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Fire is green like grass. There is a whole assortment of things spread before Lan Zhan that aren't right, here and now, but none so wrong as the man that stands in the middle of a head and a hand without a wrist. His high-hoisted ponytail always looked like his spirits— young, wild, and free— so when it’s gone, he looks… sodden. Dark.
Wei Ying. How could this be Wei Ying?
“Lan Zhan,” he says smoothly, lowly, and the grave words run a chill up Lan Zhan’s spine despite the oppressive heat of the flames.
“I know what I’m doing,” Wei Ying snarls. It’s like he can’t even hear Lan Zhan’s protests. “As for my temperament… what does that have to do with the others?”
Do you see yourself?!
“ Wei Wuxian! ”
“ Lan Wangji! Do you always have to get in my way?!”
Is that all he is to Wei Ying? Lan Wangji?
His eyes blur. “Wei Ying… Return to Gusu with me.” But that was a mistake to say, because now Wei Ying only sees before him a liar and a traitor. A traitor, Lan Wangji? How far he has fallen.
His lip trembles when Jiang Wanyin steps in front of Wei Ying and makes a reasonable and accurate and rule-abiding point. Wei Ying belongs to Yunmeng Jiang. Damn the rules. Damn everything. Damn Wei Ying and the way he just—
Like tearing a blade out of a wound, Lan Wangji whips around, and leaves. His eyes are still blurred, and sweat soaks every inch of his clothes— ah, he hopes he isn’t falling ill. There’s something lodged in his throat.
Damn that Lan Zhan. Lan Wangji. No wonder he doesn’t do friends— he would sooner kiss the Wall of Discipline than a bride, and he just needs everything to go by the rules. Where’s the fun in that? He would let a Wen murderer run free as long as they could recite all three thousand of those precious rules. Whatever doesn’t pass his check is a heretic. Wei Wuxian, a heretic.
There’s something caught in Wei Wuxian’s throat, and sweat prickles the back of his neck and his forehead. Cabin fever? Regular fever? He needs a walk, either way.
He can go anywhere, really, as long as he doesn’t draw the attention of a Wen army. Or maybe even then… no. He cannot endanger the others. He isn’t necessarily bad at being discreet, but when you’ve spent your whole life being as loud and obnoxious as possible, it’s easy to understand why it’s a little less his style.
The cool air of the forest fills his lungs. It’s refreshing, though his hand never leaves Chenqing, and his grip only tightens whenever anything but him makes a sound in the distance. Sometimes he wonders if Suibian would be aghast by his scandal of replacing it with a flute.
That wouldn’t be fair of Suibian. He can’t even physically wield it anymore. Why does he always have to give and give every piece of himself away until there’s nothing left of the darkness he calls a soul, and yet people still ask for more?
A stick snaps.
The sound reverberates throughout the forest like a firework. Wei Wuxian leaps up to a tree branch and whips out Chenqing, though he nearly loses his footing from a sudden burst of lightheadedness. Oh, gods, not now. Imagine that: Founder of Demonic Cultivation and Slayer of Wens Wei Wuxian, falling to his death from poorly climbing a tree.
He scans the area, and catches the sight of rustling bushes. He brings the flute to his lips—
Lan Wangji stumbles out of the shrubbery, hair mussed and… forehead ribbon askew?
“Eh? Lan Zhan?”
He looks up with an expression of exasperation and brief anger, and freezes, eyes widening. “Wei Ying?” he rasps.
Upon closer inspection, Wei Wuxian notices that there are deep shadows underneath Lan Wangji’s eyes. He jumps down from the tree and stows away Chenqing. “You look awful.” He snorts. “I thought wandering was forbidden by your clan?”
“Not before curfew,” Lan Wangji says, nodding in the vague direction of the afternoon sun. His face softens. Why does that make Wei Wuxian’s supposedly oncoming fever feel worse? “You don’t look much better.”
Wei Wuxian puts a hand to his chest in mock offense. “It takes a lot of work to look this good, you know! What with my luscious hair and all.”
“Of course,” Lan Wangji mutters, before his knees buckle and he collapses— or would have, if Wei Wuxian hadn’t prevented it.
“Have you been beating yourself to exhaustion?” he asks incredulously, but his voice quivers.
“I just… wanted to find you again,” Lan Wangji says quietly, and coughs.
“In the middle of the woods?”
“It’s a forest, technically.”
“Shut up.”
Lan Wangji’s breath hitches, but he goes dead silent. “Oh, come on,” Wei Wuxian says, sighing. “You really need to take things less seriously sometimes.”
“…Wei Ying.”
Something burns in his eyes. “What?”
Lan Zhan does not elaborate.
“Your forehead ribbon is uneven, by the way,” Wei Ying whispers. “You know what— I’ll just take you back to Gusu and we can… pretend this never happened.”
“I’m fine,” Lan Zhan says, as he coughs again and his eyes slide shut.
“Well, I’m a little lightheaded right now, so stop arguing and let me return you.”
No response.
Wei Ying pokes at Lan Zhan’s cheek, and nothing. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs now and takes off for Gusu, so that Lan Zhan can never hear him.