Chapter Text
One day Lan Wangji offers the corpse new clothes, of Gusu Lan’s white and sky blue kind. This is a breach of all the rules there are, but one breach leads to another, and Lan Wangji counts his own faults by dozens. There is one more reason for such blatant impudence: the corpse, for some reason letting him come very close, bows its head with respect and retreats into the woods. The clink of the chains on its wrists sounds as gentle as wind chimes.
It doesn’t need clean clothes. It doesn’t need Gusu Lan. It doesn’t need either Lan Wangji or his forced friendship.
Lan Wangji looks into the dark woods and keeps hoping that this time Wen Ning is gone for good.
*
He would rather feel jealous. That would mean he considers Wen Ning human, but deep down Lan Wangji understands: this is no human, nor will it ever be. To be jealous of it would be as silly as of a dog. A dog can’t be blamed for its loyalty, for such is its nature, and nothing can be done about it.
Lan Wangji sees it sometimes, but less and less so, and only when Wen Ning allows to be seen. There is no life in it, no more than in a stone lion, which makes it harder to feel its presence among the forest shadows. Would anyone pay attention to a fallen tree?
Lan Wanji stops where the trail splits, extends his hands and bows respectfully. A shadow breaks away from a dark trunk, its torn clothes flapping in the wind. The white eyes look at him and through him.
Wen Ning returns the bow and freezes as Lan Wangji passes by.
*
He follows the flute to the cliff. Wei Ying sits on the edge, dangling his feet and playing a simple melody — the sound flows down, drifts over the valley like fog. Trees drown in the fog, with only dark patches of treetops seen over the milky sea.
Today is a new moon, and the misty woods are full of spirits.
Children shout below them, filled with the thrill of the hunt. Lan Wangji approaches Wei Ying and stands still.
“Ah, Lan Zhan,” his soft voice, made for laughing, rips into Lan Wangji’s chest with such force that it hurts to breathe, “here for a walk?”
Out of respect Wei Ying pretends to only have noticed him just now. But Lan Wangji can feel the dark follow him with its white blind eyes.
“Hm,” he replies. Wei Ying pats the ground beside him.
“We still have a couple of minutes before anyone gets into trouble.” He gestures with his flute over the valley. “Come sit with me?”
Lan Wangji silently sits down. Their shoulders touch — just barely, but with intimacy built on trust and familiarity.
Wei Ying twists the flute in his fingers, but doesn’t play it anymore. Lan Wangji averts his eyes. That melody wasn’t for him.
*
He notices the bruises one morning after he wakes up with the sunrise. Wei Ying is asleep, sprawled over the bed, and out of habit Lan Wangji covers him. That’s when he notices them: faded yellow spots on the inner side of his left ankle, shameless finger marks.
Lan Wangji’s fingers press lightly against the leg. He traces them further up, stops under the knee and twists his wrist in a way he would have, were he rougher. There he finds another mark — so pale that it almost matches the skin tone.
He reaches higher, puts his hand on Wei Ying’s stomach and notices that Wei Ying is awake and follows his movements with a dark glare. They look at each other for a few long seconds.
“Ah, Lan Zhan, so shameless,” Wei Ying says playfully and thrusts his hip up a little, “the day has barely started, and you already feeling me up?”
Lan Wangji leans over and holds his face in his hands, pressing the fingertips to Wei Ying’s lips. Wei Ying kisses his fingers and smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
*
He should be angry, but all he feels is sadness. There is no fear of being replaced and no concerns that Wei Ying could lie to him. His trust in Wei Ying is firm and unwavering, like the cliffs on which Gusu Lan stays. But as he thinks and understands, there are places not meant for him, no matter how hard he tries.
This thought doesn’t hurt, and he doesn’t mind the past, even when it’s so dark. But one should let go of the past when it’s dragging down like a rock.
After Wei Ying is sound asleep Lan Wangji takes his guqin and goes to the cliff. The moon is bright, but the silvery shine makes the shadows look darker. Sitting on the edge of the cliff, Lan Wangji puts the guqin in his lap and freezes, listening closely. He knows that the woods are watching him right now: in the chorus of night birds he seems to hear wind chimes.
His fingers fall on the strings, he starts playing Inquiry. It’s useless: a corpse so loyal, that even nails through its skull can’t stop it, there is not a chance for Inquiry to affect it. Nor should it — in his Inquiry Lan Wangji plays a plea.
The woods watch him in silence, sullen and unchanging. For the first time in years Lan Wangji doesn’t feel like a master of the place, but the feeling fades with the last notes of Inquiry.
*
He keeps on hoping that one day his plea will be answered.