposed skin of his wrists and ankles, how the robe pulls tight around his shoulders, gaps at his chest. “I take it your husband is a bit smaller than you?” she observes. Her gaze drifts to his wrist, the white of his ribbon bright and obvious against the black of the robes. 

“Mm,” Lan Wangji agrees, then adds, “these are his robes.”

“Come on,” she says, “let’s find something that fits you before you tear those.”

He exits the shop a gratifyingly short time later with several sets of simple, ramie linen robes for himself and Wei Ying -- his own in varying shades of green, Wei Ying’s a lustrous smoky gray -- and makes it back to their room.

“Lan Zhan! I thought you’d abandoned me,” Wei Ying greets him, running up to him, smiling broadly. “What smells so good?”

He eyes the bag in Lan Wangji’s hand with a greedy expression. The fondness surges through him as he hands it over.

“Oh my god, real food!” Wei Ying gushes, plunging a hand into the bag, pulling out a dumpling and shoving it into his mouth. He doesn’t even finish chewing before he grabs another morsel from the bag. “Lan Zhan, what did I do to deserve you?” he says, swallowing the mouthful with effort. 

“Wei Ying deserves it,” Lan Wangji says.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes, and stuffs a whole pancake into his mouth. “Did you want some?”

“No,” Lan Wangji says. He walks over to the bed and lays the robes out. 

Wei Ying watches him, licking the grease from his fingers. “Whatcha got there?”

“New robes,” Lan Wangji explains. Wei Ying reaches out for the gray set, but Lan Wangji catches his wrist. “After you are done eating.”

Wei Ying laughs, and, impossibly, begins to eat more quickly. Once he has finished and properly washed his hands (after Lan Wangji’s insistence that licking does not constitute cleaning) Lan Wangji passes the gray robes to Wei Ying.

“Ooh, Lan Zhan, these are perfect!” Wei Ying gushes, running his fingers over the fabric. “We’ll be the best dressed farmers in China!”

He disappears behind the privacy screen. When he emerges a few minutes later, he spins, arms spread wide, the skirts of the robes blossoming in a wide circle. “How do I look?” he asks. The overrobe is the color of a thundercloud, with a lighter, almost silvery underrobe peeking up through the collar. His cheeks are pleasantly flushed, his hair a messy tangle, fallen loose from his ribbon.

“Mm,” Lan Wangji hums. What he means is: perfect. He walks over and adjusts the collars of the robes to sit evenly, smoothing his hands down Wei Ying’s shoulders.

“The green looks really great on you,” Wei Ying observes. “You should wear green more often. Your eyes look --” he stops mid-sentence, stepping back. “Anyway!” he says. “I thought you wanted to bathe? Or were you going to later?”

“I will bathe before bed,” Lan Wangji says. “We should have a meal. A real meal.”

Wei Ying laughs, his lips still shiny with oil. “You have the best ideas, Lan Zhan. I’m starving.”

--------

As expected, Wei Ying orders wine to go with their meal. The server returns with the requested bottles and a pair of cups. Lan Wangji declines.

“Are you not going to have any?” Wei Ying asks with an impish smile.

Lan Wangji represses a sigh and shakes his head. “You know I do not drink.”

“Aw, but husband, you were so much fun last time you drank.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes shoot up to meet Wei Ying’s as embarrassed heat blossoms at the tips of his ears. 

“You were really cute. Come on, it is our honeymoon, right? Surely you can loosen up a little? Join me, er-gege, let’s have a little fun.”

His ears are definitely red now. The embarrassment tangles up with shame at the brief flashes of memory from the drunken night in the shack. Wei Ying bound by his forehead ribbon. Lan Wangji pulling him down onto the bedroll beside him. The purple blossoms of Lan Wangji’s fingertips on Wei Ying’s wrists the next day.

“Nevermind,” Wei Ying says quickly in response to whatever Lan Wangji’s face is doing. “God, what am I, a teenager? Ignore me, er-gege, peer pressure is bad. Just say no! Dare to be different!”

Behind Wei Ying, a woman laughs, loud and surprised. She turns around in her seat to face them, her face obscured by the hood of a green cloak. “If you’re looking for a drinking buddy,” she says, “I wouldn’t mind joining! It’s always better to drink with company, and I’ve been travelling alone for a long time.”

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to decline the offer, but Wei Ying is too quick. “The more the merrier!” he says happily, sounding almost relieved as he scoots towards Lan Wangji to make room for the stranger.

She laughs and joins them, pulling back her cloak. She’s a pretty woman, her long silver hair gathered in a low bun at the nape of her neck, her eyes sparkling, creased in the corners, a pair of deep lines bracketing her mouth. There’s a quality about her, a way that light seems to concentrate around her edges, that makes her hard to look at. Lan Wangji finds himself squinting slightly, trying to resolve the bright, blurred outline. 

Wei Ying doesn’t seem to notice anything, pouring wine for her and raising his cup in a toast. She returns to gesture, and tips the wine back in tandem with him.

“So, where are your travels taking you?” Wei Ying asks. 

“No specific destination,” she says. “Sometimes the joy is in the journey, and the people you meet along the way.”

“Hear, hear!” Wei Ying yells, toasting again. He’s drinking quickly, most of one of the bottles already gone before their food has even arrived.

“Wu Rulan,” Lan Wangji says, reaching out and catching his wrist as he begins to pour another. “Wait for food.”

“I’m fine, a-Zhou,” Wei Ying says, shaking free of his grip. “I’m Wu Rulan, by the way,” he says to the traveller. “This is my husband, Lai Zhou.”

“A pleasure,” the woman says. “And where are your travels taking you?”

The woman, Lan Wangji notices, does not offer her name. 

“Ah, we’re on a great adventure!” Wei Ying says, winking rakishly. Lan Wangji frowns. 

“The road is always an adventure, depending how you choose to walk it,” the woman says.

“Oh, I like you,” Wei Ying says enthusiastically. He turns to Lan Wangji, who sits rigid with displeasure. “What do you think, sweetheart? Ready for adventure?”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says, pressing his lips together. The woman’s eyes are fixed on him from across the table. He schools his face into a blank mask as her eyes dart between him and Wei Ying curiously. They must seem like an improbable pair, unlikely partners with Lan Wangji’s stern, unyielding silence and Wei Ying’s open, delighted manner. The thought only increases Lan Wangji’s displeasure with their company, at being judged.

By the time their food arrives, Wei Ying is already loose with wine. He has edged closer to Lan Wangji, their legs knocking together, arms brushing. His face is warm and red with alcohol, even as he orders another bottle for himself and the stranger.

“We’re on our honeymoon,” Wei Ying explains to her as he swallows a mouthful of rice. “A-Zhou here is indulging me. Have you heard of Baoshan Sanren? I’m something of a fan, so we’re looking for her.”

Lan Wangji tries not to react, deliberately staying only as still as he had been a moment ago. He cannot help but look sharply at Wei Ying. This is not wise. He had all but forgotten Wei Ying’s mission to find Baoshan Sanren, he realizes guiltily. But as important as he knows it is to Wei Ying, it is imprudent to ask now and risk drawing attention to themselves.

He tries to think of how to interrupt, how to move the conversation back to more banal topics, but it is too late. The stranger’s eyebrows climb nearly to her hairline as she takes another swig of wine. “Looking for Baoshan Sanren? Or looking for the celestial mountain?”

“The celestial mountain?” Wei Ying asks.

“They say she hasn’t left her mountain in over a century,” the woman says. “That she left the world behind after cultivating immortality.”

Wei Ying frowns, cocking his head to the side. “That can’t be right,” he says. “My mother --”

“Rulan,” Lan Wangji interrupts.

Wei Ying, noting Lan Wangji’s tone, stops speaking. He blinks at Lan Wangji, and the carefree liquidity of his limbs tightens, slightly. He turns back to the woman, offering her a smile, more guarded this time. “Ah, sorry, sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll stop, er-gege.” He turns his smile on the woman. “A-Zhou here has listened to me talk about nothing but Baoshan Sanren for weeks. I promised him a break tonight.”

“I see,” she says. 

Something about the woman unsettles Lan Wangji. There’s an air of mystery around her. Not just mystery. Secret. She is hiding something. It may be innocuous, it may have nothing to do with either of them -- it seems unlikely that it would have anything to do with either of them. And yet. And yet, somebody had found them back in Tianjin. 

“I have a tendency to talk too much,” Wei Ying is saying, “I’ll just bulldoze through a conversation if someone doesn’t stop me! You should know this about me, in case we meet again, uh --” he pauses. “I just realized, I never caught your name.”

The woman just smiles and stands. “I hope we meet again, Wu Rulan.”

She bows abruptly, and then leaves, waving towards the innkeeper before walking back out into the night.

--------

They finish their meal in somewhat strained silence. Wei Ying chatters, as usual, but Lan Wangji can’t find it in him to follow and nod along as he usually would. He feels unsettled. There’s a sense, not of foreboding, but of waiting. It could be that there are so many questions. It could be the aimless meander of their journey.

Lan Wangji doesn’t think so. He can’t explain it, but there’s a crackle to the air, of something to come. So when the innkeeper steps in front of them as they head back towards their room, Wei Ying a little red, his tongue a little heavy from wine, Lan Wangji thinks to himself, ‘Finally.’

“Young masters,” the innkeeper said. “Another guest has requested your company. She is expecting you in her room.”

“Who is it?” Lan Wangji asks, at the same time that Wei Ying, apparently intrigued, sways forward towards the man. 

“Is she pretty?” Wei Ying slurs.

Lan Wangji tightens his grip on Wei Ying and pulls him back to his side, a sour taste on his tongue.

“I don’t know her name,” the innkeeper says,his mouth twisting as though he has tasted something unpleasant. “I don’t know about pretty neither. Pair of them have been holed up in that room for weeks, and their bill is paid. That’s all I know.”

Lan Wangji thanks him and pulls Wei Ying up the stairs, intending to tuck him into bed before seeing what their mysterious summoner could want. 

Wei Ying, seeing that Lan Wangji has turned towards their room, attempts to squirm away from him. “Lan Zh-- a-Zhou!” he says loudly. “We can’t leave a lady waiting!”

“You are drunk,” Lan Wangji says flatly, continuing to shepherd Wei Ying forward. 

“I’m fine!” Wei Ying declares. “Come on, let’s go!”

Wei Ying braces his arms against the doorframe as Lan Wangji attempts to lead him in. Lan Wangji could force him through easily enough. Wei Ying is no match for him physically. But even as he thinks it -- considers manhandling Wei Ying through the door and tying him down to the bed so he can’t follow -- he realizes that Wei Ying, for all that he is not Lan Wangji’s physical match, is too clever, even drunk, to be defeated by rope and force. He relents. Better, he reasons, to bring him along willingly than leave him to his own problem-solving devices. Wei Ying’s solutions, Lan Wangji has noticed, are often as self destructive as they are effective.

Wei Ying grins in triumph, hanging an arm around Lan Wangji's neck. "Good boy," he says, and Lan Wangji ignores how it makes his skin tingle.

Lan Wangji steers them to the door the innkeeper had indicated. It is quiet on the other side. He pauses, wondering if this isn’t the height of foolishness. It wasn’t that long ago that Lan Wangji had entered an inn and been flung across worlds.

Sensing his apprehension, Wei Ying squeezes his arm. “Sometimes,” he says, face close to Lan Wangji’s ear, “you’ve gotta leap before you look.” He raps his knuckles on the door.

There’s a startled gasp on the other side. The sound of fabric. Slow footsteps, and then --

“You!” Wei Ying yelps as the door slides open.

Bicao stares at them through the crack, tension etched into the lines around her mouth. “You’re actually here,” she says, as though she can’t believe her eyes.

Lan Wangji frowns. “You sent for us.”

Bicao shakes her head. Wei Ying and Lan Wangji exchange a look, before Wei Ying jerks his head toward the door --later, the gesture says. Lan Wangji agrees. “Is Madam Jin with you?” he asks.

Bicao nods. “She won’t wake up,” she says, and the rigidness of her mouth melts into anguish. 

“That’s why we’re here,” Wei Ying says. “We can help.”

A sob rises out of her as Bicao steps aside to let them in. Wei Ying steps through, Lan Wangji following. The room is well-lived-in: clean, but small signs of long tenancy. A hairbrush and assortments of ribbons laid out on a vanity with a mirror of polished bronze. A swath of pink fabric, partially embroidered with white flowers spread across a table. Puddles of wax from long burning candles overflowing their stands on the tables. “Have you been here the whole time?” Wei Ying asks, noticing it all.

Bicao nods. “We came straight here after -- after --”

She begins to cry in earnest, hard enough that her knees give out and she slumps forward. Lan Wangji catches her as the crumples, and Wei Ying rushes over and helps to move her to a chair by the bed.

Qin Su lies in the bed, placid and pale, her dark hair a halo framing her small face, her hands crossed over her chest. Lan Wangji reaches out and takes her wrist in his hand. There’s a pulse there, stronger than he expected to find. He threads a tendril of golden light to her, and finds the resistance he’s come to expect. Wei Ying casts him a questioning look. Lan Wangji, by way of answer, sinks to the floor cross-legged and summons WangJi. Wei Ying exhales. “Don’t worry,” he says, patting Bicao’s hand. “Lan Zhan’s gonna get her sorted out. It’ll all be fine.”

Lan Wangji plays.

--------

Wei Ying has drawn Bicao into a conversation about lotus seeds. Lan Wangji listens to the idle chatter as he feeds spiritual energy to Qin Su. The energy flows into her easily now, the counter song having cleared the way. He keeps the stream constant, but slow. She does have a core, but it is a tiny thing and he doesn’t want to risk overwhelming it. Besides, he is reluctant to give too much of his own energy away just now. He is relieved that they have found Qin Su, but the circumstances make him uneasy.

“Do you have lotus ponds back in Carp Tower?” Wei Ying asks.

“No. Plenty of koi ponds, but no lotus,” Bicao says. She sounds calmer, now, her voice no longer shaking and fractured. 

“Can you tell me about Carp Tower?”

Bicao opens her mouth, then closes it. “I -- I’m glad we’re gone,” she says. 

Wei Ying waits, letting her think through the silence. 

“It was fine,” she says at last, “Until it wasn’t. I’m so grateful we got away.”

“When did things get bad?” Wei Ying asks. 

“Just that last night,” Bicao answers. “But I think it had been tense before then. When I got the letter, I didn’t even think to question it.”

“The letter?”

Lan Wangji keeps his head down, but raises his eyes from Qin Su to watch as Bicao walks over to the table and takes a letter from beneath the pink fabric draped across it. She passes it to Wei Ying. “I found this, the day when -- well, when everything happened.”

Wei Ying looks down at the letter, his face scrunching into a frown as he reads. “Do you know who sent it?” he asks.

Bicao shakes her head. “No. It was on my bed when I came back to my room to change. I had been in the kitchens,” she hurries to explain, “and one of the younger servants spilled wine down the front of my robes.”

“Did you tell anyone else about the letter when you got it?” he asks. He reaches over and hands the letter to Lan Wangji.

“I didn’t think to,” she says. “I was so scared, I went to find Qin Su right away. When I got there, she had already received her own letter.”

“What did it say?”

“I don’t know,” Bicao says. “She wouldn’t let me read it, but she was so upset. I thought she was going to faint. I tried to get her to come away with me right then, to leave, but … but she insisted that she needed to-- to talk to-- to him--”

Bicao’s breathing has turned ragged. Wei Ying wraps an arm around her shoulders, drawing soothing circles on her back. “Did I tell you,” he says, his voice light and easy, “about the time that my jiejie tried to teach me how to sew? I was trying to sew a patch onto a shirt, and ended up sewing the shirt to the pants I was wearing.”

Lan Wangji turns it all over as Wei Ying consoles the crying woman. So Qin Su and Bicao had both received letters the day that he and Wei Ying had arrived at Carp Tower. Letters that had upset Qin Su greatly, and warned Bicao that they needed to flee. 

He takes Bicao’s letter and unfolds it. The handwriting, he realizes, is the same as the letter he and Wei Ying had received telling them to come to Xinglu Ridge. 

Qin Su is in danger. Go find her at once. 

There is a carriage waiting for you in the square. It has been enchanted to take you to safety. 

Trust no one.

The wrist in Lan Wangji’s hand twitches. There is a quiet groan, as Qin Su begins to stir.

“A-Su!” Bicao gasps, abandoning Wei Ying mid-story and rushing to her lady’s side. “Oh, a-Su. Can you hear me? Child, sweet child, can you hear me?” She reaches out a hand and smooths Qin Su’s hair, resting the other delicately on her cheek. 

“Bicao,” Qin Su says, the words fluttering into the air on damp wings.

“I’m here,” Bicao says warmly, her voice wet with tears. “I’m here.”

The women clutch at each other, and Lan Wangji turns, allowing them a moment of privacy and comfort. Across from him, on the other side of the bed, Wei Ying watches, an aching pain etched into his features. 

“Hanguang-jun,” Qin Su’s voice calls to him weakly. “Thank you.”

Lan Wangji dips his head once in acknowledgment of the thanks. 

“How do you feel?” Wei Ying asks, approaching the bed. “Hungry? Thirsty?”

Qin Su inhales raggedly. “Thirsty,” she says. Bicao makes as though to leave her side, but Wei Ying stops her with a hand. 

“I’ve got it. You stay,” he says. 

He returns moments later with a cup of hot water. Lan Wangji helps Qin Su into a sitting position as Wei Ying hands it to her. “I can find some tea, if you want,” Wei Ying says apologetically.

“This is fine,” Qin Su says, sipping the water. “I -- do I know you?” she asks hesitantly. “Everything is a little strange right now.”

“I bet,” Wei Ying smiles bracingly. “I’m Wei Wuxian. I was at Carp Tower with Lan Wangji.”

“Oh,” Qin Su says, handing the now empty cup to Bicao, “you’re Lan Wangji’s companion.”

Lan Wangji watches as Wei Ying colors, the red of his alcohol-flushed skin deepening. “Ah, well,” he says, and clears his throat. “Can we ask you a few questions? About what happened back at Carp Tower?”

“Can it wait?” Bicao interjects. “She should rest. She’s been ill.”

Qin Su, though, pats Bicao’s hand. “It’s alright, Bicao. I’m fine. I daresay, I’ve had plenty of rest.” She turns to Wei Ying. “How long has it been?”

“A little over two weeks,” Wei Ying answers. “What do you remember about that night?”

Qin Su’s expression darkens. “Up until the moment that monster tried to kill me? Everything. I remember everything.”

The room turns frigid with the declaration. Lan Wangji feels as though he has plunged into the Cold Springs, breathless and numb. Qin Su takes a deep breath, seeking out Bicao’s hand. “Jin Guangyao, he was-- he is--” she inhales deeply, closing her eyes. “He is my brother.”

Lan Wangji did not know what he had been expecting, but he had not been expecting that. His stomach rolls. Bicao makes a sound like a wounded animal and squeezes Qin Su’s hand.

“And he knew. He knew. Jin Guangshan forced himself on my mother. My mother begged him not to marry me, but … but by then we had …”

Wei Ying, noticing her struggle, cuts in. “How did you find out?” he asks.

Qin Su takes another steadying breath, a warm wash of gratitude evident at being spared from saying more about it. “The letter,” she answers. “I received a letter. It said that he was my brother and that he had-- had killed our son -- Rusong--”

Her voice breaks. Lan Wangji waits. He has questions, things he needs to know that he believes she can tell him, but after everything she has been through, he doesn’t want to push her too hard. She, more than any of them, deserves some peace, after how she has been used. 

Her breathing evens outs again as Bicao strokes a hand through her hair. Wei Ying, who had run to fetch her more water, presses the cup back into her hands and encourages her to drink before she continues. She thanks him, taking her time. 

“I confronted him about it,” she says. “I didn’t believe it -- no, I didn’t want to believe it. It was so horrible. I had always believed … I thought he was a good man. But I also knew him. I’d seen him. I told myself he only did what needed to be done. Jin Guangyao -- he wants to be powerful. He needs to be powerful. It’s an obsession. When I read that letter, I thought -- I thought, yes. I could see him doing it. It was possible. He tried to deny it, but I could tell. I have been his wife for years. I know when he is lying to me,” her eyes turn hard, the black pupils constricting in the ring of cold, dark brown. “And then, he attacked me. He forced me down -- started singing something, and I suddenly felt so weak, as though something was being pulled out of me, and … and I think you know the rest.”

She slumps backward, the little energy she had regained exhausted in telling the story. Bicao shoos them away from her, helping Qin Su lay back, tucking the blankets in around her as she worries over her in a soothing voice. 

“What do you think?” Wei Ying says under his breath at Lan Wangji’s side. 

Lan Wangji tears his eyes away from the bed, his heart heavy. “It explains why Jin Guangyao attacked his son. His father. He did not want people to find out.”

“His own son,” Wei Ying says, grimacing at the taste of the words in his mouth. “Although, I gotta say, good riddance to the father. He doesn’t sound like a man worth mourning.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji agrees.

“What now?” Wei Ying asks. “Should we write to your brother and tell him?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says slowly. “Though I would prefer to tell him in person. Jin Guangyao is --” he struggles for the word. Jin Guangyao is special to his brother. He does not know if he should speak of their relationship with Qin Su in the room. He has never pressed, never asked about this, about what Jin Guangyao’s marriage means to Lan Xichen. He thinks that now, he wants to know even less.

Wei Ying looks at him warmly, sympathetically. “I know.” 

“Excuse me,” Bicao appears at Lan Wangji’s other side, Qin Su having drifted off to sleep. “There’s something else I think you should see, though I don’t know what bearing it has on all of this.”

She holds out a piece of paper to him. It is heavily creased, as though it has been crumpled into a ball and discarded. Lan Wangji takes it and smooths it out as Wei Ying peeks over his shoulder. “A deed?” Wei Ying says, curiously. “Property in Yunping. Belonging to Jin Guangyao. What is it?”

Lan Wangji is wondering the same thing. He turns to Bicao. “Where did you get this?”

“Qin Su had it,” Bicao answers, “when you brought her to me.”

“Weird,” Wei Ying says. “Why would he have a deed for property in Yunping? That’s not in Lanling, right? And why did Qin Su have it?”

“I don’t know,” Bicao says. “But she needs to sleep.” There are dark circles under the woman’s eyes, and a thinness to her skin that speaks of many nights without rest. Lan Wangji thinks that Qin Su isn’t the only one in need of sleep.

“We will go,” Lan Wangji says, bowing to her slightly. “We will return in the morning.”

“Yes, alright,” Bicao says, relief falling off of her in waves. “In the morning.”

Wei Ying reaches out and presses Bicao’s hand gently. “Get some rest.” 

She nods at him once, before crossing the room to the bed as Lan Wangji takes Wei Ying by the elbow and guides him to the door.

Back in their room, Lan Wangji writes a letter to his brother, telling him what they have learned, only leaving out the details about their current location so as to keep Bicao and Qin Su’s whereabouts hidden for the time being. The letter is short, for all the devastation it contains. He imagines his brother reading it, and the ache in his heart nearly overwhelms him. He would spare Lan Xichen this pain, if he could. But there are so many dead, he thinks, and so many yet who may still die. He folds the letter and determines that he will send it in the morning.

When they finally go to bed that night, it is with new questions. Lan Wangji wonders if they will ever find their way to the bottom of this mystery -- it seems that every layer peels back and reveals yet another question. 

As he listens to Wei Ying’s even breaths beside him in the bed, he drifts and wonders if he wants to reach the end at all.

--------

Morning arrives, and Lan Wangji wakes entangled in Wei Ying.

It is still dark, sunrise hours away. He lays in the bed, Wei Ying’s face pressed into his shoulder, head crooked up under his chin, arm sprawled across his waist. He grumbles sleepily as Lan Wangji moves, holding him tighter. 

Lan Wangji stays in bed.

--------

Daylight pours into the room like warm tea, and Lan Wangji breathes it in in soothing swallows. Wei Ying’s breathing hitches, his hand clutching a fistful of Lan Wangji’s hair. “Lan-er-gege,” he whispers breathily into Lan Wangji’s neck. 

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying nuzzles against him, deeper, before going stiff and rocketing off him. “Lan Zhan!” he blinks, disoriented as his head swivels, taking in the room. “What-- what time is it?”

“Late,” Lan Wangji says.

Wei Ying crawls to the edge of the bed, putting space between them. “Why didn’t you wake me? Have you just been laying here with me drooling on you?”

“Wei Ying was tired.”

Wei Ying groans again and hides his face in his hands. “God, Lan Zhan. You’re unbelievable. I’m up now, okay? You should -- you should get ready. I’ll, uh, be a moment.”

His face is bright red in his hands. Lan Wangji feels a pang of guilt. He hadn’t meant to upset Wei Ying. He gets out of bed, walking over to the door to call for one of the attendants to bring bathwater. He hadn’t managed to clean up last night, and longs to wash the road off of himself.

Once the bath is filled, Lan Wangji slips behind the privacy screen and bathes quickly, taking care with his hair as Wei Ying talks through what they need to do next.

“We should talk to Qin Su again, now that she’s had some time to rest and that we’re sober,” Wei Ying suggests.

Lan Wangji hums quietly at this. Wei Ying laughs in a way where Lan Wangji can imagine the eyeroll that accompanied it. “Now that I’m sober, then, you boy scout. I want to ask her some more about the letter. See if she knows who sent it. I know who we think sent it,” he adds quickly, “but it would be good to get her thoughts. Plus, I want to know more about that deed. Why did she have it? Does she know what it’s for? Is she aware of anything else that Jin Guangyao might be hiding?” 

Wei Ying pauses. Long enough that Lan Wangji prompts him with another inquisitive hum. 

“I was just thinking. There are a lot of questions, and I was wondering how they’re all connected. If they’re all connected. Or if we’re just chasing rabbits. Depending on what she tells us, though, I think our next step is to go to Yunping."

"I agree," Lan Wangji says. 

Wei Ying is already dressed by the time Lan Wangji finishes bathing. He helps him with his hair as best he can -- the short sides have grown long enough to be unruly at this point. "I can cut it for you," Lan Wangji offers, but Wei Ying impatiently declines. 

"Another time, Lan Zhan. I want to go talk to Qin Su again."

They walk over to the women's room and knock. There's a sleepy sound, and then a quiet voice calling to them through the door. "Who is it?"

"It's us, Bicao," Wei Ying answers, keeping his voice low as well. "We've come back to ask a few more questions."

The door creaks open and Bicao pushes her face through the small crack. "Qin Su is still asleep," she says. "Can you come back later? I don't want to wake her."

Lan Wangji nods, despite his impatience to get the rest of the story and to get moving. For the first time in the weeks following Carp Tower, they have found a scent, and he is eager to follow it before it fades away. 

Nonetheless, they excuse themselves, informing Bicao that they will be back in a couple of hours. To distract himself and Wei Ying, who is nearly vibrating out of his skin at this point, Lan Wangji takes them to the market. He finds a traveler heading to Caiyi and hires them to deliver the letter to Peng Xu. The letter to his brother is wrapped inside a shorter one to the merchant, entrusting him to deliver it safely to Cloud Recesses.

Lan Wangji walks Wei Ying from stall to stall through the market, coin purse out, buying various foods and trinkets that Wei Ying shows interest in. 

“Er-gege, you’re going to spoil me,” Wei Ying admonishes as Lan Zhan hands over a small fortune in exchange for a delicate jade ornament that he pins into Wei Ying’s hair, but there is no heat behind it. “How do I look?”

He holds his hands up to his face, framing it as he beams an over-wide smile at him. “Beautiful,” Lan Wangji says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Wei Ying blushes crimson, grimacing painfully as he smacks Lan Wangji’s shoulder in admonishment.The creature in Lan Wangji’s chest preens. 

The market proves to be the perfect distraction. Wei Ying flits between stores and stalls, chatting amiably with the proprietors, with fellow shoppers, charming his way into samples of food, mostly vegetable dishes, so that he can push bites into Lan Wangji’s mouth, Lan Wangji’s arms too full of their purchases to resist. 

It is, perhaps, too good of a distraction. Lan Wangji is surveying the offerings at a stall selling paper butterflies, wondering if a-Yuan would like one, his heart aching a little as he thinks about the boy, when he realizes that he can no longer hear Wei Ying. 

He turns and finds that Wei Ying is no longer at his side. Nor is he at any of the nearby booths. He is not anywhere that Lan Wangji can see.

Panic skewers him like an arrow as he begins to flip backward through the pages of his memory, trying to determine when he had last noticed Wei Ying at his side. Had he been at the booth stall selling the protection charms? He can’t remember. He had been contemplating making one of his own for Wei Ying, wondering whether Wei Ying would allow him to. He’d been too embarrassed to ask. 

He tries to keep his panic under control. He moves through the market swiftly, but calmly, not allowing himself to run or yell, eyes sweeping for any hint of Wei Ying’s gray robes, ears pricked for the sound of his laughter.

A flash of red in the corner of his eye, and Lan Wangji’s head whips around to follow Wei Ying’s red ribbon as he disappears through a door across the way. And then, Lan Wangji is on his heels, his hand curling around Wei Ying’s arm. 

“Ah, La-- a-Zhou!” Wei Ying yelps in surprise. “You scared me!”

Lan Wangji is searching his face, looking for any sign of distress, but Wei Ying looks as open and carefree as ever. “I lost you in the market,” Lan Wangji says, a little abashed.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to just walk off. But, well. I’ve made a friend,” he turns and gestures, and Lan Wangji notices for the first time that there is a woman, standing close, watching them. “I didn’t catch her name yet, though …?” Wei Ying prompts.

“I was told she wants to speak with you,” she says emphatically to Wei Ying, before levelling a heavy look at Lan Wangji. 

“Yes, well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Wei Ying says. “What is it that was so important that you had to drag me away from my darling husband?” Wei Ying clings to Lan Wangji’s side, and Lan Wangji hopes that he doesn’t feel how his heart is pounding. “A little brazen, isn’t it, to drag off a newlywed to this … establishment.”

The woman narrows her eyes, searching his face. “Are you coming with me or not?” she asks.

Wei Ying cocks an eyebrow at her, but she just turns and walks away, gesturing towards one of the rooms. “What do you think?” Wei Ying says to Lan Wangji quietly. 

Lan Wangji doesn’t know what to think. He’s off-balance, doesn’t have enough information to be making a decision. Wei Ying reads the struggle on his face, but misinterprets the source. “Ah, don’t worry. Nobody knows you’re you. Nobody’s going to be spinning tales about one of the Twin Jades entering a brothel.”

Lan Wangji blinks. And then, he takes a moment to finally process his surroundings -- the silks and cushions, the heady perfume of wine and incense, the women lounging with carefully curated casualness in the pretty draping of their limbs and necks. A small group is entertaining a pair of green cloaked men in a corner. Lan Wangji feels Wei Ying watching him closely. Lan Wangji does not react. “Who is she?” Lan Wangji asks.

“Don’t know,” Wei Ying says. “She kind of accosted me in the market. Said some woman wanted to speak with me, and that it couldn’t wait.”

Lan Wangji frowns. “And you went with her?”

“Ah, what was I supposed to do? Besides, she’s not really a threat, is she? I can handle myself.”

Lan Wangji knows better than to judge such things by sight alone. He’s certain Wei Ying knows better as well. He considers, for a wild moment, whether or not he should get a collar and leash for Wei Ying. It isn’t such a bad idea, he thinks, if Wei Ying is going to go running off after strange women. 

“Let’s go see what this person has to say?” Wei Ying tugs on Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “For all I know, this is just some badly thought out marketing ploy.”

Lan Wangji lets himself be pulled along, and Wei Ying knocks on the door to the room. 

“Enter.”

The room is luridly pink and red and golden. Lan Wangji blinks, his eyes stinging in the fluorescence of the colors. The woman is sitting on a large feather cushion at a table set with a tea service. 

Really looking at her now, Lan Wangji notes the discrepancies in her appearance. She is wearing expensive robes that are tied loosely, exposing an ample portion of her chest -- but the hem is frayed and dirty. Her hair, worn down in waves around her shoulders, is adorned with combs that Lan Wangji recognizes as real gold, inlaid with glittering jewels that flash like eyes in the candlelight of the windowless room. He notices, too, that there are scars visible beneath the thick layer of makeup she has painted on.

“You asked for us?” Lan Wangji says, a squirm of nerves in his stomach.

“Nice digs,” Wei Ying says. “You live here?”

The woman smiles at him. It is a sharp thing, with no happiness behind it. “I don’t live anywhere, anymore,” she says. “But I suppose you could say this is a temporary home.”

“Anymore?” Wei Ying asks.

“Have a seat,” she says.

Wei Ying looks at Lan Wangji, shrugs one shoulder, and walks over and plops down on one of the cushions across from her. Lan Wangji follows. 

The woman tosses her hair back over her shoulder, revealing the full length of her neck, leaning forward elegantly and pouring them both a cup of tea. “You’ll have to forgive me for not having anything to eat,” she says. “It’s been a while since I’ve entertained.”

“Really?” Wei Ying says incredulously, bordering on rudeness. Lan Wangji agrees -- they are in a brothel, after all.

“I don’t see to many guests these days,” she says. “My services run more in the vein of being the person who gets things done.”

“And what were you hired to do with us?” 

She smiles. “With ‘us’? No, I think you misunderstand. I was only expecting you, Wei Wuxian.”

A low growl rumbles in Lan Wangji’s chest, wrapping his fist around Bichen. Wei Ying reaches out and places a stilling hand on his knee.

“Well, you got both of us,” Wei Ying says, his tone light but something dangerous lurking beneath. He takes his cup of tea, smiling at the woman. “What do you want? Just our company?”

“I won’t pretend that a little company isn’t appreciated,” she says. “They weren’t exactly showing me off to guests at Carp Tower.”

Wei Ying, who had been preparing to take a sip of the tea, freezes, teacup partway to his mouth. “You were at Carp Tower?”

“Yes,” the woman says, leaning back and stretching her arms. “Until a little over two weeks ago.”

Wei Ying puts his cup back down on the table. “Who are you?” he asks.

“Sisi,” she says. “Former captive of Carp Tower and Jin Guangyao. And I think that I have you to thank for the ‘former’ part.”

Lan Wangji stiffens. She knows. 

Wei Ying reaches to take his tea again, but Lan Wangji grasps his leg under the table, a warning. There are only two cups, he realizes. Sisi is not drinking. Wei Ying’s eyes go a little wide, but it is the only tell as his hand stills. “Why do you think that?” he says lightly. “What could my husband and I have to do with it?”

Sisi is sprawled languidly across from them, radiating confidence and ease. Lan Wangji, in contrast, is coiled tightly, waiting for the trap to spring. 

“I used to work in Yunmeng,” Sisi says, in the tone of one beginning a story. “This was -- oh. A longtime ago. Too long to mention, it would be embarrassing for a lady to say. It was a popular establishment though. On the border of Lanling. Common spot for nighthunting. Lots of cultivators,” her eyes drape lazily over Lan Wangji’s body. “It wasn’t bad work at all. People always seem to think we’re to be pitied, me and the others in my line of work. But I say, pity the women who are sold into marriage. Pity the women whose fathers collect the price of their freedom.”

Her eyes flash now, the serpentine quality of her limbs going rigid. “I had my freedom, at least.”

Wei Ying nods once at Lan Wangji’s side. Sisi sees it, and loosens again. “Some of the women, though. They wanted out. They wanted marriage. Short-sighted,” she sniffs. “Meng Shi was one of them. She thought he loved her. That when she gave him a son, he’d take her away. And what then, I ask you? Leave his wife? For a prostitute and an illegitimate son? She was a sweet girl, but so young. So stupid.

“He didn’t, of course. He left her and the kid. She raised little Meng Yao there at the brothel. Some of the other girls … well. They were miserable, and miserable people make themselves contagious. But Meng Shi and her boy never did anything wrong by me, so I never didn’t do anything wrong by them. It’s a hard enough world without us making it worse for each other.

“They disappeared when the boy turned 10. She was saying something about sending him off to his father, to Carp Tower, to be a cultivator. It was ridiculous, but she was determined. She left and I never saw her again.”

There’s a long silence. Wei Ying clears his throat. “And the boy?”

“Him,” Sisi says, and her voice is full of bile. “Him, I saw. Came back, all grown and dressed in gold. Went straight to the madam and said he was looking for me. That he wanted to hire me to come with him to Lanling. She tried to convince him to take one of the younger girls -- recognized the gold, you see, didn’t want to deal with any returns. Well. He insisted. And he got me.

“I thought, at first, that I was lucky. Being taken off to live in Carp Tower? All that money, the good food, the pretty clothes. Who wouldn’t be excited?

“And it was fine. For a while. I wasn’t allowed to leave the Tower, but it had everything I could ever dream of. I think that’s why it took me so long that, just like that, I found myself in the very position I’d always tried to avoid. I’d sold away my freedom.

“He was the only one I saw for years. I don’t think anyone else even knew about me. He’d come and talk to me. About his mother. About his father. About his fears. And he had so many fears. And I comforted him, and told him he was brave, because that’s what I thought he’d hired me for. 

“Then, about a year ago, things changed. He started coming by less often, but when he did come by -- it was panic. His father was trying to sire a legitimate son. Or else, was going to sire another illegitimate one, but attempt to pass him off as Madam Jin’s. He was scared, he didn’t know what to do, it was as though his world was falling apart.

“Then, one night, he came by and he was … different. Calmer, on the surface. He told me he found the answer. That he had a weapon that would make things right. I’d never been afraid of him before. I was then. I was after. 

“And it just got worse. One night, he came to me sobbing, about how it was all his fault, about how he’d had to kill him, how he’d do it again. But he was sobbing, and then he started breaking things. Everything he could get his hands on. I’ve never seen him like that. He wasn’t himself. It was as though somebody else was in his body, controlling him, tearing their way out.

“He stopped visiting, and I was locked in my room without anyone for months except the maid, and she never talked. I was so stupid, it wasn’t until the door was actually locked behind me that I realized it had always been a cell. I thought, this was it. This is how it ends.

“And then, a couple weeks ago, my door opened. There are stories, you know, about how longtime prisoners will stay in their cells even after they’re unlocked, because they don’t know what to do,” Sisi’s mouth is tight, her eyes hard, “and that wasn’t going to be me.”

Silence rings through the room like a bell, Lan Wangji hardly daring to breathe. The story is horrible, but his thoughts have snagged on one detail: ‘he had a weapon that would make things right.’

Sisi leans forward, lifting the lid of the incense burner. “It’s gone out,” she says. “Can you?” she looks at Lan Wangji imploringly. He acquiesces and lights it with spiritual energy. “Thank you,” she says, and stands. “You haven’t had any tea,” she notes. “I don’t much like the tea here either. We still have much to discuss. You’re a very interesting man, Wei Wuxian. I’m going to grab a server and have them bring some wine.”

“Wait!” Wei Ying says, grabbing her sleeve as she passes. She stops and looks down at him. “Why are you telling us this?”

Sisi shakes her sleeve free, smiling down at him. It is an ugly smile. “Somebody needs to take him down.” The smile grows even colder. 

“Why me though? You said you were only expecting me.”

“I’ll get the wine,” she says. She walks out of the room, and the door clicks closed behind her.

Wei Ying stares after her for a long while, before finally turning back to Lan Wangji. “Whoa,” he says simply, looking a little dizzy. 

“Mm,” Lan Wangj agrees. He feels it too: lightheaded and reeling. It is as though he is standing still but the world is spinning around him too fast. Wei Ying’s face swims before him as the room melts into a pink blur.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, and it is as though it is reaching him through leagues of water. “I feel --”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says. His mouth is sluggish, his tongue heavy, as the word spills out like lead. The world tilts and the next moment he hears a sharp crack and feels a shock of pain. 

“--fuck,” Wei Ying’s voice swims to him, “the … incense …”

Something heavy and warm falls on top of Lan Wangji. Wei Ying. Golden light flares inside of Lan Wangji, the lethargic thrall of the drug burning off of him. He pulls Wei Ying to him, attempts to struggle to his feet.

“Fuck, stop him,” somebody says. “His core’s burning it off, stop him!”

A figure in green approaches him, their face obscured by a mask wrapped around their nose and mouth. Lan Wangji tries to draw Bichen, but his limbs are too heavy. A hand darts out, jabbing into the four corners of his chest. It is as though something has been slammed closed. The light within him is still blazing, but suddenly out of reach. He struggles, wraps himself around Wei Ying, as his eyes close and he succumbs to the blackness.

--------

The world feels too loud and bright, even before he opens his eyes. His lids and limbs feel heavy, fighting against him as he drags them open and the world takes shape around him. He is propped against a rampart, a wide blue sky overhead, light bouncing off of the white stones. He pulls himself up straighter, and a weight shifts off of his shoulder with a groan. Wei Ying’s head slides down to his chest, and Lan Wangji catches him before he slumps all the way into his lap. 

“Oh god,” Wei Ying says, his voice cutting through the roar of the wind and birds. “I feel like I got hit by a truck. Where are we?”

Lan Wangji starts to answer, but before he can think of what to say, another voice cuts in.

“Finally awake? Took you long enough. I thought you idiots were going to sleep all day.”

Wei Ying gasps, twisting in Lan Wangji’s arms toward the voice. “A-Qing?”

Lan Wangji follows his gaze. A-Qing is standing next to them, leaning far enough over the rampart that Lan Wangji’s stomach tightens. She rolls her eyes, giving an exasperated huff. “Obviously. And people think I’m the blind one.”

“A-Qing,” a new voice, a woman’s, somehow familiar, “don’t be rude to your shishu.”

She walks towards them, her emerald robes billowing in the wind,as though she is a fallen leaf, floating down from a tree. Sunlight sparkles in her silver hair as she smiles at them -- a radiant smile, filled with mischief and joy. It is the strange woman from the inn. 

“Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian,” she says, sweeping her arms wide. “I am Baoshan Sanren. Welcome to my mountain.”

Chapter Text

“My apologies for the chilly welcome,” Baoshan Sanren says. She walks over, reaching into her sleeve and pulling out a small glass vial. “Nobody can enter the mountain without my being there, and I was indisposed. Here, drink this. It’ll clear out the sedative, and you’ll be feeling better in no time.”

She hands the glass vial to Wei Ying, then produces a second for Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji takes it, but doesn’t drink, staring at her with hard, untrusting eyes. “What did you do to us?”

“I needed to bring you here,” she says. “We have much to discuss.”

“So you kidnapped us?” Wei Ying snipes. His voice is still a little slurred, and the barb bounces harmlessly off of her. 

A-Qing huffs. “Don’t be stupid Nobody hurt you, did they?”

Lan Wangji wants to point out that drugging them and dragging them to an unknown location against their will isn’t exactly harmless, but he holds his tongue. “Why did you not simply ask us to come with you?” he says instead.

“It’s not that simple,” Baoshan Sanren says. “I can’t have outsiders knowing how to get to the mountain.”

“Then you could have blindfolded us, or told us what was happening. Not enlisted some strange woman to drug us,” Wei Ying counters. His forehead is creased, a calculating expression, when he finally says, “You didn’t want anyone to think we were coming here willingly, did you? Why? Why did you want me here? What does Sisi have to do with this?”

Instead of looking abashed or caught out, Baoshan Sanren smiles. It looks fond and a little disbelieving as she shakes her head. “You are so much like her,” she says. “Sisi was just one of many I had looking for you -- competent, smart, and loyal with the right payment. And motivated, it seems. As for the rest … it is safer if anyone watching from the outside thinks of you as prisoners, rather than guests. There’s more to say, but it’s a bit cold out here. Why don’t we go inside and get warm first? And you should drink that,” she waves a hand at the vials they are holding, “you really will feel better.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t like the situation at all. He feels embarrassed heat unfurling in his stomach as he thinks about how they were caught off-guard, captured so easily. How could he have let it happen? If it had been Jin Guangyao’s people who had found them, then he has no doubt that he would be dead right now. That Wei Ying--

He can’t pursue that line of thinking. He looks at the vial in his hands, then deliberately stashes it in his sleeve. He reaches for his golden core instead, and is grateful to find that his spiritual energy is no longer locked. He allows it to bloom through him, the golden light devouring the remnants of the sedative. 

Beside him, he reaches for Wei Ying’s wrist, holding it gently and feeding him energy as well. A soft, relieved sound escapes Wei Ying at the sensation of the energy flooding into him, and he clutches Lan Wangji’s arm, letting the vial fall to the ground. “Thanks,” he says.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says quietly. A-Qing and Baoshan Sanren are watching them, a-Qing impatient, arms crossed, foot tapping, Baoshan Sanren looking amused, but unsurprised. 

Wei Ying squeezes his arm in understanding. “Let’s see what she has to say,” he says. “I have been looking for her. And a-Qing looks well, doesn’t she? I’m just grateful they brought you along too.”

Lan Wangji is as well. For a moment, he imagines waking up, Wei Ying gone without a trace. The fear chills him, and whatever his feelings about being brought here, there is gratitude there too. 

“Let’s go get some answers,” Wei Ying says, gently shifting his wrist out of Lan Wangji’s hand and struggling to his feet. Lan Wangji follows, but takes Wei Ying’s wrist again to continue feeding him his qi. He expects Wei Ying to shake him off, to insist that he doesn’t need it. But Wei Ying only sighs, the muscle flexing under Lan Wangji’s fingers, and lets it happen.

They follow a-Qing and Baoshan Sanren through a doorway. The Celestial Mountain has been carved out into elegant halls and wide rooms, filled with bright light, courtesy of talismans hanging from chandeliers. Curtains drape the walls in green and cream and bronze, rooms furnished with matching furniture that is both practical and plush. Art is dotted along the walls -- Lan Wangji spots several pieces featuring subjects from Wei Ying’s world: cars and airplanes, women in short skirts, men with buzzed hair and dark sunglasses. Throughout it all, there is the thrum of friendly chatter, muffled behind doors. 

The thing that strikes Lan Wangji as the strangest, though, is that the Celestial Mountain -- often spoken of as a place of solitude for the reclusive Baoshan Sanren, the immortal being who has stepped away from the world to seek peace in isolation -- is far more crowded than he expected.

There are people -- disciples, he supposes, hurrying through the halls, rushing between what he suspects are classrooms, clutching stacks of books. All of them are wearing the same green robes.

Ahead of him, a-Qing is telling Wei Ying about life in the Celestial Mountain with obvious pride. Wei Ying nods along, apparently listening, but Lan Wangji notices that he is quiet, a dazed quality to his eyes as they sweep over the room and pull back, inexorably, to Baoshan Sanren.

The master of the Celestial Mountain walks at Lan Wangji’s side, watching a-Qing and Wei Ying with a warm smile. Lan Wangji keeps his back straight and his steps even, as he attempts to regain control over his thoughts. 

“You must have a lot of questions,” Baoshan Sanren says, her voice calm. “You may ask them.”

Lan Wangji looks at her from the corner of his eye. Her gaze has not strayed from Wei Ying, and there is something there, something in the way that she watches him, that reminds Lan Wangji of his mother.

He reaches into the storm and plucks out a question. “Why are we here?”

She laughs a small laugh in her throat. “He was looking for me, wasn’t he?” she says. “Well. He found me. Or I found him.”

Silence stretches, before Lan Wangji speaks again. “Why?”

Baoshan Sanren sighs. “Cangse Sanren. His mother. She was my lead disciple, before she left the Mountain. She was … well. Maybe you’d have to have known her to understand how special she was. The joy she carried with her. The light she shone on everyone around her. So bright, and with justice carved into her very being.”

Ahead of them, Wei Ying has, for some reason, suddenly wrapped a-Qing into a headlock, laughter pouring out of him as she squirms and yells obscenities. “Children,” Baoshan Sanren scolds, but her tone is indulgent. 

Lan Wangji watches as Wei Ying releases a-Qing, raising his hands innocently before him and shaking his head. He thinks that he knows what Baoshan Sanren means. 

“I never knew what happened to him,” Baoshan Sanren says. “When I heard there was someone looking for me -- someone who seemed to appear out of nowhere, with strange speech and stranger manners -- well. I had to come see for myself. I knew as soon as I saw him.”

“What are you two talking about back there?” Wei Ying calls to them. “Don’t be getting to any of the good stuff without me!”

“Do you know what happened to her?” Lan Wangji asks, keeping his voice low so Wei Ying will not overhear. As soon as he does, he wishes he hadn’t. It is not his place to ask -- she was not his mother, not his to ask about and wonder about. But there is an ease and lightness to Wei Ying just now, to the way he is laughing, to the looseness of his limbs, to the openness of his face, and Lan Wangji needs to know. He needs to know how fragile this is. He cannot protect Wei Ying from the truth, but he wants to be prepared. To be there for him.

“Some,” Baoshan Sanren says. “She is dead. Cangse Sanren and her husband, Wei Changze. They were killed.”

Lan Wangji nods. It is not unexpected news, but it is like swallowing ice, the coldness slipping down his throat and spilling into his stomach. 

“A-Qing,” Baoshan Sanren calls to the girl, who stops and turns to her, slipping, belatedly, into a sloppy bow. “Can you take our guests to get settled in? You’re excused from class, please show them around and take care of them. I have lessons to teach,” she says, addressing Lan Wangji and Wei Ying now, who has joined them at Lan Wangji’s side, “but I will see you when they end, after the bell. Please make yourselves comfortable until then. We have much to talk about.”

--------

“Oh my god , she has memory foam mattresses.” Wei Ying takes a running leap into the bed, landing with a soft whoomph . “Lan Zhan,” he says, voice muffled as he buries his face in a pillow, “you have no idea how much I’ve missed comfortable beds. “

Lan Wangji hums as the wave of fondness crashes over him. The quarters they have been brought to are spacious, large enough for a small family. There’s a kitchen, a main room just off the entry with an overstuffed sofa, a hallway leading to a bathroom and two bedrooms. In each bedroom and the main living area, a wall is painted in a vivid, realistic landscape. The painting, to Wei Ying’s ecstatic joy, moves -- a talisman secured in the upper corner so that the branches sway, the blossoms fall, fish jump, concentric rings rippling out through the water into nothing. 

A-Qing stands in the doorway, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently, affecting a put upon air, though Lan Wangji can see the way her eyes light up with each new exclamation of praise from Wei Ying. 

“Are you done being foolish yet?” a-Qing snipes at him. “You’ve seen beds before, haven’t you?”

“A-Qing, don’t be like that!” Wei Ying says, emerging from the bathroom where he had cried over the shower and the hot running water. He runs up to her and grabs her hand.  “Come in here!” he says. She yelps in protest as he hauls her into the living room and down onto the couch. 

Lan Wangji joins them, choosing an armchair at a right angle to the sofa. “So,” Wei Ying says, his tone suddenly serious, “tell us what happened, a-Qing. How did you end up here? Are you safe?”

A-Qing yanks her hand away from him and sniffs in annoyance. “Of course I’m safe!” she says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Where’s Popo?”

“She’s here. She’s at home, probably.”

“So she came here with you?”

“Well I wasn’t going to leave her behind,” a-Qing says, defiantly. “I didn’t care what they said, I wasn’t going without her.”

“Oh? What did they say?”

A-Qing rolls her eyes, scrunching her nose in distaste. “Said they’d only been sent to get me. That the Celestial Mountain was a place for abandoned children, if I wanted to go. They’d heard about a ‘poor cursed orphan girl from Yin City,’ and came to rescue me, or something. I told them I didn’t need rescued, but I’d take them up on food and a home. But only if I could bring Popo.”

“And they agreed?” Wei Ying asks, a little disbelievingly. 

A-Qing smiles at him -- a sparkling smile filled with sharpness and intent. “I’m good at convincing people.”

Wei Ying laughs, before reaching out and pinching a-Qing’s cheek. “Yeah, I like you,” he says. “My little shimei, the hellraiser.”

“Get off!” a-Qing snaps, pushing his hand away. “Anyway, are you going to stay holed up in here all day or what?”

“Definitely no,” Wei Ying says, bouncing to his feet. “Lead on, littlest tour guide.”

--------

The bell rings several hours later. They’re in the library, Wei Ying poring over a volume written by Baoshan Sanren, describing how to use talismans and arrays to channel electricity. “Lan Zhan, look at this!” he says at intervals, tugging on Lan Wangji’s sleeve to point out a particularly interesting passage or clever design. Lan Wangji, who has been leafing through the library’s offerings on alternative core cultivation methods -- different types of meditation from different times and cultures around the worlds -- looks up patiently each time, humming with interest.

A-Qing, having given up on extracting the “idiots” from the library, slumps in an armchair, huffing dramatically every few minutes as she turns the pages of the comic she’s reading. 

“Finally!” she says as the bell rings. “Come on. Classes are out. Put those back already, let’s get out of here.”

She leads them through the halls, weaving through the green-robed students who look at Lan Wangji and Wei Ying with interest. Lan Wangji notices that the disciples are all young -- younger than them, by several years at least. 

A-Qing knocks on a tall wooden door, adorned with a sign that reads ‘ Does this sign make my papers look graded? ’. Wei Ying cackles at it, but closes his mouth quickly as the door slides open and Baoshan Sanren is standing there. “Please come in,” she says, stepping aside. “A-Qing, thank you for taking care of our guests today. Why don’t you head back to your quarters and check on Popo?”

A-Qing doesn’t roll her eyes, exactly, but Lan Wangji can tell it is a near thing. “Yes, Baoshan Sanren,” she says, bowing clumsily again, before turning and running off down the hall.

Lan Wangji bites down on the urge to scold her. Baoshan Sanren smiles at them both. “Let’s have some tea.”

They arrange themselves around a tall round table, seated in high, backless chairs that Lan Wangji finds awkward. Wei Ying seems to have no such trouble, as he spins in his and giggles. “I love what you’ve done with the place!” he says effusively as he comes to a stop. 

Baoshan Sanren smiles at him, eyes dancing. “Thanks,” she says. “I thought you might. So, Wei Ying. How did you come to be here?”

The laughter on Wei Ying’s face freezes, but doesn’t fall away. He sits very still, just for a moment, then leans forward, propping his elbows on the table to cradle his chin. “Well, waipo, I was hoping you could tell me, actually.”

He reaches out to Lan Wangji, who understands immediately. He withdraws the bell from his sleeve, placing it in Wei Ying’s palm. Baoshan Sanren follows the bell, recognition dawning in her wide eyes, before morphing into something sorrowful as she shakes her head. “Of course,” she says. “You know, I never really understood the point of the bell. We had the array. What did we need the bell for? It was an interesting thought experiment -- creating magical objects is something of a specialty in the Celestial Mountain, you see,” she gestures at the talisman chandeliers, “I daresay you’ve noticed. It just goes to show, your mother was both cleverer and kinder than I am. She realized that the bell wasn’t about replacing the array. It was about having a quick escape for someone in need.”

She quiets, gazing softly into the middle distance, grief in the lines of her mouth. In that moment, the decades of her life come tumbling into her. Lan Wangji wonders, for the first time, if cultivating immortality isn’t inviting in a curse. 

“Why did you bring me here?” Wei Ying’s voice breaks in. 

Baoshan Sanren turns her attention back to him, blinking away whatever memory had absorbed her. “You were looking for me.”

“And?” Wei Ying pushes. “I can’t be the only one looking for Baoshan Sanren and her Celestial Mountain.”

“No,” she agrees, “you’re right. You’re not. Wei Ying. What do you know about yin iron?”

Once, when Lan Wangji was a child, he had fallen through the ice of the Cold Springs. It had been near the end of winter, when the sun began to lap long warm rays of light across the crystal surface of Cloud Recesses until it dripped. He and Lan Xichen had been fighting -- some long forgotten fight, the inconsequential arguing of two children. 

The cold of the water had been so sudden, so sharp, that it had felt as though he had been frozen in an instant, all the way to his core. 

It is nearly the same sensation.

Wei Ying looks at Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji clears his throat of the sticky cold that has coated it. “It was a material of great power,” he says. “It could store yin energy. The warlord Xue Chonghai used it against the other Great Sects, centuries ago, to great devastation, before he was overcome. The yin iron was destroyed so that it could never be used again.”

“No,” Baoshan Sanren says.

“No,” Wei Ying echoes. “What did you do?”

Baoshan Sanren looks at him. “War is a difficult thing to explain to people who haven’t experienced it,” she says. “And we haven’t had war here -- not real war, not the kind of wars that destroy sects, consume entire family lines, the kind of wars that etch themselves into the souls of generations -- in centuries. You can’t know the war that writes fear into your very bones.

“We didn’t destroy the yin iron. I took it. They gave it to me, enlisted me to hide it away. To protect the world from it. To take it into the Celestial Mountain and guard it here.”

“But why not just destroy it then?” Wei Ying asks, brow furrowed. “If you were never going to use it anyway.”

Baoshan Sanren shakes her head at him, weary and sad. “I never said we weren’t going to use it. It was powerful. Powerful enough that we didn’t want to destroy it. We wanted to be prepared. If another person, power hungry and corrupt as Xue Chonghai rose to power -- we wanted to be ready to take him down, before the devastation this time. We had no families left. We had seen our world torn down around our heads, our loved ones slaughtered, our homes razed to the ground. It was ashes around us. 

“I took the iron, and I locked myself away in the Celestial Mountain. I was prepared to stay here for eternity, to keep it safe.”

“What changed?” Wei Ying asks.

She smiles. “Lan Yi,” she says. “She came to me, after a hundred years, and told me that enough was enough. I couldn’t give away my life to the yin iron and a war long since over. She came and insisted that we could contain it. Change it into something that could be wielded. Bind its power, make it less wild. 

“I should’ve refused her. But the yin iron -- it was uncontrolled, back then. The resentment it contained, the pain from all those battlefields, all the blood … it had filled my mountain, my home, and I was sick with it. She came, and she cleansed me. I didn’t want to refuse her.

“So we did it. We forged the yin iron into something new -- something that could contain the energy, keep it from spilling out. It was a success. In its new form as the Yin Tiger Amulet, the yin iron could absorb the energy, hold it inside, to be released only at its master’s behest.”

Her eyes are sharp as they pass between Wei Ying and Lan Wangji. “Do you see?” she says. “Do you see our mistake?”

“You made it more powerful,” Wei Ying says. “You changed it from a grenade to an atom bomb.”

Her mouth twists. It is not a smile, but something ugly, directed internally. “I wouldn’t say it was a grenade before. But yes. We made it more powerful. We made it worse. At the same time, with Lan Yi’s support, I decided to start taking on disciples. Children no one wanted -- hurt or abandoned by the world, needing refuge and care. I thought the Celestial Mountain would become a home for them. The only rule was that it had to become their permanent home. We couldn’t risk word getting out about the amulet.

“It didn’t work that way, though,” her eyes are distant again, with regret and what Lan Wangji recognizes as longing. “Children don’t want to stay in one place forever. It’s like pinning a butterfly to a board if you try. The butterfly is still there, but you’ve taken away what makes it most beautiful.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Wei Ying asks carefully. 

But, he already knows. Lan Wangji already knows. Still, when Baoshan Sanren says it, Lan Wangji can feel the dread rising up through his throat like bile.

“The Yin Tiger Amulet,” she says, “is missing.”

--------

There is a knock on the door, and a pair of green-robed disciples enter, carrying a tray of food. The Celestial Mountain, it turns out, has more than just the modern conveniences of indoor plumbing and memory foam mattresses. 

Wei Ying’s eyes grow large, his mouth falling open in a mixture of shock and delight. “Tacos?” he says, his voice nearly teary. “Oh my god , I’ve never been so happy to see a taco in my life. Not when I was sober, anyway.”

Baoshan Sanren chuckles, grabbing one and placing it on her plate. “I have to agree,” she says. “I’ve travelled my fair share, and nothing quite scratches the same itch as a taco.”

Lan Wangji accepts the food Wei Ying piles onto his plate with healthy skepticism. There’s something red and nose-stinging happening here, and he thinks that maybe he’ll be sitting this meal out. Besides, if he doesn’t eat, then that means he’s free to ask more questions.

“Baoshan Sanren,” he says after the others have settled into their meal, “do you have any idea who may have taken the amulet?”

She sighs, putting down her food. “I have my suspicions who has it,” she says carefully, “and I’d bet you do too. Should we say it together?”

Lan Wangji says nothing, his mouth pressed into a hard line. Baoshan Sanren leans back in her chair as they watch her, a dark look on her face. Wei Ying looks between them, then says, “Jin Guangyao.”

Baoshan Sanren nods. “Jin Guangshan had a reputation: he liked to possess cultivation artifacts and knowledge, jealously guarding it, a hoard. The power, to him, was always in the having, not in the using. It was always a possibility that they had it, but it has been so quiet for years. Until recently, that is. This past year, there have been rumors; the disease was the first stirring, the first hint that something was wrong. And it started at Carp Tower. We sent disciples to investigate, but there was only so much they could do. Thankfully, we made a friend along the way. They’ve helped us, but there are limits.”

Lan Wangji and Wei Ying exchange a look at this revelation, before Wei Ying gives voice to the question. “Sisi?”

“Sisi was a fortunate contact,” Baoshan Sanren says, “but, no. Our friend did make that particular connection for us though.”

“I don’t understand,” Wei Ying interrupts, his voice low and heated. “You have a mountain full of disciples. You’re powerful yourself. You apparently have powerful contacts in the outside world. Why aren’t you doing more?” 

She looks at him -- at his flashing eyes and his hard face -- and shakes her head slowly, regretfully. “You really are Cangse Sanren’s son,” she says. “Wei Wuxian. You have to understand. We are not fighters. My disciples are not learning war here. They’re scholars. We can’t take on the Lanling Jin, let alone when they possess the Yin Tiger Amulet. Would you have them slaughtered?” Their eyes lock together now, Wei Ying’s mouth a thin, scathing line. “The oldest disciple in my care is 17 years old,” she says, “and most of them are much younger. They study history. Music. Engineering. Would you send them into this fight?”

“And what about you?” he waves a hand at their surroundings. “You have access to other worlds , to their technology -- why aren’t you doing more?”

“I don’t,” she says.

Wei Ying’s hand drops and he cocks his head at her. “Don’t what?”

“I don’t have access to other worlds,” she says, “not anymore.”

This time, the silence lingers. Lan Wangji hears it like the silence of a chasm, with the ghosts of voices ricocheting down the maw. His fingers go to the bell in his sleeve, pressing into the hard sphere. “Why?” he asks at last, the word crashing down the rift.

Baoshan Sanren stands, turning her back to them, her shoulders heaving up, and down again with a heavy sigh. She spins back and faces them, then reaches up and draws up her hair with one hand, pulling down the collar of her robes with the other, revealing her neck to them. At first, Lan Wangji isn’t certain what he’s looking at: three thin black lines encircle her neck, each a pinky’s width apart. She shakes back her sleeves next, revealing the same patterns drawn around her wrists. 

“Curse marks,” he realizes. “How?”

“Cangse Sanren.”

Beside him, Wei Ying breathes in sharply, his eyes fixed to the lines around her wrists. “My mother?” he says breathlessly. “But, why?”

Baoshan Sanren walks over to the window -- a real window, not one of the painted walls, looking out over the stony side of the mountain. She stands there for a long while, arms crossed behind her back, looking at something far away. Wei Ying opens his mouth to speak again, but Lan Wangji places a quieting hand on his knee. Wei Ying looks down at it, at the wide palm encompassing the entire breadth of his leg. He closes his mouth, swallowing once as he shakes his head, and waits.

The atmosphere is tense, the room still like the depressed coil, waiting for the moment of release. They sit in the stillness, watching Baoshan Sanren.

“Cangse Sanren, your mother. She was one of my first three disciples,” she says. “She was so clever. She was like a daughter to me. I couldn’t have loved her more if she had been my own blood. She was the pride of my life. Never have I met a fiercer heart, a more loyal friend, a person more ferocious in their pursuit of justice and fairness. My pride was misplaced. Not because she was less incredible than I thought. But because it had nothing to do with me.” She turns her back on the window and faces them again. “Your mother cursed me,” she says, “to save your world.”

The coil springs free. The tension of a moment ago crashes apart into something riotous and horrible, even if it is silent. Nobody has leapt to their feet. There is no shouting, no screaming or crying or accusations. But Lan Wangji feels the shift as, beside him, Wei Ying looks at the woman who was the closest thing he has to a grandmother, and the possibility of it breaks apart.

Baoshan Sanren must sense it too. Her face is tight, her voice cracked glass when she speaks again. “Cangse Sanren was my lead disciple. I relied on her greatly. She helped me create the world travel array. That’s why I told her about the Yin Tiger Amulet. I was certain that, with her help, we could find a solution -- a way to safely remove it as a factor.  When she was 17, I took her to the other world to attend school there. We agreed that it would be a great opportunity for her to learn things there that she couldn’t learn here. I had contacts in your world as well, Wei Wuxian. People in your world whom I considered students. One of them, Xiao Xingchen, helped put together the paperwork and everything that was needed. He pretended to be her brother, to give her a place to stay and a reason to be there. 

“She attended school in your world for four years. She returned occasionally, but her return visits grew shorter and farther apart. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. She was busy with studies, no doubt. Of course, I hadn’t expected that she would fall in love over there. That she would come back with a husband, expecting a child. I hadn’t even considered the possibility. 

“She came back and said that she was going to make a life outside of the Celestial Mountain with her family. I was upset, but I was willing to make allowances. Cangse Sanren would never give away the location of the Yin Tiger Amulet. She would never betray the sect. She would remain my disciple.

“Shortly after you were born, she returned to the mountain to discuss the matter of the amulet. I had a plan, you see, and I wanted her help.

“My plan,” Baoshan Sanren pauses, breathing in deeply. “My plan,” she says, “was to take the amulet to your world, and leave it there.”

“What?” Wei Ying says, disbelieving. “You can’t mean --”

“It seemed like the best option,” she interrupts. “I thought she realized. I thought she would understand. The reason for the array. The reason I sent her to your world. I needed a foolproof hiding spot for it. Somewhere where it couldn’t be used as a weapon. Somewhere where it couldn’t reach our world, couldn’t tear us apart again.

“Your mother was horrified when she learned what I was planning to do. About the role she’d played in the whole thing, unwittingly. The amulet absorbs yin energy. Stores it. It already contained the yin energy of thousands of dead from battlefields, from the innocents caught between warring cultivators. By turning the iron into the amulet, we contained the power more, but not completely. To send it to another world -- well. There is a balance. To remove that much yin energy from this world would shift it. But there are cultivators, here, who are equipped to handle these things. I was confident we could handle it.”

“There aren’t cultivators in my world though,” Wei Ying says, comprehension dawning grimly over his face, “nobody to right the imbalance.”

“Without cultivators, the yin energy would be unchecked. The imbalance would grow. The yin energy would seep through the entire world, growing exponentially. Infecting it. Your mother said as much to me. Screamed it at me. She thought I didn’t know. She thought I hadn’t thought it through. That the fact that your world didn’t have cultivators wasn’t the exact reason I was sending the amulet there.”

Lan Wangji’s skin feels cold, even as his veins burn with heat. This woman had been willing to sacrifice an entire world -- Wei Ying’s world -- for … what? To get rid of a weapon theirs had created out of their own hatred and greed? Wei Ying’s knee is trembling under his hand. He looks at him and sees that he isn’t crying. He is shaking with rage. “What did you do to her?” he asks. “What did you do to my mother?”

Baoshan Sanren closes her eyes. “I told her I was disappointed in her for not being able to see that this was for the greater good. That her judgment was clouded, that she’d lost sight of the bigger picture, of what was right, when she’d left the mountain to play at having a family. I was wrong,” she opens her eyes, and looks at Wei Ying, “I was the one who had lost sight of what was right. Not your mother. 

“She must have realized I was going to do it anyway. Your mother was powerful, but she was no match for me. Not when it came to fighting. I had survived battles. Wars. I had survived decades and cultivated immortality. I was certain that Cangse Sanren couldn’t stop me.

“I underestimated her. Your mother might not have had the power to curse me. But she knew it, and, clever as she was, she figured out a way. 

“She used the amulet. Channeled the yin energy into herself, and used it against me. She shackled me to this world, and then she fled and took the amulet with her.

“I sent disciples after her, to try to get it back. But they couldn’t get close to her. Not when she had the amulet. I stopped sending them after her eventually. I tried to reach out to her. To see if I could reason with her to return it.”

“Yeah right,” Wei Ying snarls. “Why would she ever give it back to you after that?”

“She was much to your line of thinking,” Baoshan Sanren says, “except, after several years of reaching out to her, of insisting that I had seen my error, that I only wanted to see the amulet safe, she did respond at last. She agreed to speak with me.

“We met an inn. She was … changed. It had been five years, but she had aged so much. Cangse Sanren had always been a vibrant woman. Healthy, lively. This woman before me hadn’t even managed a sword flight to town. She couldn’t even walk it. She had arrived on a donkey. 

“It was the amulet. By using it, taking the yin energy into her body, she had damaged her core. She was living the life of a commoner now. It was the reason she had agreed to speak with me. She was worried that she couldn’t defend the amulet on her own. She would need to use it to fight, and every time she used it, it tainted her more. Soon, her core would be gone and there would only be yin energy left. 

“We agreed that the amulet would be brought back to the Celestial Mountain, with my vow that we would guard it, that we would never put others at risk for our world’s mistakes. We agreed that I would come collect the amulet from her the next week.”

Here, Baoshan Sanren’s expression changes, the distant haunted look gone. She tears her eyes away from Wei Ying with a shuddering breath, facing the window again. Pink light streams into the room as the low evening sun begins to dip below the rim of the mountain valley. Baoshan Sanren glows in the light, transformed into a younger woman as the light spills across her face, gathering in the silver of her hair. “Your mother had made quite the name for herself. Of course she did -- someone like her could never go unnoticed.”

Lan Wangji’s hand clenches involuntarily around Wei Ying’s leg. This he understands. Wei Ying is the same, he thinks. Wei Ying is too beautiful, too big, too good to go unseen. 

“She was known for her inventions. She never sold them -- your parents had a small farm and made their living that way. The inventions were for herself, her neighbors … for anyone who needed them. But her reputation grew beyond word of useful talismans for preserving food and fertilizing soil. Word got around that she was a former disciple of mine. That she had helped create items of incomparable power. It proved to be a temptation too great to resist. 

“When I arrived the next week to pick up the amulet, they were already gone,” her eyes are shining. She blinks them closed and a tear falls free. “Cangse Saren and Wei Changze were dead. Had been dead for days. The house had been ransacked. We searched it, but it was no use. We found nothing. Not a notebook. Not a single talisman. Not the amulet. And not you.”

Lan Wangji’s hand falls off of Wei Ying’s leg as Wei Ying stands suddenly. “I need some air,” he says, his voice strong and strangled at the same time, and immediately begins to walk towards the door. 

Lan Wangji stands to follow him, but Wei Ying stops him. “Alone, Lan Zhan. Please. I need to be alone.”

He’s trembling as he says it. He looks untethered, as though he may be carried off by the wind. Lan Wangji doesn’t want him to be alone. But Wei Ying takes a step towards him. He reaches out to him, brushing the tips of his fingers lightly against Lan Wangji’s jaw. The caress is soft, fleeting, like gentle wings fluttering across his skin. He resists the urge to lean into the touch. Wei Ying offers him a small smile -- one that seems to have secrets etched into the curves. Lan Wangji thinks that if he could press his mouth into it, feel it with his own lips, maybe he could understand them. 

He does not.

“Come back,” he says instead.

Wei Ying lifts his hand, waving it in acknowledgement, and disappears through the door. Lan Wangji stares at it for a long moment before turning back towards Baoshan Sanren at last. 

“You never explained why you kidnapped us,” he says. 

Baoshan Sanren walks back over to the table and takes a seat, pushing the plate away from herself and pouring some lukewarm tea. She lifts the pot, a question, but Lan Wangji shakes his head, sitting across from her. She takes a sip of her tea, making a displeased face at the taste. She sets it back on the table with a click. “You were being watched,” she says. 

Lan Wangji nods. It’s obvious, now, that they were probably being watched whenever they entered any town. They had tried to avoid them as much as possible, but they couldn’t avoid the need for supplies, nor the temptation of a bed and warmth and rest. He wonders if they need to have bothered with the disguises at all. It seems that had been of little benefit. 

“We were only trying to get Wei Wuxian. I wasn’t expecting them to bring you back. But it seems Sisi insisted that the disciples take you as well. She felt that you would cause too much trouble, draw too much attention … be too much of a wildcard if we separated you.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t respond, but his fist clenches in his lap. What he would have done if he had woken up without Wei Ying? What wouldn’t he have done to find Wei Ying?

“I wanted Wei Wuxian. Wanted to speak with him, tell him about the amulet. Tell him about his parents. He deserves to know. I was worried, though, about how it would look to the people watching. I thought that, if he appeared to have been captured, it would at least buy us some time. I hoped it would look like I was seeking revenge for Cangse Sanren’s betrayal. If he came willingly, I worried that it would appear he was cooperating with us. Which I don’t imagine Jin Guangyao would be too happy about.”

“Why did you want Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji asks. It has been eating at him this whole time. Baoshan Sanren seems to be enlisting their help with recovering the yin tiger amulet. But why Wei Ying? He is smart, it’s true. And brave. And selfless. Perhaps all three to a fault. But he is not a strong cultivator or fighter. What could he do that couldn’t be done by countless others?

And then, it hits him. The realization is a white hot brand burning into him. “No.”

Baoshan Sanren's eyes are fixed to her teacup spinning between her fingers. She sighs, bringing her elbows to the table and holding her head at the temples. “Lan Wangji,” she says, “Hanguang-jun. With respect, it is not your decision.”

“I will not allow it,” he says, his voice glowing red coals. “Wei Ying is not a price to be paid for your peace of mind.”

“It is not a matter of my peace of mind!” she snaps. “It is a matter of the safety of our world! If we can get rid of the yin tiger amulet -- send it to another world, safe in the hands of someone who can control it, who can be trusted with it --”

“He is not a cultivator,” Lan Wangji says sharply, his anger burning holes through his composure. “His core is not strong. He has only just begun to cultivate it.”

“He is stronger than you think,” she says. “He will be able to control it. It does not require a strong core. Only someone who can control the yin energy.”

“It is bad for the body,” Lan Wangji returns. “It will sicken him. It may kill him.”

“It won’t kill him,” she says. “It will want him alive.”

They stare at each other across the table. Lan Wangji has a flash where he imagines leaping across it, drawing Bichen, ending the argument right there, before she can say any of this to Wei Ying.

Only.

Only, Wei Ying is too smart. Wei Ying is too brave. Wei Ying is too selfless.

Lan Wangji rises to his feet, and walks quickly to the door, to go to him. 

Wei Ying already knows. 

--------

The sun has dipped below the rim of the valley, leaving behind a swath of indigo silk, dotted with stars in the sky lit dimly by a fingernail sliver of moon. Lan Wangji squints in the dark, until he sees him -- his figure a shade blacker than the shadow of the sky. “Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji walks over to him where he leans on the stone rampart, looking over the basin below. “I gotta say. She isn’t really what I was expecting,” Wei Ying says.

“Mm,” Lan Wangji replies. He longs to reach out to Wei Ying. To wrap him in his arms and tell him that he can’t do it. But Wei Ying isn’t his to hold. But he can try, at least part of it. At least, to stop him. “You should not do it,” he says. 

Wei Ying groans and drops his head onto his folded arms. “You figured it out, huh?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji tries again. “You do not need to do it. I can take the amulet back to Cloud Recesses. We will keep it safe.”

“Will you?” Wei Ying says to the circle of his arms and stone. “I trust you, Lan Zhan. I do. But your brother. Your uncle. Do you trust them not to use it? No, not even that. Do you trust them not to be used by people who would use it?”

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to answer, but closes it again when he finds that he can’t. He can’t reassure Wei Ying, not after what they discovered of Jin Guangyao, the man that Lan Xichen holds so close to his heart. 

“We will figure it out,” Lan Wangji says instead. “It is not your sacrifice to make, Wei Ying.”

“It’s my life, isn’t it?” Wei Ying lifts his head and looks at him. “It’s more my sacrifice than it is yours!”

“This isn’t your world,” Lan Wangji says, desperate to stop this. “It is not your responsibility.”

Wei Ying stands straight and turns to him, shaking his head. “You’re wrong,” he says. “It is my world. This is my world too. My mother’s world. They’re both my worlds.”

They stand and stare at each other. Lan Wangji thinks that, for all they have been worlds apart, this is the greatest the distance has ever been between them. His heart aches with it, at the hollow space where he feels Wei Ying being pried out. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his voice steady and strong in a way that reveals the effort behind it. “Can I ask you for something?”

He takes a step towards him. Then, another step closer. Close enough that their robes brush together, whispering against each other in the breeze. 

“Anything,” Lan Wangji says, imbuing it with as much meaning as he can.

Wei Ying shudders. Takes another step. It is not just their robes touching now. Lan Wangji can feel Wei Ying’s chest against his own, the contact disappearing with every exhale. He breathes in deeply and holds it.  

“Will you just … will you hold me?” Wei Ying asks. “Ple--”

Lan Wangji doesn’t wait. He doesn’t wait for Wei Ying to beg, to turn it into something that it isn’t. It is not a chore. It is not a hardship. It is not something that Lan Wangji is giving away, it is not something that Wei Ying is taking. If Wei Ying is asking, then Lan Wangji will share this with him.

Lan Wangji takes Wei Ying in his arms, wrapping one around the middle of his back, a hand cupping behind his head. He presses his cheek into the soft pillow of Wei Ying’s hair and lets the breath out. “Always.”

Wei Ying stands limp against him at first, then brings his arms up around Lan Wangji’s waist, pulling them tightly together as he buries his face in the side of Lan Wangji’s neck. His breath comes in warm, shuddering sighs against Lan Wangji’s skin. 

They stand in each others’ arms for a minute, or maybe it is longer. Maybe they stand there until the sliver moon has completed its journey across the sky, until its sister sun has risen again with yellow fingers brushing rime from the world. 

Regardless, they break apart, and the look on Wei Ying’s face -- the determination in the line of his jaw -- cracks Lan Wangji to pieces.

“Come on, Lan Zhan,” he says, “let’s wrap this up.”

--------

“I have one question,” Wei Ying says, flinging the door open without warning. 

Baoshan Sanren looks up from where she sits on the couch reading, placing a ribbon between the pages of the book before placing it down on the table, rising to her feet. “Please, ask anything,” she says warmly.

“I want to know where my parents lived,” Wei Ying says. 

Lan Wangji’s eyes dart sideways to Wei Ying, before moving back to Baoshan Sanren. Her eyebrows have squeezed together in confusion, but it is quickly wiped away. “They lived in Yunmeng,” she says. “It’s not far from here. I will draw you a map.”

Wei Ying nods, and she fetches a notebook and quickly draws a rough map on it, tearing the page out and handing it to him. “There’s nothing there now,” she says. “The land is useless without Cangse Sanren’s talismans -- it has absorbed too much yin energy. Nobody wanted it after they were gone.”

Wei Ying moves the paper into his sleeve, and then turns to leave. “Wei Wuxian,” Baoshan Sanren calls after him. His lip twitches irritably as he stops, turning slowly. “I just want you to know that … I’m sorry,” she says. “But I need to know. I need to hear it from you. Are you going to take the amulet? Can I trust you?”

“Can you trust me ?” Wei Ying says, laughing bitterly. “Yeah. You can trust me. I’m not going to leave people to suffer if I can help it.”

Baoshan Sanren takes a step towards him, then stops, staring at him. Lan Wangji recognizes the emotion that is radiating off of her. He feels the same. “Cangse Sanren would be so proud of you,” she says, her eyes welling. 

“Yeah, well,” Wei Ying turns back towards the door and Lan Wangji sees the pain in his expression, “I’ll never know, will I? Thanks for that.”

He sweeps quickly out the door. Lan Wangji follows, Baoshan Sanren’s voice trailing in his wake. “Take care of him. Please.”

--------

Lan Wangji and Wei Ying are blindfolded before being loaded onto swords by a pair of disciples and flown away from the mountain. The journey is unnerving for Lan Wangji, who has not ridden another person’s sword since he received Bichen, and even those had been short trips across the ground with Lan Xichen on Shuoyue. The Celestial Mountain disciple who is flying him is small, but powerful, her sword unwavering throughout the long trip. Still, he is relieved when he feels the sword begin to slowly lower beneath him until they are back on the ground. 

He pulls the blindfold from his eyes, immediately searching for Wei Ying, who is dismounting with the aid of another disciple on his right. “Thanks,” Wei Ying says as she takes his hands and helps him to the ground. He takes off his own blindfold, then smiles at each of the disciples. “Well. Thanks for the ride,” he says, “but -- and I mean this from the bottom of my heart -- I hope we never meet again. Enjoy your mountain.”

The pair of disciples exchange a baffled glance before bowing to them, remounting their swords, and rising back into the air. 

They’re on the road outside of Handan Village again. It feels strange to return here. Like stepping back into another time, even if it has only been a day since they left. 

“Should we head straight to Yunping?” Wei Ying asks. “I still think we should check it out. We can’t just storm into Carp Tower after all, you know? Let’s see what we can figure out. If it’s nothing then … then I guess we go back to Cloud Recesses, maybe. Talk to your brother.”

Lan Wangji considers. “I would like to let Brother know about the amulet,” he says. “If it is as dangerous as she says, then he should be warned. However, I do not believe it is wise to write this in a letter.”

“Definitely not,” Wei Ying agrees. “Did you want to go back to Cloud Recesses then?”

Lan Wangji does want to go back. He feels heartsick, thinking of his brother, and his uncle, and his sect. He misses them dearly. He would like to see with his own eyes that they are safe. 

But they are not done yet. He needs to see this through to the end, whatever the end is. He pushes the longing aside. “We should go to Yunping. Check out whatever that deed was for, see if that’s a real lead.”

Wei Ying looks at him for a long moment, before nodding slowly. “Do you think you can fly us there?”

In response, Lan Wangji draws Bichen, dropping it to the ground before stepping on and reaching a hand out to Wei Ying. Let the Jin cultivators find them, Lan Wangji thinks. It is time for this to end. Wei Ying smiles, taking his hand and stepping on behind him. He loops his arms around Lan Wangji’s waist, and it is familiar and right to feel his weight pressed against him. “Hold on,” Lan Wangji says, although Wei Ying’s grip is tight already. 

They rise into the air and take off for Yunping.

--------

The land is charred.

They approach the plot cautiously, charcoal crumbling to soft ash beneath their feet. 

“What happened here?” Wei Ying wonders aloud. “Whatever this place was, it’s been demolished.”

The blackened skeleton of the building is all that remains. They pick through the devastation, the hairs on the back of Lan Wangji’s neck prickling. Whatever happened here, it was violent. He can feel the resentment curling up from the ground like the ghost of smoke. 

“Why would he buy a burned out plot?” Wei Ying says. “Or, was there something here when he bought it? Did he burn it down, or did somebody else? There’s gotta be someone we can ask.”

The city is quiet. As they’d made their way through the streets, towards the outer quarter referenced in the deed, the streets had thinned out of people, the buildings falling into further disrepair. When they finally reached their destination, it was as though they’d walked into a ghost town -- the shops abandoned,the people long since gone. 

They head back towards the center of Yunping. Wary eyes trace over the ash clinging to the bottoms of their robes, only to slide off of them whenever Wei Ying attempts to approach anyone. 

After his fifth aborted attempt, Wei Ying groans in frustration. “It’s like we’re contagious or something. This is ridiculous.” He crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrows clenched together in thought. “Let’s find somewhere to eat,” he says. “These people may not want to talk to us, but I bet we’ll find someone friendlier if they’re taking our money.”

Lan Wangji agrees. They find a restaurant of middling quality and seat themselves quickly, hiding their ashy robes beneath the table. 

“What can I do for you, young masters?” A woman smiles at them in a strained way as she approaches their table. 

“We’ll take whatever you’re serving, and a lot of it,” Wei Ying says. He lifts an eyebrow at Lan Wangji, who takes his cue and removes his coin pouch and places it on the table with a heavy thunk . “And also, some information.”

Twenty minutes, one bottle of wine, and several fistfuls of coins later, the woman has joined them at the table, barring the front of the shop to further customers. “It was a brothel,” she says. “Burned down months ago, along with everyone inside.”

“Everyone? They all died?” Wei Ying repeats back to her in horror. “How did it happen?”

The woman shrugs, eyeing Lan Wangji’s purse. He takes out a couple of coins and slides them across to her. She palms them quickly. “Doors were barred shut,” she says. “Not sure who did it. Happened in the middle of the night. Nobody saw how it started, but it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t natural.”

“Why do you say that?” Lan Wangji asks.

“Screaming woke the town up, didn’t it?” she says. “I used to be right next door, before. We all ran out, tried to help. But nothing would put the fire out. We had a bucket line going, but the water just turned to mist before it even touched the fire. We tried to unbar the door, but even our strongest men couldn’t move it. Something did that. Or someone.”

“Is that why the area’s abandoned now?” Wei Ying asks.

She nods, counting out her coins onto the table. “Nobody wanted to stick around after that. Whole area felt off afterward. Everyone was worried they’d be next. I would’ve stayed, except no point running a restaurant if nobody’s around to eat.”

“Do you remember anything else from that night? Anything strange?”

Satisfied with her profits for the day, the woman sweeps the coins from the table into her purse. “That night? No, can’t say I remember anything strange. Was asleep, until the fire, and then we were all just worried about that. Although--” She stops, scrunching her face as though struggling to remember something. 

“Yeah?” Wei Ying prompts her.

“Now that you mention it. Well, it’s strange, I guess. There was someone there. Wearing white. Don’t remember ever seeing them before, I don’t think. But it’s hard to say…”

“Why’s that?” Wei Ying asks.

The woman chews her lip, thinking hard before she replies. “I couldn’t see clearly,” she says. “It was dark, but it wasn’t that. It was blurry, as though I couldn’t focus my eyes on their face.”

Beneath the table, Wei Ying’s knee presses into Lan Wangji’s. Lan Wangji presses back. Their attacker from Yi City, it seems, may be behind the fire as well.

“Thank you for your help,” Wei Ying says, bowing his head graciously. 

“Sure,” she says, rising from the table. “Don’t mention it. Really. And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you could clear out. I need to make way for other customers.”

“Well, I guess that’s our cue,” Wei Ying says to Lan Wangji, standing and brushing the dust from his robes. “What next, do you think?”

“We should go back,” Lan Wangji says, rising gracefully to his feet. “It is likely there will be spirits lingering. I will play Inquiry, so that we might speak to them.”

Wei Ying tilts his head curiously, in a way that reminds Lan Wangji forcibly of one of the back mountain rabbits inspecting a bit of lettuce being offered. “Spirits? What, like ghosts? What’s Inquiry?”

“Inquiry allows me to communicate with the spirits of the dead who have not yet moved on.”

Wei Ying blinks at him. “Lan Zhan,” he says slowly, “do you mean to tell me that not only are ghosts real, but you can talk to them?”

It is Lan Wangji’s turn to blink in confusion. “Of course.”

Wei Ying stares at him. Lan Wangji stares back, uncertain what else to do. “There are ghosts in your world as well, Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying’s eyes go wide as his mouth falls open. “What are you --” he stops. Closes his mouth with an audible click, and shakes his head. “Nope. Nopenopenope. I’ve just decided that I definitely don’t want to know. Ghosts real. Got it. Good enough for me. Come on, Jennifer Love Hewitt, let’s go whisper some ghosts.”

--------

Lan Wangji sits cross-legged on the ground before the ruins, WangJi poised below his hands. Wei Ying watches, his gaze eager and heavy as Lan Wangji plucks out the opening chords of Inquiry. 

At once, there is a rush of cold as a wave of spirits tumbles forward towards the sound. LanWangji feels them clamoring around him, a crash of anger and confusion and fear. It is unlike anything he has ever felt, and his fingers still over the strings at the onslaught.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, his voice low and timid. “Is that them?”

Lan Wangji inhales deeply through his nose, and asks the first question.

Who are you?

The response is a riot of discordant screams as WangJi nearly goes flying beneath the roaring replies of the spirits. He places a hand hastily over the strings, silencing them. Wei Ying stares at him with wide eyes. “There are many here,” Lan Wangji says. “They are angry.”

Wei Ying makes a sound like choked, bewildered laughter. “No shit,” he says.

Lan Wangji turns his attention back to the instrument before him. His heart feels shredded with the distress of the spirits piling into him. He thinks of what he has been taught about spirits, about his duty as a cultivator: liberate, suppress, eliminate. These spirits have been left for months to grow resentful, their presence driving away the citizens of Yunping, growing more and more restless. Why have they not been liberated? Where were the cultivators to help them?

They shriek their pain into his flesh, and he swears that he will help them. 

He plucks out his second question.

Who killed you?

A sensation of wind cycloning around him, before the answers rings out.

The one behind you . 

Lan Wangji springs to his feet, WangJi crashing to the ground from his lap as he spins, hand flying to Bichen.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a man’s voice says, “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your friend.”

A blurred figure has Wei Ying, whose arms are pinned to his sides, a thin, shining string is pulled tight against his neck, his skin splitting around it in a trickle of red. 

Rage floods Lan Wangji, so hot, so intense, that he feels he is a flame, the ground burning beneath his feet as he walks forward.

“Ah!” the man says. “Don’t come any closer. I will kill him.”

Wei Ying whimpers as the string tightens further around his neck. Lan Wangji stops. 

“Good,” the man says. “Now, seal your core. Can’t risk any tricks now, can we?”

“Lan Zhan, don’t--!” Wei Ying grunts in pain as the man pulls tighter.

Lan Wangji doesn’t hesitate. He presses the four corners of his chest in succession and locks away his spiritual energy.

“Look at you,” the man says, a smile in his voice. “The great Hanguang-jun. You always thought you were so much better than me. But look at us now. Caught by me. At my mercy.”

“You are Gusu Lan,” Lan Wangji says.

“No,” the man says. “I’m not. Not anymore.”

Ah. “Su She.”

“Su Minshan,” he corrects him. “Don’t be so familiar, Hanguang-jun,” he spits the title at him.

“Look man,” Wei Ying rasps, “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I can tell you right now that Lan Zhan doesn’t just think he’s better than you. He is better than you.”

“Shut up!” Su She hisses. “Do you not understand the position you’re in?”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes and, the next moment, he jumps, and, using the momentum, smashes the back of his head into Su She’s face. 

“Wei Ying!” Lan Wangji yells, running forward. Wei Ying falls to his hands and knees as Su She staggers backwards. Whatever spell had been obscuring his features is gone, and he holds his bleeding nose, breathing heavily.

Wei Ying’s hands are pressed against his throat, a wet trickle of blood dripping between his fingers. Lan Wangji grabs his shoulders, wild with fear. “Wei Ying!”

“M’fine, Lan Zhan,” he says. “Just a flesh wound. Watch out!”

Lan Wangji turns, but Su She is already on them, blade drawn. “I should run you through,” he says. “But he wants you alive. For now.”

He leads them at sword point into the building beside the ruin. Lan Wangji helps Wei Ying, cursing himself for sealing his spiritual energy, wishing that he could pass some to Wei Ying, to help him heal. Behind them, Su She is gloating still, but Lan Wangji can’t hear him over the tumult of his own thoughts.

“Hey,” Wei Ying says quietly, “stop that. Stop blaming yourself. We’re not through yet.” He squeezes Lan Wangji’s hand reassuringly, and a bit of blood smears it. “The situation’s just a little … sticky. Messy. Don’t worry, Lan Zhan, I’m good at mess. And speaking of --” his eyes dart back towards Su She and his monologue, “who the fuck is that guy, and why does he think you pissed in his Wheaties?”

“Su She was a Lan disciple,” Lan Wangji says. “Not a very talented disciple.”

Wei Ying snickers quietly. 

“What are you two whispering about?” Su She cuts in. “Stop talking! You,” he points his sword at Lan Wangji, who looks across it at him, unimpressed. “Move the rug. Good. See that handle in the floor? Lift it, and get down there.”

Lan Wangji does as instructed, slowly. There is a staircase beyond the door, and he follows it down, helping Wei Ying, Su She on their heels. It leads into a large, cavernous room -- larger than the building above them, stretching into the lot beneath the burned brothel. 

“Sit down,” Su She says. “Back to back.”

They do, and Su She produces a length of rope and ties each of them. 

“Kinky,” Wei Ying says, an edge of mischief in his voice. “What’s next, big boy?”

“Now you shut up and wait,” Su She says, sheathing his sword. He stalks back to the staircase and disappears up it, back through the door.

“Lovely guy,” Wei Ying says lightly, “can’t imagine why you don’t like him. So he’s not a Lan anymore?”

“He was ejected. I was the one who petitioned for his removal.”

“Because he wasn’t talented? Way harsh, Tai,” Wei Ying says.

“Because he disobeyed me on a Night Hunt in a misplaced effort to prove himself, and cost the lives of four junior disciples.”

Wei Ying hisses a breath in through his teeth. “Fuck. Okay, I take it back. Not harsh at all.”

Silence. Lan Wangji tries to think. Su She had said that someone wanted them alive for now, at least, which bought them some time. But what use was time if Lan Wangji couldn’t do anything with it? He struggles against his ropes, but to not avail.

“This explains it though doesn’t it?” Wei Ying says. “How somebody got into the room of                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       forbidden books, or at least how they knew about it. How Cloud Recesses was infected. Su She’s been helping. He would know about the room. Would know Cloud Recesses well enough to get around undetected. He’s been helping Jin Guangyao this whole time.”

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to agree, when he hears a familiar voice overhead, too muffled to make out the words. A second voice joins the first, followed by the sound of footsteps. The door opens again and two men descend the stairs together, a talisman lighting the way in the dark underground room, illuminating their faces.

But Lan Wangji didn’t need to see their faces to know that voice. He didn’t need Wei Ying’s startled gasp of recognition.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says, Jin Guangyao standing at his side, “are you hurt?”

His brother is looking at him with concern. Lan Wangji feels sick. He should be home, at Cloud Recesses, protecting them. Not here. 

“Is he hurt?” Wei Ying says before Lan Wangji can answer. “No, don’t worry, we’re just having a little rest. Thought this cellar looked like just the spot. Plus, ropes? So comfortable, you know. Like a scratchy hug.”

“Brother,” Lan Wangji says. “Why are you here?”

“I received a letter that you were in trouble,” Lan Xichen says, “but then I ran into a-Yao, and he said you were safe…”

Lan Xichen begins to turn towards Jin Guangyao. Jin Guangyao turns pained eyes on him, and draws his sword. 

“A-Yao,” Lan Xichen blinks, startled. “What--?”

“Seal your energy, er-ge,” Jin Guangyao says. “Now. Please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Lan Xichen looks at him, and in the warm light of the talisman, Lan Wangji watches the realization, the betrayal wash over his brother’s face. “Oh, a-Yao,” he says, lifting his hands. Jin Guangyao steps forward, bringing the tip of the blade closer. Lan Xichen closes his eyes, and, with a quick motion, seals away his power. 

Jin Guangyao drops the blade, shaking, breath coming in shivering gasps. “A-Yao, what is happening?” Lan Xichen asks, walking towards him again. 

“Er-ge. I wouldn’t … I would never …”

Lan Xichen places a hand on his shoulder, and Jin Guangyao jerks away from it, hissing as though he had been struck. “Don’t touch me!” he shrieks. “Get away from me!”

Lan Xichen does, backing away at once. 

“I -- I’m sorry,” Jin Guangyao says. “I’m. I’m fine. It just--” he squeezes his eyes closed, jaw clenching tight as though --

“He’s in pain,” Wei Ying says. “Something’s wrong with him.”

Jin Guangyao laughs. It is high pitched, unhinged, panicked. Lan Xichen watches in disbelieving horror as Jin Guangyao’s composure flies apart in a storm of laughter, eyes wild and dark and red.

“Wrong with me?” he roars. “Look around you! Do you know where we are?”

“Do you really want to go there?” Wei Ying shoots back. “We are in the wreckage of a brothel that you had burned to the ground, with everyone inside. You murdered innocent people.”

“Innocent? Is that what you think?” he hisses. “The type of innocent people who would kick a child? Spit on his mother for having hope? Treated us like dogs? Who left the woman they’d abused for years to starve to death under their own roof? Those kinds of innocent people? The kind of innocent people who would secretly mother one bastard child to replace another?”

“A-Yao, calm down,” Lan Xichen says. “Something’s wrong. You’re not well.”

“Something is wrong,” Jin Guangyao seethes. “The world is wrong. But I’m going to make it right.”

He reaches to his side and into the pouch hanging there, removing from within a glinting medallion emblazoned with the fanged roar of a tiger head. 

“Shit,” Wei Ying says quietly. 

The temperature in the room plummets. The darkness deepens, despite the light talismans still blazing. Lan Wangji’s breath comes in misty puffs before his lips, and he watches as frost creeps out from beneath Jin Guangyao’s feet, spreading across the floor like spilt water. 

“What is that?” Lan Xichen breathes. “A-Yao. It’s dangerous. You can’t--”

“You don’t know what I can do, er-ge,” Jin Guangyao says, turning on him. “You and da-ge -- you’re the same. He never believed I could do things either. Both of you, looking down on me. Never the cultivator you were. Just some whore’s bastard, just some useless weakling, never able to stand with you. But da-ge learned better, in the end.”

“What did you do?” Lan Xichen says quietly, as though he is unable to believe what he is seeing and hearing, looking at Jin Guangyao as if he has never seen him. “Why, a-Yao?”

“It was his fault!” Jin Guangyao’s snaps, pointing an accusing finger at Lan Wangji. “I had a plan! It never needed to go this far. I had the song -- I had my father out of the way. With him gone, it should have been enough. It would have been enough. But then he had to start prying .

“I couldn’t have that. Couldn’t have him skulking around. Why did you let him, er-ge? Why?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t answer, speechless against the onslaught. Jin Guangyao plunges onward.

“I got rid of him. Had Su She take care of it, although I see now that was a mistake. I didn’t kill him!” he says imploringly to Lan Xichen, who looks sickened. “That would hurt you, and I would never hurt you, er-ge! But I needed him gone. Only, it made things worse. It made things so much worse.

“You were going to send people looking for him. What else could I do? I had to stop it. Your father. Your uncle. Well, they were old, anyway. And your father -- let’s not pretend he was anything other than what he was. It worked, anyway. You couldn’t spare people to look for Lan Wangji. I thought I was safe.

“That is, until da-ge’s letter. He wrote to you. Told you he expected foul play in Father’s death. He all but spelled out that he suspected me. I knew you would never, but he … he never trusted me. He said he loved me,” here, he swallows, the amulet pulsating in his hand, “but he didn’t trust me.”

“And look how trustworthy you proved to be!” Wei Ying shoots at him.

A distressed sound escapes Lan Wangji, fearful of Wei Ying provoking him. But he feels Wei Ying shift behind him, then a finger tapping against his hand. Trust me , it seems to say. He keeps his face very still as he presses his hand back against the touch. Okay . 

“Trust is for fools,” Jin Guangyao snarls. “My mother trusted my father to take care of us. And now, she’s dead. I trusted my mother when she said I would be happy at Carp Tower.”

“And Qin Su trusted you,” Wei Ying says, “and in turn, you killed Rusong.”

“That was not my fault!” Jin Guangyao yells. The amulet screams in his hands, even as something else, something other than the yin energy flares around him, red and dangerous.

Wei Ying taps Lan Wangji’s hand again. “It’s the qi,” he whispers, “he took someone’s qi into himself. An enemy’s. He’s completely lost his grip on reality -- it’s poisoning him. It’s trying to break out. The amulet doesn’t like it.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t ask how Wei Ying knows this. He believes him, but it only makes him more sick, more anxious. He tests his bonds again. Lan Xichen is too close to Jin Guangyao, his face rapt with pain and pity. Even in this moment, even after all of this, Lan Xichen trusts him, Lan Wangji realizes. He trusts Jin Guangyao not to hurt him.

“You killed Nie Mingjue,” Lan Wangji says, needing to shock his brother out of it. Needing this truth to be spoken, dragged into the open, where Lan Xichen can no longer deny it.

“I had no other choice! I took the letter he’d sent to er-ge. I couldn’t let er-ge see it. I went to see da-ge. To see what he knew. What he suspected. But he … he found the letter. In my robes. He demanded to know why I had it. I told him it was wrong of him to send it, that he would just upset er-ge if he implied something had happened to you. But he didn’t believe me. I could see he didn’t believe me. So I pretended. I pretended that I was sorry for taking it. I offered to play him a song. I used to play for him often back then. He never suspected.”

Lan Xichen gasps, staggering back from Jin Guangyao at last. Pain crashes through Jin Guangyao’s face.

“But that’s not all there was to it, is it?” Wei Ying says. “You didn’t just infect him. You didn’t just play the Song of Caibu and leave. You siphoned his energy into yourself, didn’t you? You wanted to make yourself more powerful, and you stole his qi.”

“No!” Jin Guangyao yells. This time, he crosses the room to Wei Ying standing over him, his eyes vivid red. “You know nothing! I’ve never needed more power -- not that kind of power. You’re just like the rest, even though you’re not even a cultivator. They always think power is about golden cores and spiritual energy. That’s not power. Power is the ability to do what is necessary to protect yourself. I didn’t want his qi for power. I had already proven that I had power.”

“Then why did you take it?” Wei Ying asks.

Confusion flits across Jin Guangyao’s expression. The towering roar of energy around him ebbs, some of the red blinks clean from his eyes. “Because it belonged to me,” he says. “I loved him. I love him.”

Nausea clutches tight around Lan Wangji’s throat, and he inhales deeply through his nose. The controlling, the owning, the wanting -- the destruction. Love, he called it. He thinks of his mother, locked away in the gentian house, like a flower withering in the dark. He thinks of his father, caught in his own trappings of sorrow and guilt. Love, he called it. 

“Did you love your son too? Qin Su? Was it love that drove you to kill Rusong? To attempt to kill Qin Su? Was it love that made you send assassins after Lan Xichen’s own brother?”

Jin Guangyao doesn’t answer. He glares down at Wei Ying and then, without warning, pulls his foot back and kicks him in the ribs. Wei Ying grunts in pain, a sickening snap echoing through the room. 

“Wei Ying!”

“A-Yao!” 

Lan Xichen runs over and grabs him, pulling him back. “A-Yao, please,” he says. “You have to stop this. Whatever this is. Give it to me. It’s hurting you.”

Jin Guangyao turns in his arms so he is facing Lan Xichen. He smiles at him, his dimpled smile, sincere and kind, as he reaches up and strokes a hand along his cheek. “No,” he says.

Black smoke streams out of the amulet, curling around Lan Xichen, rooting him to the spot. “A-Yao, please--” he says before a tendril snakes up around his neck, his mouth, gagging him.

At this moment, the door opens again and Su She walks back down the stairs and into the room. His eyes rove over the scene before him, resting for a long moment on Lan Wangji, before settling on Jin Guangyao. “It’s ready,” he says. “I’ve found her.”

“Wonderful work, Minshan,” he says. “Bring them up. I want them to be there.” He smiles at Lan Xichen, warm and terrible. “I want you to meet my mother.”

--------

They stand amidst the burnt out rubble of the brothel. Su She takes a seat at his guqin, watching Jin Guangyao. “She’s here?” Jin Guangyao confirms, shooting a look at him. 

“Yes,” Su She says. He plucks a question. Who are you? Lan Wangji recognizes. But the notes are clumsy, unpracticed. 

His mother , comes the answer. Lan Wangji scowls.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, noticing his expression.

“Inquiry is not foolproof,” he says, his voice loud enough to carry. “And we are dealing with fools.”

Su She fires a nasty look at him. “It’s her, zongzhu. I asked correctly. I understood the answer.”

“You are unskilled,” Lan Wangji says. “They are lying.”

Jin Guangyao looks between them, before turning to Lan Xichen. “Er-ge? Is it her?”

The black smoke releases from around his mouth, freeing him to speak. “I do not know,” Lan Xichen says. “The spirits can lie, if the cultivator is not skilled enough to control them.”

“It is her , zongzhu,” Su She repeats. 

Jin Guangyao pauses, just for a moment, then nods. “Let’s proceed.”

“What are you going to do?” Lan Xichen asks. 

Jin Guangyao smiles at him. “Righting a wrong,” he answers. “I’m bringing my mother back.”

“Back to what?”