Chapter Text
“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says. “What does it say?”
The golden butterfly disperses to nothing as it leaves Lan Wangji’s palm. He feels it but does not see it. His eyes are still closed. It is his third evening in the Burial Mounds, and his heart is unbearably heavy.
“Xiongzhang arrives tomorrow,” he says. “With disciples.”
“Good,” Wei Ying says. “That’s…that’s good. I guess Jiang Cheng had to let your brother come for you, or there’d have been a real problem.” He pauses, bright eyes downcast, cheekbones sharp-shadowed in the flickering, dim light of many candles. “Maybe if you actually sleep, your brother won’t send me a curse for wearing you down.”
“Wei Ying—”
“Lan Zhan. I know you haven’t been. And you should.”
Lan Wangji purses his lips. He hears Wen-guniang’s worried voice in his mind, and his own worry races to the surface. Ridiculous that Wei Ying should trouble himself with this while grieving the loss of his core—of his cultivation, of the thrumming, molten power at his heart. The pain of having this essential thing ripped from his body, from his soul, is unimaginable. Over the course of the last day, Lan Wangji has tried and often failed not to imagine the exact scenario, but he knows it does not matter. Wei Ying suffered base violence and incomprehensible pain regardless. Is still suffering it.
“So should you," he says.
“Ha! Hanguang-jun plays dirty,” says Wei Ying. “It’s only fair, though, when faced with the terrible Yiling Laozu.”
“Wei Ying.”
“Alright, alright. Fine! Let’s both go to sleep, ah? Is that a fair trade?”
It seems too good to be true, but he nods. He thinks of the resentment swirling unchecked through Wei Ying’s meridians, feeding on his waning strength. “I will sleep, if you will sleep.”
“Good,” says Wei Ying. He smiles, and it is too broad. Forced. “Sleep well.”
Despite the ill feeling in his gut, Lan Wangji retires to his side of the cave wall to remove his outer layers. He is leaving tomorrow, and this is their goodbye. He is leaving tomorrow, with no idea of how he might help. He is leaving tomorrow, knowing of the way Wei Ying has offered himself up to be eaten alive in order to preserve what he has made here.
At the very least, he has brought his sect's help against the motley would-be siege. If Wei Ying feels secure enough to rest, that is an improvement—but he cannot help peeking around the division to see if Wei Ying intends to hold up his side of the bargain.
Wei Ying, undressed down to his pale under-robe, catches him looking. Lan Wangji averts his eyes, ears heating, but Wei Ying only huffs, mock-affronted.
“Lan Zhan, you don’t believe me? Ah,” he makes a thoughtful face. “Or perhaps you can’t sleep in such conditions. Hanguang-jun is used to finer accommodations.”
Lan Wangji glares. It has its intended effect: Wei Ying laughs.
“Alright then,” he says, “Hanguang-jun, allow this one to help, hm? Come and let me ease your worries.”
To this, Lan Wangji does not know what to say. It is unexpected, a departure from their script.
“Don’t look so nervous, Lan Zhan, come here, come here. You’ve worked hard for three days, let me at least comb out your hair.”
Lan Wangji hesitates, his body locked up in surprise. “No need.”
Wei Ying tsks at him. "You're kidnapped, Lan Zhan, I can do what I want to you."
That phrase, here between them in the quiet candlelight, strikes a sudden, illicit chord in Lan Wangji's spine. It is so shocking that it bypasses his worries, his automatic refusal. He tries very hard not to think about it as he relents, goes to Wei Ying’s bed, and sits.
He knows that this is not that kind of intimacy, knows that this is simply Wei Ying, in all his kindness, in all his hidden sweetness, saying thank you and goodbye. But when Wei Ying joins him, his awareness of the warm body behind him, and the thin layers of fabric keeping their modesty only nominally intact, threaten to drown out all rational thought.
He is expecting the touch, yet still the feeling of Wei Ying’s hands against his hair prickles all over his scalp. The comb tugs gently at the ends of it, and he forces his breath to release slowly. Forces his body to relax, lest his rigid tension draw Wei Ying's notice.
They are silent as Wei Ying works the comb through, then begins to pull the pins from Lan Wangji's guan.
"So complicated," he says. "Is it vanity, or does Hanguang-jun simply like completing a puzzle every morning and night?"
Lan Wangji reaches up to help, but his hands are batted away with more irritated tsking. Despite his complaints, Wei Ying manages the task without any undue yanking or discomfort.
"People should know that the true threat of Yiling Laozu is to their guans,” Lan Wangji says.
Wei Ying snorts. "People should know a lot of things," he says. "Or rather, I wish they thought they knew less."
After the events of recent days, Lan Wangji cannot help but agree.
Wei Ying’s fingertips brush his scalp as he pulls the last pin and frees the top section of his hair. Lan Wangji suppresses the shiver it sends across all his limbs.
"What else do they think they know?" he asks, to distract them both.
"What don't they know? Lets see…they know I curse their hens not to lay, their vegetables not to sprout, their children not to bear children. They know I kidnap everybody that passes through, they know all the awful things I do to my captives…the list goes on. You should spread something new and impossible when you're leaving, they won't even notice."
Lan Wangji searches for the right thing to say to keep Wei Ying’s focus on his words, and not on the way Lan Wangji's body is leaning back into his hands like a desperate street cat. He fails to suppress another shudder.
"What do they say of your captives?" he asks, afraid for once of letting the silence sit.
"Oh, the usual. That I have them on their backs in my bed, and that I play with them, and then when I'm finished I eat them alive or some such nonsense. I—ah, sorry, I didn’t mean to, I—"
He stops apologizing for touching Lan Wangji's forehead ribbon when Lan Wangji reaches up and unties it. His hands are only shaking slightly as he folds it neatly, and holds it in his lap.
He is not sure what Wei Ying thinks of this. He cannot fully know what it means—how being without it in front of another person is making Lan Wangji’s heart race, his skin heat. How taking it off on purpose, with him so near, feels like a naked declaration of the depth of his trust. Of his horrible yearning.
“That works,” Wei Ying says softly, and then both of his hands are deep in Lan Wangji’s hair, skating along his scalp as he settles the last of the unbound strands.
Lan Wangji’s breath catches hard in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, counting to even it back out, thankful that Wei Ying cannot see his face as he goes back to combing.
There is a pause when he finishes, after the comb has run in long strokes from roots to ends again and again. A hesitation. Lan Wangji hears him set the comb aside, and a deep swell of grief begins its slow roll through his chest. It is the same as when they said goodbye the first time, three days ago, before all this began. But worse, now. Harder to let go of.
Before he can begin to consider it, Wei Ying is gathering his hair into one hand, and parting it into sections. Lan Wangji breathes, soothed by the singular sensation of being touched this way. Deftly, Wei Ying begins to weave.
And then he stops.
"Ah, Lan Zhan, sorry, I remember now—you don't braid your hair to sleep."
He begins to move away, a subtle shift, hands suddenly gone from Lan Wangji’s hair. Lan Wangji reaches back, instinctive, and touches his fingertips to the outside of one warm thigh. The shock of it, of his own boldness, nearly steals his next words from him.
"I braid it. Sometimes."
It is not entirely a lie. Rather, when he was small, someone else used to braid it for him.
This reminds him of that, he realizes.
The same desperation rises up from his chest, the desperation to stay, to not be made to leave, to not be made to wait so wretchedly long to have this again. He almost chokes on it.
But Wei Ying’s hands are in his hair once more, gently dividing it into sections. The wild fear subsides, though it lingers still, simmering between his lungs. It intertwines with all the memories of the ways he has been able to help here, during his stay. All the little joys and victories.
This is not a place for living, he thought, when he first arrived.
And yet living is exactly what he has done here.
Wei Ying ties off his braid, and then touches his shoulder, gently tugging at his robes.
"Sleep," he says. "Or your brother will be the one demanding my head."
The thought of seeing Xiongzhang tomorrow, of leaving with him, strikes Lan Wangji with sudden bluntness. The feeling of dread disarms him—he has never been unhappy to see his brother, never felt anything but relief at the prospect of going home.
He wants to stay, he realizes, with obvious clarity. He wants to stay here with Wei Ying. He does not want to leave. He wants to stay, and help… as he has been doing. It is possible.
Or, it could be.
"Go on," says Wei Ying, oblivious to these revelations. "You have a long journey tomorrow, can't have you falling out of the sky."
Just as sudden as the realization that he wants to stay, is the remembrance that Wei Ying does not want him to. Does not want to bear his clumsy attempts to help, his rigid, grating insistence on propriety and orthodoxy. Does not need his pointless nagging, which has only served as a reminder of Wei Ying’s awful loss. He does not understand that Lan Wangji would simply say anything, do anything, to help him.
To stay with him.
Lan Wangji rises, and goes to set his ribbon atop his clothes with trembling hands.
And he turns back to the bed.
Wei Ying looks up at him, a startled animal, when Lan Wangji makes his way back over, instead of toward the other bed. He feels his gaze on him, but cannot look. His heart is in his throat and, he is certain, his eyes. It would not do to let him see. He wants to reach out, not win his pity.
He sits on the opposite edge of the bed. Wei Ying turns to watch as he lies down on his back. He is uncertain what to do with his hands, so lets them rest at his sides. The roof of the cave is in shadow, only rare juts of rock glistening in the candle glow.
"...Lan Zhan?"
If Lan Wangji moved, he could touch him. He swallows hard.
"Lan Zhan…the cot is more comfortable, I swear."
Lan Wangji takes a deep, measured breath. He repeats the joke Wei Ying has so often made over the last few days.
"I am kidnapped," he says. "I am meant to be…" on my back. A plaything. "...in your bed."
This declaration is met with absolute silence. Lan Wangji's entire body tenses, a bow slowly pulled taut. He has said the wrong thing yet again.
Wei Ying huffs, a short, percussive sound, weak with incredulity. It might be a laugh. It might be ridicule. Lan Wangji does not look.
"Lan Zhan," Wei Ying says, voice uneven, "that—hah—is that—a joke? Are you making a joke? Did you get into Si-shu's liquor?"
Another deep, measured breath, but Lan Wangji cannot speak past the tightness in his throat. Desperation, helplessness, embarrassment. He wants to tell him what he now knows, to apologize for his previous unknowing cruelty, to beg forgiveness. Instead he looks up at him, sidelong, to let him think what he will.
Wei Ying's smile is easy, almost relieved. He squeezes Lan Wangji’s arm, familiar but brief. He starts to say something more, but Lan Wangji follows the retreat of his hand, to take hold of his wrist.
Half a frozen breath, and Wei Ying rips away from the touch. They stare at each other. Lan Wangji’s pulse burns all through him with shame and rejection. Wei Ying’s mouth tries to smile.
“I’m…not used to.” He shakes his head. “It’s been a long time since we were boys, pushing each other around and sparring. Nobody jokes around with me here.” He pouts, but it’s half-hearted. “I’m out of practice, you’ll have to forgive me.”
Truth seeps past the complaint in the form of the same bleak loneliness Lan Wangji has glimpsed in him time and again since the war. It provides a solid footing for Lan Wangji’s next leap of faith. He reaches out slowly, clearly, and nudges his arm with the back of his hand.
“Practice, then.”
Wei Ying looks at him as if he’s grown a second head, but does not draw back. Lan Wangji pushes at his elbow, almost a shove.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, incredulous.
Lan Wangji does it again, twisting his hand beneath his arm, telegraphing his intent to grab him again. Wei Ying follows the movement, twisting away, and Lan Wangji in turn follows him, but before his shoulders can rise from the mat, Wei Ying halts the intentional dance, squaring to face him with sudden, real speed. Though Lan Wangji could resist, and is no doubt expected to stop or pull away, he does not. He lets Wei Ying’s momentum carry him down.
Wei Ying pins him, one hand wrapped firmly around each of Lan Wangji’s wrists, pressing his weight through them into the mat above Lan Wangji’s head.
They both go very still.
Staring up from beneath him, Lan Wangji can see none of the amber highlights in his eyes—their deep darkness shines flatly in the candlelight. The warmth of his chest radiates through each of their thin layers, palpable from this scant distance. Lan Wangji cannot remember ever having felt the heat of another body this way, so still and steady and close. His own chest feels tight, as if Wei Ying’s grip is around his ribs instead of his wrists.
Wei Ying swallows. Lan Wangji’s eyes helplessly track the movement of his lips, of his throat. His brow is gently lifted as if pained, his mouth open. But he does not speak. He brings a hand down, releasing one of Lan Wangji’s hands, to place his palm against Lan Wangji’s cheek.
Lan Wangji’s lungs stall. The hand is warm and callused, rough from years of training and months of hard work, but set against his skin so lightly that he can barely feel it. As if it is merely a token gesture, as if such hesitation can strip the touch of its intimacy. Closing his eyes against Wei Ying’s sorrowed expression, he turns, pressing his face into his palm.
Wei Ying’s breath shakes out across Lan Wangji’s skin, and then he leans down. Chest pressed to chest, arm to arm, his forehead resting against Lan Wangji’s temple.
“Lan Zhan,” he says, almost a whisper, yet so thick with regret that Lan Wangji can taste it on his tongue.
He can see it, the same thing Wei Ying is lamenting. Can see him straightening and refusing to meet his eye. Can imagine peeling himself up from the mat to go and spend his last night here alone on the cot, then slipping out before sunrise without another painful goodbye, uncertain when or how they might meet again. He can feel the loss even now, with Wei Ying still touching him, still breathing with him.
No, he decides. Pleads. No.
He turns back, setting them cheek to cheek. They have never been this close, not ever. He is drunk with it, shot through with liquor and fire and all things that burn. He can smell the nutty floral of Wei Ying’s hair oil, the soil and the sweat of a long day’s work. He breathes, and when Wei Ying does not move away, he turns yet more, and feels against the corner of his mouth the smoothness of Wei Ying’s skin.
Wei Ying’s sharp intake of breath presses him down, a sudden, gentle crush between ribs and stone. It feels almost like being held tightly. Like being wanted.
Lan Wangji waits, but only for the span of another breath—then Wei Ying is turning, hesitant and slow, turning in toward him, and their lips brush.
Breaths pause, then restart. Wei Ying leans away, and their eyes meet. Lan Wangji’s heart stalls to see the lost look on his face, to see the flush of his cheeks, of his mouth. He wants to say something, to ask, to tell him that he need not ask, to tell him that he has wanted this, that he will give anything, take anything. He lifts his free hand to touch him but Wei Ying flinches back, watching its progress warily.
Lan Wangji feels his shoulders, his jaw tense. He should know better. Should have learned by now that Wei Ying wants nothing less than to be touched by him. This, whatever it is, does not change that.
Slowly, deliberately, he drops it back beside the other, above his head. Wei Ying blinks at him, and Lan Wangji can see him turning the action over in his quick mind. Can see something click behind his eyes, replacing his uncertain expression with one of certainty. He leans down again, pressing hard into Lan Wangji’s wrist, lying over him so that he must feel Lan Wangji’s surprised breath.
And then Wei Ying is kissing him, and kissing him, fervid and sharp and hungry. His mouth is soft, and slick, and hot as he sucks at Lan Wangji’s bottom lip, as he curls his tongue past his teeth. Lan Wangji tries to focus, tries to meet his insistence, to kiss as well as he is being kissed. But one of Wei Ying’s hands is still holding him down, the other light against his throat, as if Wei Ying has forgotten them entirely. But Lan Wangji cannot forget them. Their heat and weight are doing something strange and detrimental to his capacity for thought.
The hand on his throat slides down. It pauses over his collarbone, then continues. Fingertips scrape over his nipple, and he flinches from the distracting spike of pleasure, of knowledge that that is what they are dealing in, now. He is still trying to reconcile with it when those same fingertips hook between the edges of his tunic.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying murmurs, so close Lan Wangji cannot focus on his face, “I can do what I want to you.”
Shock and anticipation crack through Lan Wangji’s nerves. It is framed as a statement, but the question beneath it is clear.
“Yes,” he answers. “I am kidnapped.”
Wei Ying kisses him again, another shock, each one as surprising, as revelatory as the one before.
He unties Lan Wangji’s tunic, and touches hand to skin. It makes all of Lan Wangji’s muscles tighten, makes his head tip back to bare his neck. Wei Ying takes this as an invitation and kisses it lightly, then with more force, opening his mouth against his pulse, dragging his tongue across it, scraping teeth along the apple of his throat as it works to hold back embarrassing sounds.
Lan Wangji has never been as aware of the surface of his body as he is now. Wei Ying’s rough hand sliding down to grip his waist, Wei Ying’s hip, warm and sharp against his own, Wei Ying’s lips moving, leaving a trail of blazing heat behind. It is difficult to hold still. Difficult to keep his hands safely away, where they belong—empty and cold. His body is coming awake in a new and terrifying way, and it is all he can do to hold it in check.
Until Wei Ying squeezes his teeth around a nipple, and he gasps, his stomach tensing, lifting his hips. He realizes his hand has moved, has lifted just inches from the mat. Shame and disappointment coil through him, and he presses it back down, gripping his wrist in the opposite hand. Wei Ying stops and looks at him, eyes flicking from his face to his hands and back again.
“Maybe you should be tied down.”
Lan Wangji shuts his eyes.
“Maybe I should just tie you to this rock, and keep you here.”
Tears prick behind Lan Wangji’s eyes. He does not know what Wei Ying is doing, why he is saying these things. How much he might mean them.
But he wishes he would.
“You may,” he rasps.
Wei Ying’s hand tightens, his thumb digging in just above his hip. “Lan Zhan.”
Whether it is a warning or not, Lan Wangji does not know, but he is past caring. This strange new game between them and the way it is lighting up his body are secondary to making Wei Ying understand.
“There is no need to—” he breaks off, words disorderly and unwilling on his tongue. “You may do as you wish with me.”
Silence, then, but for their ragged breaths, echoing past each other in the vast dark. He feels Wei Ying’s on his skin, as if each one is punched out of him, and then Wei Ying’s mouth on his own, sudden, devouring, as if he is trying to find the place those words came from and eat it. Lan Wangji opens to him, lets him delve into his secret places, holds himself loose and unguarded. Anything Wei Ying wants of him he can have, however he will take it.
“Ah, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying groans. His hands scramble lower, one in Lan Wangji’s hair, the other pressing against the front of his trousers, a shock of intimate pressure. “Let me, let me,” he murmurs, sucking along the length of his throat.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji gasps, hot with shame, and with how good it feels. “You—”
Wei Ying cuts him off with another dizzying kiss, and then disappears. There is the briefest moment of confusion, of loss, before the waistband of his trousers is shoved down to his thighs, and all air leaves him. The heat spreads like wildfire, down his neck, his chest, his back. There is one hand pressing down on his hip, and another, gentler, on his stomach. He wants to look, to see Wei Ying’s face, his intention, but he cannot bring himself to move. He shuts his eyes again, tight.
“Wei Ying—” he tries again, cut off by the quick, light press of lips against the overheated skin just below his hip. He makes a small, piteous sound instead.
“Shh,” Wei Ying hushes him, the hand on his stomach pressing harder. “Let me.”
The firmness of the touch calms him, somehow, blurs the edges of his frantic mind, and when Wei Ying’s soft lips open around him, he does not squirm. His back tenses and stretches, and his breaths go ragged, but he clenches his jaw and bites his tongue against any further noise. Wei Ying licks, and sucks, and takes him into his mouth, and Lan Wangji tries to hold himself in check. To be good for him. To let Wei Ying have whatever it is he wants.
Time slows, and speeds up. Lan Wangji does not know how long he has lain beneath Wei Ying’s mouth, his hands—he feels sluggish and frantic in turns, the lightning sweetness of pleasure rising in bounds and then pausing when Wei Ying turns his mouth to softer pursuits.
“Wei Ying.”
His name is dragged out of Lan Wangji’s mouth by force, on one such occasion. By the desperation, the disappointment, the need. He shifts, minute but helpless, his hands gripping the edge of the mat above his head.
“Mn,” Wei Ying hums, sucking a mark just below his belly button.
“Wei Ying.”
His body moves without his permission, and he is grasping at Wei Ying’s tunic, pulling, trying to end the maddening, interminable rise and fall. Wei Ying goes easily, then quickly, and Lan Wangji’s wrists are pinned once more under all his weight. It feels good. Very good. He wants Wei Ying holding him down, holding him here. Steady and solid. No room for argument, no room for Lan Wangji to make the wrong move.
Another small, awful sound escapes his throat. Wei Ying is watching him, dark and intent, his lips slick and vividly red in the dim light. Lan Wangji looks down. Away.
“Go on,” he breathes, trying to keep still. His hips want to move, to search for touch. He does not let them.
Wei Ying kisses him again, hard, and lies down atop him, shoulder to knee. Lan Wangji groans tightly into his mouth. He can feel the muscles of Wei Ying’s abdomen, the strength of his thighs. The hardness in his trousers, hot and kept from his own by only a thin layer of linen. He presses up unconsciously, needing him closer still. They move that way, halting at first, Wei Ying rolling against him, then bracing his knees on the bed and rutting down with purpose. Lan Wangji’s thighs spread on some base instinct despite the impediment of his trousers. He tries to move in time, the stretch of his tendons burning deliciously. His knees lift. His thighs squeeze Wei Ying’s hips.
“Ah, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying gasps. His grip on Lan Wangji’s wrists tightens to bruising.
“Go on,” Lan Wangji repeats, trying to pull Wei Ying closer.
One of Wei Ying’s hands lets go, slips down Lan Wangji’s side, and around beneath him, low. “You want—” his fingers press in, and Lan Wangji’s hips flex.
He tries to breathe through the haze in his mind, the surprising anticipation. He did not expect this, did not have any specific idea of what Wei Ying might do—but this, now, is all he wants. To be consumed entirely. To offer every part of himself up to Wei Ying’s use.
“Anything,” he says.
He knows it is shameful, it is wrong, to indulge this primitive, uncouth, unseemly part of himself. It is wrong to want these things, and to do them, and to drag Wei Ying into the gutter with him. But he cannot stop, now that he knows Wei Ying would have him this way. That, at least in this, Wei Ying wants to be near him.
After another harsh breath, then two, Wei Ying rolls off of him. Horrifyingly, Lan Wangji almost whines, but stops the sound in his throat.
“Stay,” Wei Ying says, too soft to be a command. His hand lingers on Lan Wangji’s chest before he goes.
He is back almost immediately, kneeling above him and sketching a talisman in the air—it binds Lan Wangji’s wrists. He leans down and does something that fastens them to the rock beneath, kissing Lan Wangji’s cheek as he goes.
“There,” he says, “captive. Is my evil distraction working? Hanguang-jun hasn’t tried to escape even once.”
Lan Wangji can only stare at the complicated expression on his face, unable to think of what he should say, of what might be the right response. When Wei Ying pulls his trousers the rest of the way off and pushes his thighs farther apart, he forgets why he was trying to think at all. When Wei Ying’s slick fingers touch him, he forgets to breathe.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, labored, “do you want this? If you do, you have to let me in.”
Lan Wangji nods, closes his eyes, and sucks in as much air as his lungs can take, then lets it out slowly. Controlled. He must control himself. He must regain control.
Wei Ying’s finger slips inside him, and the feeling is so strange, so intensely different from anything he has ever experienced, that he feels upended. Vertiginous. He gasps, and the first finger is followed by another. A weak groan escapes him.
“That’s it,” Wei Ying says, breath tingling along Lan Wangji’s ear. “That’s…good. Like that.”
“Ah.” Lan Wangji's body curves, driving Wei Ying’s fingers deeper. He may not know what to do, but his body does. He lets it speak for itself, and hopes Wei Ying finds it pleasing. Perhaps, if he does, he might want him to stay.
“Fuck,” Wei Ying murmurs. “Fuck, Lan Zhan, here, here.”
Abruptly, upsettingly, his fingers are gone.
“Wei—”
He’s cut off by the lifting of his thighs, and the sudden, hard press of Wei Ying’s cock. His heart skips several beats. It fills him slowly, so slowly, building pressure throughout his entire body until he can feel his pulse in his eyes, in his hair. He struggles for air as Wei Ying moans tightly above him, one hand braced beside his ribs, the other still gripping his thigh.
“Oh,” Wei Ying pants, “Lan Zhan you…you feel…fuck. Is this what you wanted? Is this—is this good? You feel so good, I—ah—”
Lan Wangji can feel the heat rolling off him, can feel his trembling against him, inside him, and cannot respond. Wei Ying stops moving, his breaths going careful and measured.
"Do you need…tell me. Should I wait? Should I—"
Lan Wangji lifts his free leg higher, presses his heel to the small of Wei Ying's back.
"Wei Ying," he forces out, voice like broken glass, "go on."
Wei Ying nods, his hair brushing the side of Lan Wangji’s face, and presses on. The unbearable fullness continues, impossibly, to build, until Wei Ying’s body meets his. There is a pause then, overwhelming and confounding, and Lan Wangji must breathe carefully, consciously, or he fears he will not breathe at all.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers. He rests his forehead against Lan Wangji’s. “Lan Zhan ah Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji is suddenly desperate to put his arms around him, to press his fingers into his back, his hair. His shoulders shift, struggling fruitlessly against his bonds. He knows he should not. But he needs. He needs him closer, needs to be properly entwined. A helpless, high noise of complaint makes its way out of him.
“It’s alright,” Wei Ying says, touching his cheek. Lan Wangji nearly sobs. “It’s alright.”
He moves, then. Slowly, carefully, out and in, a gentle circle of his hips. Then another, and another, and Lan Wangji is gasping, shaking with effort he does not understand, his body seemingly making some grand attempt at some impossible feat.
“Wei Ying,” he begs. “Ah, Wei Ying.”
“Tell me,” Wei Ying begs in return. “Lan Zhan, tell me, is it too much?”
Lan Wangji shakes his head, erratic and uncoordinated.
“More?”
“Anything,” Lan Wangji gasps, “anything, please.”
“Oh,” Wei Ying groans, letting himself down closer, pressing tight against him. His hips snap harder, and Lan Wangji’s body jumps with the new force. “Tell me, tell me,” Wei Ying chants, “let me, let me make you, oh, Lan Zhan, let me make you—feel so good you never want to leave, please, tell me.”
Lan Wangji shudders violently, and Wei Ying pauses, moaning loudly against Lan Wangji’s throat, before moving again. He fucks him in long, deep rolls that make his thighs shake harder, make his eyelids flutter madly.
Wei Ying he tries to say, but it comes out undefined, a wanting, desperate sound. He sucks down a huge breath, and then another.
“Wei Ying, I would,” he manages. He fights for breath as another shudder wracks him, as Wei Ying’s cock drags along some new place that punches pleasure almost as sharp as pain through his limbs. “I will stay. Wei Ying, let me—oh—.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, broken, moving faster. “Lan Zhan, you…”
“Anything,” Lan Wangji forces out, struggling against the talisman again, “anything, I would do—anything—keep me, use me, let me work for—”
With a deep, desperate sound, Wei Ying shoves into him, pressing him down, folding his limbs, fucking into him hard and deep. The talisman releases from the bed, and Lan Wangji brings his leaden arms up around Wei Ying's neck, his crossed hands fisting the back of his tunic, clutching at him. They change simultaneously, transforming into wild, rough things, animal sounds echoing back and forth between them as they try to climb into each other's skin.
It lasts only a handful of moments, though, before Wei Ying is gasping, moaning Lan Wangji's name, and coming deep inside him. Lan Wangji whines, still fighting toward his release, but Wei Ying's hand wraps around him firmly, and that is all it takes for him to fly over the edge.
He comes hard, shaking and groaning, muscles clenching so tightly it hurts all through his body. It seems to last ages, pleasure edged with pain jerking across him in waves. His mind is blank. But his fists hold onto Wei Ying.
When he is sensible once more, Wei Ying is still crushed against him as they heave together. It is impossible to tell which of them is shaking the harder. He wants to say something. He does not know what to say.
At length, Wei Ying gets his weight up into his elbows, and looks down at him. He says nothing, but his expression is open, more open than Lan Wangji has ever seen it. It is filled with awe…and fear.
Lan Wangji’s fists flex in the fabric over his back, his legs tightening unconsciously around him. He should let go. He should let Wei Ying free. But just now, after what they have done, his body is tied too closely to the deep, aching yearning in his chest. He hoped his body would speak for him; now it will not stop.
“You—” Wei Ying rasps, then stops, and shakes his head.
He touches Lan Wangji’s arm, as if to guide it off him. Lan Wangji holds on tighter.
“Yes,” he murmurs, looking away. “I meant it.”
He lets go, and lifts his arms free. But Wei Ying does not move.
“Why?” he breathes, and Lan Wangji looks up in time to see his face turn pained. “This place is not—no one should stay here.”
“It is not the place that matters.”
Wei Ying pulls away from him, leaving him cold, and bare, and bereft.
“It’s not the place I’m talking about,” he says.
Staring at his back, at the droop of his shoulders, Lan Wangji wishes he were the type of person who would know what to say, how to bring comfort. How to navigate Wei Ying’s complicated thoughts. He wraps his tunic back around himself, and ties it.
“Nor was I."
Wei Ying shakes his head, drops it into his hands.
“You are still Wei Ying.”
“Lan Zhan.”
“I know you,” Lan Wangji says, with growing insistence. "With or without a golden core."
Wei Ying flinches, and whips around to stare at him. Real fear, now, lives in his eyes. Lan Wangji's heart sinks.
"I am sorry," he says. "I should not have heard. Rest assured I will not speak of it."
The silence stretches, Wei Ying staring at him first in horror, and then defeat. Lan Wangji aches, and aches, and aches. But he will not show his own grief.
"You have suffered such hardship," he murmurs, "and yet still you are here, enduring more, simply because you believe it to be right." He pauses. "This is the Wei Ying I know."
“I’ve changed, Lan Zhan,” says Wei Ying, shaking his head. His voice is flat. “Things have changed.”
Once, this statement would have crushed Lan Wangji’s heart in his chest. But change does not have to mean an end.
“Yes,” he says. “And you are still Wei Ying.”
“You know I can’t be any of the things we dreamed. I can only ever be this.”
It hurts to hear, though Lan Wangji has known it to be true. He takes a breath. It does not matter. He is lying in Wei Ying’s bed, has known the warmth of his body, the shape of his desire. And what's more, he has been a part of his life. He has worked alongside him, been near him every morning and night. There is no going back.
“Perhaps,” he says, leaving room for possibilities that neither of them can yet see. “But I can only ever be this.”
Wei Ying glances at him, and away.
“Yours,” Lan Wangji clarifies, closing his eyes. “To keep or to send away. Yours.”
“I should,” Wei Ying says, sudden and fervent. “I should send you away. Back to your life. Back to the world.”
Fear of this climbs up Lan Wangji’s spine, but he forces his face, his voice, to remain calm.
“If you wish,” he says. “I will not impose. But I would still be yours.”
Wei Ying looks down, pained. “Lan Zhan…I—” he looks up. “Impose?”
“If you would let me stay…what I feel for you is not your burden, and I would not forget this. But if my being here would trouble you, I would not—”
“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, be quiet,” Wei Ying says, turning toward him, crawling closer on the bed.
Lan Wangji snaps his jaw shut and turns his face away. He should not have mentioned his wretched heart out loud.
“You…know. That I can never cultivate the orthodox path. That I can never give up the power I’ve won in its place. There is nothing you can do to change that—you understand this?”
Lan Wangji nods tightly. He has come to terms with it.
“But you still…you want to. You want to stay.”
Another nod. He has said this.
Movement draws his attention. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Wei Ying’s hand rises. As it moves toward him hesitantly. He keeps very, very still. He does not breathe. The hand closes around the collars of his tunic, a trembling fist in the center of his chest. He stares at it, uncomprehending, then glances up at Wei Ying’s face.
There are tears gathering in his eyes. He looks very frightened, and very hopeful, and very young. Lan Wangji has never, never seen him this way. He wants to hold him in his arms, away from all the world. He wants to hold him, and never let him go.
Just as uncertainly, just as slowly, he brings his own hand up. He looks down, then back up, silently asking permission. But Wei Ying only stares.
Lan Wangji rests his own hand over Wei Ying’s. Wei Ying does not pull away.
He does not know who moves first or fastest, but they are embracing, hard, all of their combined strength binding them together on top of cold stone. He can feel Wei Ying’s lungs working, can feel the flex of his shoulders, his back, the insistence of his bare hips and legs. They tangle senselessly, until Lan Wangji overcomes his shock and steadies them both. Holds them still. He relaxes his hands and runs them up and down Wei Ying’s back in an attempt to soothe him. He quiets, and lies limp against him, breaths hitching. Lan Wangji kisses his tangled hair, smoothes his fingers through it for lack of a comb close at hand.
At length, Wei Ying lifts his head to look at him.
“I changed my mind,” he says. It comes out thick, and he clears his throat. Looks away. “You can’t go. I’m keeping you here. Yiling Laozu doesn’t release his prisoners.”
Lan Wangji brushes Wei Ying’s hair back from his temples.
“Mn,” he says, chest buzzing, overfull. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Wei Ying asks. “You…I don’t know what you want, Lan Zhan, but you can have it all. If you want to stay…you can have it. Me. Anything. Whatever you want. It’s no good for you, and I’m worse for letting you, but. I can’t…I can’t.”
He buries his face in Lan Wangji’s throat.
“I can’t say no to another thing I’ve wanted for so long. I’m only so strong.”
Lan Wangji’s arms tighten reflexively. He does not speak, but his heart picks up its pace, threatens to thunder out and shatter his ribs. He almost feels sick with shock, with relief, with disbelief. Wei Ying kisses his rabbiting pulse, his jaw, and looks down at him, his expression a mirror of the impossible yearning Lan Wangji has lived with for years. Despite the surreality of it, Lan Wangji’s insides settle.
“How would you like to bathe?” he asks.
Wei Ying huffs, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “So practical, Lan Zhan. Is there water left from the spring?”
“Some.”
A sigh. “That, for now, then. We can go down in the morning, before…”
His face clouds. Lan Wangji only feels more resolute.
“I will tell Xiongzhang I am staying,” he says. “He will not stop me.”
“Lan Zhan…”
Lan Wangji takes hold of his beautiful, conflicted face, and kisses him soundly.
“Come and bathe,” he says, and gets out of the bed. “Then we will sleep. Tomorrow, the crowd will leave, and we will stay.”
“Alright,” says Wei Ying. He pauses, and takes a breath. His expression has cleared by the time he stands before him. “Your tunic is ruined.”
“Mn,” says Lan Wangji, his ears heating.
“It’s a good thing you have money.” He takes Lan Wangji’s hand. “We might have to ruin a few more.”
Lan Wangji’s entire face goes very hot. “Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying grins, and kisses his cheek.
“You can’t deny me now, Youqian-gege. It’s too late.”
Outside, the wind howls, low and mournful. It stirs the barren trees, the dark lanterns, the tall grass. Outside, both the living and the dead are restless and hungry for revenge. Outside it is dull, and gray, and hopeless.
“Mn,” says Lan Wangji. He feels himself smile, Wei Ying’s grin catching on his own lips like a spark on parched tinder. “It is too late.”
He touches the end of Wei Ying’s red ribbon, so vivid in the gloom, and kisses him.
It is too late to go back.
Instead, they will go forward.