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The downside to the Gusu Lans being such a prolific clan is that their combat techniques are identifiable at a glance. Face an adversary enough and you begin to learn their footwork, the angle their blade favors, all of their patterns. The Moling Su clan dance in a mimicry of Lan swordplay, modifying the basics and further acclimatizing the cultivation world with their techniques.
But no one has fought a proficient Wen swordsman in well over a decade.
“Good,” Wen Ning praises, watching Lan Sizhui get closer to the proper footwork with every step. “Again.”
Lan Sizhui is, for his age and experience, an impressively versatile swordsman. Lans are known for their grace and efficiency, and Wei Wuxian’s own teachings have given him an edge of the scrappier style of the Yunmeng Jiangs.
“Don’t be afraid to hurt me,” Wen Ning reminds him. “You won’t hurt me.”
Sizhui fixes his stance and lunges. The strike glances Wen Ning’s arm. It probably would have been a full hit if Wen Ning didn’t know exactly what to look out for. Sizhui has taken to the Wen style of swordsmanship perhaps even more easily than the others, falling into form like he’s been doing this for years. He doubles back on Wen Ning and strikes with a broad upward slash, something he’s learned from Wei Wuxian. It catches Wen Ning off guard, forcing him to stagger. The point of Sizhui’s sword kisses the peak of his adam’s apple. Sizhui angles the blade up with a smug smile, and Wen Ning obediently lifts his chin.
“That’s cheating, A-Yuan,” he chides. “You slipped back into Jiang swordsmanship at the end there.”
“It’s not cheating,” Sizhui says, lowering his dull training blade. “I’m just trying to keep you on your toes.”
They’ve been sparring for hours at this point. It’s nearing mid-morning, and the sun is hot even up here in the thin northern air of Gusu. Sizhui has peeled his rubes down and tied them off above his sash, leaving him looking more vulgar and rough than Wen Ning used to think him capable of.
It’s a good look on him.
Wen Ning only realizes he’s staring when Sizhui stretches and yawns, shooting Wen Ning a devious look. His smile rounds his cheeks out, but his eyes are subtly sharp. “Are we going to keep training? Or is there something else you’d rather do?”
“T-train,” Wen Ning stammers. “Keep training. Again.”
The teasing slips out of Sizhui’s posture at once. His stance, Wen Ning notes, is almost perfect now. His blows land hard and confident, sometimes missing the mark but always close enough that Wen Ning thinks Sizhui has already made this fighting style viable. They stay at it for a long while, Wen Ning tirelessly blocking and parrying to the best of his ability with a borrowed sword while Sizhui stubbornly refuses to give up.
There’s sweat dripping at his temples and shining across his chest. Wen Ning refuses to get distracted. This is training time. He will not get distracted.
He gets distracted.
His eyes wander a little too low and Sizhui lands a solid hit, hard enough that Wen Ning staggers and falls to his knees in the mossy dirt.
Sizhui gasps and rushes forward, carelessly throwing his sword to the side. “Ning-gege, are you alright?”
Wen Ning pivots around as soon as Sizhui is in arm’s reach, grabbing him around the waist and throwing him down to the ground with as much gentle strength as he can manage. Sizhui breathes out a little oof that transforms into a breathless peal of laughter.
The dexterity in Wen Ning’s hands still leaves a lot to be desired, but that’s okay. Lucky for him, the clumsy dance of his fingers up and down Sizhui’s sides is more than enough since Sizhui is very, very ticklish.
“N-no more!” he pants in between breathless laughter, trying to wriggle out from under Wen Ning’s unyielding body. “Mercy, I yield to you! M-Mercy!”
“No mercy,” Wen Ning challenges him, “The Ghost General has you now. How are you going to get free?”
“Like–” Sizhui huffs, a determined glint shining in his twinkling eyes, “Like this!”
He surges forward, knocking into Wen Ning in what is objectively a terrible kiss. It still has the desired effect, though. Wen Ning comes to a stuttering halt, flustered hands freezing. Sizhui huffs through his nose, something like a laugh, and cups Wen Ning’s face to kiss him better. Wen Ning’s hands start off on a very different sort of exploration, running slowly up the sweat-slicked planes of Sizhui's sides. His touches are soft and sweet, but Sizhui still giggles against his lips. Hands push at his shoulders, and Wen Ning folds easily. Sizhui wrestles him onto his back, tangling their legs together and coming to rest in Wen Ning’s lap.
“I’ve got you, Ghost General,” Sizhui teases, linking their fingers together as he presses Wen Ning’s hands down flat above his head. He dips low and steals another kiss. “How will you get free?”
“I don’t think I want to get free,” Wen Ning admits easily. He’s perfectly fine right here. “A-Yuan, you have…”
He reaches up and brushes a thumb along Sizhui’s headband, rubbing away a smattering of dirt marring the pretty white silk. Sizhui will never shed his identity as a Lan, and he makes it quite clear that he doesn’t want to. The majority of his life has been spent following their doctrines, their principles. Being taught and being loved. His home is nestled in the thick mist of the clouds, even if his blood yearns for the sun sometimes. But here, sitting astride Wen Ning in a small clearing in the woods, he’s nothing like the noble and chaste young master of Gusu Lan the world knows him as. With his robes peeled down and sweat shining on his skin he has a rogue wildness to him. Wen Ning thumbs away another smear of dirt on his cheek and idly wonders, is this what he would look like all the time if he grew up in the Burial Mounds?
A small smile spreads across Sizhui’s face. It looks like silent reassurance in response to a question Wen Ning didn’t even ask: we’re alright, we were always meant to be alright, in any universe through any circumstances we would find each other like the sun finds the distant mountains at the end of each day.
“It’s hot out,” he says, still smiling.
Wen Ning can’t really tell. “If you say so.”
Sizhui opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then cuts himself off with a shake of his head. The motion makes his hair flutter where it’s fallen out of place in sweaty strands over his forehead. Wen Ning wants to brush it back behind his ears. Maybe pull it up in the Qishan styles his cousins used to wear.
“Enough sword training,” Sizhui eventually says, tugging at his belt. “I want swimming lessons.”
“You already know how to swim,” Wen Ning points out, but it’s not a protest.
“Not very well!” Sizhui insists. “If I fall out of a boat while hunting a water-spirit, no ghouls will take me seriously when I start doggy paddling.”
Wen Ning’s lips twitch up in a smile. “Fine. Swimming lessons it is.”
Sizhui finishes wriggling out of his creased clothing, leaving him in his undergarments. He struggles with his grass stained robes for a bit, trying to fold them as neatly as possible before standing up with his feet braced on either side of Wen Ning’s supine body. The sun is hanging heavy over the clouds, sitting just behind Sizhui’s shoulder. He looks golden in the late-morning light when he holds a hand out.
Wen Ning takes it and lets Sizhui tug him upright and away from where their swords lay in the dirt. They walk off to a nearby spring, hands clasped and swinging between them the whole way.