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In the jianghu, there are many things people know about Song Lan—at least, if the rumors are to be believed. He was once one half of a rogue cultivator duo who garnered considerable acclaim. When his partner was lost, he continued to travel the world alone, his and his partner's swords upon his back.
Song Lan has a reputation for being cold, but fair. Severe, yet righteous. Stern, but kind.
It is rumored he does not speak often, not since the loss of his fellow cultivator. Song Lan supposes there is a grain of truth even in this, though the reality is far less romantic.
He's been reticent since birth, but he had lost more than his partner in the battle that took Xiao Xingchen's life. Song Lan himself was severely injured, barely escaping with his life, and while his golden core was eventually able to heal the injuries to his jaw and face, he could not regrow flesh wholecloth.
It bothers Song Lan less than he imagines people would expect. He travels alone, after all, and is generally able to purchase supplies and procure lodging with gestures (and coin).
He steps through the doorway of the small home he has rented for the week, finds he is pleased overall with its cleanliness and appearance, and begins to unpack. Tonight, he decides, he will write a story.
*
Writing has become Song Lan's primary avenue of communication, though the varying literacy rates in the small towns and villages he visits sometimes makes it difficult. There is pleasure in it anyhow; he has always found it easier to order his thoughts and speak his mind with ink on paper.
The first year or two after Xiao Xingchen's death had left Song Lan feeling much like a ghost himself, wandering from town to town, mired in grief. It was during this time that Song Lan discovered a surprising… ability.
He guards this secret closely. Let the rumors about him fly; true or false, they never approach what Song Lan considers to be the most interesting aspect of his existence.
He writes letters, he keeps a travel journal, he has written conversations when he is able. But if he writes fiction? If he dreams up a story, and sets it to paper?
The story comes true.
Often, the most fanciful parts are skipped over, or handled in a manner more representative of his natural world, yes. But the fundamental aim of the story becomes truth.
Understandably, it had taken Song Lan a while to catch on. After a handful of strange experiences that almost felt like deja vu, and an interaction with a woman where he had known what she was going to say before she said it, it finally clicked into place.
The realization was terrifying. He'd rushed to the room where he was staying and pawed through his collected stories in a panic; had he written anyone's death? Had he described someone's suffering, and inadvertently cursed them to it?
For a handful of years after, he refused to write anything beyond the most basic conversation. It felt too dangerous, almost blasphemous, for him to hold so much power over others.
Then he'd met a little girl.
Her story wasn't so unusual, really. No living family, no home. She had no one to care for her, and he'd found her sleeping beneath an overturned crate in a rank, dingy alley.
He had given her a blanket, bought her a meal, and paid for a room for her in the inn where he was staying. He was leaving in a couple of days; he certainly couldn't take her with him. It rankled, seeing such a mundane sort of human suffering, and knowing there was little he could do.
But that wasn't entirely true, was it?
He'd spent the night tossing and turning on the inn's thin mattress, at war with himself. When sunlight peeked through the paper screen of the window, he had steeled himself, sat down at the low table, and begun to grind ink.
He'd kept it concise; he did not want to tug on more of fate's strings than he had to. He made sure to be sparse with detail, in the hopes that the universe could bring the story to life without disturbing more people than necessary.
Someone visits this town tomorrow and stumbles across xiao Yun. They have the means and desire to care for her, so they offer to take her in, and she accepts. She grows up happy and healthy.
Song Lan had not cried since Xiao Xingchen's death, but he cried that day, silent and shaking with relief, when he'd watched a bright, laughing young woman and her obviously besotted husband lead the little girl out of town, her hands full of chicken skewers and tanghulu.
After that, he'd started to experiment. Just little things, here and there. Helping a farmer find his lost sow. Encouraging a blacksmith's stubborn injury to heal.
Trying for broad, overarching improvements, like aiming for an entire region's harvest to be plentiful, did not work, and could sometimes backfire in unexpected ways. Song Lan had immediately written a second story, to control the spread of the invasive berry vine he'd inadvertently unleashed upon the area, and had never tried anything so ambitious again.
Then there had been the night he'd had a few too many cups of wine with his dinner, and, upon waking mid-morning to a knock on his door, had caught a glimpse of a few scribbled pages, nearly illegible, spread on the table.
He'd not had time to examine it, and, truthfully, hadn't thought much of it at all. He'd begun keeping his travel journal again, so assumed that's what it was.
His visitor, while a stranger, had been a man with kind eyes and a warm, steady thrum of qi. He'd been hired to handle a nighthunt nearby, and someone had told him of Song Lan's presence.
When he requested Song Lan's assistance, Song Lan had readily agreed. He missed working alongside a partner, and hunts were always safer with another cultivator present.
They'd made short work of the hunt—a resentful ghost haunting her still-living husband for his perceived infidelities—and once she was restfully settled, the man had invited Song Lan back to the room he'd rented. They'd shared a pot of tea, told stories of their previous hunts, and found themselves talking late into the night.
When the man asked Song Lan if he would like to stay, Song Lan had agreed. When the man carefully took the brush from Song Lan's hand, stiff from the sheer amount of writing he'd done, and began to massage Song Lan's fingers and wrist, Song Lan trembled with the intensity of the sensation. How long had it been since someone had touched him, much less with tenderness?
While Song Lan was not someone who enjoyed physical contact with others in a general sense, he had followed easily when the man led them to bed. Had gasped into the first gentle kiss, and had returned the careful, seeking touches he received with his own.
They'd eaten a small breakfast together the next morning, and then Song Lan took his leave, body singing, feeling more content than he had in a very long time. That is, until he made it back to his own room, and had read what he'd written two nights before.
Song Lan had known he was lonely, that he sometimes grew tired of traveling for days on end, of never seeing a familiar face, of never being welcomed with anything more than distant courtesy. He had not, however, suspected he held the capacity to treat other people—and fate itself—with such casual selfishness.
He'd nearly returned to the man with kind eyes to apologize, but what could he say that wouldn't sound like the ravings of a madman? Eventually, he decided the best course of action was to write a quick story allowing the man to forget Song Lan entirely. With the echo of touch lingering under Song Lan's skin like a bruise, he had made a solemn vow to never do such a thing again.
*
Tonight will be different, he promises himself, as he readies rice and a simple broth for dinner. He'll ensure there is no room for coercion, make sure there is no way for him to take advantage, even unwittingly, of another person. He simply wishes for company—for someone to speak to him, to spend time with him. To enjoy his presence.
Once he has eaten and bathed, Song Lan seats himself at the table and prepares his ink.
He writes a story about receiving a visitor. Someone to converse with, someone who won't mind that he cannot speak himself. Someone mischievous and charming, but with strong opinions and a stubborn nature. Someone who can stand up for themself, and make their own decisions.
Song Lan adds in a detail here and there about the visitor—a man, he decides—being a bit of a surprise to Song Lan, and not necessarily behaving in the way Song Lan expects. With a wry smile, he finishes the story with the man stealing Song Lan's coin pouch and leaving.
Song Lan can always earn more. And, that way, his visitor will be compensated for his time.
Pleased with his work, Song Lan climbs into bed. It's been too long since he's had someone to talk to. Tomorrow should be interesting, at the very least. He falls asleep easily, lips curved in a smile.
*
"Well, well," Song Lan hears, and his hands clench on the robe he's washing. "Why's a fancy daozhang like yourself doing laundry in the river like us peasants?"
Glancing over his shoulder, Song Lan sees a young man lazing against a tree, his arms crossed and cheeks stretched in a challenging grin. Is this his visitor?
Song Lan nods in acknowledgement, then returns his attention to his garments.
"What, are you too good to talk to regular people?"
Song Lan pauses, then sits back on his heels, laying his wet robe on a rock nearby. He faces the man and touches his throat, then his mouth, shaking his head.
"Eh? Daozhang can't speak at all?" The man looks briefly surprised, but then his smile returns, even wider. "Or is it a righteous 'vow of silence' or something? Not that it matters, really. I've been told I talk enough for two people anyhow."
He walks closer, crouching on his haunches next to Song Lan. "Xue Yang, courtesy Chengmei." He gives Song Lan a slight bow, mocking. "I'm a cultivator too."
A cultivator? Song Lan had included no such detail in his story, but he supposes that is a good sign. He picks up a stick and leans over the soft sand of the river shore, carefully scrawling his name there.
"Song Lan, courtesy Zichen," Xue Yang says slowly. "I've heard of you."
Song Lan nods, unsurprised.
"You lost your cultivation partner, right?" Xue Yang asks. It's astoundingly rude, and Song Lan grimaces. Xue Yang holds up his hands, laughing. "Did I poke a sore spot? I thought that was years ago."
Song Lan can't think of a single polite response, so he grabs his robe and plunges it back into the water.
"No, come on, Daozhang," Xue Yang says, leaning over to bump his shoulder against Song Lan's, startling him. "Don't be mad, all right? Let's forget I said it. Start over."
Lifting an eyebrow, Song Lan gives him a flat look. To his surprise, this only makes Xue Yang laugh again.
"Seriously! I'm going to start over. Here, how about this? Wanna know why I sought you out?"
Despite Song Lan's irritation, his curiosity is piqued, so he nods. He certainly hadn't written to that depth of detail, and is interested to hear how fate has responded to his writing.
With a flash of teeth that almost feels too dangerous to call a smile, Xue Yang leaps to his feet, twirling on a heel. "All the little aunties in the village were abuzz this morning, Daozhang." He shoots Song Lan a wink. "Can you guess why?"
Song Lan has a feeling he knows where this is going, that he is being teased, but he gestures for Xue Yang to continue.
"They were all a-flutter about the handsome new daozhang, of course!" Throwing out his arms, Xue Yang turns in another circle. "To hear them tell it, you're as big as a bear, tall as a house, with a face to make maidens cry and little old ladies wish they were thirty years younger!"
Song Lan makes sure Xue Yang is watching him before he rolls his eyes and pointedly goes back to his laundry, which, as he suspected, only makes Xue Yang laugh.
"You're handsome enough," Xue Yang pronounces, flopping to the grass and crossing his legs. "But you don't look much like a bear to me."
Song Lan has the sudden urge to growl and curl his hands into claws, to do his best at an impression of a bear. The thought is wholly unlike him. Beneath his dignity.
And yet, does it matter? He will never see this man again after today. He gives in, and Xue Yang actually gasps in shock before folding over himself, guffawing.
"Daozhang!" Xue Yang wheezes. "What the hell was that?!"
Song Lan huffs, ensuring the sound is loud enough to hear.
"You're interesting," Xue Yang says, leaning back and bracing himself on his elbows. "Got plans for the rest of your day?"
Song Lan glances over his shoulder, shrugging.
"Oh? Well good, then. That means you won't mind if I join you!"
Xue Yang immediately launches into a description of his favorite fishing holes, the best places to drink in town, a waterfall not too far south where village kids go to test their courage, and Song Lan, carefully hiding his smile, decides that this strange man makes for decent company after all.
*
'You truly do talk enough for two people,' Song Lan writes, and Xue Yang snickers, pouring them both more tea.
"Works out then, doesn't it? Though I can't figure you out." Xue Yang leans in close, eyebrows scrunched. "You can obviously make sound. You've laughed, and groaned, and there was that abysmal bear impersonation by the creek…"
Bristling, Song Lan quickly scribbles 'I felt it was quite good'.
Xue Yang tilts his head to read, then scoffs. "Have you ever even seen a bear, Daozhang? Because that was not a bear."
Song Lan scowls, brush hovering, then reluctantly writes 'No'.
Xue Yang thumps him, hard, on the shoulder. "No surprise there. But seriously. Why can't you speak? Have you been like this since you were born?"
Tensing, Song Lan considers. Generally, people are not persistent like this, and politely avoid the topic. The ruined stub of his tongue is… shameful, to him. A reminder of his tragic failure.
But Xue Yang has kept him company for shichen upon shichen now, the sun long since set, and Song Lan will never see him again anyhow…
He closes his eyes, gathering his courage, then slowly opens his mouth. He can feel his cheeks heat; he's never shown anyone, before.
Song Lan hears nothing, and eventually opens his eyes. Xue Yang's expression is some combination of horror and fascination, his eyes wide and lips parted.
"Fucking hell, Daozhang," he whispers. "Did someone do that to you on purpose?"
Song Lan shakes his head. 'An injury acquired during a hunt. It was a demonic beast.'
Xue Yang takes this in, chin settled on his hand. Song Lan thinks it is the quietest the man has been all day. Several moments pass this way, and Song Lan, beginning to feel awkward, sips his tea for something to do.
"You know, Daozhang," Xue Yang says at last, and his voice is low, soft, so unlike what Song Lan is expecting. "You are still very beautiful."
Song Lan blinks, brow furrowing. He'd not written anything, this time, about attraction or sex. Why is Xue Yang—
Xue Yang stands, circling the table, and sinks to his knees beside Song Lan. "I wonder if Daozhang would allow me?"
Fingers land, gentle, on Song Lan's cheek, curling beneath his jaw. Song Lan does not know what Xue Yang is asking, but he thinks there is very little Xue Yang could do that he would not welcome.
"Yes?" Xue Yang breathes, leaning closer. Song Lan carefully settles his own hand over Xue Yang's, then nods.
It is immediately apparent that Xue Yang does not have much in the way of experience, but his mouth is soft and warm, his movements eager, and Song Lan shivers with the feeling of being so wanted. Xue Yang slips his arms around Song Lan's waist, pulling himself into Song Lan's lap, and Song Lan allows his hands to settle on Xue Yang's hips.
"Mm, Daozhang," Xue Yang murmurs, easing his mouth along Song Lan's throat. "You taste better than the sweetest tanghulu."
Song Lan snorts and pinches Xue Yang's waist.
"Hey! I'm being truthful!" Xue Yang laughs, leaning back. "So cruel." Xue Yang clambers to his feet, his hand pressed to his side as if Song Lan has inflicted a grievous injury. "Who knew this silent, righteous cultivator was secretly vicious?"
Song Lan, disappointed the kissing has stopped, leans over to grab his brush.
'My apologies,' he writes, then looks up at Xue Yang. 'Come back?'
Xue Yang grins, lopsided, and shakes his head. "Ah, Daozhang, so sweet. However…" He holds out his hand, and there in his palm is Song Lan's purse. He bounces it once. "I already got what I need."
The feeling that surges through Song Lan is very like grief; for a moment he can't breathe with it, his fists clenching and his throat going tight.
"You have my gratitude, Song-daozhang," Xue Yang continues, spinning on his heel and heading for the door. Song Lan can't move, frozen and near tears.
This is only fair, Song Lan tells himself as the door closes. You wrote this, you knew it was coming.
But he hadn't. He hadn't written the kiss, hadn't mentioned the eager, desperate press of Xue Yang's mouth, the helpless noises he made against Song Lan's skin. Song Lan had, for an exhilarating handful of moments, felt desirable. Felt wanted—needed—in a way he hasn't since Xiao Xingchen.
For several minutes, Song Lan allows himself to sit there, staring blankly at Xue Yang's still cooling tea. He focuses on his breath, slow and steady, until he is certain he will not cry.
It has been a lovely day, Song Lan is forced to admit. He drags himself to his feet and makes his way to his bed, not even bothering to undress. Xue Yang had been everything Song Lan could have hoped for, and nothing like he expected.
Though, he supposes to himself wryly, that was kind of the point.
With a wisp of qi, he extinguishes the lantern and stares into the dark. Xue Yang's constant chatter, his irrepressible sense of humor, his shocking lack of courtesy and tact, his casual touches, on the shoulder or the arm (or even once on the leg, when he'd kicked Song Lan's knee from behind and made him stumble)... Song Lan has felt more alive today than he has in years.
He decides Xue Yang likely enjoyed the kissing, at least. To spend the entire day with Song Lan, if all he really wanted was his coin? He could have snatched it and taken off at any point. It doesn't completely assuage the sharp, bitter feeling inside Song Lan, but he does not think he was imagining Xue Yang's enthusiasm.
Overall, if he looks at it objectively, he got what he wanted out of this day. Xue Yang will forget all about him, and Song Lan will have the memory of their—
"Daozhang?" Xue Yang shouts, slamming open the door. "Why the hell did you turn the lights out? I can't see a thing!"
Gasping, Song Lan shoots from the bed, absently lighting the lantern as he rushes by. He skids to a stop in front of Xue Yang, whose eyebrows are lost in his hairline, mouth hanging open.
"D… Daozhang?" he says, confused. "Are you all right?"
Gods, if only Song Lan could speak… He growls, frustrated, and stomps over to the table. The ink is beginning to go tacky, but it will do.
'Why did you return?' he rushes out. It's sloppy, but readable. Xue Yang, still frozen by the door, is watching him like he's a wild animal. Song Lan scoffs, tapping his finger on the paper.
Slowly, Xue Yang approaches. Song Lan can see a jug of wine in the crook of his elbow and a paper package that smells of spice and meat in his hand.
"What?" Xue Yang says. He frowns at Song Lan's writing. "Why the hell wouldn't I? I just wanted to get us some snacks and wine."
He's giving Song Lan the strangest look as he settles his treats to the table, then tosses Song Lan's coin pouch back to him. "Did you think I, what? Used my seductive wiles to fucking… pick-pocket you?"
Song Lan grits his teeth, embarrassed.
"Damn," Xue Yang breathes, folding to the floor in front of Song Lan. "Daozhang. Not to be an asshole, but. If all I had wanted was your purse, I'd have grabbed it at the river, and you would have never seen me."
Song Lan… does not doubt him. Xue Yang seems quite capable of moving undetected.
'Then what do you want?' he asks, shoulders tight.
"I just want to spend time with you. You're funny. You've got this huge stick up your ass, but then you do the stupidest shit. You listen to me, and tease me, and don't seem to mind that I never shut up."
Overwhelmed, Song Lan tries to gather his thoughts. Xue Yang is saying he wants to spend more time with him?
"And the kissing was pretty great, too," Xue Yang adds, chuckling. "We should definitely do more of that."
Xue Yang wants to kiss him?
"Hell, maybe if I stick around long enough, you'll get used to me, and let me travel with you." Song Lan bites back a gasp. "I've been wanting to wander for a while, but—" Grimacing, Xue Yang shrugs. "I'm not as powerful as you. I kind of worried I'd get myself killed on my first nighthunt or something."
Song Lan cannot believe this. He didn't write this. He didn't dare to write this. He refuses to force anyone to stay by his side just because of his selfish desires. But if Xue Yang is offering, uncoerced…
"And honestly, Daozhang? I'm tired of people lying to me. All my life, people have been tricking me, and using me, and lying to my fucking face about it. It would be nice to spend time with someone who can't."
For some reason, this is what finally spurs Song Lan to respond.
'I can still lie to you like this,' he writes, compelled to be truthful, but Xue Yang laughs.
"Yes," he says, crawling closer, then straddles Song Lan's thighs. "But you won't."
Song Lan pulls Xue Yang to his chest, burying his face against Xue Yang's neck. He hopes the way his arms tighten around Xue Yang can say what his mouth cannot.
"Maybe you are a bear," Xue Yang murmurs, sliding his hands down Song Lan's back. "I wouldn't mind seeing what you look like under all these robes, anyhow."
Song Lan pulls back far enough to glare, but Xue Yang snickers at him and pinches his cheek. "Daozhang," he says, squirming delightfully on Song Lan's lap, "you should take me to bed."
Reaching, tilting them both in the process, Song Lan grabs the brush one last time.
'You will stay?'
"Oh Daozhang," Xue Yang purrs, dragging them both from the floor. "You are never getting rid of me again."
They stumble to the bed, Song Lan not bothering to hide his smile. Garments get tossed to the floor, and by the time they fall to the thin mattress, they are kissing.
"You gonna keep me, Daozhang?" Xue Yang breathes into the skin behind Song Lan's ear. It's teasing, playful, but Song Lan can hear the vulnerability hidden beneath. "Make me yours?"
Song Lan huffs, squeezing Xue Yang tighter.
Yes, he thinks. Perhaps I will.