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Wangji decides to take his evening meal in his rooms rather than with the rest of the sect leaders in Lanling’s banquet hall. The conference has already gone on too long, with too many questions and too many arguments. Why, he catches himself wondering once again, did they even appoint him as Chief Cultivator if they don’t want to listen? Was it only to have someone new to blame if a hunt went wrong or a patrol schedule led to conflict between clans? Had they thought him an impressionable puppet, sheltered from his brother’s former role in politics and easily manipulated? Or was it simply that no one else would take the position?
He stops, his thoughts quieting as he stands in the doorway. The ward that broke when he slid open the door was not the one he left. Something, or someone, has been in his rooms. He holds Bichen tighter and steps carefully. He can sense no active resentment, but he has learned to be more cautious in the last few years. Even the illusion of privacy has been much, much harder to come by.
The changes are small things. A red-embroidered sachet of herbs rests on the small central table, the silk imbued with a touch of power: Protection. Healing. Relaxation. A pink peony has been laid against his pillow on the bed.
The high sweet notes of a flute trill outside his window, and he’s halfway across the room before he fully processes what’s being played.
It’s not Wangxian but it fits Wangxian. It dances and skips around the melody, leaving room for other notes. A question, waiting for a reply. He reaches the terrace and can make out a shadowed figure in the nearest plum tree, a flute held to their lips. It can only be Wei Ying.
Wei Ying, who is supposed to be in Yiling, pacifying spirits and preparing the ground for a new lotus crop in his ongoing efforts to cleanse the soil. Or so his last letter had said.
The flute plays on, still calling. Waiting. Wangji sits, his hands moving over his guqin in answer. It has been too long since he played only for himself and too long without the soaring giddiness of Wei Ying’s accompaniment. He can feel his pulse rushing from one note to the next even as his hands hold true to the melody—surprise, and longing, and exuberant joy. Anticipation thrums in his throat.
As the last notes fade, the figure jumps from the tree to his terrace, long limbs and streaming hair silhouetted against the glow of the moon.
“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying smiles wide enough his eyes scrunch up with it. Chenqing hangs from his hand, the red tassel swinging between his knees as he perches on the railing. “I admit, I wasn’t sure you would join me.”
Always. Wangji’s eyes drop to the guqin in his lap. Anywhere. Any moment.
“You played a new part,” he says instead of voicing those thoughts. “It fit.” Fit the song. Fit Wei Ying’s role in his life, bright and leaping. Fit them together like lock and key.
“But did you like it?” Wei Ying asks. Wangji watches him slip onto the terrace itself, his footsteps light on the smooth-sanded floorboards.
“Mn,” he confirms. Surely that was obvious. He wouldn’t have joined in the playing, otherwise.
“Good!” Wei Ying grins again, a half-huff of laughter following the word. “I hoped you would. I’ve been working on it for months.” He sinks down beside Wangji, first sitting and then slumping with a sigh to lie flat on his back, his arms stretching up above his head.
Months. Warmth unfurls in Wangji’s chest like a blooming flower. He has a handful of precious letters tucked between books, Wei Ying’s personality writ large in impassioned words and the crisp strokes of his sketches, but there had been no mention of music in them. He wishes, for a moment, that he had an appropriate gift to give in return. Something to go along with the fan of dark hair spreading out at his side. Something to keep Wei Ying close—
Wangji tears his eyes a way from bared wrists and fingers curling against open palms. Wei Ying is watching him with half-lidded eyes, his face half-shadowed.
“Lan Zhan,” he says, his voice low and soft, “did you know that this floor is more comfortable than the last three places I’ve slept?”
The urge to kiss him is strong. To invite him to the bed in the next room. To sink down next to him and hold Wei Ying’s face in his hands and guide their lips together. To forget that anything else exists. He is almost certain he would be welcomed—the months apart have been long, but not long enough to erase the feeling of Wei Ying’s breath against his neck, of lips pressed behind his ear and fingers tangled in his hair. But this is Lanling, not a camp they’ve made together while night hunting with only the sky to see them, and the subtly of a visiting shadow is hardly Wei Ying’s usual behavior. He might have an entirely different intention for the evening.
“Wei Ying,” he starts, but his words are interrupted by a knock at the outer room door. He doesn’t miss the sudden tension in Wei Ying’s frame, or the shuttered expression that replaces his former contentment. It answers one of Wangji’s questions, at least: It is unlikely that any of the other sect leaders are aware of Wei Ying’s presence, and highly probable he wishes to maintain that deception. Why, precisely, remains unknown, but given the still-shaky state of Wei Ying’s reputation despite Wangji’s efforts, it doesn’t come as much of a surprise.
He gestures for Wei Ying to wait and waves his guqin away. The knock doesn’t come again, but he stands and goes to the door anyway.
A tray of food and tea awaits him outside it, with no worried cultivators or hovering servants to accompany it. He passes his hand over it, testing, but there is no trace of poison. When he returns to the inner room Wei Ying is seated by the table, watching him with sharp eyes that dart from the tray to his face and back.
“Do you do that often?” he asks. “Is poisoning such a concern?”
Wangji sits and inspects the dishes. The soup is fish and tofu, dressed with dark dried chilies. “Eat,” he says, and holds it out until Wei Ying takes it from his hands.
“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying prompts as Wangji serves himself pickled greens and mushrooms.
“Lan Zhan,” he whines as Wangji pours tea.
“No talking at meals,” Wangji reminds him.
Wei Ying groans, but he eats a few spoonfuls. Once he’s past his frustration he eats faster, and Wangji nudges other dishes towards him—spiced duck and fried pork and delicately sauteed gai lan and eggplant, contenting himself with a lighter meal. He eats well most days, even while traveling. Wei Ying looks entirely too thin to have been eating well in the months since their last meeting.
“Tell me,” he insists as he empties the last dish. Wangji looks away.
“There was an incident at an inn, during a night hunt.” The investigation had found only a servant paid by an unknown party. Likely a disgruntled cultivator who lost face when Jin Guangyao’s plans were revealed.
“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying leans into his field of vision. There’s a fold of concern etching itself between his brows. “You were actually poisoned?”
“Not badly.”
Wei Ying frowns and slides closer, on his knees. He reaches up, as if to touch Wangji’s face, or his hair, but hesitates. “Lan Zhan,” he repeats, his hand dropping to his lap. “You were poisoned and you never told me about it?”
“There was no need.”
It’s the wrong thing to say; he can tell by the deepening furrow between Wei Ying’s brows, the unhappy curve of his mouth. But Wangji is healed now, and more cautious, and there was no point in worrying Wei Ying about something he couldn’t change. Further discussion on the topic can only lead to an argument, which can only waste what little time they have tonight. He speaks again before it can start.
“Wei Ying,” he says, continuing the question he’d started before they were interrupted. “Why are you here?”
Wei Ying sits back, his hands clenching tight in the dark fabric over his knees.
“I’ll go,” he mutters, eyes cast down as he starts to stand.
No. Wangji grabs his wrist before he can get both his feet under him. Before he can disappear back into the night and set off again, always traveling further down the road. Away from Gusu. Away from Wangji.
Wei Ying struggles against the hold for a moment. “What?” he asks. “You want me to leave so I’m leaving! I didn’t mean to bother you, I only thought—” he cuts himself off, anger crossing his face. “Let me go.”
Wangji does. “I did not say that,” he insists to Wei Ying’s back, rising as quickly as he can. It’s only a few steps to the terrace. “Wei Ying,” he tries again, and a touch of the turmoil in his heart creeps into his voice, too emotional. Too desperate.
But Wei Ying stops.
“I wanted to see you,” he says without turning. “To surprise you.” He plucks a talisman from the terrace door, one Wangji had missed in his rush to look outside. “I thought you’d be happy,” he says, folding the paper between his fingers.
“I am,” Wangji tells him. How can this have become so confused? They’ve played together. Eaten together. After everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve done, how can Wei Ying not know that his presence is desired?
Wei Ying faces him, his expression doubting. Wangji has gotten better at reading faces these last few years; clearly more explanation is required. He reaches for his arm again. Elbow, wrist, hand. Their fingers curl together.
“I am.” Wangji repeats. “Always. I am always glad to see you, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying stares down at their linked hands, his head bowed. His shoulders sag.
“Will you play Clarity for me?” he asks on a whisper, and Wangji’s heart rises in his throat. His grip on Wei Ying’s hand tightens. “It’s not bad,” he rushes to amend the request, “it’s just—the Burial Mounds—there’s … so much malice still … I’m not sure I’m thinking right...”
Wangji swallows back his fears. “Of course,” he says. He steps back, drawing Wei Ying back, back, past the table and cushions to sit on the bed. “Meditate,” he instructs, stepping away to light a stick of incense and prepare his guqin.
There is darkness in Wei Ying’s spirit, he finds, but not so much as he feared. Hardly more, he thinks, than strong emotions and fears might generate on their own. But he hasn’t played this for Wei Ying since before his death, over a decade ago; it may be that this level is unusual for him, or that Wei Ying, with his history and his lack of golden core, is more susceptible than most cultivators.
He keeps his attention focused on the notes, on making each one clear and precise. Slowly, the tension seeps out of Wei Ying’s hands and shoulders. The shadow over his brow clears. The darkness dissipates, and golden spirit swirls in its place. Not a golden core, not yet, but more than was present at their last meeting.
The incense stick burns down to ash, and Wei Ying sighs.
“Thank you,” he says. His smile is small and rueful. “I’m sorry to impose. This wasn’t—what I planned.” He picks up the peony, turning it this way and that between his fingertips.
Wangji sets the guqin aside and joins him. Close, but not touching. Watching the play of candlelight over his hands and face. The quiet reminds him of the Jingshi; of long solitary evenings with the rest of the world no more than a distant memory. Of daydreams he’s allowed himself these last few months, fitting the man at his side into a landscape he’s known all his life.
Wei Ying smiles lightly and reaches up to tuck the peony behind Wangji’s ear.“You would look very pretty with flowers in your hair,” he says, his tone only half-teasing. “Of course, you look pretty anyway.” His fingertips drag across the clouds embroidered over Wangji’s chest. “Second Jade of Lan,” he says, his fingers sliding lower. “Hanguang-jun. So elegant and righteous.”
Wangji catches his hand, stokes his fingers over his palm and wrist. Catches Wei Ying’s gaze with his own.
“What was your plan?” he asks, and his voice is level. His hands don’t shake, for all that his heart beats too fast in his chest, making his breath stick.
Wei Ying grins. “This,” he says, and draws Wangji in for a soft, eager kiss, and then another, and then draws him further down, onto the blankets, until they’re pressed together from chest to hips, legs and hanfu tangling. “I missed you,” he whispers against Wangji’s lips, against his cheek and the shell of his ear. “Missed this. Love you.”
“Missed you,” Wangji murmurs into the hollow of Wei Ying’s neck. “Love you,” he breathes against his forehead, pressing a kiss to the place a ribbon might sit. Will sit, someday, he hopes, when he gets up the courage to ask and can promise more of himself than a Chief Cultivator can give away.
Forever, he promises with his hands, and his lips, with the beat of his blood and the rush of his breath. Forever, for you, Wei Ying.