Work Text:
The first time he has to deal with snow after his sudden trip several thousand years backwards in time, Zhao Yunlan sharply reassesses his opinion of winter. Snow in Dragon City is a minor annoyance, something that slows his commute and gets caught in his collar and can be shut out with walls and doors and central heating. He used to watch it fall through double-paned windows, with a hot drink never more than a few minutes out of his reach.
Snow in old Haixing, as he’s taken to thinking of it, is an endurance trial for settled villages and a threat verging on a death sentence for the unprepared.
The alliance receives news of an avalanche along their busiest trade route a day and a half after it happens. Two days after that, Zhao Yunlan is digging through several feet of snow, trying to find the road again, trying to reach the caravan trapped on the other side. It’s ironic, he thinks, that he’s sweating through at least two layers of his clothes as the wind tries to bite his nose off with cold.
He makes himself keep hold of his shovel, despite the sneaking suspicion that hauling snow in his arms would be just as effective. Shen Wei has already had to teleport one of the younger members of the rescue party back to the alliance camp after the man succumbed to what his friends call snow sickness and Zhao Yunlan is pretty sure is hypothermia. Shedding layers and complaining of heat in the middle of a snowy wasteland is not the action of a healthy person. So, no actions that might increase the chances of snow sneaking past the broad straps that cover the junction between his coat and his gloves, or down his collar, where four layers of fur and wool won’t do him much good.
Shen Wei had looked a little unsteady when he’d come back, more volunteers and a string of pack ponies in tow, but it could have just been uneven footing. The snow is treacherous enough, there’s no need to borrow further trouble. Still, Zhao Yunlan tries to keep an eye on him as they work.
“Are you doing alright?” he checks as he rolls out his bedroll in the half-tent-half-dugout shelter they’re all spending the night in. There’s a curtain strung between their corner and the rest of the space, mostly a courtesy to Shen Wei, he knows, though a lot of the alliance’s people are nearly as cautious about perceived trespasses on “Kunlun’s” personal space as they are on their Envoy’s.
“Fine,” Shen Wei insists, even though he must know Zhao Yunlan can see the weariness in his movements. There are only two Dixingren with powers related to ice and snow in the alliance’s ranks, and Shen Wei is one of them, and Zhao Yunlan knows that without both him and Yang Yiling to stabilize things, they’d probably all be buried under a second avalanche by now.
Yang Yiling is already asleep, and has been since she finished her lukewarm dinner. But Shen Wei has other responsibilities, like checking the wards and building up a picture of himself as some sort of untouchable demigod with no discernible weaknesses.
Okay that was probably a little unfair. Shen Wei did, legitimately, need much less sleep than most people. And Zhao Yunlan wasn’t exactly complaining about being one of a small handful of people Shen Wei allowed some degree of closeness with. But he couldn’t help but think that Shen Wei might be a bit happier, both here and in the future, if he let himself make more friends, and let himself rest a little more often.
At least he does seem to intend to sleep tonight. Though, as Zhao Yunlan inspects his pack to make triply sure he hasn’t brought any extra snow that will melt in the shelter’s almost-livable interior, he gets the sneaking suspicion that this has less to do with Shen Wei’s own tiredness and more to do with his concern for Zhao Yunlan.
“You are not wasting your healing powers on me,” he says, trying to be stern as Shen Wei blinks innocently at him. “A few bruises is nothing to worry about.” And it’s true, even if his shoulder and hip do ache a bit and his whole frame protests the day of constant lifting and hauling. He knows his body well enough to know these hurts are superficial, especially considering the sorts of injuries he could have ended up with when one of the ponies panicked and very nearly trampled him.
Shen Wei slips his mask off and pulls him under their shared blankets without replying, which means Zhao Yunlan is probably going to wake up with no bruises and no trace of the cold he can feel tickling the back of his throat either. He sighs, and lets Shen Wei cuddle into him, his face buried in Zhao Yunlan’s shoulder. It’s been—a little exhilarating, really, to see how this version of Shen Wei responds to touch. How he can shift from the Envoy, with walls built up on every side, to just Shen Wei, who, in private at least, likes to be held however he can manage, whether it’s a simple handclasp or Zhao Yunlan’s arm over his shoulder, or something more full-body-contact like this.
It’s a stark contrast to the She Wei of the future, who, for all that he allows a certain extent of casual touch, and for all that he clearly craves intimacy when Zhao Yunlan initiates it, gives off the distinct aura that hand-holding will not be allowed. Pretty much anything that would prevent him from being able to immediately use his hands is off limits, whether they’re actively in danger or making out on Zhao Yunlan’s couch. Even cuddling really only happens after sex. Zhao Yunlan is starting to form a few theories about why, and he doesn’t like any of them. The idea that the next ten thousand years are so unkind as to make Shen Wei even more cautious and closed off sits like a stone in his middle, and the attendant idea that Shen Wei doesn’t feel safe anywhere sometimes makes him feel almost nauseous because he’s not sure, he can’t be... totally certain … but it’s possible that he’s the reason for it. Or part of it. Because some day, he’s going to leave Shen Wei here in the past. If he’s lucky, it’ll be because he gets to go back to his own time. If he’s not, he’ll probably die here. Sometime. He’s not immortal, or Dixingren or Yashou, and being Lord Guardian, a position that doesn’t even exist yet, doesn’t really convey any special longevity that he’s aware of.
He hugs Shen Wei tighter and tries to put the thoughts from his mind, again. He’s here, now, and he has a job to do. Fill the role of Kunlun, legendary general. Find the Hallows.
Make sure Shen Wei and Da Qing both survive long enough to meet him in the future.
Once he gets back (no ifs, he will), he can work on untangling the puzzle of Shen Wei’s priorities, and what all changed while he was—out of the picture.
*
Zhao Yunlan does, indeed, wake up entirely free of even the small aches that would usually come from sleeping on the ground. Shen Wei is already up, of course, inspecting the heap of snow and rock and broken trees that they’re still hoping to move, Yang Yiling and one of their Haixingren recruits at his side. Zhou Peijun, Zhao Yunlan thinks his name is. A fur trader who knows the area better than most of their company.
And Kunlun has his own duties, of course. He makes sure the Yashou sentries aren’t exhausting themselves, and that no one’s somehow lost all their cold-weather gear in the night, and organizes the rotation of helping hands, both for clearing debris at the main site of the avalanche and building new snow breaks to stave off future disasters along the long stretch of road they can still reach.
It’s a long day. A long day of bending and hauling shattered and twisted bits of trees, and gathering rocks on sledges and, of course, digging through snow. But it’s progress. By noon, Shen Wei and Yang Yiling have set up an impressive series of snow breaks above the most dangerous part of the road, and been able to determine that the caravan is mostly safe on the other side. A few horses lost. One Haixingren death. Three injured, who Shen Wei takes back to the alliance base for treatment. Zhao Yunlan eats his quickly-cooling midday meal and gets back to work, letting a plan tick over in the back of his mind. Shen Wei won’t thank him for open concern or attempts to make him just sit down for a moment while they’re in public, or there’s still work to do, but after…
After takes a bit longer than he hoped: The sun is just a sliver of light around the mountain peaks when the road is deemed clear enough to risk bringing the caravan through, but they’re close enough to finishing that no one wants to stop for the night. The caravan leader is grateful for Shen Wei’s offer of a portal directly to the alliance headquarters, and Shen Wei holds it open until every member of both the trade group and the work party have made it through.
He staggers as it closes, and Zhao Yunlan wonders if it’s because of the portal power itself or just the accumulated stresses of the day. He claps a hand on Shen Wei’s shoulder, hanging back as the rest of their group starts spreading out in search of food or baths or rest.
“Let’s get some food,” He urges. “Fu You and Ma Gui will make sure everyone gets settled.”
“I should check on Yang Yiling,” She Wei says. “She overstretched herself.”
“There are other healers,” Zhao Yunlan coaxes. “You can take one night for yourself.”
Shen Wei gives him a look that Zhao Yunlan classifies as highly skeptical, which is probably fair. If Zhao Yunlan had his way, it wouldn’t be one night Shen Wei was taking for himself.
“I will meet you after,” Shen Wei says, pulling away. Zhao Yunlan lets him go with a sigh.
Even in flickering torchlight, the Black Cloak Envoy is immediately recognizable. His Dixingren followers don’t move the same way, wrapped in black as they all are, and beyond that, he’d probably be able to pick Shen Wei out of a crowd based solely on how people turn towards him, and make way for him.
Always just a little bit distant. A little apart. A little bit of a mystery.
Zhao Yunlan checks on Da Qing, who turns out to be recovering from a mission of his own, curled up in cat form in his room and barely awake enough to purr at Zhao Yunlan’s touch and murmur something about fish. Zhao Yunlan leaves him to his rest. He picks up two servings of some kind of pickle, meat and rice dish the kitchen has put together on short notice and retreats to the privacy of his quarters. Shen Wei will come to him eventually, he has no doubt of that, but he’s also likely to skip things like basic sustenance along the way. It’s a weird sort of role reversal, 10,000 years in the past. Making sure Shen Wei eats, instead of the other way around.
Zhao Yunlan takes his time unwinding. The food is decent enough, made delicious by hunger. The warmth of the brazier is soothing, bordering on luxury after huddling under his blankets last night, even with Shen Wei’s warmth at his side. He scrubs himself clean, empties the tub and refills it with fresh water, pulls on dry, clean clothes, and settles in with one of Ma Gui’s books to wait.
It’s nearly an hour before Shen Wei arrives, still straight-backed and tall, still wearing his mask, and quite definitely holding himself together mostly through the strength of his willpower alone. Zhao Yunlan is up and steering him behind the bathing screen almost as soon as he passes through the doorway.
“You’ll feel better if you clean up,” he says, when Shen Wei balks. “I’ve got water heating to warm up the bath, and--”
“No need,” Shen Wei says.
“And I’ll be all the way over on the other side of the room until you finish,” Zhao Yunlan finishes, caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. This, at least, is the same in all time periods. Shen Wei approaches bathing with about the same amount of enthusiasm that Da Qing does. No luxuriating in a hot shower or bath for either of them, even though they’re both meticulous about actually staying clean. He gives Shen Wei another little nudge towards the tub, and the gently steaming kettle beside it. A clean towel and black robe are draped off to the side, next to the bath beans that serve as soap around here.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” he says, half-teasing. “More towels. Someone to wash your back.”
Shen Wei goes a bit wide-eyed and Zhao Yunlan steps back, still grinning.
“Up to you,” he says, and retreats back to his chair and his book.
Shen Wei won’t ask for ‘help’ or company. He never does. But sometimes, afterwards, he'll let his guard down enough to permit other intimacies, and that’s what Zhao Yunlan’s hoping for now: the chance to take care of Shen Wei in the ways he won’t admit he likes, even though he keeps coming back for it.
And it looks like he might be in luck. After a depressingly brief period of quiet splashing, Shen Wei rounds the privacy screen looking unreasonably willowy in a single robe with his hair swept over one shoulder. He’s actually barefoot which Zhao Yunlan is pretty sure he hasn’t seen outside of sex … ever … and he swoops down on Zhao Yunlan and kisses him like he’s been waiting for days to do it. Maybe he has been. They’re generally pretty discreet, out on the road in shared quarters with allies and followers alike.
Zhao Yunlan’s been looking forward to the kissing himself; he just hadn’t quite expected to be pinned to his chair, tipping his head back as She Wei leans over him, his hair slipping down in a damp curtain to pool in Zhao Yunlan’s lap.
He can’t mask the way he relaxes into Shen Wei’s touch, can’t hold back the breath of Xiao Wei that slips from his throat, and he doesn’t want to. Shen Wei hums against his jaw, and presses kisses into his beard and neck, and Zhao Yunlan struggles valiantly to regain control of the path of his evening. Not that letting Shen Wei take him to bed immediately would be bad by any means, but it’s hardly in line with his plans.
“Did you eat?” he manages to ask. Shen Wei kisses him again, which is answer enough. He grabs Shen Wei’s shoulders and pushes him back gently.
“There’s food and tea on the table,” he says, and, when Shen Wei looks disappointed, adds, “I’ll comb your hair while you eat.”
It’s become one of his favorite things about traveling 10,000 years into the past: sure, there’s no indoor plumbing, and no microwaves or internet, but he gets to know a little more about what makes the Black Cloak Envoy tick, gets to stick his fingers into secrets and stories that his Shen Wei of the future refuses to even hint at, and he gets to run his hands through Shen Wei’s impossibly long, far-too-beautiful hair.
He knows Shen Wei will never admit that he likes having someone else comb his hair. Not out loud. But given the way he relaxes into it, the quiet contentment that always radiates off him afterwards—Zhao Yunlan thinks he might have a pretty good chance of getting the Shen Wei of the future to grow it out again. He takes his time with a wide-toothed comb while Shen Wei eats, gently smoothing out tangles until there’s only long, smooth strokes of the comb over Shen Wei’s hair and his knuckles gliding down Shen Wei’s back underneath it. It goes on for much longer than the time it takes She Wei to finish his meal, and Zhao Yunlan is a bit smug about the gentle slumping of Shen Wei’s shoulders, and the soft sighing sounds he makes as Zhao Yunlan’s finger’s move over his scalp.
Zhao Yunlan leans closer and kisses his ear.
“Give me your hands,” he says, because while he’s pushing he might as well go as far as he can.
Shen Wei turns to face him, obviously puzzled, but he holds out his hands. Zhao Yunlan grabs his right hand first, scoops a dollop of Ma Gui’s healing salve onto his fingertips and starts massaging Shen Wei palm.
This, he’s not sure he’ll be able to convince the Shen Wei of the future to repeat. But the flutter of Shen Wei’s eyelashes as Zhao Yunlan rubs his thumb over his wrist and up under his sleeve, the hitch in his breath as the cream sinks into his skin, easing away pains no surface massage can reach—that’s a memory worth having. By the time he’s stroked and kneaded both of Shen Wei’s hands and wrists to his satisfaction, Shen Wei’s forehead is leaning heavy against his shoulder, their knees pressed tightly together, his arms gone limb in Zhao Yunlan’s lap.
“Kunlun,” he murmurs, and Zhao Yunlan kisses his jaw.
“I’m here,” he promises, twining their fingers together in the warm, shadowed space between their bodies. “I’m here.”