Work Text:
Wei Wuxian sits with his back against a tree and draws his fingers through Lan Wangji’s hair. He keeps the touch light and slow. Careful. Reverent.
It’s a rare moment. Precious. Gentle sunlight filters through the pines. Birds chirp. The breeze down from the mountains is just lightly cool, and carries with it the scent of gentian flowers.
Lan Wangji sleeps with his head in Wei Wuxian’s lap, the rise and fall of his breaths soft and regular. His hair ornament sits on a small square of cloth beside them. Bichen stands propped against the tree. A short distance away, Little Apple grazes on bright summer grasses.
Wei Wuxian’s left leg is asleep, but he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t complain. He starts again at Lan Wangji’s brow, smoothing his fingers through ink-dark hair in long, steady strokes, careful not to tangle the forehead ribbon. He watches lines of tension fade from the corners of Lan Wangji’s eyes, watches his shoulders shift and his fingers relax around Wei Wuxian’s other hand as he sinks more deeply into sleep. He hums, softly. A hint of a lullaby.
Later, Wei Wuxian will draw this scene. The two of them, and the tree, and Little Apple, and the flowers. Later, he’ll make a show of inspecting the cuts and bruises Lan Wangji acquired during their night hunt yesterday, even though he can feel his lover’s qi surging, already healing such minor wounds.
Later, he’ll draw his hands over Lan Wangji’s bare wrists, and kiss his palms, and tell him to be more careful.
Later.
Now, he listens to the wind in the trees, and watches the sun shine on white silk and black hair, and waits with the unhurried patience of mountains.