Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

There's something Jiang Cheng used to say to Wei Wuxian, usually when he was taking too long to get ready: 'it's not like they're going to throw gifts at your feet.'

It's been a long time since anyone's said that to him. And no one has ever thrown any gifts at his feet: not then, not now.

But people tuck them into his arms from time to time, parcels and scrolls and, on one occasion, a crate so large he could barely grip it. For Hanguang-Jun and his friends, they say with a smile. This is how Wei Wuxian comes to find himself sitting on the floor of their inn, halfway through a box of fresh-picked loquats.

“Have one?” he calls over his shoulder. Lan Wangji is currently sitting behind him, combing the windblown tangles out of Wei Wuxian's hair with precise, careful strokes. “They're so ripe.”

“Later,” Lan Wangji hums.

“Really? Okay.” Wei Wuxian takes another bite. “It's kind of them. But they know you're going to help them even without gifts, right?”

Lan Wangji pauses to loosen a knot by the nape of his neck, laying the strands back into place so gently that it sends a shiver through him. “Not everyone does.”

“That's true,” Wei Wuxian says. “Ahh, now I'm just sad.”

There's a long silence as Lan Wangji gathers a section of his hair to tie up. Wei Wuxian pops the rest of the fruit into his mouth, his jaw tingling with the burst of juice. “Lan Zhan, you should really have some. I'm going to eat them all.”

“No need,” Lan Wangji says. “Have as many as you like.”

“Then do you want something else to eat?” Wei Wuxian says, craning to look at him as much as his neck will allow. “Tea? Dinner?” He pushes back across the floor to slide onto his legs. “Or maybe—”

He hisses as Lan Wangji's hands migrate downward, pressing expertly at a sore spot under his shoulder blade. “What I want,” he says slowly, “is for you to hold still.”

Pouting, he settles back into a neutral position, legs lightly crossed and spine relaxed. There are some nights when this is all Lan Wangji seems to want: for Wei Wuxian to be comfortable, to be relaxed, to accept these luxuries as blithely as he accepts the hatred of strangers.

It's a dizzying responsibility.

“You should at least eat one,” is what he finally says. “They're trying to gain your favor, you know.”

“They are.” Lan Wangji's thumb makes slow, circular strokes across his spine. “But they do not expect me to have any.”

“Hm?” Wei Wuxian blinks. “But that's...”

He trails off. Allows himself to think, for a moment, about the fact that these gifts are always placed into his hands. He always assumed it was because Lan Wangji looked too regal to carry anything bulky. But no one's ever handed gifts to the juniors. Only him.

For Hanguang-Jun and his friends, the woman had said today, as they often do. But then she’d added, Not as fine as what he gives you, I'm sure.

Ah? Wei Wuxian had said. assuming he'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere. Yes, Hanguang-Jun is very generous! And then before she walked off, she winked at him.

“In other words,” he says slowly, “they want to gain your favor…”

“… by gaining yours,” Lan Wangji finishes.

Wei Wuxian nods. Then slowly buries his rapidly-heating face into his palms.

“This is what it takes to finally embarrass you?” Lan Wangji asks drily.

“I'm embarrassed that I'm not embarrassed,” Wei Wuxian keens. With a huff of a laugh, Lan Wangji continues his work.

2.

Lan Qiren thinks Wei Wuxian takes an interest in the juniors to torment him. Lan Qiren is thinking a little highly of himself in this specific instance. Wei Wuxian’s very existence torments him – he hardly needs to go so far out of his way.

He is, however, briefly worried that he’ll step on Lan Wangji’s toes. Lan Wangji, for his part, seems wholly unconcerned. “I trust you,” he’d said, which was – a whole lot. He’s still getting used to having Lan Wangji’s devotion. Being trusted with the best and brightest of the Lan Sect seems like several steps too far.

He’s conscious of his words, at first. And contrary to popular belief, he had an excellent grasp of the basics long before the Yiling Patriarch was born. The kids are kind, and diligent, and thoughtful – everything he wasn’t at their age, for which he is deeply, frequently grateful. They learn fast. They ask questions. And they want to hear everything he’s willing to tell.

So he gets less careful. He debates with them. He encourages them to talk, to be wrong out loud if they’re going to be wrong. He finds the ones who shrink to the back, the little Wen Nings of the group, and he finds what they’re good at. He used to give them love advice on the long, boring nights when waiting was all they could do, until it was deemed both ‘unrealistic’ and ‘extremely specific.’

(“The most important thing, hmm. Well, to find someone who can sweep you off your feet, I’d think?”

“Ahh, so Senior Wei is a romantic?”

“Ahaha, you knew that already, didn’t you? But I’m being literal. There’s a time in every man’s life when he’s going to say ‘ahh, why am I still standing, anyway?’ You need someone who can hoist your literal dead weight up off the ground. So first you need to make sure they’re very strong.”)

There’s one night in particular, as they’re sitting in a little grove by a notoriously haunted road. Wei Wuxian leaves them to hang a few Spirit Attraction Flags around the clearing, and propping a few blank talismans in his lap, he starts drawing his way through the stack. He doesn’t mean to narrate it out loud, exactly. But he’s always had to talk to think. And in the depths of the Burial Mounds, when there was no one left to answer him, it became habit.

So it startles him, to look up and find them all watching intently.

“We’re finished, Senior Wei. What can we help you with?” Sizhui’s gaze flickers to the remaining blank talismans. “Here, Jingyi, you take half and give half to me.”

“Ah?” Wei Wuxian says, his brain stuttering along with his tongue. “I don’t need—”

“We make copies for the other seniors all the time.” Grinning, Jingyi yanks the pile from his lap. “Exert your authority a bit more!”

“Those children of yours,” Wei Wuxian says the next day, back at the Jingshi and wrapped around Lan Wangji., “are too sincere. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“They hang on your every word.” Lan Wangji’s smile is audible.

“Honestly.” Wei Wuxian buries his own smile in Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “Tell them not to listen to such suspicious people.”

3.

It’s not like they need to practice. Their instruments are fifth limbs at this point in their lives. But there’s rarely a night, especially on the road, when Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to try a duet. And Lan Wangji is no longer in the habit of refusing him anything.

Wei Wuxian loves it like this, when they’re playing on the floor of some inn room. He sits with his back resting against the door and listens to people pass the room. Sometimes they wonder out loud who’s in there, or remark on the oddity of hearing an instrument as fine as a guqin duetting with one as common as a dizi. Sometimes they stop and listen, lingering long after the song is done.

Those are Wei Wuxian’s favorites.

“You know,” he muses, wiping his mouthpiece with a cloth, “I’ve heard that some inns give travelers free room and board for entertaining their guests.”

“Is that so,” Lan Wangji says.

“Mm.” Wei Wuxian leans forward, grinning. “We should try that sometime, you know? Might help us keep a low profile, to play the weary travelers, peddling their talents for a place to lay their heads.”

Lan Wangji’s expression clouds. “No need,” he says. “I can pay.”

His smile widens. The great Hanguang-Jun has his intractable points, after all. “Of course, of course,” he singsongs. “I’m counting on it.”

Lan Wangji seems satisfied with that answer. He lays his guqin out across the table, fingers gently brushing the strings. “What do you want to play?”

“What do you think?” Wei Wuxian teases. At the risk of becoming predictable, it’s what he always wants to play.

It’s a messy rendition tonight. Wei Wuxian puts too much air into the first note, then botches the second when he huffs a laugh into the dizi. He starts a little fast, and he feels, more than hears, Lan Wangji pulling him into the tempo. Play the longing, Wei Ying.

There’s no one passing the room tonight. He barely notices. Wei Wuxian would happily play this song, with this person, to a city of ghosts.

His vision is hot and blurry by the time they’re done. There’s an aborted half-note as Lan Wangji sets the guqin aside. “Wei Ying?”

“It’s nothing.” Wei Wuxian laughs wetly. “I just wonder, sometimes, how you wrote such a beautiful song about such a terrible child.”

Lan Wangji steps out from behind the low table, and crosses the room to kneel in front of him. The set of his mouth is soft and serious. “How could I write about anything else? You wouldn’t leave me alone.” Wei Wuxian laughs again. Lan Wangji doesn’t. “I didn’t want you to,” he adds quietly.

Wei Wuxian reaches up to touch his cheek. “You realize you can’t say things like that without warning,” he says. “My heart can’t take it.”

Lan Wangji covers Wei Wuxian’s fingers with his own. “Then I will warn you next time.”

Wei Wuxian’s delighted gasp is swallowed in a deep kiss.

4.

Wei Wuxian does not envy Lan Wangji those thirteen years. If he’d been the one left behind – well. Best not to think about that.

But for better or worse, Lan Wangji had time. To think, to plan, to process, if not always very well. He no longer snaps awake in the middle of the night, unsure what year it is. Wei Wuxian can’t say the same for himself.

His breath hitches in and out as he blinks into the dark. By the light of a lantern beyond the curtains, he catches a glimpse of a glittering, rain-drenched street outside. The walls and the bed are unfamiliar. The hand around his waist isn’t.

It tightens a little. “I’m here,” Lan Wangji says.

Wei Wuxian exhales once, hard, and tries to resettle. “I woke you? Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says.

Wei Wuxian hums, tucking his head under Lan Wangji’s chin. His head rises and falls slightly with every breath. In, out. In out.

“I was terrible to you,” he finally says.

Lan Wangji doesn’t have to ask. He is, by now, probably used to these early hours of the morning, when Wei Wuxian tries to continue conversations they never had.

“You were scared,” he says. “That’s different.”

It’s the last way he would have described himself at that age. But then again, he didn’t know himself as well as he thought he did.

It’s quiet for long enough that he thinks Lan Wangji has gone back to sleep. But when he speaks again, he sounds wide awake. “I should have explained myself.”

Wei Wuxian smiles unhappily. Lan Wangji does this from time to time, now that he knows everything. Tries to pinpoint the moment where he could have moved differently, spoken differently, been in two places at once, changed their course at just the right moment. He never seems to consider what Wei Wuxian knows for sure: that if they’d been together then, it might have killed them both instead. That there’s no guarantee anyone would have been spared in return. That there are no victory scenarios, only grim trade-offs.

It’s simpler to tell a much shorter version of the truth. “I don’t think I wouldn’t have heard you,” he says.

The arm around his waist locks into place, and Wei Wuxian turns his head to the side, resting his cheek against the pillow of Lan Wangji’s ribs. Sleep comes slowly. Long enough to hear Lan Wangji’s breathing even out first.

He is, as always, astoundingly late. But he’s listening now.

5.

Lan Wangji always says the same thing when they’re preparing to leave Gusu: “If you want to stop anywhere, tell me.”

“Hm?” Wei Wuxian always says, still surprised by the suggestion. He is, after all, only a marginally more acceptable dinner guest than he used to be. “Where would we stop?”

Yet every time they travel, the number of unexpected detours only increases. Nie Huaisang hosts them when they’re in Qinghe, of course, and Wei Wuxian is always up for trying his wine, swapping a few stories, and carefully asking none of the questions he wants to ask. The juniors invite them for dinner from time to time when they’re home with their own sects, which is how Sect Leader Ouyang nearly rage-chokes on a chicken bone.

And then there’s Koi Tower, which Wei Wuxian can enter and exit so freely that it’s starting to feel like an oversight. They’d been there just last week – Jin Ling hadn’t had much time for him, in the end, though as they prepared to leave, he pulled Lan Wangji aside for a brief but serious-looking conversation. Neither of them would explain afterwards, but whatever it is, it keeps Lan Wangji smiling well past the gates.

(“You have to tell me,” Wei Wuxian begged as they trekked back across Lanling.

“I don't,” Lan Wangji said.

“How could you do this to me, Lan Zhan.” He slips backwards on Little Apple until Lan Wangji is forced to catch him. “To your beloved! Your intended person! Were all the promises we made to each other for nothing, Lan Zhan? I'm not as strong as I used to be, Lan Zhan. What will you do if the suspense kills me?”

“I will bring you back to life,” Lan Wangji says, setting him securely on Little Apple's back. “And then I will still tell you nothing.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian howls to the uncaring wind.)

Their next job brings them to Yunmeng. Wei Wuxian is fairly sure, at least, that there’s no stops to make there.

That’s how he finds himself jolted out of a deep afternoon nap by the sound of splintering wood.

He claws upright, limbs flailing, and a hand catches one of his wrists and pulls it back. He feels in front of him, still mostly asleep, and slowly parses out where he is: siting in Lan Wangji’s lap, sandwiched between his chest and the unsheathed Bichen. And standing in the doorway, nostrils flared, is Jiang Cheng.

Wei Wuxian blinks hard. And then says, nonsensically, “Can we help you?”

“You—” Jiang Cheng seethes, like he’s the one who’s just been woken from a dead sleep by his volatile and extremely armed estranged family. “Do you think that little of me?”

Lan Wangji makes a little sound in the back of his throat. Wei Wuxian chooses to ignore it.

“What is happening?” he asks. “Why are you here? Who let you in?”

The first and second questions go unnoticed. The third answers itself when Wei Wuxian’s vision clears a little more, bringing the state of the door into sharper focus. It creaks a little as it shivers to a halt, hanging off one hinge.

Jiang Cheng visibly swallows. “I’ll pay for that.”

“No need,” Lan Wangji says.

“He’ll pay for that,” Wei Wuxian says, batting a hand in Lan Wangji’s general direction. To Jiang Cheng, he adds, “How did you know we were here?”

“Not important,” Jiang Cheng says. It seems kind of important, but what the fuck does Wei Wuxian know, really. “You wouldn’t have told me if I hadn’t found out, would you?”

“No?” Wei Wuxian says. “You don’t want to see me, right?”

“No!” Jiang Cheng says.

“Then okay!” Wei Wuxian shrugs demonstratively. “You’re welcome!”

He can’t see what kind of expression Lan Wangji is making over his shoulder. He only sees Jiang Cheng’s gaze shift up, then his face turn a few interesting shades of fuchsia. “Get up,” he finally grumbles. “If you’re going to be in Yunmeng, you’ll stay at Lotus Pier. I can’t have people saying I sent Hanguang-Jun to stay in a place like this.”

If Wei Wuxian were a bit more with-it, he might have pointed out that this was the nicest inn they’d seen along the road. It’s clean, comfortable, spacious. The bed is soft. Really, Wei Wuxian would like nothing more than to shut their door to the best of its current ability and get a little better acquainted with this bed.

Well, no. There are things he’d like more than that.

It’s the only reason he slides out from under Lan Wangji’s arm. “Okay, then,” he says. “We’ll pack.”

Jiang Cheng’s smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t look so disappointed. You’ve probably forgotten what proper tea tastes like after all this time in Gusu.”

Wei Wuxian hums noncommittally. If Jiang Cheng hasn’t figured out why he can’t get a good cup of tea at the Cloud Recesses, well, it’s not his job to explain why.

It’s a long night in a narrow bed. They stay in one of the older buildings in the Jiang compound, untouched by the fire but unused for years. The air tastes like a tomb. The wood down the hall creaks like footsteps.

But the next morning, by way of greeting, Jiang Cheng asks if he remembers now what proper hospitality feels like. And Wei Wuxian smiles like someone without a knot in his spine and a night of lost sleep.

“Don’t know,” he chirps. “Pour me some of that proper tea, and I’ll tell you.”

6.

“Wei Ying. Arm.”

“You already got my arm,” Wei Wuxian slurs into the pillow.

“Your other arm, Wei Ying.”

“Hmmm.” Wei Wuxian squeezes his eyes tighter shut, then opens them. “Lost it.”

Through his bleary vision, he sees Lan Wangji's mouth twitch. “You are lying on it.”

“Oh.” A little unsteadily, Wei Wuxian pushes himself upright, allowing Lan Wangji to maneuver his now thoroughly numb left arm into his inner robe. “You go. I'll catch up.”

“You told me not to let you sleep in,” Lan Wangji says.

“Why would I say such a hateful thing?” Wei Wuxian moans.

“To come to the Zhang estate today,” Lan Wangji says.

“Ohh,” Wei Wuxian says again, more slowly. He remembers now, vaguely. Vengeful servant ghosts. And if he's not there, there'll be no one to let them have a bit of fun on their way out of this life. “Mmmokay. I'm up. Can dress myself.”

Lan Wangji makes an amused, doubtful noise, but steps back to allow Wei Wuxian to finish dressing. He does, however, pause when he's done to allow Lan Wangji to smooth his collars flat. It's a habit he doesn't care to break.

He blinks again to clear the last of the haziness from his eyes, and looks up to find Lan Wangji watching almost expectantly. “What?” Wei Wuxian says.

“Did you forget anything?” Lan Wangji asks neutrally.

“What would I be forgetting?” Wei Wuxian grumbles. “Mmm. Let's conduct the exorcism out in the garden. The Zhang Clan probably has a garden, right? We can tell them that vengeful spirits hate fresh air.”

Lan Wangji blinks. Lan Wangji never blinks more than is necessary, so it gives Wei Wuxian the odd impression that he's said something unexpected. “What?” he says. “I'm serious. After a month of winter in Gusu, I'm ready to be outside again. I'm not meant for so little sun, Lan Zhan. My skin is turning gray.”

Lan Wangji swipes a thumb across his cheek, as if to confirm that it is, in fact, the same color it's always been. “Wei Ying,” he says slowly. “You're not joking, are you.”

“I told you I wasn't.” Slowly, Wei Wuxian's brow crinkles. “Why?”

By way of answer, Lan Wangji reaches past him and pulls the curtain open. Sure enough, the street beyond the inn is blindingly bright.

But not with sunlight.

Wei Wuxian squints into the driving snow. “... weren't we going south?” he asks helplessly.

“We are.” And this is why Wei Wuxian doesn't understand how no one notices how funny Lan Wangji is. Because he pauses just long enough for maximum comedy. “Next week.”

By the time Wei Wuxian is done staring mournfully into the winter landscape, Lan Wangji is waiting behind him, holding his winter layer open. “We traveled all day yesterday,” he says, slipping it over Wei Wuxian's shoulders. “Did you look where you were going once?”

Wei Wuxian gathers the tatters of his dignity around him as he reaches to shut the curtain. “I had better things to look at.”

7.

There are nights when they have nothing to do. Not that long ago, that would have seemed impossible. But there are more and more of them all the time.

Wei Wuxian has gotten pretty good at seizing those opportunities as they come. So he heads to the markets in this warm, quiet town, still a few nights out from home. He bills a new soap and a deep burgundy inner robe to the Gusu Lan accounts. And he goes back to the room to wait for Lan Wangji to return from what’s sure to be a long, patience-trying meeting with Sect Leader Yao.

The night has a promising start. But as is often the case, it’s not too long before they’re summoned where the chaos is. Which is, at least, just downstairs.

“Jin Ling,” Wei Wuxian grits out, trying to hoist Ouyang Zizhen from the floor and balance Sizhui on his shoulder at the same time, “help me over here, please.”

“Why do I have to be the one to help?” Jin Ling huffs.

Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath and says, with as much authority as he can muster, “How many drunk toddlers do you expect I can carry at once?”

A little reluctantly, Jin Ling shuffles over to take Ouyang Zizhen off his hands. He appears to be the only one unaffected by this ill-advised first attempt at alcohol, which is both a relief and the biggest plot twist Wei Wuxian’s ever seen. They may not be related by blood, but maybe they share a liver.

He leaves Jin Ling to deal with the steadily growing pile of his friends. Lan Wangji is currently outside with Jingyi, who is attempting to turn his stomach inside-out. That leaves Sizhui.

“Senior Wei,” he slurs, listing into Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, “you smell like flowers.”

“I do,” Wei Wuxian agrees. He must look almost as much of a mess as they do. His outer robe is slipping off his shoulder. His hastily-tied hair is about to fall out of its ribbon. Thankfully, if he was born with a sense of shame, it was not resurrected with him. “Let’s get you some tea, hm? And then tomorrow we can have a nice, long talk about our limits?”

“Haha.” Sizhui, managing to balance himself upright, beams at Wei Wuxian. “Xian-gege?”

Wei Wuxian swallows hard. It’s that or burst into loud, messy sobs. “What is it?” he says softly.

Sizhui beams and warbles out, “Xian-gege, I have no bones.” And then he pitches to the floor, happily taking Wei Wuxian with him.

It’s how Lan Wangji finds them about five minutes later.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian chokes out.

Lan Wangji regards them for a moment, his eyes crinkling. “Mm?”

“I think our son is on my windpipe,” he says. “Could you get him off?”

He does.