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lan wangji hits, as he does every time he jumps, with a thud.
he takes a moment to collect himself—bones, skin, hair, teeth. there are risks, when you throw yourself halfway around the planet and through several centuries. he has not suffered any of them yet.
right now he is, as far as he can tell, whole. his scent adjusts before his sight or hearing does. it hits like a truck. coal smoke, and piss, and something vaguely metallic that lingers on his tongue. underneath the thick filth of the air, water. london, he thinks. industrial.
his eyes and hearing settle in, and he thinks he might be somewhere on the south bank of the thames; lambeth, maybe. he can see the embankment on the far shore, which means it is at least 1870. the river slugs by, brown and brackish. there are worst places he could have landed, he supposes, and worst times to be in london.
but this is the problem: lan wangji had not intended to come to london, or indeed to the 19th century, at all.
he is still wearing edo-period japanese kannoshi, and flicks back a voluminous sleeve to check his timepiece. ah.
there is a large crack splitting the glass face in two.
lan wangji was born into a family of aevorals—time travellers. he knows the history of aevorals. he knows how timepieces work, in theory, and he knows how time jumping is not only difficult but also wildly dangerous without one. he has never known a timepiece to break before.
fuck.
okay, he thinks. it's fine. he is fine. his timepiece is broken, and he is definitely going to stand out once he leaves the river bank, and he has not at all prepared for being stuck in victorian london for however long—but he is alive. he is fine.
there are fixed locations—Permanences—that hold their place through time. the aevoral world revolves around them, and lan wangji is incredibly lucky, because the nearest one is greenwich observatory. there he will find clothing, and currency, and maybe even assistance.
well. the smog is darkening, and he would rather be indoors before nightfall. he walks. there are far more effective methods of cross-city travel—trams, monorails, skyways—but unfortunately, they have yet to reach this particular city. he ignores the looks his clothing gets him. (he notes, as he goes, the sharp curve of bustles and smooth line of bodices and the frizzy curl of bangs, and concludes that he is in 1886 or 1887. maybe 1886. he catches the date from a newspaper boy on a corner. he was right, and it is february, and cold.)
he makes it to greenwich park just as the lamplighters are starting their rounds. his robes are dirty, and the single suitcase he is clutching has been significantly splashed by passing carriages. he is, frankly, cold and tired and hungry. the lights in the observatory are warm.
he has visited this Permanence before, in 1924, and he is glad to find that the small silver door tucked away into an alcove round the back of flamsteed house is still there. he presses his hand against the metal plate, and waits. Permanences can only be opened by aevorals. the door clicks once it recognises him, and swings open into darkness.
the room is small, and sparse, but it is a haven for the night. there is a wardrobe stocked with appropriate clothing for the era, and a cot bed, and some very not-era-appropriate dehydrated food packs. he lights a little fire and pulls blankets out over the bed and boils water for the food, and then proceeds to very carefully remove and fold his mud-soaked kannoshi. he selects trousers and a shirt and a waistcoat and jacket from the wardrobe. there is even a top hat.
he eats, and warms his hands, enters his name into the logbook, and it's only when he's lying down that it hits him:
he may be in a place used by others like him, but right now, he is completely, utterly alone.
there is an inevitable loneliness, to being aevoral: when you can be anywhere, anytime, at a moment's notice, it is easier to travel alone. it is easier not to linger. he has never had to linger before, and there is no reason for him to be here, and unease settles in his bones.
he could, he supposes, leave a message in the logbook and wait for someone to see it and come to find him and help him. the likelihood of finding another aevoral without is low but not impossible—they have an air about them, he knows. the air of someone who doesn't quite fit in.
(he is well aware that he would carry such an air even if he were a "normal" human; as it is, he has never quite fit in anywhere, not even with his kind.)
he sleeps. even being thrust into the wrong place in the wrong century cannot affect his body's stringent clock.
the morning, as mornings do, brings a fresh wave of problems.
time travel is unforgiving in many ways—his inappropriate clothing a notable example. languages, customs, social history and anthropology filled his childhood, preparing him for when he started to jump alone. but of all the intricacies of swapping between cultures regularly, that which should be the easiest is in fact by far the most difficult: money.
lan wangji has landed in victorian london without any of it. there is currency in the Permanence, of course, but it requires trade, and currently lan wangji only has—well, he only has the suitcase. the contents of the suitcase are, ah, not tradable with the aevoral bureau of finance. the contents of the suitcase contain the reason he has been in 17th century japan, and they were quite happily on their way back to 22nd century china when his timepiece threw him here. the contents of the suitcase are the results of several months of research for the archive at the shanghai Permanence, the project he has been working on for the last three years. they were the final piece for the display. painstakingly hand-sourced, every single one.
his research project had only been granted to him by his uncle after several months of back and forth correspondence, and wheedling on his brother's behalf, and well-written arguments that it was of anthropological worth.
the research project: erotic exploration throughout time.
all lan wangji has to trade is, in essence, a suitcase full of antique japanese sex toys.
so this is why morning brings a fresh wave of problems, because the sex toys cannot be traded for sterling, and he left the last of his tokugawa shogunate currency with the woman he had purchased the final dokata from. if he is going to be here for some time, he needs an income. in order to make an income, he will need proper lodgings, and in order to find proper lodgings, he needs cash.
he sighs, slides the suitcase under the cot bed, and goes out to find a newspaper.
london is filthy at this point in history—it is filthy for a large portion of its lifespan, but the victorian era has a veneer of soot and dirt that seems to lie over every surface. he makes his way into deptford, and passes the reeking foreign cattle market, the gutting sheds. victorian britain is also not particularly vegetarian-friendly. he does his best not to gag.
he eventually finds a paper from a couple of days ago tucked into a pile of debris, and flicks through it. he has an idea. it is perhaps not his best idea, but it is the only one he has.
the classified advertisements are numerous and cramped; he perches primly on a crate to read through them. furniture for sale, young women looking for domestic work, matchmakers, fortune-tellers, ads for contraceptives, personal art exhibitions. his head aches.
then, finally, squashed into the corner—Reliable work for attractive young Ladies. Lodgings are offered and wages paid. A house of fine reputation and good standing. Enquire at Madame Costello's, 82 Haymarket between the hours of 10 o'clock a.m. and 2 o'clock p.m.
he takes note of the address, and returns to the Permanence. haymarket is a good two hours' walk away, so the following morning—after a day spent reading through the logbook—he dresses, picks up his suitcase, and leaves the little room neat and tidy, shutting the silver door.
he might be back. he might not. it is not an ideal residence, as sneaking in and out of the observatory is somewhat difficult. he manages this time with no fuss.
by the time he's crossing westminster bridge, he is determined to start earning soon. his feet hurt.
he finds madame costello's with relative ease. in the morning light, it could be a regular lodging house, well-kept and clean. haymarket has a reputation, but at this time of day, you wouldn't tell. he knocks three times. there is a moment, before anyone answers, in which he briefly reconsiders because there is no way this is going to work, but then a young lady in a neat apron opens the door and it is far too late.
"good morning, can i—oh. sorry, sir, we're not open till 6."
he feels his ears flush. he has spent the last three years researching erotic artwork and practices, for fuck's sake, and he's gay, her implying shouldn't—well. he was raised in a very strict household.
"good morning, madam. i am here to speak to madame costello, if possible."
"uh." her face goes blank. "you don't... we're not that kind of establishment, sir."
his ears get hotter. "i would like to speak to madame costello," he repeats. "i am in possession of something that could be beneficial to her business practice."
she looks him up and down with a dubious eye, then steps aside, reluctance in every movement. "alright. come in."
the interior is much like he would have expected—silk drapes, coloured glass lanterns, plush pillows. it is quiet. she leads him through to the back of the house.
madame costello is a thin, short woman in her late forties with a sharp nose and exacting eyes. she takes one look at him and shoos the girl out of the door.
"we're not that sort of establishment," she says, "but by god, if you're offering, we'll have you."
lan wangji had not started the day planning to flush as much as he has. he clears his throat. "i am not." she gestures for him to sit with a resigned look, and he puts the suitcase on his knees and continues. "i am looking for accommodation."
now she squints, clearly confused. "we are not a lodging house, sir. not of the genteel sort."
"i am well aware. that is why i have come to you."
"hm. go on."
"i find myself, through unforeseen circumstances, penniless. however. i have something to offer to trade for a room." he can see her processing this, after his denial that he was offering. he unclasps the suitcase. "to enhance your business," he says.
she gasps when she sees them—they rest on lined velvet, and are polished to catch the light, and in this city of filth and greed—perfect.
"good lord," she breathes. "and you're—you're willing to sell me these? for a room?"
"to loan them," lan wangji explains. he is not going to let his research go to waste. "for the duration of my stay."
she glances at him, sharp. "how long?"
well. that's just the question, isn't it.
"a few months," he guesses wildly. "i am also willing to help with—undesirable customers. i have experience in, ah, force."
languages and customs are not the only lessons taught to young aevorals. he knows his skills are exemplary. he does not wish to use them, but if he must.
her gaze has drifted back a particular large harigata, golden in the gas lamplight. "mhm. yes. that would be useful." she is barely paying attention to him anymore, it seems. "we have an attic room spare," she mumbles. "you'll get dinner for the help with customers."
something loosens in lan wangji's chest. a part of him is reluctant to part with the toys, but it won't be permanent, and he will get them back, and he has somewhere to stay. it may be the attic room in a brothel, but he has somewhere to stay.
"thank you," he says.
she drags her gaze back up to his face and smirks. "now let's get you tucked into your room before the girls can get their hands on you. you'll cause a riot, walking around like that."
she grins and stands, gesturing to the door, and just like that, he is instantly welcome.
he has somewhere to stay. now he just needs to work out exactly how he's going to get out of here.
—
lan wangji locks the door of Dresden's Antiquities and Oddities at precisely 6pm on the dot. the evening air is frosty; he is glad of the warm coat he purchased last week. he slips the key into his pocket and sets off towards haymarket.
he has been an employee for only five days. he was given closing up responsibilities after just two. it has been an excellent fit, and mr. dresden is a well-spoken, if quiet, fellow. he is glad of the small income he makes from categorising the back rooms. let alone being able to offer madame costello a deposit for the room (which she refused, and he slipped into her desk in an anonymous envelope), he is also glad that he can afford clothing that fits and suits him. men's clothing of this era isn't quite 22nd century couture, but it can at least be flattering. he is glad he didn't crash into 2003.
two weeks since he opened his eyes on the bank of the thames; two weeks and barely a hair's breadth of progress towards getting away again. he has checked the Permanence twice since he left it—nothing.
he had taken the job at dresden's not only because it suited him—away from the public, something archival, something that could maybe even add to his research—but also because there is the slimmest chance, in his work, that he might come across an oddity that could help him.
so far, no such luck.
his room at madame costello's is right up in the attic, tucked away among dust and rafters. a narrow window looks out over the surrounding rooftops; if he leans his head out of it, he just can about see nelson's column. there is a draught.
he sets his hat down on the small dresser under the window, and looks out over london. the smog is cast in thin golden light from the city below. there are no stars.
he lingers, briefly, on the thought of jumping without a timepiece. aevorals hold the power within themselves.
technically, it is possible. in practice—
in practice, it is not only against all the aevoral codes, but also wildly dangerous, and completely unpredictable. without the guiding hands of a timepiece, you could end up any where, any time. the distant past. the hungry future. the window of human existence is a tiny drop in the wide, wide ocean of the universe, and almost everything beyond it is nothing less than certain death. no one has ever jumped without a timepiece and lived to tell the tale.
he dismisses the thought. perhaps tomorrow he will find something at dresden's. for now, one of the costello girls is knocking on his door with a tray of potatoes and cabbage, and his stomach is rumbling.
the back room is just as quiet the following day as it always is. he opens the large archive book to the right page, pulls a box off the shelf, and gets to work sorting through some dainty 18th century porcelain figurines.
he has been noting down sculptors' names and dates of completion for nearly an hour where there is a soft knock, and mr. dresden appears from the front of the shop.
"mr. lan," he says. he is holding a wooden box. "i am afraid that i must ask you to run an errand for me."
"of course," lan wangji says, standing.
mr. dresden watches him for a moment, then seems to snap out of it and hands him the box. "take this to crossbones mechanisms on redcross way in southwark. it is a barometer in need of repair. i will provide you with funds."
"of course," lan wangji repeats. mr. dresden finds him a small purse, and he puts his top hat neatly over his braid, and tucks the box under his arm, and sets off towards southwark.
he can now at least afford to spare his feet and take the omnibus.
he sits on the top, jostled between men in hats and suits and impressive sideburns, and keeps the box tightly in his lap. the city is loud and busy and dirty, and the omnibus is cramped, and lan wangji thinks maybe he would have preferred walking after all. he disembarks on blackfriars road and goes the rest of the way on foot. it takes him some time to find redcross way; it is a small street tucked between a church and college. a black metal fence encloses an open space with a plaque that reads Crossbones Graveyard.
well. he must be close enough.
he walks up and down redcross way three times before he finds crossbones mechanisms. the shop front is set back from the road behind iron grating and overgrown ivy, and the only indication that it's the right place is a tiny sign next to the door.
he lets himself in through the gate, creaking in the clutches of dead ivy, and immediately it hits him: a thrum in his bones, air over his skin, a prickle on his scalp. something not altogether natural.
this is not, he thinks, a regular clockmaker's.
the door opens with barely a touch of his fingers. the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up; his stomach is clenching, telling him go, now, turn around and go—
but mr. dresden had very specifically told him to go here, so here he must go.
the first thing that hits him is the sound. ticking, everywhere, non-stop, out of sync. quiet, loud, fast, heavy. a hundred clocks. the shop is so dim that he can barely make them out, but he sees—there, a shadow of a grandfather clock, and there, a row of cuckoo clocks—
"hello!"
he jumps so hard he almost drops the box. the source of the voice becomes evident as someone steps out from behind the grandfather clock, and turns the knob on a gas lamp, throwing light across the room filled with clocks and inner workings and cogs and—and lan wangji stares.
it is a young man—he thinks. he has a huge, complicated eye-piece pulled down over one eye, and a bowler hat with a red band tilted jauntily over the other, and a dusty waistcoat, shirtsleeves rolled up, dirt on his chin, and the brightest fucking grin lan wangji has ever seen.
the man seems to realise that he's given lan wangji a shock, because he pulls up the eye-piece, chuckling, and lan wangji's heart trips over itself in his mouth. ah.
"welcome to crossbones mechanisms! sorry about the fright. i promise i don't jump out on all my customers."
"uh," lan wangji replies eloquently.
"come in, come in!" the man exclaims. he comes around a counter scattered with bits and tools and gestures at lan wangji, squeezing past him to push the door shut. lan wangji is very aware of his presence next to him. oh dear. oh no.
"what can i do for you?" he says, shuffling back past lan wangji and brushing against him, fuck, lan wangji would like to rewind to when his accelerated heart rate was because of the spooky shop, not because of its owner, he is meant to be leaving this century, not finding reasons to extend his stay—
"i," he starts, and pauses to clear his throat. clearly the man takes it as an opportunity to jump back in, because he does, with, "i'm wei ying, courtesy name wuxian! gotta say, was expecting another bristly white man when i heard the bell, but it's nice to have someone else—"
"i have a barometer," lan wangji manages, and the man—wei wuxian stops and looks at him with surprised eyes. "for repair."
"oh!" wei wuxian laughs. "yeah, duh, sorry. here, slap it on the desk and let me have a look. you got info—artisan and year and stuff?"
lan wangji only hesitates momentarily before placing the box in the little space wei wuxian has cleared on the counter. wei wuxian, who does not talk at all like a victorian man. wei wuxian, whose shop has an aura. wei wuxian, who has a very "early 2000s emo" set of ear piercings.
could he really be this lucky?
"i was not given any information," lan wangji says as wei wuxian carefully opens the box and retrieves the barometer. his wrists are fine-boned and attractive. but they are not sporting a timepiece.
"no, no, that's cool, it's just a bit of extra help." he flips open the casing. "oh, shit."
"hm?" even by lamplight, it is still too dim in the shop. the constant ticking of the clocks is making his head buzz.
"the mechanism's really fucked up," wei wuxian says, flipping the eye-piece down, and then freezing. "uh. really, uh, broken. sorry."
"it is fine."
wei wuxian glances at him with a twist to his lips. he returns his attention to the barometer's inner workings again before speaking. "you're not—from london, are you."
lan wangji swallows. "no."
wei wuxian huffs. "no, well, me neither. ugh, looking at this is gonna take some time. have a seat."
lan wangji looks around the cramped shop. unless wei wuxian wants him to sit on one of the clock casings, there is nowhere—
"here," wei wuxian says, pulling a stool out from beside him. he doesn't move it further away. lan wangji comes around the desk and perches next to him. he smells of vanilla.
wei wuxian proceeds to steadily open up the barometer, carefully pulling apart its inner workings in the dim lamplight. he hums as he works, barely audible over the ticking. lan wangji waits, a little awkwardly, watches the clever movements of his fingers. it's mesmerising.
and then the room explodes into ear-splitting noise around them and he almost leaps out of his skin.
it takes him a moment to recognise what is happening: it is noon. gonging, and ringing, and cuckooing—everything at once, crashing against his ears with fury. wei wuxian appears completely unaffected. he continues taking the mechanism apart, his humming completely inaudible, and only looks up when the little cuckoo clock on the table goes off, a tiny door opening to reveal a delicate hooded figure circling a filigree tombstone. he quietly pushes the door shut and returns to his work.
eventually, the final bell sequence ends, and lan wangji can unspool the thick thread of tension that has laced itself through his muscles.
"sorry ‘bout that," wei wuxian mutters. "should've warned you."
"it is fine," lan wangji grits out.
wei wuxian puts his tool down and glances sideways at lan wangji with a grin. "i literally don't even notice it anymore." he taps the side of his head. "the ticking helps me think, anyway."
lan wangji nods, because he's not sure what else to do with wei wuxian so close and smiling.
the minutes pass.
"alright, cool!" wei wuxian exclaims. "okay. we're looking like i know what's going on."
okay, thinks lan wangji, is an anachronism. something solidifies in his gut.
"wei wuxian," he says. if he doesn't know what it means, he doesn't know what it means. "are you aevoral?"
wei wuxian's hands stop in their flitting over the worktop. there is a long, weighty pause, carried on the tick tick ticking that fills the dim shop.
eventually, he turns, and chuckles. "so, look. here's the thing. no. but."
"but?"
"but you are, right?"
so: wei wuxian knows what aevoral means. wei wuxian knows how to recognise an aevoral, maybe. wei wuxian is not aevoral himself—and that is perhaps an entire conversation, and lan wangji has questions on questions, but—wei wuxian is a clockmaker who knows about aevorals, and probably about timepieces—
"yes."
lan wangji has never, never before in his life revealed his true nature so quickly. it has—and they are in a room full of clocks—been barely twenty minutes. but there is something about wei wuxian, something about his smile, his face, his deft hands, that make him want to tell him everything.
wei wuxian's face has become serious. "huh. you hide it well."
"do i? you noticed me."
"i was looking."
oh. oh. lan wangji feels something flutter in his throat. wei wuxian's gaze cuts away, and even in the faint light, lan wangji can see colour on his cheekbones.
"it's okay," he mutters. "no one else will notice. i just—you have an air, you know. the aevoral air." he waves his hand vaguely, and chuckles. "i've missed it."
lan wangji wants to ask him so many things. but he is still processing the fact that wei wuxian knows what he is. he knows what he is, and he's a clockmaker.
before he can stop himself, he's unbuckling the timepiece from around his wrist and setting it down on the counter in front of wei wuxian.
"it's broken."
"i do not—i am not asking for anything," he hastens to add. but he thought he was completely alone, and maybe he isn't and maybe he can get out of here. "but i. i do not—"
"holy shit," wei wuxian breathes, interrupting him. he picks it up almost reverently, traces the cracked glass. "sorry, it's just—it's been a while. wow." he turns it over, inspects the silver back. "it brought you here?"
"i do not know," lan wangji replies. "i was not intending to come here."
wei wuxian glances at him, and doesn't say anything. lan wangji thinks, maybe i'm glad i did.
"huh. i've never known one to break before," wei wuxian muses, returning his attention to the timepiece.
"nor i," lan wangji replies.
"i'm guessing you want me to take a look at it, yeah?" wei wuxian asks, voice low.
lan wangji's fingers twitch towards it involuntarily. he curls his fist. "i will pay."
"oh, no no no," wei wuxian reassures him. "no need for that. it would be my privilege." he presses it back into lan wangji's hand, and his fingers are warm. "come back tomorrow to pick up the barometer, and we can look at it then, yeah?" his eyebrow flicks. "i'll be looking forward to it."
lan wangji's pulse is hovering around the speed of the tiny clock on the shelf behind wei wuxian's head, tickticktickticktick. he closes his hand around the timepiece, and wei wuxian withdraws his fingers with a soft smile. "okay," lan wangji breathes.
"okay," wei wuxian smirks. "you gonna be alright?"
lan wangji nods, and wei wuxian grins, and ushers him towards the door. "it's a lot, i know. if it's any comfort, my brain is not going to shut up for the next 24 hours, hah. but also if we start talking now i will not shut up and you have work, so."
lan wangji nods again. "i will see you tomorrow."
"yeah," wei wuxian grins, opening the door for him, and lan wangji feels such a strong urge to shut it again and step back into the shop that he has to forcibly step over the threshold. "yeah. you will."
lan wangji nods, goes out into the street, and tries to process what the fuck just happened.
—
lan wangji knows time like no one else, but the next 24 hours are the longest of his life. it takes everything in him not to turn and start heading straight back to redcross way as soon as he locks the door at dresden's. he forces himself to think about getting home and getting dinner.
he doesn't taste his soup and bread. he barely sees the sky darken out of the window. he folds his clothes robotically and lies on his back, and stares at the ceiling, and attempts to make some sense of the swell and spray of his thoughts.
wei wuxian: aevoral? but not. wei wuxian: enigmatic and alluring. wei wuxian: bright in a dark room and bursting with the energy of a bell singing out the hour. wei wuxian: the only ticket he might have out of here.
wei wuxian: barely half an hour by lan wangji's side, and already a compelling reason to stay.
he awakens with a low buzz in his veins; anticipation gnaws at his chest. he arrives early at work, and immediately offers to collect the barometer before mr. dresden can even ask. not selfishly motivated at all, of course.
the journey across london drags, and flies by.
this time, as he approaches crossbones mechanisms, he is ready for the aura to hit. he is not ready for it to drag him stumbling through the gate and opening the door before he can even catch his breath.
the room is brighter than it was yesterday; three lamps are lit. it would be quite pleasant, were it not for the fact that he has badly timed his arrival for 10:30am on the dot, and is greeted by a cacophony of half-hour strikes. he waits in the doorway for it to pass.
wei wuxian is nowhere to be seen. the barometer box is still on the desk, ready for collection. lan wangji checks for a bell to ring, but there is nothing. he waits, wondering what to do, and then peers around the side of the grandfather clock from which wei wuxian had appeared yesterday. a door hangs ajar, golden light spilling across the wood. he approaches and pushes a hand against it gently; there is a small corridor beyond.
well. wei wuxian can't be far.
"wei wuxian?" he calls out. there is no answer. he moves a little further into the corridor—it is messy, shelves stacked high with parts and papers and boxes and more clocks. there is another door at the far end, also slightly open. the air back here tastes different—he can feel the aura that lingers around the outside of the shop more physically now, settling on his tongue.
"wei wuxian?" he tries again, ignoring the scratch in his voice. he taps his knuckles against the doorway gently, pushing it open—
"aiyah, mr. barometer! hi! so sorry—"
wei wuxian appears out of nowhere with a pencil in his hair and a grease mark streaked across his forehead.
he steps out of the back room and promptly shuts the door behind him, but not before lan wangji has time to glance something large and silvery taking up most of the space, and the smell of ozone, and static electricity on the air. the feeling of being pulled in dulls as the door closes.
wei wuxian ushers him along the corridor back to the main room with a light hand on his elbow. lan wangji drags his attention away from it—and his curiosity about just what wei wuxian is up to back there—to tune into his verbal stream.
"—needed to finish something off, and i didn't hear the bell!"
he sits lan wangji down at the counter and rounds it to lean on his elbows and look at him. "hi."
"good morning," lan wangji replies steadily.
"so," wei wuxian continues, "it struck me the moment you left yesterday that i never got your name. which is a personal affront, to me, personally."
"oh." but wei wuxian is smiling playfully. "why is that?"
"because it's not every day that a tall, handsome aevoral walks into my shop and basically gives me my dream project. and i couldn't just keep calling you mr. barometer. so what is it, tall handsome aevoral?"
lan wangji is still caught up on the fact that wei wuxian thinks he is handsome. he knows he is good-looking, objectively, but hearing it so casually from wei wuxian's mouth—
"lan zhan," he offers urgently. he rarely gives out his birth name. "uh. courtesy name wangji. lan wangji."
wei wuxian lips twist. "hm. i think i prefer lan zhan though. lan zhan. how are you this morning?"
lan wangji cannot tell if he is being teased or flirted with or genuinely asked; all he knows is that his skin feels hot.
"i am well."
wei wuxian laughs, leaning closer over the desk. "good! good."
"so," he breathes, and just—fucking reaches out and takes lan wangji's wrist, just like that, like he can—he can. he can. lan wangji decides immediately that wei wuxian can touch him however he wants. his fingers are slightly calloused and warm.
"so. your timepiece. shall we have a look?"
wei wuxian toes the line between professionalism and outright flirtation the entire time he examines it. he gets out his huge eye-piece again, and makes lan wangji bring him another gaslamp over from a shelf, and chatters away while he tweezes and taps and unscrews. lan wangji is entranced by him.
"you know, i always thought lans were super stuck up," wei wuxian is saying, "but you're just—out here? being all of this—" a vague handwave in lan wangji's direction—"and wandering around my shop and getting a job and everything, and i bet you're not even staying in the Permanence—"
"i am not," lan wangji finds himself saying, and promptly shuts his mouth. of course wei wuxian knows about the Permanence, if he knows about timepieces, and recognises his family name?, why wouldn't he—
"see!" wei wuxian exclaims. "i bet you're in some fancy hotel with room service."
"no," lan wangji replies, and what has wei wuxian done to his mouth that seems to have unlocked every inhibition he has?, "i am staying on haymarket."
wei wuxian glances at him with a smirk. "oh really, lan zhan? haymarket, huh? you know the kind of reputation you'll find up there—"
"i am staying at madame costello's pleasure house," he hears himself say.
wei wuxian freezes in his examination of the timepiece, and turns to lan wangji with his jaw dropped, eyes alight. "wait. wait, lan zhan. holy shit. are you—oh my god this is amazing—are you telling me that you crashed into this century, with no way out but forwards, and to avoid becoming poor and penniless and thrown to the workhouse, you started selling your incredible body for money? oh my god, lan zhan, please tell me that's what happened. please."
ok, so wei wuxian seems very excited about this prospect, for reasons yet unclear, and lan wangji would hate to burst his bubble, but—
"it is not."
wei wuxian pouts, and huffs, and turns back to the watch. "boo, lan zhan. that's no fun. and here i was thinking you were doing the whole living history shebang, really putting in the effort to use this time and explore some of the aspects of human society that those other stuck-up lans just don't want to think about—"
wei wuxian does not know how close he is to the truth of lan wangji's research.
"i—have been exploring certain aspects," he says cautiously.
wei wuxian turns to him with wide eyes and sets down his tools. "you have my full attention."
lan wangji clears his throat. "before i came here," he says. "i was... doing some research. academic research."
"uh huh. do go on."
he is sure, by now, that wei wuxian has noticed just how red his ears are. it's much easier to talk about his area of study in dry, academic circles; he can discuss the karma sutra with his research assistant luo qingyang at the shanghai Permanence with no shame at all. with wei wuxian, however—
he has to clear his throat again. "i have been conducting research into the human sexual experience and erotic exploration across cultures and throughout history." there, he said it, and he didn't even blush. that much.
"shit," wei wuxian breathes. "lan zhan. that's so fucking cool."
lan wangji flushes with something akin to pride. "mn. thank you."
"so, wait—madame costello's? is that part of your research?"
he has not considered it; his research will be very close to completion, if/when he gets back. "it is not," he says, "although it is because of my research."
"oh, do tell," wei wuxian urges him, and so lan wangji does. he tells him of his first few days in london, of the suitcase, of his agreement with madame costello, of his room and the view of nelson's tower and the soup and the draft. it is the most he has spoken at once in months. wei wuxian listens with eager interest, laughing and nodding in all the right places, throwing in silly remarks that make lan wangji feel warm inside, and—oh no.
the "reasons to stay" part of his mind is slowly filling with wei wuxian's grin, with his bright giggles, with his wit, with his gaze.
they talk right through the clamour of 11am, and every clock tick after, right up until noon. once the barrage of noise has ended, wei wuxian slides off his stool and sighs with a smile. "ah, lan zhan. you should get back to work."
i do not want to go back to work, lan wangji does not say.
"look," wei wuxian says. "the timepiece—i've never repaired one before. it's gonna take some time, more than just the glass is broken. even just waiting for a new crystal—the face—to arrive is gonna take a few weeks. are you okay, uh, leaving it with me?"
lan wangji has not been without his timepiece since the age of 16.
"yes," he says. there is no question.
wei wuxian's smile is gentle. "and do you want to... come back tomorrow? after work, maybe?"
"yes," lan wangji says again, the words out of his mouth before wei wuxian has even finished his sentence.
here too, there is no question. it courses like hydrogen through his veins, the thrill of it. the thrill of him. of spending time with him. lan wangji has had all the time in the world; now, with only the smoggy days laid in front of him, he wishes to spend every minute with wei wuxian.
—
industrial london is a place where two extremes clash together in ways lan wangji has barely seen before, where sweet blossoms fill the parks and reeking filth fills the streets, where cries are mingled with laughter, and desolation with wealth in exuberance. it is a hive of history, of new discoveries and tragic losses, of the arrogance of empire and the power of force. it is a place that many, many aevorals are fast to visit, once they start jumping.
lan wangji experiences almost none of it.
what he experiences instead is a room full of mechanisms and endless ticking; is the tiniest of machines and the loudest of bells; is his draughty room and madame costello's sharp eyes and the girls' laughter; is a grin brighter than a supernova. is wei wuxian, everyday. like clockwork.
he returns the first day, and the day after that, and the day after that. wei wuxian is a pole and he is but a magnet: every evening, 6pm, he locks up at dresden's, and instead of directing his steps north, his feet turn him south, and before he knows it he is outside crossbones.
wei wuxian greets him with increasingly delighted laughter, and teases him about being unable to stay away. lan wangji wishes he could tell him just how true that was. instead, he settles on the stool beside wei wuxian's counter, and watches him work, and listens to him talk, entranced. some days, wei wuxian is fiddling with pocket watches. some days, he's carefully putting together the delicate insides of elaborate cuckoo clock designs, busy with mechanical crows and tinkling sounds. one time he's working on a grandfather clock so big it's taller than him. and he talks—complains about the broken copper on the upstairs landing, and the fact that his water filtration system needs a new pipe, and that there is simply nowhere to find proper spice in this country. lan wangji listens attentively and nods and mns in all the appropriate places.
and he finds his own words spilling out, too—measured, and steady, and reluctant. but when wei wuxian asks him questions he answers. when wei wuxian leans in too close he feels his skin warm, and the corners of his lips twitch. when wei wuxian's fingers linger on his arm for too long, he notices.
there is something about the quiet atmosphere of crossbones mechanisms, of the background ticking and the gentle golden light, that settles under his skin and floods him with ease that he would never have expected to find in a place like this.
he uses this entirely to justify the day he turns up outside wei wuxian's door with a basket under his arm and every nerve in his stomach fluttering like down feathers in a strong wind. it is merely a thank you for wei wuxian's work on his timepiece, he tells himself. the polite thing to do. he steels himself, and enters, now fully expecting the combined sensory assault of hundred clocks, and the atmospheric shift that he has yet to decipher.
(despite all his chatter, wei wuxian has been noticeably tight-lipped on all things aevoral, or indeed how he came to be here.)
(lan wangji has not pressed. he of all people knows how to recognise when someone is not ready to talk about something.)
wei wuxian is behind the counter, and greets him with a "lan zhan!" that punches right through to his core. he tightens his grip on the basket. he's fine. he can do this.
"good evening, wei ying," he says, and brings the basket out in front of him before he can chicken out and flee across the city and never speak to him again. "i have—brought you something."
"oh?" wei wuxian's eyes go wide, eager interest. "wow, lan zhan! you didn't have to."
"mn. but i did." lan wangji puts the basket down on his stool; there is no room on the table. "i wished to thank you for your work on my timepiece. i know that it is not yet finished, but i wanted to express my gratitude nonetheless."
perfect. just as he rehearsed it.
"lan zhan," wei wuxian says again. "you—you really didn't, oh my god."
lan wangji lifts the cover from the blanket. the smell of warm chelsea buns drifts through the shop, mingling with the sharpness of citrus and softness of fruitcake. "i thought you might enjoy something to eat," he says.
"holy shit, lan zhan," wei wuxian breathes. "you—did you get this on your way here?"
"mn." lan wangji's throat is dry.
"that is so—so sweet, lan zhan, you're really too good. wow. that smells amazing." he drops his tools and wipes his hands off on his waistcoat. "we're eating them. now." he grabs the basket, and then he grabs lan wangji's hand, just like that, and pulls him through the back door—wait, whoa—
"wei ying, your work—"
"my work was done the moment you walked through my door with food, lan zhan, please. come on."
lan wangji has no option but to let himself be pulled down the messy corridor and through a doorway that leads up a rickety set of stairs, past what he assumes is the broken copper—he notices the empty coal scuttle, and makes a mental note—and up more stairs, littered with paper and trinkets and mess, and the most random assortment of ornaments. a dead potted plant decorated with paper chains, a solid metal elephant with a painted-on moustache, a huge unfinished painting of a lake covered in lotus blooms. up, up, until they're on the top landing.
wei wuxian drops his hand only to prise open the window.
"okay, here we are," he says, and promptly steps out onto the roof tiles, as if this is an activity that he engages in every night. lan wangji stares at him. he seems perfectly stable. "c'mon, lan zhan," wei wuxian says, and extends his hand.
lan wangji looks at his hand, the invitation held in it. to have this with wei wuxian, to whatever this is. chelsea buns on a rooftop. another day of chatter and watching the sweet curve of wei wuxian's smile. something more.
he takes it, and clambers out after him.
he cautiously steps onto the sloping tiles, and looks up, and has to catch his breath.
london from the rooftops is a completely different city to london from the ground. it spreads its weight out before them, stretching towards the horizon under a yellow-smog sky, evening-lit. the final vestiges of sun dip under the cloud and smear through the haze to catch on spires and tiled rooftops, on bridges and buildings and chimneys. the noise and clatter is diminished, as background as the ticking of wei wuxian's clocks, a murmur of life. and wei wuxian, smiling, but eyes laced with nervousness. "what do you think?"
"wei ying," lan wangji murmurs. he can't look away from him. "it is beautiful."
wei wuxian's cheeks flush slightly in the evening light, and he laughs sheepishly, looking away. "yeah. i come up here sometimes, to think."
"mn." a moment passes, and then wei wuxian rubs the back of his neck, and starts precariously making his way up to the ridge of the roof, basket still in one hand. lan wangji follows him with caution, and only feels slightly more secure once they're leaning against the chimney pot.
the last brush of the sun gleams on the river, and wei wuxian pulls out the buns and cake and crystallised orange. lan wangji had not thought to bring anything to eat with, but then, he had not expected to be partaking in a rooftop picnic this evening.
"god, you know what i need," wei wuxian says.
"mn?"
"there's this—this baijiu. ancient suzhuonese. it's been years, but god, what i wouldn't do for a jar of emperor's smile right now."
emperor's smile. he has heard of it, is fairly certain there may even be some stashed somewhere in the shanghai Permanence—but the fact that wei wuxian knows of its existence only serves to further confuse the fact that wei wuxian is not an aevoral. he's fairly certain he heard him mention googling something the other day. he's now talking about ancient china.
"wei ying," lan wangji starts, but wei wuxian cuts him off.
"ah, it's fine, there's all sorts of liquor to be enjoyed here anyway. shit, i forgot to bring some up, i was so excited." he turns to lan wangji with alarm. "you don't want a drink, do you? i can get you something—"
"wei ying. i do not mind." he pulls a flask from the basket. "tea."
"oh! tea. haha, thanks, lan zhan, you really did think of everything."
he has tried to. if his timepiece was working, he could go to ancient suzhou right now and bring back as many jars of emperor's smile as he could carry.
they eat the buns with sticky fingers and the cake and the crystallised orange pieces. it is perhaps the most unhealthy meal lan wangji has ever had, but wei wuxian is enjoying himself, and therefore it does not matter.
"mm, wow, thanks, lan zhan," he says, leaning back with contentment.
lan wangji lets his gaze drift over him, grey and brown and glints of silver in the gathering gloom. wei wuxian is at least wearing a jacket today; the year is marching towards spring, but it is still cold. he tips his head back, closing his eyes, and lan wangji looks at his mouth.
there is a crumb of crystallised sugar in the dip of his top lip. lan wangji reaches out with his thumb before he can even think, and just about manages to stop himself an inch away from wei wuxian's skin.
wei wuxian opens his eyes. "lan zhan?"
"you have," lan wangji says, and clears his throat. "sugar."
"oh," wei wuxian breathes. his eyes do not leave lan wangji's.
"i will just—"
lan wangji reaches out the final inch, and brushes his thumb against wei wuxian's lip. it is softer than cream. he lingers, a moment too long, and thinks, wei wuxian could taste him, if he wanted to.
"lan zhan," wei wuxian whispers, and his mouth moves against lan wangji's skin, and it takes every bit of restraint he has not to press his hand closer and touch him properly.
wei wuxian's fingers circle his wrist, and hold his hand in place. his eyes are dark, darker than the city around them.
then wei wuxian's tongue flicks out, and he licks the sugar from his thumb, a flash of hot wetness—and lan wangji cannot hold himself back any longer.
he is not sure who kisses whom. one moment, he is swimming in wei wuxian's eyes in the dark, his pulse so fast he can feel it on his tongue, and the next, everything is soft mouth and warm breath and the sweet smell of sugar caught between lips on a starless night.
wei wuxian makes a small noise that skitters over lan wangji's skin like sparks, soft and needy, and tightens his grip on his wrist, pulling him in closer. lan wangji goes, helpless, falls into him like a lake to drown in; he wants the water to close over his head, wants it to drag him under. the world is like wax around them, melted. lan wangji barely even registers that they are kissing on a roof—all he knows is wei ying, wei ying, wei ying. the gentle slip of his mouth. the skin of his jaw. his hands, bold and daring. the sounds he makes when the kiss deepens.
"lan zhan," wei wuxian mumbles, dragging a breath in the hot space between their faces. "the view is lovely, but i feel it would be safer to take this downstairs."
lan wangji would rather not stop at all, but he recognises that perhaps wei wuxian is making some sense. he does not want to die by falling off a roof after too passionate a kiss. he licks into wei wuxian's mouth again anyway, presses him back against the chimney pot, and wei wuxian chuckles, his hands flat on lan wangji's chest. "lan zhan. my god. come on."
"wei ying," he whispers, "i want—"
"yeah, me too. c'mon."
lan wangji could not describe his scramble back down to and through the window as dignified, but at least wei wuxian seems just as eager. they trip onto the landing and right back into each other's arms, and wei wuxian slides both hands under his jacket and mouths at his neck.
"holy shit, lan zhan," he gasps against his skin. "not how i was expecting my day to go, but boy am i glad about it."
"mn," lan wangji agrees.
"fuck," wei wuxian continues, stumbling them back towards the stairs; lan wangji wraps an arm around him to steady him. "you have no idea."
"do i?" lan wangji retorts, and unlatches himself briefly so that he can follow wei wuxian down the cramped stairway without tripping over.
"you don't. here i was, just minding my own business, doing my little clocky things, and then just you walk in? and look like that? i was fucked. gone."
lan wangji thinks that he does have some idea, in fact, because he had felt the very same way the moment wei wuxian had turned his devastating smile on him several weeks ago, but he does not say as much, because wei wuxian is kissing him again and sliding his jacket off his shoulders.
they back through a low door into a messy room that lan wangji barely pays any attention to, so focused is he on the slide of wei wuxian's tongue against his and the fact that this is happening—that he is here, in victorian london, kissing someone he would be fully willing to stay here for—
"lan zhan," wei wuxian gasps against his mouth, "do you want to—i mean, we don't have to, but—"
but wei wuxian is currently dragging him towards an unmade single bed shoved up against the wall, and his hands are everywhere, and lan wangji very, very much wants to.
"yes," he says, with some force behind it. he slides the hand that is cupping wei wuxian's head down across his chest, under his coat, around to settle at the base of his spine. "yes, wei ying. anything. everything."
"oh, fuck yes," wei wuxian says, and pushes him back onto the bed.
they make quick work of jackets and waistcoats and shoes and lan wangji's pale blue cravat, and wei wuxian pulls his shirt out from his trousers and runs his hands hot, hot up lan wangji's back under the fabric. his body is liquid glass under lan wangji's, burning and moulding around him with eagerness. then their hips stutter together, a firm press, and wei wuxian lets out a moan so filthy lan wangji feels the flush go down his entire chest. "lan zhan," he gasps, and grins at him with lidded eyes. "you—you wanna show me some of your research?"
lan wangji does not roll his eyes, but it's close.
instead, he settles himself more firmly over wei wuxian, pulls his hands out from his shirt, and pins his wrists to the mattress. wei wuxian sucks in a breath, crossing his ankles around lan wangji's hips. his pupils are huge, his breath fast. "fuck, lan zhan. yes please."
"my research," lan wangji says, and thrusts his hips down against wei wuxian's, a slow drag. "was purely academic."
"oh yeah?" wei wuxian gasps, tightening his legs around lan wangji and flicking his tongue out to wet his lips, eyes dancing. "it certainly doesn't seem like it."
lan wangji kisses him for that. he bites his lower lip, drags it between his teeth to hear the high-pitched keen that wei wuxian makes, the way his hands fumble at lan wangji's in an attempt to touch. lan wangji transfers both wrists into one hand above wei wuxian's head, and reaches down between them. he fumbles with wei wuxian's fly, mentally berates the victorians for their propensity for multiple trouser fastenings, and finally gets his hand into wei wuxian's drawers, and then mentally thanks the victorians for the open crotch.
wei wuxian is heavy and hot in his hand, and the noises he makes—
lan wangji can feel his own arousal straining at the tight seam of his trousers. they are both wearing far too many clothes.
"off," he says, releasing wei wuxian's wrists, and wei wuxian sits up with eyes blown wide and hair awry. he stares at lan wangji for a single moment, and then springs into action.
wei wuxian is frantic in his undressing, and although lan wangji does his best to respect his clothes and act with consideration, he finds that he is not far behind in eagerness. the room is dim, but wei wuxian seems to glow in it, the golden spread of his skin, the flush down to his nipples, the curl of hair on his belly, wet, his cock, dark with arousal. lan wangji lets himself look and look and look. he was not lying about his research being purely academic. mostly. even so, he is still swept away by the beauty of wei ying in the soft light. by his openness.
"wei ying," he breathes, reverent. wei wuxian's lips curl, almost shy. he reaches a hand towards lan wangji, and he goes, climbing over him and settling once more between his legs, nothing left now between them but kisses and tender exploration.
wei wuxian is an open book; lan wangji reads every sound, every breath, every gasp. he is soft and sharp, a landscape of lush valleys and heady peaks. he maps the shape of his lips and the sweetness of his throat and the firmness of his chest. he rocks them together like a lullaby.
it does not take long until lan wangji is dangerously close to the precipice. wei wuxian is not quiet in his pleasure, and when lan wangji takes them both in hand and gasps into his open mouth, he cries out so loudly that lan wangji spares a brief thought for any neighbours. but this is not a genteel area, and they have probably heard worse.
watching wei wuxian come apart is maybe one of the most beautiful things lan wangji has ever seen.
he follows, a silent moan bitten into wei wuxian's neck, the edges of the world going fuzzy, wei wuxian's hands in his hair and his sweat on his tongue.
after, wei wuxian curls his body around his on the narrow bed, the air slowly cooling against his skin. wei wuxian wriggles a bit and pulls a rough blanket over them, heedless of stickiness. lan wangji curls his fingers into his hair and kisses his forehead and processes what the fuck just happened.
lan wangji has experience, yes, but it's never—it's never been like this. soul-consuming. like he couldn't get away if he tried. he doesn't want to try.
"wow," wei wuxian says, after several moments. "that was..."
"mn."
"and that was just. that. wait until i get my mouth on your dick."
lan wangji flushes with his whole body; if he hadn't just come, he would instantly be interested. he twitches valiantly anyway.
his mouth works before he can check it, bold: "there will be time." lan wangji will give him time.
"mm, yeah," wei wuxian murmurs lazily. his hand slides over lan wangji's chest, through the dampness on his stomach. "want you to fuck me, as well."
another sudden pulse of arousal. "wei ying," lan wangji whispers sharply.
"yeah?" wei wuxian grins. "although this century is not great on protection." he sighs. "what i wouldn't give for some decent condoms and a bottle of lube sometimes."
he freezes, his entire body tense. the hand that had been brushing over lan wangji's waist stops. his breath catches.
"wei ying?"
"you—you didn't hear that, right? i mean. hah. there's victorian lube and condoms. of course. best you can get."
lan wangji sits up a little to look at him. "wei ying, what are you talking about?"
"you're not meant to know," wei wuxian whispers.
"meant to know?"
"i—mentioned something from the wrong century," wei wuxian whispers. "and i know about aevorals but you're not meant to know why or how or about—about me."
"wei ying," lan wangji says, confused. "you mentioned google the other day."
wei wuxian looks at him with such horror that lan wangji has to press his lips together to hold back his smile. "i did?" he whispers.
"yes," says lan wangji. "when you were talking about ordering a new crystal glass. and your ear decorations are strongly early 21st century in style."
wei wuxian's hand brushes his ear. "they are?"
"mn. wei ying, i know you are not from this century."
"oh," wei wuxian says, and looks at him with wide eyes. "you do?"
"i do not understand how, when you are not like me, but yes. it is—clear, when one knows how to look."
wei wuxian is quiet, but the hand on lan wangji's skin starts moving again, ever so slowly. "so," he says. "you—but you didn't ask."
"it was not my place to pry," lan wangji replies, and when wei wuxian doesn't respond, continues, "would you—like to tell me? why?"
wei wuxian seems to consider this, watching the movement of his finger of lan wangji's skin. lan wangji waits. if he tells him, he will listen; if he doesn't, he will accept it.
wei wuxian's fingers stop over his heart. he traces a pattern there, slow, gentle.
"i was."
"you—were?"
wei wuxian doesn't meet his eyes, keeps his gaze fixed on the careful pattern beneath his fingertips. "i was aevoral. once. i no longer am."
well. that certainly explains—a lot. his propensity for anachronisms, his knowledge of ancient china and 21st century terminology. lan wangji is not sure what he had expected, but it makes sense. it makes sense insofar as—he has never heard of anyone losing their aevoral powers.
"i know you probably have questions," wei wuxian mumbles. "i don't—i'm not good at talking about it. i'm sorry."
"it is fine," lan wangji says. "i will not ask."
"it's okay," wei wuxian says. he rolls forward and presses his face into lan wangji's chest. "you can."
lan wangji considers; he does not want to press wei wuxian further than he is willing to be pressed. he will let him lead the conversation.
he settles on, "do you miss it?"
wei wuxian hums, and nuzzles his nose against lan wangji's pectoral. he kisses his nipple gently. "sometimes," he murmurs.
lan wangji stays quiet, lets him continue.
"it's like—you don't really know what you've got until it's gone, you know? and now i feel like there are all these things i could have done that i didn't, and places i could have gone but i didn't, and so much that i never got to see—"
lan wangji presses a kiss to the top of his head. wei wuxian wraps himself closer around him, like an octopus, dragging the blanket up to his chin. "but it's not—it's not even that. like, i have it good here. i run a clock shop, of all things, which was almost a conscious decision. and there's good stuff happening in this century! loads of tech advancement, lan zhan, and hearing about it in person in real time is so cool. but it's—there are still things that. um. that i wish were different."
"mn?"
wei wuxian sighs and rolls over, onto his back. there is a moment of reshuffling. it is a small bed.
"my family are aevoral," wei wuxian says. "hell, you probably know them, i'd heard of the lans. the jiangs?"
lan wangji nods, then realises wei wuxian probably can't see it, and hums in agreement.
he does know of them; has bumped into a certain jiang wanyin at the shanghai Permanence a couple of times (a couple of times too many, he thinks privately, brash and unforgiving, but he does not say this to wei wuxian).
"yeah," wei wuxian continues. "so. they—i didn't mean to come here."
"no," lan wangji says. he is sure that if he could choose a century to end up in, it would at least be one where he could kiss another man in public without being thrown into jail.
"no," wei wuxian agrees. "i didn't know i was coming here. and nor did they."
"they do not know you are here?"
wei wuxian shakes his head, and pulls lan wangji's arm around his chest. "and the worst fucking thing is, lan zhan, that because i'm not aevoral any more, i can't get into the Permanence to leave them a message so they'll know."
lan wangji's heart thumps in his chest. he thinks back to his first days in this city, to reading through the logbook, tries to remember if he saw any jiangs, any sign that they might be missing him too. he does not remember. but he cannot—
"lan zhan?"
he is sitting up before he knows it.
"i will help you," he says, and wei wuxian looks at him like he's lost his head. "wei ying. get dressed, and come with me."
"lan zhan—wait—what—"
he pulls on his undergarments. "wei ying. we are going to the Permanence, and you are going to leave a message for your family."
"what," wei wuxian splutters, all but falling out of bed. "but you—i'm not allowed in—"
"i will be there," lan wangji says. "i can enter. you will enter with me. come on."
wei wuxian hesitates, trepidation in his eyes. lan wangji drops his cravat and goes to him, cups his jaw and tilts it up. he kisses him once, tender, and wei wuxian loosens under his hands. "wei ying," he whispers. "please let me help you."
wei wuxian looks at him, vulnerable and open and laid bare, here in his room in his clock shop in the city he never chose. he covers lan wangji's hand on his chin, and something softens around his eyes, and lan wangji feels his heart thump with certainty.
"okay, lan zhan," he whispers. "yeah. okay."
—
greenwich park is populated with shadows and stillness when they slip over the brick wall that encircles it. the lights of the observatory cast a shallow glow over the dark grass, still burning as the night approaches its peak. lan wangji takes wei wuxian's hand and pulls him towards the hill.
it feels like years have passed since he was last here. it feels like no time at all. everything is different now that wei wuxian's tight grip is wrapped in his own.
the moon and stars are hidden tonight; the silver door gleams nonetheless. it is sequestered away, but non-aevoral eyes will slip right over it anyway. wei wuxian follows lan wangji's lead, silent. he has barely spoken since they left his shop.
"here," lan wangji whispers, and presses his hand against the door. it warms, briefly, under his palm, and then swings open to the gloom within.
"oh," wei wuxian says. perhaps it had just seemed like lan wangji was pressing his hand to the wall. "it's right here."
"mn," lan wangji replies. he tightens his grip on wei wuxian's hand slightly. "are you coming in?"
wei wuxian swallows, and looks into the darkness beyond the door. he is hesitant. nervous.
"i don't—"
"there is no obligation, wei ying. but it is just a room."
wei wuxian meets his gaze, eyes wide, and nods jerkily. "yeah. okay. you're right. it's fine."
and then he strides past lan wangji into the Permanence.
it really is just a room. nothing has changed since lan wangji was last here—he left it just as tidy as he found it. the only difference is that the clothes he wore are now folded in his dresser at madame costello's. he should return them, now that he has his own.
"woah," wei wuxian breathes.
he turns on his heel, looking around the dark room, at the cot and the wardrobe and the shelves lined with non-perishables. he wanders up to them in awe, draws his fingers over canned beans and packets of dried pasta and milk powder. "holy shit," he says. "look at this."
lan wangji lights a small oil lantern and brings it over to him, casts the golden light across the food. "lan zhan," wei wuxian says. "oh my god. are these skittles?"
"mn," lan wangji replies. "i believe so."
wei wuxian lifts them off the shelf with reverence. "oh my god. lan zhan, it has been years."
he turns to lan wangji with nothing short of delight. "can i?"
lan wangji tilts his head indulgently. "i don't see why not."
wei wuxian grins and tears the packet open, sticking his nose into the bag and inhaling deeply. "fuck," he groans into it, muffled. "refined sugar. i've missed this."
lan wangji lights the rest of the lanterns as wei wuxian starts crunching on the skittles—his little moans of pleasure do not go unheeded—and then stands awkwardly by the table. there is a reason they came here, and unfortunately, it is not as colourful as skittles.
eventually, wei wuxian's eyes drift over to him, and the table. the logbook lying innocently there, inkwell and pen and blotting paper. he stills, lowering the bag of skittles.
"is that it?" he murmurs. there is apprehension in his gaze.
"it is," lan wangji says. "i have read it."
"oh," wei wuxian says, approaching. "did you find anything?"
"i did not read it in great depth," lan wangji admits, "but there were many entries. we can look through it together, if you like."
wei wuxian glances at him, then back to the book. he nods slowly. "yeah. yes, i think that would be good."
they sit together at the table, pressed thigh to thigh, and lan wangji covers wei wuxian's hand with his on the wood between them as he cracks open the logbook. it is Old old, has been here since at least roman times, although the paper is of a quality far beyond that. the first entry is 59AD.
"alright," wei wuxian says. when they'd left his shop, the clocks had been saying 8:34pm. lan wangji's eyes are tired, but he will only sleep tonight if forced; finding wei wuxian's family is far more important.
"alright," he agrees, and they begin reading through with diligence.
reading logbooks is always fascinating. year, date, the aevoral's name. length of stay, purpose of visit. remarks on events or sights or discoveries. london has hosted many. it is a thick tome, but with both of them working on it they make decent progress.
by the middle ages, the only mention of the jiangs is an extended relative investigating the development of polyphonic forms in music. they read on, as the night ticks later. many of the entries are grouped around significant historical events—the magna carta, the plague, guy fawkes and the gunpowder plots, henry viii's reign. coronations and monarch deaths and battles. it is interesting, lan wangji muses, how little concern there seems to be for life in times of peace.
they reach the mid 19th c. without another mention of any jiangs (lan wangji did see his brother, briefly, visit around the time of jane austen's initial publications), and wei wuxian slumps further against him, curling his fingers into his lap and sighing. lan wangji reads up to his entry. nothing.
well. at least they tried.
"i don't know what i expected," wei wuxian says. "they probably think i'm dead."
"we don't know that," lan wangji says, curling his arm around him.
"we basically do," wei wuxian mutters, but doesn't elaborate. "'m tired, lan zhan. we should go to bed—fuck, your work."
lan wangji presses a kiss to his hairline. "it is a saturday."
"oh." it does not surprise him that wei wuxian is not totally aware of the days of the week—on a normal day, he himself has to check. but none of these days have been normal.
"one more thing, before we sleep," lan wangji says.
wei wuxian looks at him with weary eyes. the heated kisses and dark looks they had shared earlier in the evening feel strangely distant now, so lan wangji kisses him again, properly, just as a reminder. wei wuxian melts into it, and makes a little noise when lan wangji pulls back.
"that was a good one more thing," he says, and pouts. lan wangji resists the urge to taste it again. "why did you stop?"
"that was not the thing," lan wangji explains.
"hmph. can it be the thing? wanna kiss you until i fall asleep."
lan wangji ducks his gaze away. that does sound enjoyable.
"the logbook," he explains. "if you were to leave a message. as long as someone checks it after this year, they will know that you are alive, and here, and they will be able to come and find you." the message idea was the main reason he'd dragged him here, after all.
wei wuxian stares at him for a long moment, lips parted, eyes wide.
"oh my god, lan zhan, you fucking genius." he grabs the pen, the inkwell, dips and almost splatters ink all over the book in his haste. he puts the nib to paper, then stops, and bites his lip. "fuck. what do i say?"
"your name, to begin," lan wangji suggests, and wei wuxian nods, and scribbles it down in english and then chinese. "the date. and then—"
"'i am here and i'm alive,'" wei wuxian sounds out as he writes. "'doing good! just thought i'd let you know. sorry for disappearing.' there. how's that?"
lan wangji presses his smile into his shoulder. wei wuxian is practically vibrating. "i think that is just right," he says. he would perhaps have given more information, but it will do.
"awesome." wei wuxian blots it, blows on it, shuts the book, and gets up. "nice! okay. now what?"
"now bed."
they don't even need to discuss the fact that they're going to stay here rather than returning to their respective homes. the cot is narrow, but wei wuxian fits on top of lan wangji like a snug blanket, and he wraps his arms around him and tucks his head into his neck and sighs happily.
"thank you, lan zhan," he whispers, and the words tumble into lan wangji's heart like sand in an hourglass, tipping him closer and closer to the precipice, the point of no return. who is he kidding. he reached that point when wei wuxian smiled at him weeks ago. when the hourglass was flipped.
"sleep, wei ying," he says, and it sounds like i love you.
—
there is a new thrill to the way wei wuxian carries himself in the following week. lan wangji still visits him every evening, watches him work, listens with interest to his idle chatter, but now, there is more—mouths moving together, and tender hands, and gasps of pleasure stolen by wet lips. quiet words, hidden under sheets, and skin in the golden lamplight. exploration, embraces. madame costello eyes him suspiciously when he eventually returns after three nights of absence.
there is no sign of anything from wei wuxian's family, but he seems thrilled at the thought alone that he has let them know he is alive—that they could find him, if they were looking. and beyond that, he is thrilled at the progress he is making with lan wangji's timepiece. he seems to have made a breakthrough.
he gives him little updates every evening, shows him his progress—still carefully keeps lan wangji out of his back room, but that's fine, he can allow wei wuxian his privacy. he has already given him so much.
and then, almost three full months after lan wangji landed with a thud on the bank of the thames, he enters crossbones mechanisms and is met with a gasp of delight.
"lan zhan! lan zhan, oh my god, you took your time—it's done! i did it! it's done. i fixed it." he laughs. "i think."
lan wangji's stomach does a full acrobatic routine and lands with a flourish. fuck. it's done. it's finished. wei wuxian did it, of course he did, because he's amazing.
it's finished. lan wangji's uninterrupted stretch of time, his forced stay, his life-changing sudden alteration of plans. finished.
"i—wei ying. that's—well done." he clears his throat, and steps into the shop properly, the atmosphere so natural that he has to seek out to find it now—and wei wuxian's face drops.
"lan zhan? are you—are you not glad?"
he looks crestfallen, dismayed. lan wangji's heart breaks, and he rushes to repair any hurt he's caused. "yes, wei ying, of course i am glad," he says emphatically, crossing to his desk and covering wei wuxian's hands with his. "i am sorry. i merely—" he sighs, cutting himself off.
"lan zhan?" wei wuxian asks, voice small.
"i do not wish," lan wangji murmurs, "to be parted from you."
the ticking of the clocks. the under-skin thrum of the weird atmosphere that surrounds wei wuxian's shop. distant street sounds.
"oh." wei wuxian hiccups, and when lan wangji looks at him, his eyes are wet.
it strikes lan wangji that he does not care if his timepiece is fixed. he realises, like breathing, that he would give it all up to stay here with him. that he can give it all up and stay here with him, that just because he has the ability to go anywhere, any time, he could just—not.
"mn," lan wangji says, and wei wuxian chuckles wetly.
"i'm always gonna be right here," he says. "you could—finish your research. come back. i'll be here. i'll be waiting."
even the thought of—of suddenly being 250 years ahead of wei wuxian, and on a different continent—hurts. he doesn't want—
"no," he says, and wei wuxian looks at him in shock.
"no? lan zhan, you're aevoral. you can't let me hold you back from that. i'm not—i'm not worth—"
"don't," lan wangji grits out, "don't you dare say you're not worth it." he leans forward across the counter, presses his forehead to wei wuxian's. "you," he says, "have changed my life, wei ying." wei wuxian makes some noise in the back of his throat, but lan wangji squeezes his hands tighter, shakes his head. "before this—before you, i—" fuck, why are words so much harder when you have to say them. "i was so lonely," he whispers. "being aevoral is—so lonely. you made it not." he wishes he could invite wei wuxian into his head, into his heart, help him see the depth and breadth of everything he keeps there—everything he feels about him. "i do not wish to be parted from you."
wei wuxian sobs, and then he's pulling lan wangji around the desk, into his arms, and pressing those sobs against his mouth, trembling lips against his. "lan zhan," he mumbles. "lan zhan, you don't—oh my god, i didn't know you—i had hoped, but i didn't—i thought it was just me."
"just wei ying?"
"lan zhan, i think i'm in love with you," wei wuxian murmurs, and then chuckles wetly, and pulls back to look at him with gleaming eyes. "oh my god. i am. i'm in love with you. fuck."
lan wangji cups his face, wipes his tears with his thumbs. "wei ying. i love you too."
they kiss again, deeper, and there's saltwater on both their faces, and wei wuxian goes loose against the desk when lan wangji leans him back over it, kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. pours everything into every kiss. he can stay. he doesn't have to go. he can stay, aevoral or not.
wei wuxian chuckles wetly again, and pushes back against his chest. "okay, okay, lan zhan, let me breathe. wow." he laughs, and pushes his hair behind his ear. "holy shit, huh."
"mn."
"right. okay. whew. so—i'm afraid we do need to talk about the timepiece again."
lan wangji stands up properly and straightens his coat. that's fine. as long as he knows he can stay, it's fine.
"so," wei wuxian says, and produces a box from the mess of the desk. lan wangji can feel the swirl of that atmosphere around him again, pressing at his skin. time and space. together.
"so. i worked really hard on this. yes—yes, shh, you can give me compliments in a bit, hang on. i worked really hard on it, and obviously i can't perform the final test myself. so."
oh. of course. he cannot undo all of wei wuxian's work by refusing to even test it for him.
"yes," he says. "yes. i will test it for you. it is fine."
wei wuxian laughs, and lan wangji can see the relief in his shoulders. "awesome. i don't—i don't want you to be in danger, though, lan zhan—"
"i will not be in danger. i trust in wei ying's capabilities."
wei wuxian blushes; it is a splendid look on him. "okay," he says. "well. we should probably get it out of the way now, and then if you really never want to time travel again, at least it's done. and you literally can just go back half an hour, down the street. let's not push it."
"mn," lan wangji agrees. not pushing it is wise; they still don't know what broke it in the first place. "and then i will come right back."
"right," wei wuxian says, and opens the box.
his timepiece is lying on a cushion of blue velvet, shining, new crystal glass and the same well-worn leather strap. the atmosphere in the room seems to swell with it, enough that lan wangji can feel it in his mouth. wei wuxian lifts it out delicately, and hands it to him.
maybe he imagines it, but a shiver spikes up his arm when he touches it, alive and brimming with power. wei wuxian watches with concerned eyes as he folds it over his wrist, fastens the strap. the weight bears the strange familiarity of a lost pair of shoes. he will have to relearn it.
"well," wei wuxian says, "it didn't explode when you touched it, so that's a good sign." he laughs. it's nervous.
lan wangji settles it into place and turns the dials on the side—backwards travel, 30 minutes. spatial travel—he twizzles and twizzles until he has the coordinates for the street.
and just like that he's ready. just like that, he could leave wei wuxian in 19th century london and return to ancient japan, or 22nd century shanghai, or early mesopotamia, or anywhere or any time he wants. or doesn't want, like last time.
the thought twists his stomach like a vice.
it is fine; wei wuxian has done an exemplary job. he will travel half an hour back, and down the street, and then he will immediately return to right here, right now. and stay.
"wait," wei wuxian says, and rounds the desk. he leans up and presses his mouth to lan wangji's. "just in case."
lan wangji places his hand over wei wuxian's heart, and lets it build in him—that familiar pulse of expectation, of determination, of intent. he sees wei wuxian swallow. he sees wei wuxian smile at him encouragingly. he sees wei wuxian turn suddenly towards the door to the back room—
and then he jumps.
several things happen at once.
the swooping feeling behind his navel that comes with a jump. a flash, bright white, blinding. a huge, sonic boom. a sudden cacophony of sound, ear-splitting—all the clocks, going off, even though it is only 6:48pm. a cry from wei wuxian.
the thud.
lan wangji is completely numb. he does not know where his skin ends, where his body starts. whether he has a body. he cannot see. he cannot hear. he exists—this is all he knows.
and then he smells it.
sharp, acrid, sulphur and ozone that burn at his lungs. he has lungs. he is breathing. mostly.
he blinks; he has eyes. feeling comes back slowly, and he realises he is lying on the floor of crossbones mechanisms. he feels like he just got an electric shock.
he blinks again, looks up at the dark beamed ceiling, and the smell of ozone heightens. it is dizzying. clearly, the jump has gone wrong, but if he is alive, then his first thought is—
"wei ying?"
he can feel his hands enough to use them to sit himself up. and sees him.
wei wuxian is crumpled on the far side of the shop, his hands curled over his stomach, unmoving. fear erupts in lan wangji's chest like an explosion, catching shrapnel in his lungs, his heartbeat. he scrambles until he has his knees under himself and crawl-shuffles towards him, still shaky.
"wei ying? wei ying." his breath is coming short, and he pulls his cravat up over his nose in an effort to block out the putrid smell of gas. it is only marginally effective.
wei wuxian is warm when he presses a hand to his neck, breathing, lightly. his hair is falling in his face. lan wangji pushes it away and cups his chin. "wei ying," he whispers. "be alive."
there is no response for a long time, despite his careful touches and little shakes and soft words. the fear expands, sliding down his arms and fingers, wetting his eyes. "wei ying. please."
"—an zhan."
the littlest slip of his voice, and lan wangji is flooded with relief. he is alive, and aware, and everything is—
the ozone-sulphur hits him again. everything is not fine.
"wei ying," he repeats. "something has happened."
wei wuxian chuckles and it turns into a cough. "you don't say."
he groans and pushes himself up, clutching his chest. lan wangji's hands flutter over him, but wei wuxian shakes his head, pushes him away a little—"wait, lan zhan, let me just—oh, fuck, what is that smell?"
what is the smell? there had been no odour the first time his timepiece had malfunctioned other than the piss-rich scent of victorian london. it is heady, overwhelming.
"ozone and sulphur," lan wangji offers, and together they wobble to their feet. wei wuxian immediately grabs lan wangji's wrist.
"your timepiece," he says. it appears entirely whole; no change. wei wuxian looks at it with suspicion, holding lan wangji's arm up to his face. he sniffs it. and then—"oh, fuck. fucking hell."
lan wangji's stomach twists. "what is it?"
wei wuxian rotates his wrist so it faces him. "look."
he looks, and the twist in his stomach tightens into a fist. the minuscule clocks on his timepiece say that it is the fourth of april.
8560AD.
ah. wei wuxian is right. fuck.
"that was not what i programmed," lan wangji says plainly.
wei wuxian looks at him, and his lips wobble, and then he makes a sort of choked noise, and then—he's laughing, guffawing, doubling over and clutching his stomach, holding himself up on lan wangji.
"oh my god, lan zhan," he snorts. "holy shit. oh my god. of course it wasn't. of course you didn't. holy shit. we're in the 86th century. wow." he wipes his eyes, and grins at lan wangji. "sorry. laughter is the only way to avoid a panic attack right now."
wei wuxian straightens up, takes a deep breath, and then coughs again. "fuck, that is disgusting. this is so fucking weird. shit. okay. better work out what the hell has happened here."
he strides over to the wall, and starts lifting clocks out of the way, and that's when lan wangji sees—
all the clocks, which had so reliably had their handles turned to 6:48pm not a moment ago, have changed. more alarmingly, he realises, they are all showing different times.
"wei ying—" he starts, but wei wuxian is busy moving things; bright light streams in from the now-exposed window—
"oh, wow," wei wuxian breathes. lan wangji moves up behind him, and looks.
the sight beyond the window is nothing like redcross way. grey-white dirt streaks from the window to the horizon, bouncing bright with vivid sunlight, hazy with heat waves. there are no trees. there is no life. there is not much of anything, certainly no signs of london. just a sun-blistered wasteland, and a pearl-grey sky.
"welcome to the 86th century, i guess," wei wuxian mumbles. "lan zhan. whatever you do, don't open the front door."
"no," lan wangji agrees.
the fact that they have a front door alone is strange enough. timepieces are designed to bring the wearer and their very immediate surroundings—clothes, and anything they might be holding. he has never heard of one bringing an entire—house? before.
wei wuxian spins to face him with sudden shock. "do you think we—"
he seems to have had the same idea. he rushes over to the adjacent wall, shoves a mantle clock out of the way, and presses his ear to the wall. "they're really loud on this side," he explains. "crying baby."
he scrunches his nose up against the smell, and listens. "nothing," he whispers. "i would be surprised if we had."
"do you know what has happened?" lan wangji asks. "my timepiece did not crack."
"no," wei wuxian says. "but i've got some ideas."
lan wangji follows him to his desk, and wei wuxian sits on his stool and stairs at the window. "how much oxygen do you think we have? i might have left a window open in the attic."
"enough," lan wangji says.
wei wuxian looks at him, unsure. "okay. well. ah, fuck it. it's villain backstory time."
he pulls lan wangji onto the stool beside him and holds his hands in his lap. "i promise that this is relevant. it's just that my ideas might sound somewhat alarming to you if i don't explain how they got there in the first place."
lan wangji trusts him. they have time. just. "mn."
"okay! great. okay." he shuffles close enough for their knees to press together. "so, i was fucking around with some stuff, before all of this went down. back in the 2020s. wild decade. would not recommend."
"i have visited. the climate crisis was incredibly alarming in person."
"yep. terrifying. so—close your good boy lan ears, babe, because what i'm about to say is explicitly against the aevoral council rules."
lan wangji brings his knuckles to his lips and kisses them. "nothing you tell me can change my feelings about you."
wei wuxian splutters. "lan zhan! please save the romantic declarations for when we are not in a time of crisis. i definitely can't take them right now, but i will consider maybe steeling myself for them at a later date."
"i am sorry," lan wangji says, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
"you're lucky you're cute," wei wuxian teases. "okay, so, 2020s. and i was fucking around with, uh, non-aevoral time travel." he pauses, as if to gauge lan wangji's reaction; lan wangji keeps his face carefully calm and supportive. that is wildly against the rules. and also not at all unexpected. wei wuxian swallows and continues. "yeah, so, that. wormholes and dark matter and shit. the physics was really interesting. and then the wen corp found out about us, and they started going after aevorals."
lan wangji nods; it had been the reason why he visited 2024 in the first place.
"i mean, you know about it. they were trying to replicate aevorals of their own. i think it would have been really cool, if it wasn't for all the people they murdered in the process." he stops, rubs his thumbs over lan wangji's hands. "and then they got my brother."
"wei ying," lan wangji breathes, and wei wuxian takes a deep breath and shakes his head.
"it's okay. i—i went after him. i bargained with them. told them that if they took me instead, i could help them with their evil lab stuff, because of my research. so they did."
of course he did. wei wuxian is so willing to give of himself, so willing to do the right thing for those he loves. of course he would give himself in his brother's place.
"and then they strapped me up to their evil machine, and told me they were gonna extract the aevoral from me, and then they flicked the switch and—boom. supernova. i have no idea how or what the fuck happened. but it forced me to jump without a timepiece. and through some sheer feat of luck, i ended up here. well, not here. in east sussex, in 1873. but close enough."
a jump without a timpiece. almost never attempted. definitely never succeeded. except—
except for the living proof of it, sitting in front of him with their fingers laced together and their breath mingling in the ozone-laden air. the chances are extraordinary.
and wei wuxian is the one who has done it. because wei wuxian is extraordinary.
"and then," wei wuxian continues, and there's a smile in his voice, "because i had nothing better to do, i opened up a clock shop... and continued my research." he slips off the stool. "come with me, lan zhan."
he twists their fingers together, and drags lan wangji through the door behind the grandfather clock, door the messy corridor, past the stairway up to wei wuxian's bed. to the door to the back room. and even here, in 8560AD, lan wangji can feel the thrum of the atmospheric pull of it.
"welcome to my evil lair," wei wuxian says, and pushes the door open.
the majority of the room is taken up by metal plating, gleaming silver in the faint light of a lantern on the desk. the smell of ozone is stronger in here, and the air static with electricity. mess fills the spaces. wei wuxian has left his mark everywhere, papers strewn about, tools piled on tools, half-finished bits of machinery and projects laid on top of those. the metal framing is so high it reaches the ceiling, a huge cylindrical box; wei wuxian slaps his hand against it as he enters.
"this bad boy," he says, "is probably the reason we're here."
lan wangji is nonplussed. "what is it?"
"what is it? lan zhan, honey, this is what the common folks call a time machine."
lan wangji stares; wei wuxian looks at him and laughs. "oh my god, don't look at me like that. i'm not the one calling a time machine. it's just the most commonly recognised term. personally i would call it an ANEC-violating matter creator and interdimensional transportation unit." he laughs again. "but that's a bit of a mouthful. it's just annie for short."
the fact that wei wuxian has built a time machine in 19th century london with only the materials on hand is not lost on lan wangji. he gapes, a little. "and what does it do?"
"it creates exotic matter—like, negative gravity, kinda? quantum stuff—and uses it to create a wormhole that would then allow me to jump back and forwards in time. and space. or at least, it would, if it worked."
"and now it has worked."
"yep! thanks to your aevoral jump."
lan wangji stares at it for a while longer. wei wuxian chatters on in physics jargon, flitting about, and lan wangji transfers his gaze to him. wei wuxian did this. wei wuxian and his amazing brain, his ingenuity, his intellect, did this.
"wei ying," he says. "has anyone ever told you how brilliant you are?"
wei wuxian pauses in his monologue to scrunch his nose up at lan wangji. "what did i say about romantic declarations? come on, lan zhan, enough of that. right now, we need to work out how we can reverse engineer whatever just happened, and use it to bring us home."
lan wangji shakes himself out of it. "of course, wei ying. whatever you need."
whatever wei wuxian needs, actually, turns out to be significant. notebooks and tools from the other room and lan wangji's aid with holding things and his timepiece. mostly, his timepiece.
"annie" is not hollow; the insides are full of crude wiring and devices and mechanisms and brass and steel and glass. wei wuxian builds a mount for the timepiece right there before his eyes, in this land of ozone and sulphur. just from what he has lying around. installs it with pride.
they work through what their bodies tell them is the night. the air becomes lighter. wei wuxian's lips press tighter together. the twist starts up in lan wangji's stomach again. he doesn't let him think about what will happen if it doesn't work, if they can't get home, if they end up stuck—
right. he doesn't think about it.
and then, hours and hours later—how many he cannot tell, all the clocks still tell the wrong time—wei wuxian emerges from annie with grease on his forehead and a spanner in his hand and a tired grin on his face.
"okay, lan zhan. we're going home."
lan wangji reaches for him, and pulls him into his arms. he feels out of breath; he can feel that wei wuxian is only taking shallow breaths too. they need to leave, sooner rather than later.
"i don't know if it will work," wei wuxian murmurs into his neck. "but it's better than dying like this."
lan wangji kisses his temple, and whispers into his ear. "as long as i am with you, wei ying, it does not matter what happens."
wei wuxian makes a little noise, and tightens his hands in his jacket, and lan wangji holds him closer. then he pulls his head back, just enough, and kisses him. it is tender and sweet, aching. when wei wuxian pulls back lan wangji can see every single one of his eyelashes. wei wuxian smiles in the thin morning air. "for luck," he says.
"for wei ying's skill," lan wangji agrees, and releases him, ignoring his bashful splutters.
it does not take them long to get ready. they set the timepiece to the 4th of april, 1886, 6:48pm. redcross way, london. the exact coordinates. wei wuxian joins lan wangji in the quiet of the back room, slipping his hand into his. he presses the other to annie's metal body.
"okay," he whispers, and lan wangji squeezes his hand to let him know that he's there. that he's not alone this time, jumping into the void. "you know what to do. let's go."
the thrum of annie's atmosphere. the ozone and sulphur. no clocks ticking. just wei wuxian's smile.
lan wangji jumps.
thud.
this time, there is no sonic boom, no flash, no cacophony of clocks. no falling to the floor, no cry, no putrid smell of a ravaged earth. there is just him, and his body—bones, skin, hair, teeth. all alive. all present.
and in his hand, wei wuxian, warm, alive, present.
he opens his eyes—
crossbones mechanisms. the backroom. annie's gentle thrum, and the static electricity on the air. oxygen, flooding his lungs like a euphoric high.
"oh my god," wei wuxian whispers, his hand slipping off annie. "lan zhan, did we—did we do it?"
in answer, lan wangji pulls him through to the front room—and all the clocks are right again, their handles pointing to 6:48, and through the window gleams dim light—
he opens the door, and is met with the piss-stench of victorian london.
"wei ying. we did it." he turns to him, to wei wuxian's stunned expression, the dirt on his face and his rolled up sleeves and his bright eyes and his everything, and cups his face. "you did it."
"we did it," wei wuxian breathes. "holy shit. lan zhan. i just—i just intentionally travelled through time! holy shit!"
"you did," lan wangji says, and presses their mouths together, smile to smile. "you did it, wei ying. you and annie."
"and you, lan zhan," wei wuxian retorts. "don't forget the most important person."
"together," lan wangji agrees, and tucks him into his arms, his nose in his hair. "together."
together: together, they created a working time machine, with wei wuxian's intellect and lan wangji's aevoral jumping. together, they travelled through time. together, they can stay, and never be parted—anywhere, any time, any place.
together.
they go to the Permanence the next day, after a night of thorough rest and a morning of thorough togetherness. lan wangji presses on the door and wei wuxian bounds in and grabs another packet of skittles, and together, they open the logbook.
there, in march 1811, an entry that was not there before: wei ying, your jiejie fell over when she found out you were alive. you've got a lot to say sorry for. meet us here on the seventeenth of april 1886 at 10am. you'd better be on time or i'll break your legs.
wei wuxian cries about it, and tells lan wangji that it means his brother is alive and his sister is alive and that they're excited to see him. he stresses that the 17th is less than two weeks away. lan wangji rubs his back and feeds him skittles.
they go to madame costello's, and lan wangji introduces wei wuxian to everyone who has wondered where he has been staying every night, and wei wuxian is fawned over and flirts with alacrity. lan wangji has plans to fund her properly, and create an in-depth exhibition on her work as part of his research. he leaves the toys for now—he will retrieve them when he can offer something more promising in return. well, he leaves most of them. wei wuxian had asked to see some of his physical research data, after all.
he moves his things out of the draughty attic room into wei wuxian's little clock shop, and apologises to mr. dresden for being distracted about his work, and takes most of his salary to go and buy them a larger bed. they bundle it up the stairs and spread out on it with delight.
on the 17th, he takes wei wuxian to the Permanence, stands politely to the side as he falls into a teary embrace with a small, kind-faced woman and a brash, stern-faced man. a child appears from the woman's robes, and wei wuxian makes such a noise that lan wangji is not sure his eyes are dry either.
then the woman—jiang yanli—hugs him too, and jiang wanyin grips his shoulder and mutters thank you angrily and wei wuxian beams at him with a child on his hip and lan wangji thinks, together, together, together together together together.
they return to the roof where it started, and wei wuxian rests his head on lan wangji's shoulder, and the clouds part to reveal stars high, high above the city smog.
"thank you," wei wuxian whispers.
"for what?"
he scoffs softly. "lan zhan. for everything. for loving me."
lan wangji tucks his thumb under his chin and turns his head so he can kiss him. "wei ying. you do not need to thank me for loving you."
"lan zhan, my time machine messed with your timepiece enough that not only did you end up here, but we also both ended up in 8560. i'm thanking you."
"we came back," lan wangji says. "we came back, and we can go again, and we can come back again, and through it all, wei ying—together. you do not need to thank me for being together."
"hmph," wei wuxian protests, but lan wangji smiles, and fits his head under his chin, and looks up at the stars.
the stars, and the skyline, and the city below—and here, in the heart of it, his wei ying. wei ying, who threw his life off course, who knocked him sideways through time and space, who showed him a life he'd never known. wei ying, for who he would have given up everything.
he doesn't have to. through wei wuxian's clever hands, he can have both—his life as an aevoral, and his life with wei wuxian. they are now forever linked.
all the time in the world. but with wei wuxian pressed warm into his side, here—there is no any where, or any time, or any place he'd rather be.
— THE END —