Archive of Our Own

Lan Wangji is sad.

He is always sad. But tonight, as the hot wind gusts outside and the trees creak under its drunken weight, Lan Wangji feels heavy too. In his bones, he feels it. In the meat of his chest and the hollow space behind. Empty, but not light. He feels it in his throat. Thick like the sap of a long-fallen tree.

In the past, on such nights, he would pretend it was winter. He would pretend that the helpless shivering of his spine, of his heart, was born outside it. Born of cold, not of loss. Not of his own soul. When he could, he would curl early into bed, small and alone and not warm enough, and leave the sun to set on happier things than he. And then he would dream. Dark, terror-filled or grief-stricken things. Fantasy and memory blurred.

But it is not the past, thank the heavens. It is tonight. And tonight, miraculously, he is not alone. All things are well, or are going to be. All things.

And yet.

Lan Wangji is sad.

He does not have a better word for it. It is not the full breadth of this feeling, of this permanent state of being that sometimes rushes up over his head to push him down into deep, quiet depths of loneliness. He is himself. He is more; he is less. He is a yawning void; he is full of something that hurts. He is dull; he is sharp. He is sad. He has been such since before Wei Ying came into his life, and will be such as long as he himself lives. Perhaps long after. Perhaps it has warped the very shape of his bones into whorls and spikes that follow the deep, throbbing unease of his qi. Perhaps that is the pain. The constant, restless reshaping of the foundations of his body.

He sits at his desk, the day draped leaden across his shoulders, and breathes. He must do it consciously, or he will do it loudly, wrongly, and Wei Ying is nearby. Wei Ying. He looks at him from the corner of his eye, tries to focus on the lively energy of his presence. He is crouched on the dark floor, one knee to his chest, engrossed in the spread of notes and talismans that bloom around him like madly-inked lotus petals. He is quiet, tonight. Settled. Lan Wangji tries to let it settle him, too.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Ying calls, as if he feels himself being watched, "come over here, would you?"

He does not look up from his work. Tonight, this hums a yet deeper note of melancholy in Lan Wangji's chest. He does not wish to get up, or to look at Wei Ying’s latest project, or to speak of cultivation theory. Ordinarily these things are his greatest joys. Tonight he cannot bear the thought of them. But this thing between them, this easy comfort, this honest intimacy, is new. Unexpected. Precious. Lan Wangji will not refuse him now, nor ever. He merely takes a moment to steady himself. To work himself up to the task.

He stands.

The effort of it is outsized, as if each segment of his body bears an extraordinary weight, and it slows him. He compensates. Picks his way through the hectic manifestation of Wei Ying’s genius. He will do this for Wei Ying, and then he will prepare for sleep. It is finally late enough that he may take his dreary self to bed without suspicion. Wei Ying will stay up, scribbling and muttering, a bright light in the darkness. Perhaps it will keep the bad dreams at bay.

“This radical,” Wei Ying says, eyes still on the talisman in his hand. “It’s not doing what I want it to. Do you see?”

Over Wei Ying’s shoulder, Lan Wangji does. The entire configuration is elegant in its hasty, creative simplicity. He would never have thought to build such a thing, but it is immediately apparent what it is for. Even this beauty drags at his insides, somehow. He pushes through his mind’s reluctance for a solution.

“Mn,” he says. “Earth, perhaps. Inverted.”

“Ah!” Wei Ying scribbles a note on an adjacent sheaf, and sticks the talisman to it. “That might be it. I’ll test it tomorrow.” He looks up at last, and the light of excitement on his lovely face is the most wonderful thing Lan Wangji has ever seen. With yet more effort, he dissipates the lump it brings to his throat. “It’s late.”

“It is not yet hai shi.”

“Hmm,” Wei Ying says, his smile turning mischievous, “how ever shall we pass the time?”

He takes Lan Wangji’s hand to pull himself up. Lan Wangji helps him, the hollow feeling sinking into his stomach. It is akin to resignation, and is followed by a sweeping, bitter fury that he should ever have such a feeling about this. About the gift that is Wei Ying wanting him.

Wei Ying leans in and kisses him with intent. Lan Wangji kisses back, determined. He will not fail in this, not even tonight. He will give Wei Ying anything he wants, no matter the state of his heart.

And it is incredible, of course. Wei Ying’s eager lips and tongue. More incredible still that even like this, even in the low dip of this unreasonable despair, Lan Wangji’s body stirs. He is disconnected from it, strangely distant from the heat, from the wanting. It is there, but it is not his. Sound dampened by a closed door.

He would find it, would wrench it open, if he could. But after so many years, he has come to know the limits of what he can and cannot force.

Relief, then, that he will not have to think, will not have to find ways to work around his weakness. His body will not let Wei Ying down, at least. It is a relief.

They kiss, and they make toward their bed. Lan Wangji is not alone, and he tries to feel it. Wei Ying is kissing him, and wanting him.

But he is not seeing him.

Lan Wangji does not want him to, not like this. It is the very last thing he wants, to burden Wei Ying with such senseless distress. It will fade back down to its home in his bones on its own, given time.

But it is lonely, to be unseen.

They kiss, and Lan Wangji regulates himself. There are no tears pricking at his eyes. There is no lump in his throat. His hands are undressing Wei Ying, and then Wei Ying’s hands are on his hands.

“What is it?” Wei Ying says, between kisses.

Lan Wangji only kisses back more fiercely. Unacceptable, that Wei Ying should question his desire. Wei Ying should have no worries, least of all about this, about them.

Wei Ying pulls away fully, and looks at him, searching. “What’s happening?”

“Wei Yi—”

“Don’t say it’s nothing,” Wei Ying says with a single, emphatic shake of Lan Wangji’s wrists. “Are you tired? It’s late.”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji lies. At that the tears do prick at his eyes.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying’s eyes are wide and worried.

Lan Wangji shakes his head and leans in to fit their mouths back together. Wei Ying lets him, receptive but hesitant, until with a sharp intake of breath, he breaks away.

“Lan Zhan,” he murmurs. He swipes a gentle thumb across Lan Wangji’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”

With mute horror, Lan Wangji realizes the tears have spilled over. Disappointment and shame come crashing down.

“Forgive me,” he says, the squeezing, crushing pressure of it only growing at the pathetic rasp of his voice.

He backs away, his face hot with guilt. He will go to the cold spring. It will not heal his warped foundations, but it will calm the mess at his surface. That is all he needs.

“Wait for me,” he says.

“Where—where are you going? Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying looks alarmed, now, which is worse. He still holds tightly to Lan Wangji’s wrists. “What did I do?”

Shame claws up Lan Wangji’s spine. “Nothing. The fault is my own.”

He tries to turn away once more. Wei Ying holds fast.

“I don’t understand,” he implores. “Lan Zhan...why do you want to go?”

Air is pressed from Lan Wangji’s lungs, no more room for it alongside such desperate, helpless frustration. He shakes his head again, unable to look at him, or to speak.

Wei Ying releases him slowly, then seems to change his mind, reaching out almost reflexively to grip his arms. “No. Just wait and...explain first. Please.”

Lan Wangji swallows, but the difficulty is still there. “I do not wish to leave you,” he manages. It is true. It is always true. He aches at just the thought of it. “I will go, collect myself, and return.”

The grip on his arms seizes. “Lan Zhan, if you don’t want to go, then don’t go.” Wei Ying steps closer again, fractionally more relaxed. “What is it?”

He must try to explain. He must try to be truthful, to allay his concern. He owes him this, though it is near-impossible.

“Me,” Lan Wangji says. He places a hand over the gnarled mass in his chest. “This.”

Wei Ying stares for a long moment, then places his own hand over it. Tentative. Warm. His eyes, when they return to Lan Wangji’s, are deeply concerned. “What do you mean?”

“Do not worry,” Lan Wangji insists. He does not know the right words for this, for reassurance. He tries to describe it clinically, though the traitorous tightness of his voice betrays him. “I sometimes fail to self-regulate.”

The pained look in Wei Ying’s eyes does not fade. His voice is soft. Frightfully gentle. “Regulate what? What’s...going on in there?”

“It is of no concern,” Lan Wangji says, taking a step back, to the side. The tears have not yet dried. He does his best to ignore them, the indignity of their meaninglessness. “A thing you need not see. A fault from which I would shield you. Having failed that, I will—”

“Stop,” says Wei Ying. His voice is firm, but not loud. He looks frustrated. “You don’t have to...tell me anything that you don’t want to tell me. I won’t pry. But you don’t have to protect me from anything, either. If something’s wrong, I want to know what it is. I want to know if I can help, or at least how not to make it worse.”

He gestures at himself, between the two of them. As if kissing Lan Wangji, as if wanting him and trying to have him, has made things worse. Lan Wangji sinks yet further into his quicksand guilt.

“You could not make it worse,” he says.

He hates himself for wanting to be anywhere but this conversation. Time with Wei Ying is precious. But he is hurting him, now, by mere virtue of being the way he is.

“It is merely...my own temperament that is at fault,” he goes on, hoping to absolve him. “There is no cause. Least of all you.”

“You’re saying you just…” Wei Ying reaches out a hand as if to touch Lan Wangji’s face again, then pauses and draws it back. Lan Wangj closes his eyes against the unbearable evidence of the doubt he has awakened between them, after everything they have overcome. “You just feel bad?”

Lan Wangji considers this, and realizes it is true enough. It feels infantile. Which seems only fitting. He nods.

“Sometimes, you said?” Wei Ying goes on.

This is not precisely the truth, nor what Lan Wangji said. He hesitates.

“Or—no, you said, you said sometimes you can’t...Lan Zhan. You feel...this way, all the time?”

The alarm has returned to Wei Ying’s voice, somewhat, and Lan Wangji rushes to alleviate it.

“No,” he says slowly. “Not this way. Not all the time.”

Wei Ying is frowning. This will not do.

“You help,” Lan Wangji adds. It is true most days. No, all days. Some, though, less concretely than others.

Wei Ying’s expression does something complicated, and he is quiet for a long moment. Deep in thought. Lan Wangji, despondent, waits.

“You don’t want to leave, but kissing was bad,” Wei Ying says at length.

“Not bad,” Lan Wangji says, horrified. “Never.”

Wei Ying tsks at him, unbothered. “Alright, fine, but not right, either.”

Lan Wangji draws breath to argue, but deflates. He cannot deny it. “Difficult,” he allows at last. “To do sufficiently well.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, breaking from his careful consideration and pulling Lan Wangji into a crushing embrace. Lan Wangji is so shocked by how good it feels that he almost does not stop the sob building in his throat. “You don’t have to—oh,” Wei Ying begins to pull away before even one breath has finished shuddering its way out of Lan Wangji’s chest, “I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts off when Lan Wangji holds him tighter. Huffs into Lan Wangji’s hair.

“Alright,” he says quietly. He squeezes him harder again, as hard as Lan Wangji is holding onto him.

Lan Wangji breathes him in. Pulls his scent into lungs restricted not by the seizing, helpless, breathless feeling he is accustomed to, but by strong arms. Not trapped in his weakness, but held through it. Held together. It makes a difference. It does not chase the deep-seated dark away, and yet it makes all the difference in the world.

He has never had this. A body comforting his body, when he is in such visceral need of it. Not since he was small. Not since before this unshakable heaviness settled permanently beneath his skin. He forgot long ago the way such a simple thing as this could soften him, could sink with him down into that deep place and make it a more hospitable home.

They have been intimate for months, now. Bared to each other in more ways than one. This feels more vulnerable than any of them.

He breathes in, and breathes out. The process becomes less tight, less laborious. When he at last he manages to fill his lungs completely, he loosens his grip, and turns to kiss Wei Ying once more.

He is calmed. He is certain he will not fail again. He can do this, now.

Wei Ying kisses back sweetly, gently, but then holds him steady with a light hand on his cheek when he tries to deepen it. Lan Wangji looks away. His eyes and mouth feel hot and swollen. He hopes his appearance will not upset Wei Ying further.

“Ah,” is all Wei Ying says, brushing his lips across the corner of Lan Wangji’s mouth, his cheek, “What do you need?”

“Anything you would like,” he answers, earnest. Whatever it may be, he can do it. It will be fine. No, it will be good. It will be precisely like the comfort of an embrace, he tells himself, making Wei Ying feel good.

There is a pause. Then, Wei Ying hums.

“Can I show you?” The words are spoken into Lan Wangji’s hair. “What I would like more than anything?”

“Mn,” says Lan Wangji. Deliberately, he takes another full breath. “Of course.”

“Hmm.”

Wei Ying’s hands are not hurried when they begin to divest Lan Wangji of his robes, but neither are they seductively slow. When Lan Wangji reaches to do the same for him, he pauses, but then nods in assent. They undress each other down to their trousers silently, Wei Ying taking time to properly put away each piece of clothing as it comes off. Lan Wangji is unused to such a careful yet offhand way of doing this, but follows suit. When he is fully exposed, and his bemusement and the chill are both nearly subsumed by the inescapable, inevitable tiredness that comes with his worst days, he reaches for Wei Ying’s waistband. But he finds his hand stalled by Wei Ying’s.

“Wait,” Wei Ying says, then rummages briefly before producing a slightly older set of his own zhongyi. Still deeply red and black, but soft with use.

Wei Ying kneels, and Lan Wangji’s stomach drops. He is not ready yet, lulled by the oddly mundane routine of undressing. He was not prepared to...he is not yet—

But Wei Ying taps above his knee, and holds out the clean, dark trousers. Lan Wangji goes still. Their eyes meet, and Wei Ying raises his eyebrows as if to say, do you have any objections? Lan Wangji remains confused, but allows himself to be moved at Wei Ying’s will, until he is swathed in red and the familiar, warm scent of Wei Ying.

“Sit,” Wei Ying says softly, pressing him toward the bed.

Lan Wangji looks at him, trying to discern what this is all for. What new kinds of desire Wei Ying wishes to unlock, and how difficult it will be to rise up and meet them tonight.

Wei Ying nods solemnly at the bed, patient but persistent. Lan Wangji goes. He meant what he said. Anything Wei Ying wants.

He consciously does not stiffen when Wei Ying climbs up to sit behind him, still half-dressed. He does not so much as twitch when Wei Ying unties his ribbon, a long-since-given permission, and lets the full weight of his hair fall against his back. He speaks, at last, when he feels the soft drag of a comb through his hair.

“Wei Ying,” he says.

“Mn?”

The comb continues its careful work, aided by Wei Ying’s gentle touch at his shoulders, the side of his throat, his temples. It is soothing. The pointed affection of it all gathers the lump back into his tight throat. He tried to do this for Wei Ying, once. He had stopped him with trembling hands and haunted eyes. Only my parents and shijie ever did this for me.

Now Lan Wangji sits in silence, tears threatening his eyes once more, until Wei Ying has finished combing and loosely plaiting his hair. When the braid settles over his shoulder, Lan Wangji sees the red ribbon it is tied with, and feels the warm, soft press of lips at the nape of his neck.

The tears spill.

He wants—he wants. Wearing Wei Ying’s clothes like a second skin is...it is good. Grounding, in the reality of his existence and their closeness. But he wants to be close to him again. Wants to be wrapped up in him.

But he will not interrupt Wei Ying’s plan, wherever it leads. He will follow it to its end. He holds himself carefully loose, pliant to Wei Ying’s whims until asked to be otherwise.

Wei Ying runs his hands down Lan Wangji’s arms and sighs. “Lie down,” he says.

Lan Wangji’s stomach, his chest tighten, and the blinding self-hatred again lurches through him in response. He lies down. Resists the urge to curl in on himself, or to turn and cling to Wei Ying like a child. He shuts his eyes tight against more tears, and allows himself to be rolled onto his side.

Their blanket is pulled over them both, unnecessary this time of year, but not stifling. Wei Ying settles behind him, pressed close. And then, Lan Wangji understands. He reaches back to grip Wei Ying’s thigh, to pull it flush against his. But Wei Ying tuts and takes hold of his wrist, bringing it back around to Lan Wangji’s chest, and settling his own arm over it. He wiggles in closer, as close as possible, and worms his other arm under Lan Wangji’s side.

He holds him. Solid and close. Nuzzles between the pillow and Lan Wangji’s hair.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji says, shaky.

“Sleep,” Wei Ying says. “If you can. Sometimes I can’t, no matter what. Is there something else that helps?”

Lan Wangji’s heart seizes painfully: the realization that this, taking care of him this way, was Wei Ying’s only desire, warring with the shame that he has not been properly taking care of Wei Ying.

“You—you have been in need of—”

“Shh,” Wei Ying says, clutching him tighter, curling them both almost into a ball. A single, tangled entity. “Don’t. I already wear your clothes when I want to. You take care of me every day and hold me every night. That’s all I need. That, and to...to do this, if you want me to. If it’s okay.”

Breath after breath hitches in Lan Wangji’s chest. He cannot find the words.

“Is...is it okay?”

Lan Wangji nods quickly. His heart is sinking slowly, a leaf through a warm current. Not plummeting, not grinding down a rocky slope. He still feels himself. Heavy. Pointlessly disconsolate.

But to be loved, even in this miserable state. To be heard, and to be understood at his weakest, only to be held the tighter for it?

He turns his face into the bolster to muffle the small sob that finally overwhelms his defenses. Wei Ying holds him, and he holds onto Wei Ying’s arms until the wave passes. He relaxes back into Wei Ying’s chest.

“Sleep,” Wei Ying murmurs.

Lan Wangji closes his eyes. He is still so very sad.

But he does not dream at all.