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“Where should we go?” Wei Wuxian asks, uncaring of the answer.
Lan Wangji doesn’t reply, but Wei Wuxian isn't expecting him to. He laughs, a little giddy, as he considers the open road ahead of them.
Anticipation prickles beneath his skin. He imagines what it will be like to walk down broad, bright avenues with Lan Wangji at his side, without masks or pretenses or politics between them. Maybe he’ll grab Lan Wangji’s wrist to guide him through a crowded market, and he’ll find the boldness in himself to slide his hand down further and lace their fingers together. He’s sure, now, that Lan Wangji would let him.
He tucks the idea away, like a new talisman he’s nervous to test out, and keeps his hands to himself. He coos at Lil Apple, and it deigns to be led without kicking up a fuss when he turns them around and starts down the road. A good omen to start their travels, he decides, twirling Chenqing between his fingers.
He only makes it a handful of steps before he falters, his good humor evaporating.
Lan Wangji isn’t following him.
He turns back, the smile slipping from his face. Lan Wangji hasn’t moved, and still stands facing away from Wei Wuxian. The rigid line of his back looks a fraction less straight than usual.
Wei Wuxian's hands clench, palms sweating around Lil Apple’s lead. He feels unstable, like the ground beneath his feet has crumbled to sand, or revealed itself to be another xuanwu rising from its shell to devour him.
He had been so sure of his footing this time.
“Lan Zhan, you—” Wei Wuxian’s voice catches in his throat. Look at me, he thinks wildly, turn around and look at me. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
Slowly, Lan Wangji turns. His face is smooth, but his lips are parted slightly, hesitant, and he can hold Wei Wuxian’s gaze only briefly. He moves no closer.
Understanding lodges hard and hollow behind Wei Wuxian’s ribs. He can feel tears burning in the corners of his eyes, and he tries to summon a smile to push them down. It wavers on his lips, and crumples.
Finally, Lan Wangji speaks.
“Come back with me,” he says. “To rest, before your journey.”
Wei Wuxian lets out one slow, shuddering breath, and fixes his smile more firmly in place. This time, it holds.
“Of course.”
The sun is already sinking below the horizon by the time they arrive back at the Jingshi. A cool spring breeze wafts through the open door, rustling the papers on Lan Wangji’s writing desk.
Silence stretches between them, thick and uneasy.
Wei Wuxian wonders for a dreary moment whether he should’ve stayed with Lil Apple and the rabbits. Them, he might’ve been able to talk to. They wouldn’t judge him if he started crying, or look at him with painfully sincere, apologetic eyes. Well, Lil Apple would judge him, but no more than usual, and the donkey’s disdain would be a welcome distraction from the threat of Lan Wangji’s—what? Indifference? Dismissal?
He understands what Lan Wangji couldn’t find the words to tell him, can see now the lonely road unfurling before him, but he doesn’t understand why. Confusion and doubt bite at him like gnats, and he resists the urge to scratch at the phantom itch running up his arms.
Lan Wangji sets down a cup of Emperor’s Smile in front of him, and Wei Wuxian startles; a pot of tea and jar of liquor now sit side by side on the low table. He hadn’t noticed him preparing them, too busy indulging in his increasingly morose mood.
Lan Wangji takes a slow sip of his tea. Wei Wuxian downs the Emperor’s Smile in one go, barely tasting it.
“I will be assuming the role of Chief Cultivator,” Lan Wangji says without preamble.
The cup slips from Wei Wuxian’s fingers, clattering loudly against the table. He curses, righting it quickly and dabbing the spot of liquid it leaves behind with his sleeve. There was really nothing left in it, so everything will be fine—will—fine—
Chief Cultivator? Wei Wuxian’s mind reels. The question of who would occupy the role in the wake of Jin Guangyao’s demise had barely crossed his mind. Had, in fact, been one of the many things he’d been looking forward to not caring about for a good, long while. He tries to reconcile the image he holds of the office, of power-hungry men wielding wealth and reputation as readily as violence to maintain their own positions, with Lan Wangji’s straightforward righteousness. He can’t picture it.
Except—except he can, can’t he? Wei Wuxian stares blankly at the cup still clutched in his hands, numb with dawning realization.
He has no trouble, really, imagining Lan Wangji leveling a cold glare at Sect Leaders squabbling over nonsense until they’re scared into silence or shamed into action. Leading by example, commanding the respect of even those who resent him. Dispensing advice and commands in his steady voice and perfect calligraphy.
And who else, he thinks dizzily, could it be? No one from the minor sects would be able to rally enough support to take the role unchallenged. The Jin Sect is in disarray. Jiang Cheng would never consider it, even if the cultivation world were to lose its collective mind and ask it of him. Nie Huaisang has spent a decade building up an unimpeachable reputation of incompetence, and Wei Wuxian can’t help the unease he feels when he considers what his old friend might intend, were he to end the ruse now. And Lan Xichen…
Wei Wuxian swallows. There’s no one else.
His mouth moves before he can reconsider:
“You’ll hate it.”
Lan Wangji blinks at him, the smallest hint of a smile tugging up one corner of his mouth. Wei Wuxian’s heart thuds painfully in his chest.
“Mn,” Lan Wangji affirms, taking another sip of his tea.
Wei Wuxian laughs helplessly.
“You’re too good for it,” he insists, although they both know this argument will lead nowhere.
“It is a duty like any other,” Lan Wangji says, dignified and serene in the way that always makes Wei Wuxian want to bully him. “One should not refuse to offer service where it is needed out of pride.”
“Hanguang-jun appears where the chaos is,” Wei Wuxian agrees sagely. “He will complete any task, no matter how boring or distasteful. Even if the task is engaging in politics.”
“Mn. Would Wei Ying do any differently, were he me?”
Wei Wuxian shoots him an aghast look, disgust twisting his features. Lan Wangji’s eyes dance with mirth, and Wei Wuxian snorts. He catches Lan Wangji’s gaze, and Wei Wuxian feels the painful, hollow space in his chest finally begin to shrink, leaving behind only a familiar, aching longing.
He stands on bedrock after all.
Admitting defeat, Wei Wuxian sits forward with a sigh, leaning heavily against the table. Lan Wangji refills his cup; Wei Wuxian indulges in appreciating the grace of his hands.
Wei Wuxian takes a slow drink, making sure to savor it this time. He wonders, for a moment, if he can convince Lan Wangji to indulge with him, but quickly dismisses the idea. It wouldn’t do for the new Chief Cultivator to be spotted menacing the local farm life.
“I don’t envy you the burden of your reputation, Lan Zhan,” he says, smiling wryly.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes his misstep. Regret floods him even before he registers the faint, unhappy dip between Lan Wangji’s brows.
It was a joke! Wei Wuxian doesn’t say, because it wasn't, really. And even if it were, he couldn't take back the reminder of how much the divergence of their reputations, weighted down with decades of rumors and expectations, has cost them both. And, as Lan Wangji accepts the burden of becoming Chief Cultivator, will cost them still.
“Wei Ying,” he says, gently scolding.
Wei Wuxian lifts his hands and bows his head in apology, a silent plea for mercy. The troubled look on Lan Wangji’s face eases somewhat, but not fully. He refills their cups again, careful and slow, although neither of them has made much progress on their drinks.
Wei Wuxian despairs for the easy mood they’d recaptured so briefly. The space between them seems wider and emptier than before, as if growing in anticipation of their separation. Yet for Lan Wangji to be distant from him now, while he’s still so close to Wei Wuxian’s side, feels unbearable.
As Lan Wangji sets down the liquor jar and begins to withdraw, Wei Wuxian reaches out and catches his wrist.
“Lan Zhan,” he says softly, something like an apology in his tone.
Lan Wangji’s eyes fix on Wei Wuxian’s hand, on the sliver of exposed skin where his sleeve is pushed back and Wei Wuxian’s pinky rests on his bare wrist. Wei Wuxian’s body goes hot, despite the chill of the night air, the heat of that tiny connection spreading up his arm and into his chest.
Carefully, Lan Wangji reaches up with his free hand to unfold Wei Wuxian’s fingers from his wrist. Before he can mourn the loss, Lan Wangji shifts closer, coming to kneel by Wei Wuxian’s side and winding their fingers together. He sets his other hand atop them, stroking his thumb gently over Wei Wuxian’s knuckles.
“Lan Zhan,” he repeats, choked.
Lan Wangji hums in acknowledgment. His expression is tender and open, beautiful in a way that makes Wei Wuxian’s blood race, heated and reckless. So he speaks, again, recklessly:
“Would you come with me, if I asked?”
Lan Wangji’s thumb stills, but he doesn’t move away.
“You would not ask,” Lan Wangji says eventually. His grip on Wei Wuxian’s hand tightens. Wei Wuxian isn’t sure whether it’s a plea or an affirmation.
“I can be selfish, Lan Zhan,” he says, pressing at the topic like a bruise. “Tell me. Would you follow me away from this? If I told you I don’t care what happens to the world we leave behind, as long as you stay by my side?”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji sighs. He brings Wei Wuxian’s hand to his lips and places a gentle kiss there.
Wei Wuxian makes a small, wounded noise. He feels, again, like he might cry, and wants nothing more than to avoid that pitifully embarrassing end. He clenches his teeth and holds himself stiff.
Lan Wangji searches his face. Whatever he finds there seems to reassure him, and he smiles again, indulgent and warm, when he answers, “Yes.”
Wei Wuxian breathes out harshly through his nose. He leans forward, bowed over their joined hands, relief and bitter, melancholy hope surging through him, leaving his shoulders trembling and his eyes burning.
“I’m sorry, Lan Zhan,” he says, when he can get out the words without his voice wavering. “You’re so good, and I keep pushing you to forget it. I wouldn’t ask. I won’t.”
After a moment of hesitation, Lan Wangji says, “Would you stay? If I asked again?”
Wei Wuxian offers him a small, reassuring smile. It’s nothing to promise, “Yes.”
Lan Wangji’s lips pinch together with some suppressed emotion, and his closes his eye briefly. He tugs Wei Wuxian closer, their knees bumping together, and steadies himself. “Then I also will not ask,” he says lowly. “Not yet.”
Someday remains unspoken, but Wei Wuxian has learned to hear what Lan Wangji can't bear to utter aloud. There will be a home waiting for him, when his spirit is settled and his legs are no longer restless with new life—when the untouched shine of an open world fades with use, and he’s ready to redon the tattered cloak of his reputation, wrap himself in rebuke for those still set against him and hold himself above it. Or maybe, he thinks fondly, he’ll simply hide behind Lan Wangji’s sleeve as the dogs bark at him.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Lan Wangji shakes his head. “There is no need.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “But it’s easier to say than truer words.”
Lan Wangji’s hands tighten around his again, his grip nearly painful. He swallows visibly. “Wei Ying,” he says, lips quivering, brows drawn together in disbelief. His looks carved open and vulnerable, like Wei Wuxian’s words have struck down some crucial wall holding up his composure.
Wei Wuxian ducks his head. “Ah, Lan Zhan ah Lan Zhan, don’t look at me like that,” he says in a rush. “I really can’t tolerate it. You’ll get my hopes up.”
“Wei Ying.”
He shakes his head, nervous laughing bubbling up his throat. This has lain between them for so long now, kept hidden and precious in all the quiet, empty spaces where they don’t quite touch, that something in him resists dragging it into the open. But the promise of reunion hangs in the air, on the cusp of another parting, and he needs, so badly it leaves him breathless, to make this one different from all the others.
“I mean it, Lan Zhan. You’ll break my heart if you deny me now,” he says, voice holding none of the humor he’d intended.
Lan Wangji’s hands release his, moving instead to cradle Wei Wuxian’s face.
“See now if I would deny you anything,” he says, and kisses him.
The first press of Lan Wangji’s lips banishes all thought from his mind. Blindly, Wei Wuxian reaches out, twining one hand in the loose hair at the back of Lan Wangji’s neck, the other grasping at his sleeve, nothing in him but the thrumming rush of yes.
His world narrows to the sensations of open mouths and clinging hands. All he can hear is the drumming of his own pulse in his ears, the panting breaths between them, and—oh—the way Lan Wangji gasps when Wei Wuxian’s fingers tighten in his hair.
Lan Wangji bites his lower lip in playful retaliation, and he lets out a startled moan. “Lan Zhan—” he gasps, “Lan Zhan.”
“Stay the night,” Lan Wangji urges in the space between their lips. He mouths down the column of Wei Wuxian’s throat, earning him a series of sweet, eager sounds. Wasn’t that already the plan? Wei Wuxian almost asks, dazed, but the depth of Lan Wangji’s tone colors his words with new meaning.
“Oh, yes, Lan Zhan, ah—”
Lan Wangji pulls back suddenly, ignoring his protesting squawk. Wei Wuxian can hardly reorient himself to the dissatisfying reality that Lan Wangji’s mouth is no longer on him, skin still humming with the memory of him.
He traces the cut at Wei Wuxian’s throat, just to the side of where his mouth had been, with careful fingers. Heat burns in Wei Wuxian’s cheeks, unrelated to the passion still smoldering in his belly.
“Stay,” Lan Wangji repeats, voice carrying a different sort of intensity, “until you’ve healed.”
Wei Wuxian pulls his hand away, shaky. “It’s nothing, really,” he insists under the intolerable weight of Lan Wangji’s earnest concern. “A week’s time and it will have faded.” Even without a golden core, the guqin string hadn't dug in deep enough to trouble him long.
“It is not nothing.” Lan Wangji frowns. He presses a tender kiss to Wei Wuxian’s brow. “Please, Wei Ying. As you said, a week’s time. I would not ask more.”
It is, Wei Wuxian considers, probably a bad idea. A week in the Cloud Recesses, under the newly watchful and knowing eye of Lan Qiren, is apt to result in a dozen new rules being carved into the Wall of Discipline, and his presence would do nothing to ease the tension remaining between Lan Wangji and his uncle. Not to mention, with Lan Wangji assuming the office of Chief Cultivator, the place would probably be overwhelmed shortly with distinguished guests Wei Wuxian has no interest in encountering. And the sweet song of the open road still calls out him, promising him a freedom and ease he hasn’t felt in years. But—
But here Lan Wangji sits, imploring him with adoring eyes and kiss-red lips. Waiting, as always, for Wei Wuxian.
There's only one answer he can give.
“A week,” he concedes. Then, a mischievous smile spreads across his lips. “But you’ll have to take care of me, Lan Zhan. If I’m really so injured, you can’t possibly leave my side for even a moment.”
“Mn,” Lan Wangji says, leaning in again. “Not even a moment.”