[Wei Wuxian shoots him a smile full of gratitude, even if he's still nervous, making his face cold, leeching what little color remains in it. Who is he trying to put at ease, Lan Zhan or himself? Himself, of course, trying to remind himself that Lan Zhan is supportive. Loves him.
But at the same time, he can't help but think that this may break them, with the emphasis all cultivators put on their golden cores. How it's a mark of mastery, what elevates them from commoners. Last night, Lan Zhan himself put a lot of importance on it, even if the bearer is just a small boy who deserves to play and be free outside of a classroom and turning his soft, sweet hands rough and calloused from sword forms.
Inside the Jingshi, he barely removes his boots before sitting down on the floor, crossing his legs with his hands on his knees as if getting ready to meditate.]
Here. I'll show you why I didn't bother meditating properly earlier. [And it's not because he no longer cares for orthodox cultivation.
He holds out his wrist, pulling his sleeve back from it so that Lan Zhan can feel his pulse, and the meridians beside it.]
( There is an abruptness, an animal hurt to Wei Ying that doesn't align. Their morning, their midday have all gone satisfactorily, subject to neither scrutiny, not quarrel. If something occurred to darken Wei Ying's temper, it cannot have been today, now.
Still, Lan Wangji cannot hope to riddle every aspect of his husband's temper. Here, now, he is resolute to illustrate whatever it is that has once more divided them. Sunken on the floor, frail enough to appear as if no better than the child they've briefly abandoned.
Lan Wangji goes with him, gaze owlish when he watches Wei Ying's exposed wrist, his arm. No gash, no signs of bruising, no great, foul, visible battery. Then...? Poison? )
[Wei Wuxian's wrist is uninjured, but that can easily change. Pale skin, near transparent in the way it shows his veins and arteries, ligaments protruding starkly with each movement.]
Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan. There's no injury, and for that we should be grateful. [Otherwise, the hand wouldn't be visible, just a mass of bandages. Or even no hand at all.]
( His qi throughout meditation. Perhaps a lack of consistency, given Wei Ying's dismissal of the forms. Some manner of neglect or the other. Lan Wangji's frown is tender, ambivalent — but he concedes, reaching out to position his fingertips and opening himself, his awareness to the course of Wei Ying's flows.
...only to find, strangely, nothing that answers him. Could Lan Wangji's own emotional volatility be so strong that he cannot retain his composure to sense out Wei Ying's qi? Could Wei Ying's sickness have so frailed him?
He tries again, and again, and then once more. Concedes, finally, gaze limpid and wary when he turns it up. )
...forgive me. I fail you. Cannot sense your qi. ( But then, it strikes him: ) A trick?
[Wei Wuxian smiles at him, eyes opening, but there's no joy in it whatsoever. He just looks... tired. Finally, Lan Zhan is coming to understand his situation. He should feel like a weight has been lifted off of him, right?
Perhaps... not? He's not sure what to feel.]
Not a trick, Lan Zhan. You can't feel my qi because my meridians dried up a long time ago, nothing has been feeding them for a while.
( Not a trick. Dried-up meridians. Nothing feeding them for some time.
And flashing back, ruptured fragments of violent, lightning-fast memory: Wei Ying, smiling. Plunging from the clouds on his sword. Demonstrating the rapid ruthlessness of Suibian.
Wei Ying, lost to the Wen. Emerging in plumes and dark fire. Succumbed in the claws of his new demonic cultivation. Relinquishing his sword, their path.
Wei Ying, now: empties, where Lan Wangji's hand still lingers, touch uncertain, on a wrist all bones and taut skin. Wangji's mouth, dry. Gaze emptied.
[Finally, he understands, and he sags, sighing deeply and clutching Lan Zhan's hand. For strength, for comfort, what little he can take at this moment. It's not easy to talk about, and he certainly can't mention Jiang Cheng's involvement in this.
Just the thought of lying to Lan Zhan makes him want to rip his hair out, though. So he has to be careful about how he goes about this.]
I told you. Sunshot was not kind, and the days leading up to it were just the same.
[Before he resurfaced, certain people were still alive. Certain Wens.]
But this is open, bare-faced cruelty. Ugliness past measure or control. He watches Wei Ying and sees the shape of his hurt, grasps the private horror of its implications. Knows, in ways sullen but profound, whaf a depleted core spells for a cultivator.
What is left of his recourses.
For a long, pained moment, nothing. Only his gaze washing his hands, only the ruin of his questions. Breathe. He can't; breathe.
He looks up, wet-eyed but firm. This is not his hour. This is not his agony. )
[He's insisting-- is he truly going to force Wei Wuxian to say it? Is Wei Wuxian going to have to lie just to protect his shidi?
But lying to Lan Zhan? He doesn't think he can do it.
He claws at Lan Zhan's arm, fingers digging into his sleeve, frantic at his desperation.]
Don't tell anyone. I will tell you-- but no one else, and you shouldn't either. This is between me, you, and one other person. I don't know if I can tell you who else was involved, because they're too vulnerable right now. But I will tell you what happened. All right? [His eyes are pleading, promise?
( Don't tell anyone. And Wei Ying's hands broken and frantic, and his eyes stormed, and the push and the pull that assails Lan Wangji, part and whole.
He must be kinder to this man hereon, it strikes him. He must give him tenderness and care. Wei Ying cannot bear it otherwise. He has no core. He has no core.
And Lan Wangji slowly peels Wei Ying's hands loose off his sleeves, catches them and draws them up to have, to hold, to kiss after. Slowly. Carefully. Hereon, only slowly and carefully. )
[Perhaps Lan Zhan doesn't know how much his actions comfort his husband in this moment. Wei Wuxian is frantic in his desperation, and the firm grip on his hands is what he needs. He clings back, needing this one offer of stability.
Even if his meridians are no longer responsive, his pulse just beats rapidly, like the fluttering wings of a little bird that must work hard to keep itself in flight.]
Wen Zhuliu. [A good enough start, even if he spits the name with venom.] He melted the core of someone who he should not have touched, all because Wen Chao wanted him to.
[There's a reason why he was so vicious to Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu, years ago.]
I could live without mine, so I willingly gave it up. They didn't ask for it, but they would have died without it. I found a doctor who was willing to transfer my core.
After... After. Wen Chao found me and threw me into the Burial Mounds. [And the rest, Lan Zhan knows.]
( Wen Zhuliu. He who melts cores, who ruins men. Dog of the Wen. Lan Wangji's eyes shutter, the righteous shiver that courses him a force uncontainable. His fingers delay, squeezing Wei Ying's belatedly.
Then, finally, wretchedly, he opens his eyes again, Wei Ying consuming the majority of his focus. No. His husband already undergoes the toll of his confession. Lan Wangji cannot subject him to worse, on count of his own cowardice.
Wen Zhuliu, a third party, the Burial Mounds. He understands, he thinks. )
[Wei Wuxian freezes when he's asked that question.
Stupid him, he never actually extracted a promise out of Lan Zhan not to ask who they were, did he? Stupid, stupid, he wants to slap his mouth for being careless.]
Don't tell anyone. [Repeating himself.] And don't... don't blame them for anything.
The one I gave my core to doesn't know. Just... let him live his life in peace. Please?
( Don't tell anyone. Then, a matter of sentiment. A core not stolen, but freely given. Or perhaps wrested by someone so beloved that even a transgression would be seen as a regrettable sacrifice.
Lan Wangji's gaze lingers long, plaintive. Over Wei Ying's mouth, the stern line of his eyes, his unfailing beauty. Sweetheart. Oh, his sweetheart. Though Wei Ying may never wish to wear the name, he is that, unfailingly. )
...Wen Qionglin? ( It would explain the mysterious origin of his resurgence. )
He helped. Not the doctor, but he was the assistant. [But because Lan Zhan is so close to the truth and Wei Wuxian has already admitted to some of it already... There's nothing else he can do about this situation.
Tentatively, he sinks further into Lan Zhan's hold, as if unsure how further closeness would be received.]
It was Jiang Cheng. Wen Qing was the doctor. We-- we never told him, I tricked him into thinking that he would be getting a new core from my grandmaster, Baoshan Sanren, and swore both the siblings to secrecy.
[Then he looks up at Lan Zhan's face. Even if his eyes are still terrified, the set of his jaw is hard.]
( ...Jiang Cheng. Jiang Wanyin. This fool, this beautiful fool, ever ready to sacrifice for his brother, for both his siblings. For a family that never treated him justly, led by a matriarch that wished him burned off the register.
Lan Wangji's mouth hangs stiff, open. He wants to speak his objections. Wants to scream.
Startles himself, instead, when wet dances heavy down his cheeks, and he's only a burst if parting energy, driven forward to clutch the sides of Wei Ying's collars, to bring their mouths together, clumsy. A kiss born not of ardor, but the base animal need to comfort in the only way in which a man bereft of the right words ever can.
He loves him, strong. Loves Wei Ying, lessened. His heart breaks. )
[Instead of a word or two about Wei Wuxian's plight, or even a promise, he gets a wholly physical response, and he's not expecting it at all. He's expecting the wetness on his skin less, especially when he's quite sure that Lan Zhan's house-- their house is surely impeccably maintained.
That can only mean one thing, right?
Lan Zhan is crying? For him?
His heart melts for this man, and how much he feels for Wei Wuxian. Jade of Lan? Perhaps only for his beauty, and not because of the way his face is like stone. His heart certainly is not. How can Wei Wuxian deny him anything?
He kisses Lan Zhan, once, twice, then turns his head to kiss away those tears.]
( For a time, silent. Resolutely mute, brought together by the sickness of their dependency, without beginning or end. Percolating. They kiss, touch, sweep away tears. Lan Wangji's head drifts tentatively, until their foreheads connect, and they may breathe together, anchored.
This man. This man hurts, this man grieves, yet Lan Wangji clings to him as if to a fixture, adding to his troubles. His man. Oh, Wei Ying. Wei Ying. )
You have hurt so much, so long. ( Alone, bearing the aches of amputation, of doubt, of the cultivation world's injustice and offences — and the burden of his secrets. )
[With such a heavy secret now shared, Wei Wuxian feels boneless. Or perhaps more accurately, weightless, like a flimsy boat that has lost the cargo was keeping it relatively steady in the water. All he can do is close his eyes and rest his weight against his husband.
His dear, darling husband who has been nothing but supporting and caring of him this whole time. What sort of glorious deeds had he done in his past life to have Lan Zhan in this one?]
I did what I had to. [And he'd continue to do so. In fact, if it was required of him, whatever he did for Jiang Cheng would pale in comparison for whatever he'd do for Lan Zhan and Yuan if it meant keeping them safe and happy. He will just not say so because he knows that hearing such things will scare anyone. Perhaps scare them enough to scare them away from him.
( Three years. Three years of Lan Wangji sitting, hesitantly, among the ranks of those who questioned Wei Ying's devotion to orthodoxy. Three years of solitude, of estrangement. Three years of pain come — and never gone.
He does not secure permission first. By right, he should. Yet his hand flows down on Wei Ying's front, sitting where his core should sleep, first with questioning fingertips, then the flat of his palm. Nothing. Not now, nor ever forthcoming.
A shudder seizes him, and he aches once again. Aches without cure or resolution. His eyes shutter, and he pulls his touch away. )
[Is he disgusted with the fact that Wei Wuxian no longer has a core? Is he trying to find any last dredges if proper yang qi in Wei Wuxian? He doesn't understand the implications of Lan Zhan placing his hand on his chest only to withdraw like he'd just been burned.
He tries not to feel hurt.
Probably fails. Succeeds? Just a little bit. Half and half, some measure of control over his emotions even if the gesture still stings.]
Lan Zhan. [He reaches up, fingers skittering over his husband's palm before closing around his sleeve.] You'll protect me? That's a difficult promise to keep.
[Especially when Wei Wuxian refuses to stay put and be protected like a commoner. He wants to go hunting again. He wants to go adventuring.]
( A difficult promise, nigh impossible. He knows. Knows too that Wei Ying is correct to name his limitations. Yet still, it needles and bleeds him to consider that, for all his efforts — the world may prove indifferent. Wei Ying might deem he has not tried enough.
No matter. For now, his arms come and round and enclose to surround Wei Ying. He pulls his husband to himself, nudges him nigh on Lan Wangji's own lap. If he is near Wangji's thrumming, churning, furnace of a core, he need not be cold.
[If Lan Zhan is insisting... Wei Wuxian crawls into his lap, sits himself in between his husband's legs and curls up. Rests his head against Lan Zhan's chest so he can feel a heart that beats for him right underneath his ear. This small show of affection and comfort, and the signs of life, are exactly what Wei Wuxian needs to calm down and keep the memories of those haunting days at bay.
Then he reaches for his husband's hand and laces their fingers together.]
But Lan Zhan... What if I wanted to go night hunting with you? What if I wanted to explore the world with you? It's dangerous out there.
( Dangerous, and only more so now that Wei Ying has formally defected. Without the custody of a clan, his powers are rogue, wanton, desires. He is... a liability the sects can afford to claim requires neutralisation. Something they can thieve and wrest from each other's hands.
And he is so beautiful, Lan Wangji supposes. So frail, so lost in Lan Wangji's arms now, as he's brought close in an embrace that reassures him, more than Wei Ying, of the Yiling Patriarch's ultimate whereabouts.
Here, alive. Here, safe. )
I am your sword. I am your shield. I am your stair step.
Aiya. [Lan Zhan! So dramatic! Dramatic enough that it alarms Wei Wuxian, who could be part of a traveling acting troupe as a performer, with how he can just bullshit his way through anything.
He reaches up and pats Lan Zhan's cheek.]
You are my husband, not a tool, and definitely not something so lowly to step on.
You are my equal on every level. [Except in cultivation and in social standing, when Lan Zhan is the clear superior in both. He'll surely rise to greater heights in ten years, perhaps even five.] I don't want you to sacrifice yourself-- what am I to do with you gone? You're my husband.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
happy birthday lwj... here's drama as his bday gift
But at the same time, he can't help but think that this may break them, with the emphasis all cultivators put on their golden cores. How it's a mark of mastery, what elevates them from commoners. Last night, Lan Zhan himself put a lot of importance on it, even if the bearer is just a small boy who deserves to play and be free outside of a classroom and turning his soft, sweet hands rough and calloused from sword forms.
Inside the Jingshi, he barely removes his boots before sitting down on the floor, crossing his legs with his hands on his knees as if getting ready to meditate.]
Here. I'll show you why I didn't bother meditating properly earlier. [And it's not because he no longer cares for orthodox cultivation.
He holds out his wrist, pulling his sleeve back from it so that Lan Zhan can feel his pulse, and the meridians beside it.]
happy birthday, lan wangji!
Still, Lan Wangji cannot hope to riddle every aspect of his husband's temper. Here, now, he is resolute to illustrate whatever it is that has once more divided them. Sunken on the floor, frail enough to appear as if no better than the child they've briefly abandoned.
Lan Wangji goes with him, gaze owlish when he watches Wei Ying's exposed wrist, his arm. No gash, no signs of bruising, no great, foul, visible battery. Then...? Poison? )
You injured your arm?
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Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan. There's no injury, and for that we should be grateful. [Otherwise, the hand wouldn't be visible, just a mass of bandages. Or even no hand at all.]
Rather, I want you to track my qi as I meditate.
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...only to find, strangely, nothing that answers him. Could Lan Wangji's own emotional volatility be so strong that he cannot retain his composure to sense out Wei Ying's qi? Could Wei Ying's sickness have so frailed him?
He tries again, and again, and then once more. Concedes, finally, gaze limpid and wary when he turns it up. )
...forgive me. I fail you. Cannot sense your qi. ( But then, it strikes him: ) A trick?
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Perhaps... not? He's not sure what to feel.]
Not a trick, Lan Zhan. You can't feel my qi because my meridians dried up a long time ago, nothing has been feeding them for a while.
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And flashing back, ruptured fragments of violent, lightning-fast memory: Wei Ying, smiling. Plunging from the clouds on his sword. Demonstrating the rapid ruthlessness of Suibian.
Wei Ying, lost to the Wen. Emerging in plumes and dark fire. Succumbed in the claws of his new demonic cultivation. Relinquishing his sword, their path.
Wei Ying, now: empties, where Lan Wangji's hand still lingers, touch uncertain, on a wrist all bones and taut skin. Wangji's mouth, dry. Gaze emptied.
Not a trick. )
...Wei Ying. Wei Ying, how?
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Just the thought of lying to Lan Zhan makes him want to rip his hair out, though. So he has to be careful about how he goes about this.]
I told you. Sunshot was not kind, and the days leading up to it were just the same.
[Before he resurfaced, certain people were still alive. Certain Wens.]
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But this is open, bare-faced cruelty. Ugliness past measure or control. He watches Wei Ying and sees the shape of his hurt, grasps the private horror of its implications. Knows, in ways sullen but profound, whaf a depleted core spells for a cultivator.
What is left of his recourses.
For a long, pained moment, nothing. Only his gaze washing his hands, only the ruin of his questions. Breathe. He can't; breathe.
He looks up, wet-eyed but firm. This is not his hour. This is not his agony. )
...how?
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But lying to Lan Zhan? He doesn't think he can do it.
He claws at Lan Zhan's arm, fingers digging into his sleeve, frantic at his desperation.]
Don't tell anyone. I will tell you-- but no one else, and you shouldn't either. This is between me, you, and one other person. I don't know if I can tell you who else was involved, because they're too vulnerable right now. But I will tell you what happened. All right? [His eyes are pleading, promise?
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He must be kinder to this man hereon, it strikes him. He must give him tenderness and care. Wei Ying cannot bear it otherwise. He has no core. He has no core.
And Lan Wangji slowly peels Wei Ying's hands loose off his sleeves, catches them and draws them up to have, to hold, to kiss after. Slowly. Carefully. Hereon, only slowly and carefully. )
Tell me everything.
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Even if his meridians are no longer responsive, his pulse just beats rapidly, like the fluttering wings of a little bird that must work hard to keep itself in flight.]
Wen Zhuliu. [A good enough start, even if he spits the name with venom.] He melted the core of someone who he should not have touched, all because Wen Chao wanted him to.
[There's a reason why he was so vicious to Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu, years ago.]
I could live without mine, so I willingly gave it up. They didn't ask for it, but they would have died without it. I found a doctor who was willing to transfer my core.
After... After. Wen Chao found me and threw me into the Burial Mounds. [And the rest, Lan Zhan knows.]
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Then, finally, wretchedly, he opens his eyes again, Wei Ying consuming the majority of his focus. No. His husband already undergoes the toll of his confession. Lan Wangji cannot subject him to worse, on count of his own cowardice.
Wen Zhuliu, a third party, the Burial Mounds. He understands, he thinks. )
Who were the victim and doctor?
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Stupid him, he never actually extracted a promise out of Lan Zhan not to ask who they were, did he? Stupid, stupid, he wants to slap his mouth for being careless.]
Don't tell anyone. [Repeating himself.] And don't... don't blame them for anything.
The one I gave my core to doesn't know. Just... let him live his life in peace. Please?
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Lan Wangji's gaze lingers long, plaintive. Over Wei Ying's mouth, the stern line of his eyes, his unfailing beauty. Sweetheart. Oh, his sweetheart. Though Wei Ying may never wish to wear the name, he is that, unfailingly. )
...Wen Qionglin? ( It would explain the mysterious origin of his resurgence. )
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He helped. Not the doctor, but he was the assistant. [But because Lan Zhan is so close to the truth and Wei Wuxian has already admitted to some of it already... There's nothing else he can do about this situation.
Tentatively, he sinks further into Lan Zhan's hold, as if unsure how further closeness would be received.]
It was Jiang Cheng. Wen Qing was the doctor. We-- we never told him, I tricked him into thinking that he would be getting a new core from my grandmaster, Baoshan Sanren, and swore both the siblings to secrecy.
[Then he looks up at Lan Zhan's face. Even if his eyes are still terrified, the set of his jaw is hard.]
Don't tell him. He can never know.
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Lan Wangji's mouth hangs stiff, open. He wants to speak his objections. Wants to scream.
Startles himself, instead, when wet dances heavy down his cheeks, and he's only a burst if parting energy, driven forward to clutch the sides of Wei Ying's collars, to bring their mouths together, clumsy. A kiss born not of ardor, but the base animal need to comfort in the only way in which a man bereft of the right words ever can.
He loves him, strong. Loves Wei Ying, lessened. His heart breaks. )
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That can only mean one thing, right?
Lan Zhan is crying? For him?
His heart melts for this man, and how much he feels for Wei Wuxian. Jade of Lan? Perhaps only for his beauty, and not because of the way his face is like stone. His heart certainly is not. How can Wei Wuxian deny him anything?
He kisses Lan Zhan, once, twice, then turns his head to kiss away those tears.]
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This man. This man hurts, this man grieves, yet Lan Wangji clings to him as if to a fixture, adding to his troubles. His man. Oh, Wei Ying. Wei Ying. )
You have hurt so much, so long. ( Alone, bearing the aches of amputation, of doubt, of the cultivation world's injustice and offences — and the burden of his secrets. )
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His dear, darling husband who has been nothing but supporting and caring of him this whole time. What sort of glorious deeds had he done in his past life to have Lan Zhan in this one?]
I did what I had to. [And he'd continue to do so. In fact, if it was required of him, whatever he did for Jiang Cheng would pale in comparison for whatever he'd do for Lan Zhan and Yuan if it meant keeping them safe and happy. He will just not say so because he knows that hearing such things will scare anyone. Perhaps scare them enough to scare them away from him.
He doesn't want that.]
And I've had three years to live with it now.
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He does not secure permission first. By right, he should. Yet his hand flows down on Wei Ying's front, sitting where his core should sleep, first with questioning fingertips, then the flat of his palm. Nothing. Not now, nor ever forthcoming.
A shudder seizes him, and he aches once again. Aches without cure or resolution. His eyes shutter, and he pulls his touch away. )
You will never hurt again. I pledge.
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He tries not to feel hurt.
Probably fails. Succeeds? Just a little bit. Half and half, some measure of control over his emotions even if the gesture still stings.]
Lan Zhan. [He reaches up, fingers skittering over his husband's palm before closing around his sleeve.] You'll protect me? That's a difficult promise to keep.
[Especially when Wei Wuxian refuses to stay put and be protected like a commoner. He wants to go hunting again. He wants to go adventuring.]
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No matter. For now, his arms come and round and enclose to surround Wei Ying. He pulls his husband to himself, nudges him nigh on Lan Wangji's own lap. If he is near Wangji's thrumming, churning, furnace of a core, he need not be cold.
No, he need never be cold again. No assisted. )
Let this be my worry.
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Then he reaches for his husband's hand and laces their fingers together.]
But Lan Zhan... What if I wanted to go night hunting with you? What if I wanted to explore the world with you? It's dangerous out there.
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And he is so beautiful, Lan Wangji supposes. So frail, so lost in Lan Wangji's arms now, as he's brought close in an embrace that reassures him, more than Wei Ying, of the Yiling Patriarch's ultimate whereabouts.
Here, alive. Here, safe. )
I am your sword. I am your shield. I am your stair step.
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He reaches up and pats Lan Zhan's cheek.]
You are my husband, not a tool, and definitely not something so lowly to step on.
You are my equal on every level. [Except in cultivation and in social standing, when Lan Zhan is the clear superior in both. He'll surely rise to greater heights in ten years, perhaps even five.] I don't want you to sacrifice yourself-- what am I to do with you gone? You're my husband.
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