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    Summary

    Being courted by Lan Wangji had been like receiving the attentions of a particularly large cat. Wei Wuxian had spent the year receiving increasingly ridiculous gifts at the checkpoints he had promised Lan Wangji he’d visit, from new combs to exquisitely bound chapbooks of poetry, to salted meats. His pack, by the end of his journey, was filled near to bursting with these gifts, carefully wrapped, and wholly cherished. Each of them came attached to a note with perfectly neat calligraphy, sometimes with a little thought, usually just with his signature. One of them, pinned to a particularly aromatic bottle of hair oils, read:

    ‘My Wei Ying,
    I hope this finds you well, and serves you well. Would that I could be there next to you. In my absence, I hope this will shorten this distance between us.
    Yours,
    Lan Wangji’

    Of course, he could never have the courage to call it courting. Lan Wangji, surely, was simply being friendly. Very friendly, and very generous.

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