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He finds Wei Wuxian behind the inn. There’s a shallow koi pond and a small, well-tended rock garden, and Wei Wuxian sitting on a bench like a crow on his roost. The soft, pink dawn kisses his cheeks, his narrow hands twisted together.
“You woke before me.” Lan Wangji stands beside him. “Again.” He leaves his worry unspoken; Wei Wuxian rising before dawn once would be astonishing. This is the third morning in a row.
Wei Wuxian unclasps his hands. Clasps them again. The new light doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I couldn’t sleep.” Then he shakes himself, and jumps to his feet. “Is there breakfast? I’m starving.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t question him. It’s all he can do not to seize those thin hands and drag Wei Wuxian back to bed. Tie him down and force him to sleep until noon. A month ago he might have done just that. But every day, every moment he spends with Wei Wuxian, the harder it is to maintain his composure. Wei Wuxian’s voice is a charm, his touch is a drug. Lan Wangji wants him, in that dark burning way he spent years desperate to deny, and then years desperate to remember.
His self-control has grown brittle. All or nothing. If he opens his mouth, he fears everything will spill out, every terrible desire, and he’ll scare Wei Wuxian off forever.
He says, “There’s breakfast.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, and the day brightens.
⚭
The next village is quiet, peaceful, nestled between deep green rice paddies and forested mountains. Lan Wangji is relieved to reach it before the sun sets; it’s been a long day in a long week in their strange search for Wei Wuxian’s Dear Friend. Lan Wangji could walk another three days straight, but Wei Wuxian is tired.
Not that Wei Wuxian would ever admit it. He’s still smiling, still chattering about the surroundings, the weather, how this region has the second-best rice wine he’s ever tasted. But Lan Wangji can see it in the way his feet drag, in the softening of his mouth, the shadows under his eyes like smudges of makeup.
When Wei Wuxian wants to stop somewhere, he’ll claim to be exhausted even as he’s jumping in place; when he’s truly exhausted, he’ll argue he still has energy until he falls off his feet. That’s just how he is.
Lan Wangji finds it charming and concerning in equal measures.
They’re nearly to the village inn when a young woman rushes up to them. Her hair is unkempt, her eyes wide with hope, and she calls, “My lords! My lords! Thank goodness you’ve come. I didn’t think help would arrive so soon.”
Lan Wangji nearly corrects her—they aren’t the promised help, they’re merely passing through—but Wei Wuxian is already leaping forward. He says, “You’re looking at the fastest, strongest, and handsomest cultivators in all the land! Tell us where your troubles are.”
He needs hardly ask. The young woman is eager to spill out the story of the fierce corpse haunting the hills. Her poor cousin, the huntsman, had been driven in terror from his mountain cottage, and nobody in the village dared investigate. They called the local cultivation sect just yesterday—what a wonder they had already arrived!
Wei Wuxian promises extravagantly to help her, and Lan Wangji hums his agreement. She leaves at a run to tell her family.
Once she’s gone, Lan Wangji catches Wei Wuxian by the arm. “Wait.”
“What? It sounds simple enough. We can be done before nightfall.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Lan Wangji says. “You should rest at the inn.”
It’s a futile effort, he knows immediately. There’s no arguing with him now. Wei Wuxian gives him the dirtiest scowl, and pulls his arm free. “Nice try. I’m not letting you have all the fun.”
⚭
They don’t find one fierce corpse outside the huntsman’s cottage. They find three. And then four, five, six, and seven rush out from the woods behind them, and the moon-bright night comes alive with song and howl. Lan Wangji fights with half his mind on the man at his back, worried more for his sake than he ever has been for the young cultivators he’s supervised.
But he can’t deny the way the flute’s song stirs his heart. It’s not Chenqing, but the clear high tones dart in and out of his guqin’s lower strums, intertwining, dancing, and Lan Wangji’s heart dances with the song. He feels so light, he could fly without his sword.
The flute song falters, broken by a pained gasp. Lan Wangji turns, fear spiking through him, but sees Wei Wuxian standing strong, the song resuming as clear as ever. Two corpses stagger away under the force of Wei Wuxian’s will.
Reluctantly, Lan Wangji returns his attention to his own foes, until the last corpse falls and vanishes into ash.
The dust hasn’t settled before Lan Wangji whirls to check on Wei Wuxian. He appears unharmed at first glance, but his face is pale as death, and he sways as he stands. The rough flute trembles slightly in his grasp.
“See?” Wei Wuxian says breathlessly, a poor imitation of his usual nonchalance. “I said it would be simple enough.”
A light dripping sound. Lan Wangji’s eyes snap to the hem of Wei Wuxian’s right sleeve, where a thin stream of blood flows dark against his pale wrist.
“You’re hurt.” Lan Wangji can’t keep the growl from his voice.
Wei Wuxian tugs his sleeve down. “It’s nothing.”
Then he collapses.
Lan Wangji is already there, and Wei Wuxian crumples against him. He feels so light and thin in his arms, and Lan Wangji’s every bone and nerve sing with the weight, the faint warm breath against his chest.
He shoves back the shameful elation in favor of concern, and gently lays Wei Wuxian on the ground. A tender touch reveals the arm isn’t broken, at least. He knows at first glance there’s nothing else but bruises, exhaustion, but his hand trembles against Wei Wuxian’s chest, feeling the rise and fall. His fingertips hover at the collar of Wei Wuxian’s dark robe, and he imagines pulling it open. Checking more thoroughly for injuries, turning over Wei Wuxian’s limbs, feeling every inch of his soft skin.
To make sure he’s unharmed. Of course.
Lan Wangji recalls the virtue of restraint and doesn’t strip Wei Wuxian on the cold battlefield. But he’s made of jade, not iron. He gives into another urge instead, and gathers Wei Wuxian again into his arms. It’s so simple an action, so dangerous an indulgence, and Lan Wangji’s heart thrums with the warmth of the slim body he holds near. Wei Wuxian’s head falls so naturally against his shoulder. He fits so naturally in Lan Wangji’s arms.
Wei Wuxian stirs slightly, and Lan Wangji catches his breath. But Wei Wuxian only curls closer into him, and mumbles, “Lan Zhan…”
It is a wonder he doesn’t jump awake at the thundering of Lan Wangji’s heart.
Lan Wangji straightens up, holding Wei Wuxian close to him. He takes one more moment to indulge in the delicate brush of Wei Wuxian’s hair against his throat before he takes off.
⚭
The huntsman’s temporarily abandoned cottage is a small, rustic dwelling. Far from the most rustic they’ve stayed in—there’s a soft straw mattress with blankets, a small altar in the corner, lanterns on the table. Lan Wangji lays Wei Wuxian down on the bed, regretting the loss of the weight in his arms, and starts to straighten up. He wants to see if the chests of supplies include bandages.
But before he can move away, Wei Wuxian stirs again, and grabs him by the wrist. His grasp is fragile, clumsy. His eyes barely flutter open, and his voice is heavy with sleep: “Lan Zhan, where are you going?”
Lan Wangji sighs and settles onto the bed next to him. “Right here,” he says. “I’m staying right here. Let me see your arm.” He reaches for Wei Wuxian’s injured arm again, hoping he’ll remain sleepy and tractable.
He hopes in vain; the reminder of his injury spurs Wei Wuxian fully alert. “My arm—the corpses! Lan Zhan, we need to—”
He surges upwards, and Lan Wangji has to grab him by the shoulders and hold him down. The effort is more difficult than expected. Lan Wangji is far stronger than Wei Wuxian’s new body, and Wei Wuxian is injured and exhausted, but he squirms so distractingly.
“Stop it,” Lan Wangji says, trying not to think about how Wei Wuxian feels under his hands, bumping against his thigh. “You need to rest.”
Wei Wuxian stops struggling to get away, though he still sits up, stubbornly refusing to lie down. His hair falls in disarray over his face, half-obscuring his fiery eyes. “Bind up my arm and then let’s go, then. You saw, didn’t you? The corpses were covered in red dirt, but there’s no red dirt on this side of the mountain. They must have come from the other side of the mountain.”
“I saw.”
“We have to go see where they came from, and what disturbed them, and if there are any more.” He pushes futilely at Lan Wangji’s hand on his shoulder, then looks up, brow furrowed. He looks so beautiful in the moonlight. “Lan Zhan…”
Far too beautiful.
Lan Wangji can’t resist reaching out to brush the fallen hair from Wei Wuxian’s face, to touch the smooth skin, to prove that he’s real. His face is different now, the features more delicate, but the same fire as ever shines through every expression. He knows these eyes. He knows this frustrated frown.
He knows the way it melts into confusion, distraction, temptation, at his touch.
“We will check in the morning,” Lan Wangji says firmly. The sort of tone that would brook no arguments, except Wei Wuxian could argue with a stone. “The local sect can handle anything tonight. Sit here.”
Sure enough, Wei Wuxian is undeterred. He doesn’t push this time—he ducks down under Lan Wangji’s grip, and uses the opening to roll away. He makes it to his feet.
But he’s exhausted and clumsy and slow. Before he takes more than two steps towards the door, Lan Wangji catches him easily by the waist. Wei Wuxian sways against him, nearly asleep on his feet, yet still a protest jumps from his lips.
Lan Wangji sighs and gives up on arguing. If Wei Wuxian won’t agree to sleep, he’ll just have to make him. He carefully presses the correct pressure points above Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, and catches him when he collapses.
Wei Wuxian is much easier to manage when unconscious. Lan Wangji once more lays him on the bed, removing his shoes. Once more indulges in brushing the hair from his face. And then finally goes to look for bandages.
He finds none. The huntsman must have taken any supplies with him when he fled. He’ll have to improvise.
He fills a pitcher of water from the pump outside, affixes a protective talisman above the doorway, then returns to Wei Wuxian’s side. He opens the windows, so he can better see what he’s doing by the silver moonlight, and sits on the bed, his hip pressed against Wei Wuxian’s body.
Tenderly, he strips off Wei Wuxian’s outer robe. He doesn’t hesitate before opening his underrobe as well, pulling his limp body up, bracing him against his chest, while he works the sleeves from his arms. He finds no other injuries. Nothing new, at least, though old bruises scatter like fallen petals over his ribs, his forearms. Wei Wuxian has never treated his bodies with the kindness they deserve.
Lan Wangji removes his own robe. The white silk is already stained with blood. With a knife, he cuts long strips from the hem. He dips one in the pitcher of water, and begins cleaning Wei Wuxian’s arm.
The corpse had clawed deep into Wei Wuxian’s right forearm, presumably an attempt to pull the flute from his lips. Three puncturing scratches. The bleeding had stopped, but starts again, sluggish, under Lan Wangji’s attention. He cleans out the cuts as gently as he can. His hands are steady. He’s tended to injured comrades before, he’s tended to Wei Wuxian before. He knows how to do this.
His hands are steady, yet his stomach clenches. Now that they’re here, in the quiet safety of the cottage, and Wei Wuxian isn’t talking, Lan Wangji has time to berate himself. Letting Wei Wuxian get injured! Letting him exhaust himself! Wei Wuxian is too foolish and stubborn and brave to take care of himself. That’s why it’s up to Lan Wangji to keep him on a tight leash—and he failed at that today.
His hands move of their own volition while he chides himself. He wraps up Wei Wuxian’s arm, gently, firmly tying the silk. The fabric is soft under his fingertips, though not nearly as soft as Wei Wuxian’s skin. The process is strangely soothing, as if by binding up Wei Wuxian’s injury, he’s binding up some less tangible hurt inside himself.
Perhaps it’s a fool’s goal to keep Wei Wuxian from hurting himself. Perhaps it’s enough to stand by his side, to put him back together when he breaks.
He finds he has already finished the bandage and is simply stroking his fingers up and down the silk-bound arm. He’s tired too, now that the worry and anxiety have melted away. Exhaustion and warm contentment weigh down his bones. He sets aside the pitcher and lets the remains of his robe fall to the floor. He takes off his shoes. Regretfully, he pulls Wei Wuxian’s underrobe back over his arms.
Slipping into bed with Wei Wuxian should feel familiar by now. They’ve shared rooms often enough. Often enough Wei Wuxian has stumbled in, and Lan Wangji has held selfishly him in place. Yet every time it feels illicit, thrilling. He settles onto the rough straw mattress and feels Wei Wuxian’s soft warmth against his knee, then against his shoulder.
They barely touch—Lan Wangji doesn’t want to wake him—yet the bed, the small cottage, their own private corner of the moonlit night echoes with every song Wei Wuxian has ever played for him. Every infuriating, beautiful laugh. Every prayer Lan Wangji has whispered to his own silent memories.
He pulls the blankets over them, and counts Wei Wuxian’s breaths until he falls asleep.
⚭
A quiet whimper jolts Lan Wangji awake. He opens his eyes to find Wei Wuxian turned away from him, curled up and shivering. Lan Wangji’s heart seizes up, ice cold. “Wei Ying,” he murmurs, leaning over to look at him.
Wei Wuxian doesn’t answer. He’s asleep, expression twisted painfully. His sweat-damp hair is tangled, as if he’s been tossing and turning, and his robe is askew, hanging open at the shoulder. Lan Wangji can see his collarbone, a pale stretch of bare chest.
He touches Wei Wuxian’s shoulder gently, feels Wei Wuxian’s shivering all the way up his own arm. “Wei Ying.”
He means to wake him from the nightmare, but at his touch and voice, the shivering stops. He reaches up and strokes the hair back from Wei Wuxian’s face, and something eases in his expression.
Carefully, mindful of his bandaged arm, Lan Wangji gathers him closer, until Wei Wuxian’s head rests on his shoulder, and his body presses fully along his right side. He holds him close and strokes his hair, over and over.
There’s another soft whimper against his shoulder. Thin hands knot themselves instinctively in Lan Wangji’s clothes, and then slowly relax.
⚭
He next wakes to birdsong, to the luminous gray dawn, to careless fingers playing with the hem of his sleeve. He cracks open his eyes as the fingers travel to his chest, walking up and down the neck of his underrobe.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Wei Wuxian says lightly. “You brute. I can’t move, you’re holding me too tight.”
Sure enough, his arm still circles Wei Wuxian’s waist, holding him close, so the slim warm weight of him rests all against Lan Wangji’s body. The pressure, the presence, the smell of his skin is soothing, and Lan Wangji isn’t inclined to let him go.
“Mm,” he acknowledges, and doesn’t move.
Wei Wuxian sighs. “Typical.” His breath is warm against Lan Wangji’s chest, and he continues tracing perfect circles through the thin fabric. Lan Wangji wonders if he realizes how dangerously tempting he is.
He reaches for Wei Wuxian’s arm, and the wandering fingers still at his touch. He tests the makeshift bandages, stroking up and down Wei Wuxian’s forearm, and is pleased they’ve held fast through the night. Satisfied, he lays his palm over the back of Wei Wuxian’s hand, and holds it in place over his heart.
Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches.
In the silver hour between night and day, Lan Wangji feels like he’s floating in midair, weightless, without a sword to hold him. He’s a moment away from falling or flying. His heart is made of feathers, and he can hardly breathe.
“How did you sleep?” he asks quietly.
Wei Wuxian’s hand twitches briefly under his, then relaxes. “The best I’ve slept in weeks,” he admits. Then that slyness curls back into his voice. “Maybe I should collapse into your arms more often. It’s unexpectedly restful.”
Lan Wangji’s arm tightens involuntarily around him. “You shouldn’t push yourself so hard.”
“Lan Zhan. You’re crushing me.” He doesn’t sound mad, though. He cuddles in closer. “Fine. But I can’t make any promises. Sometimes I—sometimes it’s hard to sleep, these days.”
He doesn’t say what he dreams of, and Lan Wangji doesn’t ask. The sun is rising, and this isn’t a moment for darkness. He shifts his right arm from around Wei Wuxian’s waist, so he can run his fingers through his hair, indulging in the feel of smooth strands flowing between his fingers. Carefully working through the occasional tangle. It’s so much better now, with Wei Wuxian awake, because he sighs softly at the touch and leans into his hand.
“I never thought you could be so gentle, Lan Zhan,” he murmurs. This time when he moves, Lan Wangji lets him. He half-rises, braced on his uninjured left arm. His right hand is still pinned under Lan Wangji’s. He leans over him, hair spilling unbound over his shoulders. “The untouchable jade, the irreproachable Hanguang-jun. Lazing in bed with me, when there are graves to investigate. What happened to being wherever the chaos is?”
Wei Wuxian is beautiful in any light, at any time. Right now, dark eyes glittering, hair tousled, he is temptation incarnate. The darkest, sweetest dream made flesh. And in that moment, Lan Wangji can’t remember why he’s been denying himself this.
Wherever the chaos? The chaos is here.
Lan Wangji leans up, half-sitting, until he can look down into Wei Wuxian’s beautiful, devilish face. He finds his hand at Wei Wuxian’s neck. Feels the pulse thrumming faster under his skin.
Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches again. His long lashes briefly dip, as he looks down at Lan Wangji’s mouth. “Lan Zhan?”
His heart pounds so loudly, he can hear nothing else. He has to say something. Anything. But he has no words strong enough for what he feels, the desperate need that holds him together. Instead, he answers him with a kiss.
He feels Wei Wuxian gasp against his lips, feels the trembling moment of hesitance before he breaks and melts against him. Wei Wuxian kisses back eagerly, desperately, crawling into Lan Wangji’s lap. Lan Wangji nips his lower lip, and Wei Wuxian moans. Lan Wangji bites again, to see what other sounds he can draw out. Then Wei Wuxian’s hands tangle in his hair, tugging at the roots, and he lets out his own low groan as all his blood rushes downwards.
The investigation can wait another hour, Lan Wangji decides dizzily, and pulls Wei Wuxian closer.