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When, in a small mountain town, he stops and sees the cloak and immediately thinks of Lan Zhan, it comes as no great surprise. More often than not these days his thoughts are of Lan Zhan.
The cloak is proudly displayed outside of a shop window and Wei Ying knows why. It is of thick, pure white wool, cascading to the ground like sheets of new snow, and the collar is lined with fur, ice white but for the tips, which shine silver grey.
It is like Lan Zhan, austere beauty of winter, and he pictures Lan Zhan’s cheek brushing the fur, smooth, fair skin a complement to the luxurious pile and he feels a clench and shiver of want up his back.
He buys it with little thought. He is not rich, without Lan Zhan’s deep money bag, but he has made some coin in his wanderings as a rogue cultivator, grateful villagers sharing what they could. He finds it is enough to buy the cloak, and he leaves the shop with the garment in a neat package under his arm.
That night, as he rests in a lonely inn room, he unfolds the cloak and presses his face to the fur, breathing shakily against the yawning pit in his chest. Then he packs it away, carefully, and when he wakes in the morning he finds a trustworthy courier and sends it off to Cloud Recesses. Winter will make it to the mountains before he does, and the cloak will be warm.
Often, in the next weeks as he makes his slow and ambling way to meet Lan Zhan at Cloud Recesses, he wonders if the cloak has arrived, if his friend was surprised, pleased. He imagines that tiny, soft smile unfurling on Lan Zhan’s face. He doesn’t bother to think about if Lan Zhan had not liked it; if there is one thing he’s learned from his resurrection, it is that painful thoughts are best left to fall away, like dust in a breeze.
Winter does, indeed, make it to the mountains before he does, and he is shivering as he climbs the steps to the gate of Cloud Recesses, snow falling around him in a dizzying whirl. From beneath his own cloak, much less fine than the one he has sent ahead, he pulls the jade token Lan Zhan had pressed into his hands months ago.
“So that you can always come back,” he had said, eyes warm but face sad and serious. So that you can come back to me, he had not said.
Neither had Wei Ying.
He pushes the pang of regret aside brandishing the token and smiling at the young disciple staring nervously at him. “May I come in?” he asks, deliberately cheeky, and lets his smile widen as the boy bows to him, far too low, and stands aside.
“Shall I send for Grand Master, or Clan Leader Lan?” He queries, but Wei Ying waves him off.
“No, no, I wish to be a grand surprise for them! Tell me, is Hanguang-Jun here?”
He can see the moment the disciple recognizes him, the awe and fear and curiosity sudden in his gaze. “He is training disciples in the main pavilion.”
Wei Ying smiles. That’s his Lan Zhan, always at work. He thanks the disciple and sweeps into Cloud Recesses, rushing perhaps faster than he usually does, eager. He does not examine why, just hastens to the pavilion and unconsciously holds his breath until he can see--
There are twenty or so disciples, swords out as they slowly maneuver through their exercises, care and deliberate grace in each movement. A tall, imposing figure in white glides between them, quiet words to a student here and there, hands reaching to correct postures and demonstrate angles. There is barely a murmur among them, and so Wei Ying can hear the deep cadence of Lan Zhan’s voice even from here.
He closes his eyes for a moment, smiles wide to the sky, and then hears, “Master Wei!” shouted at him in several voices. He smiles wider, images of Lan QiRen hearing those forbidden shouts in his mind, and he opens his eyes to see several disciples flushing and studying the ground, obviously having displeased the great Hanguang-Jun.
But the great Light Bearer is not looking at his disciples. When Wei Ying brings his gaze down from the heavens he finds that Lan Zhan is watching him, eyes dark and deep and warm.
And he is wearing the cloak.
All of his breath is stolen from him like a blow. It is the exact image he has seen in his mind so many times; the smooth fairness of Lan Zhan’s beautiful face resting against the wild, deep fur at his collar. He looks like a King, like an immortal carved from ice and snow, and Wei Ying finds it hard to speak against the onslaught of the image in front of him.
They share a stare for a long, silent moment, and when the moment stretches thin, vibrating with a note of emotion too tense for Wei Ying, he finally laughs and smiles and forces himself to say, “Lan Zhan, your pupils have forgotten the rules once again! Are they to copy the scrolls, as I did?”
The disciples flash him desperate, pleading gazes from behind Lan Zhan’s back, but Lan Zhan does not face them. He keeps his eyes on Wei Ying, face set and still but eyes dancing. “Yes, I think that appropriate. You may all report to the Library Pavilion. Copy the disciplines ten times, and then report to Grand Master.” The children all deflate, but bow obediently, murmuring, “Yes, Hanguang-Jun,” before shuffling away, some brave enough to wave discretely to Wei Ying. He winks at them as they go.
And then it is just him and Lan Zhan, alone with the falling snow in the empty courtyard. “Lan Zhan,” he says, and his smile softens.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan replies, and moves towards him, finally, the great cloak cascading from his shoulders like wings, floating above the ground with Lan Zhan’s measured gait.
Wei Ying’s breath catches again and he hopes that he does not look too foolish as he watches his friend come towards him. Lan Zhan stops barely an arm’s length away. “Wei Ying,” he says again.
“Hello Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying also repeats, and he cannot control the smile breaking over his face, nor can he seem to control his fingers as they reach out towards Lan Zhan, brushing the fur at his collar. It is soft, thick, and warm, but the backs of his fingers also brush the jade of Lan Zhan’s cheek and then he can’t focus on anything but that feeling, the searing warmth of that flawless skin as it is cradled by the fur and his own fingers.
Lan Zhan’s face does not change, gaze steady and burning now but expression still, but as Wei Ying’s fingers continue to sink into the collar, continue to brush his cheek and neck, Wei Ying can feel the thundering race of his pulse. Quietly, Wei Ying says, “You wore it.”
“I knew it was from you,” Lan Zhan replies, not moving, but eyes still locked on him, on his face. It is an intense pressure, so much said in that gaze, and Wei Ying falters, eyes falling to his fingers as they slide through the fur, as they turn and rest on Lan Zhan’s throat.
They breathe together, unsteady.
Despite the many mistakes in his life, Wei Ying is no fool. On his months of solitary journeying he had given himself time to sort through his past, the painful memories, the shades and layers of his complex feelings about everyone, everything.
But he has spent most of his time thinking of Lan Zhan, of his feelings for this man, his friend, his soulmate, his Light Bearer.
And he knows his own heart, has for some time. What he does not know, though he hopes--oh how he hopes!--is Lan Zhan’s.
“It suits you,” he breathes, barely a whisper, and steps closer, raising his eyes.
There is a fine, delicate flush against Lan Zhan’s high cheekbones, and his eyes look almost feverish, desperate and aflame. “Wei Ying,” he says again, as if he has lost all other words.
Wei Ying knows the feeling well, and seeing Lan Zhan, smelling his cool scent of sandalwood, feeling his racing pulse, and seeing him in the cloak gives Wei Ying the courage to push forward and seal his lips over Lan Zhan’s.
It is like being burned with a brand but rather than being lost to the pain he embraces it, a sweet torture of fire along every nerve as he feels Lan Zhan’s breath against his sensitive lips, as he feels the jump in his heart, and then as Lan Zhan surges towards him, lips pressing with desperate hunger, and they devour each other.
The fire spreads as they are consumed by one another, all lips and teeth and tongue and scorching breath, and when they break apart to breathe they are tangled tightly in each other’s arms, fur brushing both of their cheeks. Wei Ying cannot bear to step back, so he stays where he is, cheek flush against Lan Zhan’s, breathing nothing but the smell of his soulmate and feeling nothing but his body against him.
For the span of a few heartbeats they lean into one another, snow collecting on their hair, their lashes, their shoulders, but melting between them and muffling the world around them until is nothing but them, the two of them, as it should be.
Lan Zhan, his brave heart, speaks first, the deep resonance of his voice better than any music ever played. “I love you.”
A sob hitches up his chest, but Wei Ying swallows against it. “I love you, I have for so long, I should have--”
Lan Zhan clutches, fingers desperate and almost violent. “No,” he says, and pulls Wei Ying into another fierce kiss.
There is wetness on Wei Ying’s face, though he does not know if the tears are his or Lan Zhan’s. They kiss and breathe together, and do not part for even a moment until a shiver shakes Wei Ying’s body. Lan Zhan steps back, and even as Wei Ying reaches for him he is pulling the cloak over them both, tucking them in together, and leading Wei Ying towards him.
“I love you,” he says again. Between kisses, “Stay, please.”
Wei Ying smiles up at him, at that beautiful face he has missed so much, for so many reasons. And as he watches him, watches those dark eyes on him, he knows he finally can. “Yes, Lan Zhan, I will, if you’ll have me.”
And that small, unfurling smile warms Lan Zhan’s face. “Always.” And they walk through the snow, pressing together under the cloak.