Work Text:
Yunmeng was hot.
The air was wet, and the sun burned.
Lan Wangji hated it.
The journey from Gusu had taken a week, and he had already long shed his outer robes, but his undershirt clung to him. He knew he would have to stop soon and find shelter, lest he get heatstroke.
Wei Ying had talked the entire way. They had walked day and night, stopping only when necessary. Lan Wangji could tolerate the traveling, could tolerate the company, but he was annoyed, both at himself for making such a reckless decision to leave without his brother, and at the circumstances that had necessitated the journey in the first place.
It was summer, and they had gone to a small village, not far from Lotus Pier, to clear out a den of beasts. Wei Ying, as always, had been reckless and stupid, and while he had managed to kill the leader, he had also drawn the attention of the rest of the pack. Lan Wangji had moved as fast as he could to help, but the creatures had been stronger than they had anticipated, and just when he thought they had them all, the last beast had burst through the front gate, snarling and snapping its huge jaws.
He had thrown Bichen with all the strength he had, spearing the monster in its side, but it hadn't died instantly like it was supposed to. The beast had roared and charged Wei Ying, and before either of them had time to react, it had bit down on his leg, snagging him and dragging him beneath its huge body.
That had been just over a week ago. Wei Ying had not yet woken.
His injuries had not been fatal, nor life threatening, but they had been numerous. The bite on his leg had torn open much of his calf, and his right arm had been broken in several places when he had fallen on it.
“A poisonous bite,” the physicians had told him after the emergency treatment, “will keep him asleep for a while.”
Lan Wangji had stayed at the village, near the physician's house, and had watched over him the whole time. There had been the frantic work of removing the bone fragments from Wei Ying's arm and the stitching of his leg back together. There had been the oral rehydrations and the intense disinfection. All the while, Lan Wangji had remained, alternating between scolding his friend, fretting over him, and standing at the window and worrying.
He had not returned to Cloud Recesses.
For as worried as he'd been about his brother's reaction to his impulsive decision to leave, he couldn't find it in himself to care. Wei Ying's wellbeing, for whatever reason, was a higher priority than his own family's respect. That, in and of itself, was an alarming thought.
Now, a week and a half later, he'd heard nothing from his uncle, and had barely eaten, barely slept. It was unlike him. He couldn't understand why he was acting like this.
With an annoyed sigh, he set Bichen down once more, ignoring the sweat running down his face. He didn't have time to worry about that.
“I'm sorry,” Wei Ying had told him, during those few moments of clarity between bouts of pain and the medication, “I'm sorry, Lan Zhan, this is embarrassing. Don't let Jiang Cheng see me like this, alright Lan Zhan?” And his voice had been weak and shaky, and Lan Wangji had been too exhausted to speak, so he had just held his hand and smoothed the hair from his forehead.
“Shut up,” he had said instead, “are you in pain?”
“No, no, Lan Zhan, not really.”
Liar.
“Don't lie.”
Wei Ying had closed his eyes, and back to unconsciousness he had gone.
Lan Wangji had not left the room since he had woken the first time.
The villagers had brought him food, and on the occasion that he had left, if only to stretch his legs and walk through the town, they had never seemed bothered. The innkeeper had given him free rooms for as long as he needed, and the physician had even let him use his bathhouse, something he had accepted gratefully.
Wei Ying hadn't woken again until another five days later.
“Hey, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying had muttered from the bed. Lan Wangji had immediately turned back, away from the open window.
“Mn.”
“Water.”
“Just one minute.”
Lan Wangji had spread some sheets over the windows, blocking as much light from the outside as he could. The last thing he wanted was for the other man to wake up in blinding white, dizzying pain, thinking he was still in Cloud Recesses.
Wei Ying had taken the clay cup, wrapping his bandaged fingers gingerly around the rim. “How long?”
“Eleven days.”
Wei Ying had frozen where he was, then quickly drained the contents. His head had fallen back down to the pillow.
“Oh. How many times have you changed these?”
Lan Wangji had not shown him the laundry.
“Every two days.”
“Wow, Lan Zhan, such a gentleman.”
“Shut up.”
But Wei Ying had smiled, and his chest had tightened, and he had looked away, swallowing hard. It was nothing, he had told himself, just the tension easing off his shoulders. But, he wondered, if it was just the relief of seeing Wei Ying alive and well, why did it feel like there was something lodged in his throat? Why did he feel like crying?
“Thanks.”
“Mn.”
There was a long pause.
“How did we get here?
Lan Wangji had shook the fog from his head, hoping his face hadn't shown anything.
“I carried you.”
Wei Ying had closed his eyes and she sank to his pillow.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Lan Wangji could hear his heartbeat. He wasn't sure how many hours had passed, but the physician had come and checked on him a while ago, and he had refilled his water. His stomach had ached, but he ignored it.
He had put his head down on his arms next to him.
When he had woken again, it had been because Wei Ying was pulling weakly on his hair.
“What are you doing,” he muttered.
“Wake up,” Wei Ying had said.
“Why.”
“Because you shouldn't be sleeping like that,” his voice had been trembling, and Lan Wangji had raised his head quickly, wincing at the crick in his neck. “You're gonna mess up your back, and then you'll be as crooked and nasty as me.” Wei Ying had smiled, then, but his eyes were sad.
He was, and that was putting it mildly, a mess. His hair was tangled and there were deep bags under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow, and he looked just terrible. Lan Wangji had reached out and touched his bruised jaw, and he had seemed to stop breathing. The skin had been warm and swollen and Wei Ying had not pulled away.
He had done this before, he realized, running his fingers through his hair, but he was too tired to remember.
Lan Wangji's lap was quickly becoming wet and he looked down. The bandage on Wei Ying's calf had bled through, and the red was spreading.
“Ah, whoops,” Wei Ying had said, “I should probably change, shouldn't I.”
Lan Wangji, too exhausted and angry and scared to think twice about the blood, had risen to get the supplies.
He had been faster, at least, and the village had provided him with fresh robes and bandages, but even still, by the time he had finished, his hands were bloody and shaking. Wei Ying's words had been cut short, and he had handed him another cup of water, knowing he'd need it.
The mood had taken a turn, and Lan Wangji had struggled to focus.
It was his fault. He should have seen it. He should have killed the last beast before it got to them. He should have reacted faster. He should have—
“What's wrong?”
Lan Wangji had avoided eye contact, and wiped his hands on his robes, and set the rag aside.
“Nothing.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying had taken his hand and pulled it away from him, gripping his wrist. His bandaged arm had hung limp in his lap. “I know you, what's wrong?”
This is ridiculous, he had thought, this is so, so ridiculous.
“I don't want to talk about it,” he had told him, and instantly regretted his words. It was the wrong thing to say. “I'm angry.”
“At me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
He had sounded sad, and disappointed, and Lan Wangji, for a reason that made no sense to him, was very upset.
“Not you,” he corrected himself, “I'm angry at myself.”
“What for?”
“I wasn't fast enough. That's why you're in pain.” That was an understatement. If he had been able to keep it together, Wei Ying wouldn't be lying in bed, looking worse than a walking corpse. Lan Wangji clenched his jaw. “I shouldn't have let that happen. My aim was off, and I was reckless, and I wasn't focused.”
“Lan Zhan...”
And he was feeling tears sting behind his eyes.
“You could have died, and it would have been my fault.”
“Stop, just stop.” Wei Ying had gripped his face, and Lan Wangji, as angry and exasperated and upset as he was, couldn't bring himself to pull away. “Hey. Look at me.” Lan Wangji had, almost against his will, met his eyes. They were bright and lively, and he was exhausted. “Listen. None of this is your fault. You were amazing, and you killed them all, and you saved my life. Don't say it's your fault.”
“Not soon enough.”
“Yes, soon enough.”
“I should have seen the last one, I should have reacted faster, I should have checked more thoroughly to make sure nothing was left.”
“Lan Zhan.”
He had dropped his gaze again, staring into his lap.
“Not fast enough.”
“Shut up.” And, he realized, with a start, Wei Ying was angry, too. “Just stop talking.” And then he had pulled himself upright and wrapped his good arm around his shoulders, and Lan Wangji had hunched over and buried his face in Wei Ying's shoulder.
“Stupid,” Wei Ying had murmured into his hair, and he had tucked his chin into his neck, and Lan Wangji had stiffened. “Don't say that again, it's not your fault. You saved me.” And then a thought struck him, and he could have smiled if he wasn't so uncomfortable. He felt stiff and awkward and absolutely horrible. “If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I provoked them.”
Lan Wangji lifted his head, though he did not move from his arms.
“You did.”
Wei Ying had grinned, then, and he had looked awful and the skin of his neck was smeared with blood.
“Ah, yeah, I did.”
“Why.”
“Why not?”
He had sighed, and sat back on the floor.
“Rest.”
Wei Ying had copied his movements.
“You too.”
And so they had, and Lan Wangji had fallen asleep at the foot of his bed.
The next morning, he had woken up, and Wei Ying, to his surprise, was already awake. He was sitting up, facing the window, the sheets loosely draped around his legs. He was clean, Lan Wangji saw, his hair tied back neatly and his new bandages were not yet stained. He had gotten dressed. He was holding one of his spare robes.
Lan Wangji shifted and leaned against the wall, keeping his eyes on the window.
Wei Ying had sighed, and cleared his throat.
“Your Uncle wrote.”
Of course he had.
“What did he say.”
“Lots of things,” Wei Ying's voice had been rough, and he had winced, taking a drink. “He asked where you were. He seems angry.”
It was the same. Nothing new, then.
“When is he not.”
Wei Ying laughed.
“I told him you're here with me. I didn't think you'd want me to hide it.” He was tapping his fingers on the bed, and Lan Wangji remembered thinking he shouldn't have been that conscious. He had just woken up, a day and a half ago, hadn't he? How was he sitting up, talking, and making decisions already? “He wants you back in Gusu. He said he'll send a messenger.”
“I'm not going.”
“Lan Zhan—“
“I'm not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you're not ready.”
Wei Ying had stared.
“...I'm not ready?”
“You can't travel back home yet. You're not strong enough to walk properly.”
“And just how do you plan to tell him that?”
“I don't care. I'm not leaving.”
Wei Ying had sighed and picked up a brush that had been sitting on the edge of the bed. Under any other circumstance, Wei Ying would have teased him for his straight posture, his hard gaze, his stubbornness.
Instead, he had chewed his lip, and adjusted his grip on his shoulder.
“Go back to Gusu, Lan Zhan,” he had said, and his voice was firm. “I'll be fine. I'm not a child.”
“I'm not leaving,” Lan Wangji had snapped, and stood from the floor. “We'll go back together, when you're healed. I'm not abandoning you.”
Wei Ying had studied him for a long time.
“You're... really something.” And his face had broken into a smile, and his eyes were shining, and he had never thought he would see that again. “Making me all fuzzy and soft inside. Who are you, what have you done with the real Hanguang Jun?”
Lan Wangji's fingers had itched and he had wanted nothing more than to wipe that grin off his face. He was embarrassed.
“Quiet,” he had said. “Eat, then take your medicine.”
Wei Ying, who never could resist the opportunity for banter, had simply lowered his head and started laughing.
“Lan Zhan,” his voice had been muffled by the cloth, and the humor evident. “Really.”
Lan Wangji didn't turn away from the window. He didn't trust himself.
“Shut up,” he had forced himself to say, and Wei Ying's eyes, crinkled in laughter, had flashed gold.
***
Yunmeng was beautiful during the day, and terrible at night.
The evenings were hot and sticky, and the temperature had not dropped, and it was still unbearable. The ground was damp, and his knees had already sunk into the mud, and he was quite sure he was sinking.
It was dark and unpleasant and he hated it.
He hated it.
The back alleys were deserted, except for a stray dog here and there. Bichen was sheathed, but within reach. Lan Wangji rubbed his face, glancing up at the stars, and stretched his fingers, brushing the handle. His thumb hooked into the sheath and he started walking again. He could only hope his brother wasn't angry enough to have sent a search party after him.
He had left hours ago, when the sun had set, and Wei Ying had slept. His fever had finally broken, and his leg had stopped bleeding, and Lan Wangji's stomach was in knots. He had not allowed himself the luxury of a proper meal since the evening he had arrived at the village, and now his body was protesting. He had had a glass of water, and that had been it.
Punishing himself, he guessed, but for what exactly, he didn't quite know.
He was mad. No, it was more than that. He was terrified. He had been scared for the last two weeks, and he didn't know what he was going to do when the time came for him to return home. He didn't know if he could leave, or, rather, he didn't know if he could bring himself to leave.
Wei Ying was going to be fine.
But still.
What if he wasn't? What if?
What if, for some reason, he took a turn, and Lan Wangji came back at the end of another week and found him cold and blue and still? What would he do if he survived, only to wake up from unconsciousness a husk of the person he once was? What if his leg never recovered, and he had to spend the rest of his life limping, unable to fly or run or fight like he used to?
What would he do?
He clenched his fist and tried to breathe.
The thoughts were irrational.
Wei Ying was going to be fine.
All the way back to the house.
He hadn't expected to find Wei Ying up, of course, but he was, and he was leaning against the door frame, playing with a wooden flute. He was pale and his eyes were half closed, but he was conscious, and alert, and when the sound of his footsteps caught his attention, he snapped his head around.
“Ah, Lan Zhan, you scared me,” and his eyes were wild and his breath was coming too fast, and he was bent over slightly, his head hitting the door frame. “I was worried.”
“You should be in bed.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
“Wei Ying.”
“I'm not tired.” His voice had cracked. “It's boring, being in bed. I've slept enough.”
The lamp was low and the shadows flickered, and Wei Ying's cheeks were flushed. Lan Wangji walked around him, reaching out as the other man started to slide, and he pressed his palm flat against his forehead. It was cool, for the most part, thank heavens, and not as hot as it had been.
“Did you take your medicine?”
“Not yet, I was waiting for you.”
“I'm here.” Lan Wangji shouldered his weight and shut the door quietly behind him, and led him across the floor. “Why did you come outside?”
“It's stuffy in there,” Wei Ying breathed, and he sounded very, very tired. “I just needed to move. It's hard to get up and down, it takes too long.”
“So you came outside.”
“It's better than sitting in bed.”
“You need to be inside, where it's cooler.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“In bed, with a fan.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Wei Ying was too quiet, and Lan Wangji glanced at him.
“Are you alright?”
“Just, uh,” he grabbed onto the table, steadying himself, and winced, “I was thinking, I've been thinking.” His voice was drifting and he was blinking heavily. “My arm doesn't hurt anymore. Just feels heavy.”
“It will feel that way for a while, it's not broken anymore. The poison has left your system as well.”
“Mmhm. And my leg?”
“It's healing.” Lan Wangji's stomach twisted, and he hoped his face didn't look as nervous as he felt. There was no telling how long this was going to be an issue. The physician had told him the damage wasn't permanent, but the injury itself wasn't minor. It would take a long time. “Tomorrow we can start working on it. Walking, stretching.”
“Okay.” And Wei Ying didn't complain. He looked much, much too exhausted to complain. “You can leave, now, if you need to.”
“What?”
“You can go back to, uh, w-wherever you came from now, if you want. I'll be alright. You should really, really go back, though.”
“This again.” Lan Wangji had sat him on the couch, and he had leaned his head back, and he had lifted his eyelids, and the color had seemed a little better. “I'm not leaving without you. I'm not leaving you alone.”
“Nope, no, you're not.” Wei Ying's fingers had closed around his arm, and he had tapped his hand, a slow, rhythmic beat. “But you should, you should go back and see, see if the roads are clear. I don't know, something. You don't have to sit here and watch over me all day long. That's not fun.”
Lan Wangji squeezed his eyes shut and breathed, and when he had opened them again, he had lowered himself next to Wei Ying. They had sat in silence, and Wei Ying had let go of him and instead started tugging on the end of his sleeve again, and twisting the fabric nervously. He could have seen the frustration in his face. The stress, the exhaustion.
“I like sitting here,” he had said softly, and Wei Ying had looked at him like he had grown another head in the blink of an eye. “This is fine. Just us two.”
Wei Ying had startled again, and his face had gone red.
“O-oh,” he had mumbled, and he had swallowed visibly, “uh, that's, um, that's good, I mean, that's, um, whatever, it's whatever, y-you can stay here, if you want.”
“Mn.”
Wei Ying had coughed, then, and buried his face, and his fingers had gone slack around his robe.
“You should, uh, you should probably give me my medicine, then.”
“Mn.”
“So. That. Yeah.”
“Wei Ying.”
“One second, Lan Zhan, just one second.”
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing, ah,” Wei Ying had laughed, a bubbly sort of noise, and he had clearly been flustered about something, but Lan Wangji couldn't figure out what. “Really, nothing. I just, uh, it's kind of hot. In here.”
He had wiped his palms on his robes and blinked, and hadn't quite met his eyes.
“Do you need a drink? I'll get you a cup of water.”
“Yeah. Great idea. Awesome.”
And he had poured him a glass, and Wei Ying had choked a bit and nearly spilled it, and they had sat down again, and Wei Ying's silence had been unnerving. Something had happened, but he couldn't put his finger on what. Was he embarrassed, about something? His leg? Did he wish he wasn't so helpless, so dependent on Lan Wangji for help? Maybe he was uncomfortable around him.
That was a hard thought, for some reason.
“Are you sure everything's alright,” Lan Wangji had asked him.
“Yes, yes. Why do you ask?”
“You're not yourself.”
“No, no, I am. Definitely. Absolutely.”
“Really.”
“Yup.”
Wei Ying had shaken his head, and had inhaled deeply, and then, to Lan Wangji's surprise and concern, had started fidgeting with the hem of his robes.
“I'm just, uh, this is a new thing, for me,” he had said. He seemed to be struggling to find the words. “Having you here, saying all this stuff. It's weird.”
“Do you wish I would leave?”
“No! No, no, not at all.” And Wei Ying had leaned forward, and had grabbed Lan Wangji's arm again. “I'm glad you're here, actually. I really, really am. I wouldn't want anyone else. But. You, uh, you're making me nervous.”
“Is it my presence?”
“I don't think so. But maybe. Uh, not entirely. It's not just that.”
“So it's the words.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Why do my words make you nervous?”
Wei Ying had just looked at him, and there had been a spark in his eye, and a small smile on his lips, and his face had been red.
“They, uh, they don't, really. They just. They're a lot.”
“Oh.”
Wei Ying had not broken eye contact.
“You care a lot, don't you.”
Lan Wangji's chest had swelled, and his stomach had turned, and the world had started spinning. He had inhaled, and leaned closer.
“Yes.” His voice had trembled. “Very much. Too much.”
“Lan Zhan...” Wei Ying's voice had broken, and he had started laughing, and the grin had taken over his face and Lan Wangji's heart had fluttered. “I cannot take this. I really cannot.”
“I don't understand.”
“I like it.” There was a strange look on Wei Ying's face, and he was smiling, but his cheeks were red, and his eyes were downcast, and he was breathing too hard. “That you care. That you're here. I like hearing it. I feel as if I will, uh, I will burst into flames, and explode, and die.”
“Don't.”
“Okay. Okay. Then stop being sweet, and telling me all the nice things.” Wei Ying's smile had not wavered. “Just stop talking, I'm begging you, don't say another nice thing to me, don't.”
“Why not?”
“I will melt, Lan Zhan, just evaporate right where I sit.” He had paused, and then he had chuckled again. “That would be a mess for you to clean up, I bet.”
“Unpleasant.”
“Yes. Very. So, please, just don't say anything else, or else. Or else.”
“Or else what.”
Wei Ying's lips had been moving, but no words had come out. His mouth had clamped shut, and he had closed his eyes, and he had swallowed heavily, and his fingers had moved from his sleeve to his shoulders.
“Or else I might, um, I might, uh,” and then his voice had been nothing more than a whisper, and his face had turned red again and he was muttering something, “kiss you. I might want to do that.”
Lan Wangji's breath had hitched, and his heart had started hammering in his chest, and Wei Ying had been looking at him, and his nails had dug into his shoulder, and he had thought, for a moment, that he had lost his mind. There was no way he had heard that right, no way, not from him, not in a thousand years, but he could have sworn he had understood perfectly.
“Say it again,” he had whispered, and his voice had been barely louder than a breath, and he had felt a rush of excitement in his chest. His heart had been pounding in his throat. “What did you just say.”
“Nothing. Lan Zhan, it was nothing.”
“No, tell me. What did you say?”
Wei Ying had very clearly hesitated, and his fingers had pinched his skin.
“I-I said,” his voice had caught and he had shut his eyes, and his smile had looked like a grimace, and his shoulders had been shaking, “I said I-I might, uh, I might want to, to k-kiss you.”
His stuttering, stammering words had echoed in his head.
“To kiss me.”
“Don't make me repeat it again.” Wei Ying had been hiding his eyes. “I hate this. I never should have said anything. Lan Zhan, just—“
Lan Wangji had gripped the front of his robe, and had leaned forward, and Wei Ying, to his credit, had not even tried to pull away. He had been stiff and unsteady, but his hands had found their way to Lan Wangji's waist, and he had sunk back into the pillow. The fabric had been loose and the collar had slipped, exposing the pale skin of his shoulder, and Lan Wangji had pressed his thumb into the base of his neck and Wei Ying had gripped him even tighter.
“You want to kiss me.”
“Ah. Uh. Yeah.” Wei Ying eyes were the size of dinner plates, and his pupils were dilating, and he had inhaled, sharply. “That's. Yes. That's what I said.”
“Good.”
“Wh-what?”
“Me too.”
“What— you— wait, wha—“
And before Wei Ying could finish his mess of a sentence, Lan Wangji had kissed him.
It had been a gentle thing, barely a brushing of lips, nothing at all like the stories his brother had told him, nothing dramatic. It had been a tentative action, a mere peck, and when he had drawn back, Wei Ying had been staring at him.
His face was a funny shade of pink. It was fascinating.
So he tried again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth time, he had grown a little bit more confident, and he had opened his mouth against Wei Ying's, and the other man's fingers had twitched on his shirt, and his fingertips had brushed against his neck, and somehow, through the haze and the heat, through the exhaustion and the drunken feeling, he had come to the conclusion that he was floating on air. This was happening, finally, and he had begun to wonder why they hadn't been doing this sooner.
It was when he had nipped gently at his lip, Wei Ying had gasped and flinched, and Lan Wangji, realizing his error, had pulled away, worried that he had hurt him.
He had forgotten about the injuries.
“I'm sorry,” his voice had been husky, and rough, and he had felt guilty. “I'm sorry.”
“No, no, you're good,” Wei Ying had breathed, his good arm propping him up, and his lips had been red and he was grinning, “you're okay, just, you're good. Keep going. You're doing great.”
Lan Wangji had rested his forehead against Wei Ying's, and as he had listened to him pant, and listened to his own racing heartbeat, and he had wondered if his face was turning red, too. The tips of his ears had felt hot.
“Are you sure,” he had asked him.
“Yes, yes.” Wei Ying had not hesitated. “Absolutely. Kiss me.”
It had been easier, then, and less clumsy, and they had fallen into a sort of rhythm, and Wei Ying had pulled him closer, wrapping his arm around his neck, and Lan Wangji had wound his hand behind his back, pulling him up. His hand had moved to his hair, and the other man had made a muffled noise against his lips, and he had pinched his skin lightly and his eyes had wandered down to his collar, which had been untied and gaping, exposing his chest.
The lantern had been flickering, casting long shadows across the floor, lighting up the curves and angles and sharp edges of his face. The bruises had still been there, and the bite marks, and he had remembered that he wanted, desperately, to check Wei Ying's legs, and tend to his wounds. But he had been selfish, and he had not.
Instead, he had let himself get lost in the sensation, and Wei Ying had started thrusting his hips slightly, and his hands had run along his sides and started fumbling at the waistband of his pants.
“Lan Zhan...” His voice had been muffled.
Lan Wangji had sunk down next to him, and had dragged his nails up his throat, and Wei Ying had put his good hand over his, and then he had kissed him, open-mouthed, and hungry, and his teeth had grazed his lip and he had gasped, a soft, breathy noise, that had come from somewhere deep in his throat.
“Ah...,” Wei Ying's voice trailed off, and he had clutched at his hair, and he had moaned again, and the sound had made his insides burn. This was obscene. He had broken several rules, he had disobeyed his Uncle, and he should have felt shame, but he hadn't. “Oh, ah... L-Lan Zhan, keep doing that, please, please, just don't stop, don't stop.”
And, ignoring his pounding heart, and the fact that he had no idea what he was doing, and the danger, and everything except the way Wei Ying's breath had quickened, and the soft noises he was making, and the way his ribs had dug into his palms, and how his skin had felt under his lips, he had.
The evening had become a blur.
Lan Wangji crouched between his legs and knelt over him and ran his hands through his hair, and his arms, and Wei Ying, too, had hesitantly put his hand down Lan Wangji's robe, his fingers ghosting across his chest. They had fumbled blindly, and clumsily, and touched each other more intimately than they ever had before, with more urgency, and desire burning in their eyes.
They had eventually ended up half undressed, the wind blowing through the room, his hands full of Wei Ying's hair, pumping his length slowly, teasing him, relishing the way his head had rolled back and his mouth had fallen open.
Touching him like that, running his hands over his skin, commanding his reactions with every twist and turn of his wrist, had been oddly empowering. Wei Ying had lost the ability to speak, and his breath had come in short gasps, punctuated by high-pitched moans and muted cries of pleasure.
Lan Wangji's cock had rubbed against his thigh, and his own breaths were coming harsh and fast, and he had almost cried out when Wei Ying had taken his length in his hands. His palm had been warm and his fingers had been calloused, gripping him loosely, stroking and teasing the tip with a touch that was almost painful, and his brain had stopped functioning.
Both of their minds had gone blank.
He could have stayed like that forever.
The two of them had tumbled to the floor, their tongues tangling, and they had sucked at the skin of their necks and chest and shoulders, and his fingers had plunged into Wei Ying's hair again, and he had devoured his mouth, and Wei Ying had arched his back and rested his forehead against his neck, and his muscles had tightened.
They had finished, together, in a mess, with Wei Ying gasping and moaning and crying out, and his name had spilled from his lips and he had run his hands over his stomach and through his hair, and they had laid there on the floor, sweaty and panting. Lan Wangji had pushed his hair out of his face, and had curled his fingers in his collar, and had covered his neck in soft, gentle kisses that had left him breathless.
“This is certainly a departure from our usual routine,” Wei Ying had said when their heartbeats had slowed and their breath had stopped coming quite as harshly. His good hand had run up and down his chest, tracing the curves of his muscles.
“I've been thinking about it.”
“You have?”
“Yes.” It had come out in a breathless gasp. “For a time.”
Wei Ying had stared at him.
“Really.”
“Mn.”
“Lan Zhan.” And that sultry, seductive, familiar drawl had appeared, and the corners of his mouth had turned up. “I'd love to hear about all those thoughts, in detail and with specifics.”
“Later.”
“Promise?”
“Mn.” He had pulled him forward, and Wei Ying had shifted and lay his head back down on his shoulder, and the curtains had swayed in the breeze. “When you're better.”
“I see how it is.” There had been humor in his voice again, and, despite the darkness, the lack of light, he had seen the gleam in his eyes. “This is a ploy to get me to heal faster, isn't it?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then, Lan Zhan, I swear, I swear, I will get better. I will.”
“Good.”
“You're very, very good at that.”
“Thank you.” There had been a beat, and Wei Ying had not moved, and they had been silent again. “...You're good, too.”
“Years of practicing with myself.” Wei Ying had purred again, and Lan Wangji had shivered. “I had to get good to do it, you know?”
“Shut up.” Lan Wangji had silenced him with a kiss, and Wei Ying had laughed against his lips, and had let him, and had wrapped his arm around his waist and tangled their legs together.
Nothing had existed outside of that tiny room.
Nothing had mattered.
They had spent the whole night like that, sprawled on the floor, basking in the afterglow. They had fallen asleep together, naked, on the wooden boards, still with the remains of their robes cast around them, sharing a small cloth to clean themselves up.
It was a strange thing, to wake up, together, hours later, the sun shining through the window, and feel no shame or embarrassment, no fear, nothing. To be able to grab their robes and drape them over their bodies, and dress slowly, and pull their hair back up, and sit at the table and start the day without a thought.
Lan Wangji, pulling his hair back in a loose braid, had decided not to mention the smile in Wei Ying's eyes.
They were alive.
That was what was important.
***
The road south was silent.
A few guards, walking around the perimeter, stood stiffly at their posts, swords sheathed and attention focused inward. A cluster of sisters were huddled under an awning, fans shielding their faces from the heat. There was a horse, tied loosely to a post, and a young woman was leading it through the grass, playing with its mane.
At the end of the street, there were a series of houses and shops, and in the middle, there was a tall, narrow inn. It had been spared the attack. For the most part, anyway.
Lan Wangji could smell the incense from inside. Wei Ying's hand slid down his arm, taking his hand, and gave it a squeeze.
“Did you miss the road?”
“Sometimes.” Lan Wangji studied him out of the corner of his eye. “Home is home.”
Wei Ying was smirking.
“Would you ever go back there,” and his tone was light, but the question was not. “To the village?”
“There's no reason to.”
“You'd never visit?”
“I meant,” and his voice was low, “I would. With you.” There was a group of guards watching them, and there was a child poking his head out of a window. “Only with you.”
Wei Ying's smile faltered.
“It's a bittersweet place, isn't it. A lot has happened.”
“Mn.” It was hard not to remember. The blood and the fear, and the scent of death. The bile in his throat, the tears, and the wild look in his eyes. And all the good things, as well. The soft, warm feeling, the pleasant buzzing, the relaxing atmosphere. The first night, the first time, the kisses, the touches, the closeness. “A lot.”
Something told him Wei Ying was remembering, too.
His recovery had not been instantaneous, or easy.
After a week, they had finally been able to start working on his leg. At first, it had been only stretches, and physical therapy, and the exercises had made the pain almost unbearable. Lan Wangji played his guqin constantly, trying his best to soothe his irritation and ease the muscles. The swelling and bruising had faded, and they had begun to rebuild the strength, but the process had been slow.
Now, walking properly, flying properly, sitting properly, was much, much easier. His arm, for the most part, had healed on its own, and he had regained control of his fingers and hand, and, though occasionally stiff, could use it like normal. Wei Ying was still covered in bandages, and he would be for a while, and the red welts on his wrists and ankles were fading, but his heart was strong, and his will was stronger.
They had coped. Somehow, things had not completely fallen apart.
And their trip down the mountain had been something of a comedy play.
Getting back to Gusu was going to be interesting, although he, for one, was not nervous. The urge to touch had never dissipated, and there was no hiding the hickeys, and the love bites, or the state of their robes. They've done it in the forest, and in the stream behind the house, in the hut, in the storage rooms, and even once in the dining hall, early in the morning before the kitchen staff had gotten there and there was nothing but a candle to light the room.
Still.
Getting back to Gusu, where the walls had ears and the roof was leaking and the disciples gossiped and his uncle was constantly lurking, was going to be quite an experience.
It would not be a secret for long.
But he couldn't worry about that.
Everything would work out.
It would have to.
“Are you ready,” Lan Wangji asked him. He had his hair down, loose, and was not wearing a forehead ribbon. He hadn't slept the night before. “The road is long.”
“Yeah.” Wei Ying was grinning, and there was something in his expression that Lan Wangji couldn't quite place. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Sure? Sure? Shouldn't we turn around, and go back to the village, and never leave, and just stay there, and never, never—“
“Wei Ying.”
“Fine. Fine.” He tapped his nose and then ran his fingers through his hair, and his lips had tugged up at the corners, and the air had left his lungs. Wei Ying was beautiful, and wonderful, and his smile was contagious. “Just because you're cute, I'll listen to you, this time. And only this time. Won't happen again.”
“I'm grateful.”
“Be quiet.”
The carriage was waiting for them, the reins held by a young man in dark colors. The woman had already climbed in, and was adjusting the position of the bags. Their luggage was still sitting on the stairs, and the front door was wide open.
It was a melancholy feeling, he had to admit.
Leaving Yunmeng.
Wei Ying stared up at the sky, and breathed in the fresh, clean air, and for a moment, his eyes were far away, and the memories were swimming in the darkness.
They were still holding hands.
“Let's go, then.” Wei Ying picked up one of the bags. “No use wasting daylight. No use, at all.”
“Mn.”
“Off to the end of the world.”
“The Cloud Recesses is hardly the end of the world.”
“If you say so.”
He let go of his hand, and Wei Ying was smiling again, and his mood had brightened.
“Hey.”
“What is it?”
“Lan Zhan.”
“Yes?”
“Will you do something for me?”
“Of course.”
“Will you, uh,” Wei Ying had started laughing, and he was covering his eyes, “will you, uh, sing something for me? Just, you know, sing, a little bit.”
Lan Wangji glanced over his shoulder. The house was mostly dark, except for the candle burning on the table, and the air was too cold, and smelled faintly of dust. There was an unwritten book, and a pair of boots, and his flute had been tossed carelessly on the couch.
“You want me to sing.”
“Yup. Yes. I'd very much like that.”
“Alright.”
“Wait, really?
“Yes. Something happy.”
And as the road began to fade, and the trees grew thin and the dust clouds rose, and the houses became smaller, and the sky bluer, Lan Wangji sang, to the sound of the wind and the voices drifting on the breeze.
And the light in Wei Ying's eyes was brighter than the big, round ball of fire hanging over their heads.