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He starts with a dream of Gusu.
Cloud Recesses at 15. Already set in the ways of his sect. All the rules taken to heart, unimpeachable in his eyes. Except for the delinquent, sitting on the wall, breaking more rules at one time than Lan Wangji has ever seen from any disciple before. He pauses here often. His first glance of Wei Wuxian, Wei Ying. His soulmate in this and every life.
He knows it's going to be a good dream if they continue their dance of swords across the rooftops. It's only if the sky turns the muddy red of Qishan that he knows it's a nightmare.
This night is a good dream, he thinks. They move quicker than his dream's eye can keep up with, though he knows (remembers, dearly) every strike and counter. Something twists then. Mostly, Lan Wangji dreams in memories. Or in the thoughts that occur to him more often than he acknowledges out loud. Daydreams and fantasies. This is different. Not an idea he'd ever had.
Bichen flashes and time slows. The tip of the sword slices neatly through the belt holding Wei Ying's outer robes closed. Lan Wangji holds his breath as the fabric parts and Wei Ying's inner robe, white as all visiting disciple's are given. But something... not quite up to the standards of the Gusu Lan Sect.
It's a loose blurry image, flimsy and thin, of a sheer fabric laying kindly over Wei Ying's skin. Skin that Lan Zhan has never seen, however much Wei Ying had offered or teased. The other boy's face turns red, but he doesn't turn away.
"Ah, Lan Zhan." He says. Lan Wangji has heard his name in many different voices, with different emphasis and different emotions behind it. He's never heard it quite so shamelessly. Wei Ying's voice holds onto his name in a way he's never even thought of soft and intimate. Soothing but somehow making his heart beat faster.
The dreamscape changes and they're in the Cold Pond. Wei Ying is still wearing the filmy material which leaves very little to the imagination, but he's older. Closer to the age he was when... the sky filters a soft shade of lavender and Lan Wangji moves his dream thoughts from unhappy topics.
What little lingering boyhood roundness is gone from this Wei Ying's face. He's standing in the deepest part of the pond, the water creeping over his lower dantian and lapping gently with the ripples of movement. Lan Wangji moves towards him, Wei Ying's eyes darkening and half-,lidded.
"Lan Zhan." He says, in that voice again. Wangji knows the taste, the texture, of those lips speaking his name. The smell of Wei Ying from close enough to touch. The heat of breath and the rush of a gasp. He's never seen these heated eyes from this close. The blindfold which preserved his identity had left them to his imagination.
Wei Ying's skin is hot where Wangji grabs him. He lets out the same puff of air as he had when Wangji had grabbed his wrists at Phoenix Mountain. Startled, interested. Wangji lets his mouth hover over Wei Ying's and gets a flick of Wei Ying's eyes to him. They're nearly of a height, looking into and not down or up to Wei Ying's expectations. Wangji sighs, as he only allows himself in dreams, and pushes into Wei Ying's space.
He pushes and the air around them warms, dropping them into Wangji's bed in the Jingshi. The sheets are already rumpled and Wei Ying's skin is sprouting sweet bruises over his neck and shoulders.
"Lan Zhan," he says in the whining tone Wangji knows he'd drag into the bedroom. "You're so mean." Wei Ying is tracing the darkest bruise at the juncture of his neck and shoulders. It's either the oldest, or the most worked, and Wangji wants to kiss it softly, before matching it on the other side.
Wangji is aware this is a dream. He knows that this Wei Ying is only one of his fantasies and assumptions. He still buries his face into Wei Ying's throat, connected by skin from head to toe. He's not sure when he'd lost his own clothes, but Wei Ying's filmy underrobe is laying in a forgotten clump on the floor across the room, dropped or thrown, he's not sure.
Wei Ying is petting the hair from the crown of his skull to the nape of his neck. "Lan Zhan. Love. Why are you crying?" He asks pressing his other hand to Wangji's cheek. The soft pressure feels so real, so sweet and honest and alive that Lan Zhan wakes up to light spilling over the ceiling of the Jingshi.
The tears in his eyes aren't in the dream anymore and he can't bring himself to wipe them away. They trail down his cheeks and into his hair and the pillow beneath. Finally, he lets out a shaky breath and moves to stand and prepare for the dawn, the lessons and lectures of Cloud Recesses.
The arm thrown over his chest makes him halt and shudder.
"Whas happening?" Wei Ying asks from the other side of the bed. He's bleary and blinking, but his eyes aren't focused. Wangji leans over and kisses him solidly.
Wei Ying wakes quickly, though still rumpled and confused from sleep. "Good dream then?" He asks tiredly. He's smiling. It's not the same lips, texture or taste. It's not the same smell. But the heat that radiates from Wei Ying. The shiver that scatters his eyelashes across Wangji's cheek. Wangji will take that over nothing any day.
"This is better." He says and presses a kiss to the darkest bruise.