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Chapter Text

Spring came to Yunping Peak on wings of mist and melody. The mountain stirred with life as petals drifted like snow, coating the training grounds and temple courtyards in shades of plum, peach, and white lotus. The annual Cultivation Alliance Conference had drawn disciples from every major sect, their presence transforming the remote summit into a storm of color, crests, and clashing energies.

Jiang Cheng stood rigidly beside Wei Wuxian as the Jiang Sect representatives descended the final steps to the main courtyard.

"Don’t cause trouble," Jiang Cheng muttered out of the side of his mouth.

Wei Wuxian gave him a wide grin. “Me? Trouble? I’m insulted.”

“You insult yourself every time you open your mouth.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled, ignoring him. His eyes scanned the courtyard: banners of GusuLan Sect, the golden emblems of Lanling Jin Sect, the stern silver uniforms of the Nie, and off to the side, a distant flash of red—Wen Sect, of course.

He didn’t have to look hard to spot them.

The Lan Sect disciples stood like statues beneath their flowing cloud-pattern banners, their movements unified, silent, elegant. As if they breathed as one. Wei Wuxian rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop himself from watching.

In their center stood a figure that was unmistakable even from across the courtyard.

Lan Wangji. Back straight, ribbon tied tight and perfect, expressing a blank wall.

The last time they’d seen each other had been months ago, briefly at a night hunt near Qinghe. They hadn’t spoken. But the way Lan Wangji had glared at Wei Wuxian for violating three different cultivation protocols within ten minutes had been memorable.

“Look who’s here,” Wei Wuxian drawled to no one in particular.

Lan Wangji’s head turned.

For a moment, just a moment, their eyes locked.

Wei Wuxian waved with a bright, exaggerated smile. Lan Wangji’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly.

Bingo.

The opening ceremony was exactly as dull as Wei Wuxian expected. Long speeches, ceremonial bows, and a flute performance from a Lan elder that nearly put him to sleep standing up. But the true meat of the gathering came after: a day of exchange and demonstration between sects.

When Lan Qiren stood and announced, “As a symbol of unity and learning, disciples will participate in sparring exhibitions, pairings to be drawn from different sects,” Wei Wuxian perked up immediately.

When Lan Qiren added, “To begin: Lan Wangji of the Gusu Lan Sect and Wei Wuxian of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect,” Wei Wuxian nearly burst out laughing.

Jiang Cheng groaned. “Of course.”

Wei Wuxian practically bounced into the sparring ring. Lan Wangji entered in contrast like a blade drawn from its sheath—sharp, silent, composed.

The courtyard fell quiet. This match was not just training. It was a spectacle.

Wei Wuxian bowed politely, exaggerated, sweeping, and with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Lan Wangji bowed minimally in return, perfect form, back straight.

“You ready to lose, Hanguang-jun?” Wei Wuxian whispered, drawing Suibian.

“This is not a competition,” Lan Wangji said evenly.

Wei Wuxian flashed a grin. “That’s what people say when they know they’re going to lose.”

Lan Qiren cleared his throat and signaled. “Begin!”

Their swords clashed with a burst of spiritual energy.

Wei Wuxian moved like water, flowing, unpredictable, his steps wide and sweeping. Lan Wangji countered with the precision of a calligraphy master—each strike exact, every movement deliberate.

The contrast was glaring and fascinating.

“You’ve gotten faster,” Wei Wuxian said mid-swing.

“You have not improved,” Lan Wangji replied coolly.

“Ouch.” Wei Wuxian laughed as he parried. “Your words wound me more than your sword.”

Their blades clanged again, a sharp musical note in the open air.

Onlookers leaned in, intrigued. Lan disciples watched tensely. Jiang disciples exchanged bets behind a pillar.

Lan Wangji pressed forward suddenly, disarming, relentless, beautiful in his fury. Wei Wuxian blocked, feinted, spun out of reach.

“Bit aggressive for someone who claims not to care,” Wei Wuxian said, breathing a little harder.

“You are careless,” Lan Wangji said, voice clipped. “You act without thought.”

“I act with plenty of thought,” Wei Wuxian shot back, sweeping low and nearly catching Lan Wangji off balance. “I just enjoy myself while doing it.”

Their swords locked midair, face to face, eyes narrowed.

“Your enjoyment endangers others.”

Wei Wuxian’s grin slipped for just a second. But he recovered instantly. “And your silence endangers fun.”

They pushed off at the same time, breaking apart. A few gasps rippled through the crowd. It was clear now: they weren’t just sparring.

They were testing each other. Measuring. Knowing.

When Lan Qiren finally called an end to the match, both boys lowered their swords but neither looked away.

Wei Wuxian’s breath fogged in the cooling air. His pulse was racing.

Lan Wangji’s eyes were calm in the middle of the storm, but his fingers trembled, just once, as he sheathed Bichen.

Later that afternoon, Wei Wuxian perched on the railing of a terrace overlooking the main courtyard, sipping wine from a smuggled gourd and swinging his legs.

“Stiff as ever,” he muttered to himself, thinking about Lan Wangji’s expression—the rigid tension in his jaw, the flicker of something almost like surprise when Wei Wuxian had nearly landed a strike to his ribs.

He thought about that more than he should have.

Across the courtyard, the Lan Sect walked in a perfect column. But Lan Wangji’s head turned briefly toward the terrace where Wei Wuxian sat.

Their eyes met again. And held.

Wei Wuxian lifted his gourd in a mock salute. Lan Wangji looked away first.

Wei Wuxian grinned, triumphant.

That evening, the sects gathered for a formal reception under glowing lanterns strung between the pines. Tables were set with fruit, tea, and delicacies from across the cultivation world. Music floated gently in the air, the hum of guqin and flute weaving through the night.

Wei Wuxian appeared dressed in fresh robes, hair tied with a red ribbon, looking far too pleased with himself. He leaned lazily against a pillar near the Lan delegation’s table.

“Lan Zhan,” he called softly, voice warm and teasing.

Lan Wangji didn’t acknowledge him. Wei Wuxian wandered closer.

“Lan Zhan,” he repeated, just a little louder. Still no reply.

Wei Wuxian huffed, then said with mock offense, “Ignoring me now? How cruel. After all that we shared.”

Lan Wangji looked up, finally.

Wei Wuxian took the opportunity to step even closer. “You can’t honestly tell me you didn’t enjoy our little duel.”

“It was a demonstration.”

“Sure it was.”

“You were improper.”

“You were flustered.”

Lan Wangji stiffened.

Wei Wuxian's smile widened. “You know, for someone so silent, you say so much with your face.”

“I say nothing,” Lan Wangji replied coldly.

“Exactly my point.” Wei Wuxian leaned in slightly, voice softer now. “Your eyes do all the talking.”

Lan Wangji’s jaw tensed. Wei Wuxian’s smile faltered just slightly.

That tension again. Like something coiled between them, stretched taut.

Wei Wuxian straightened and backed off with a bow that was a little too playful to be sincere. “Good talk, Lan Zhan. As always.”

Lan Wangji didn’t move. But his gaze followed Wei Wuxian all the way across the garden.

In his guest room that night, Wei Wuxian stared at the ceiling and twirled a strand of hair between his fingers.

It was just a rivalry. Nothing more.

So why was he still thinking about the way Lan Wangji had caught his wrist during their spar to redirect a blow—not harsh, not rough, but… firm?

And why did he like it?

“Trouble,” Wei Wuxian murmured to himself.

He smiled. He liked trouble.

Elsewhere in the main compound, Lan Wangji stood at the open window, the wind stirring the candlelight behind him.

He held a single object in his hand: a talisman paper folded and tucked in his robe earlier that day, found wedged in his boot after the match.

A note scrawled in unmistakable handwriting:

“I’ll win next time. Don’t pretend you’re not excited.”
—W.W.

Lan Wangji stared at it.

He didn’t crumple it.
He didn’t throw it away.

He slid it beneath his pillow and returned to his meditation seat, eyes closed, posture perfect.

But he didn’t sleep for a long time.

Chapter Text

Rain from the night before had soaked the cultivation fields, leaving a faint shimmer of dew over the grass. The mountains glistened under the early morning light, clouds rolling softly beneath their peaks. From above, Yunping Peak resembled a mist-shrouded painting.

But beneath the calm was tight tension, coiled, and very much alive.

Wei Wuxian yawned as he strolled into the outer courtyard, tugging his robes into place as he joined the gathered disciples. His hair was only half-tied, a red ribbon dangling crookedly, and his talismans stuck out from his sash like forgotten scraps of homework.

He was, as always, a stark contrast to the neat lines of the Lan Sect, who had already been standing in formation for nearly half an hour.

“Oh no,” Jiang Cheng hissed beside him, “you’re late and underdressed? Wei Wuxian—”

“Relax, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully, nudging him with his elbow. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Besides, it’s not like I’m the only one standing out.”

He tilted his chin toward the front of the formation.

Lan Wangji stood at the center of the group, pale robes unmarred, sword resting at his side. He was still and silent as a marble statue, the morning light catching on the curve of his forehead ribbon.

Wei Wuxian smirked.

“Oh don't,” Jiang Cheng groaned again, “what now?”

“I was just thinking,” Wei Wuxian said, “he probably irons that forehead ribbon every night. It’s that straight.”

Before Jiang Cheng could reply, Lan Qiren’s voice cut through the cool morning air.

“Today’s exercise will be inter-sect sparring drills again. You will work with a partner from another clan. Discipline, control, and form will be evaluated.”

Wei Wuxian immediately perked up. “Inter-sect? That sounds promising.”

Lan Qiren continued, “To begin, Lan Wangji of the Gusu Lan Sect will pair with—” he paused, voice laced with distaste, “—Wei Wuxian of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect.”

Jiang Cheng groaned for the third time that morning. “Of course.”

Wei Wuxian practically bounced forward. “How fortunate!” Lan Wangji, still facing forward, betrayed not even a blink.

They met in the center of the field. The disciples formed a loose circle around them, already whispering; there’d been rumors after the last conference, and they hadn’t seen each other spar since.

Wei Wuxian bowed deeply, lips quirking upward. “Lan Zhan-zhan.”

Lan Wangji’s jaw twitched. Just barely. “Do not call me that.”

“What, you don’t like nicknames?” Wei Wuxian teased. “I think it suits you. So serious. So stern. Like a baby elder.”

“You will take this seriously,” Lan Wangji said coldly, unsheathing Bichen with practiced ease.

“I am serious,” Wei Wuxian replied, drawing Suibian with one hand, the other tucked behind his back like a carefree scholar. “Serious about annoying you.”

Without another word, Lan Wangji moved.

He struck like lightning, clean, precise, calculated. Wei Wuxian laughed as he dodged, light on his feet, spinning out of range like a flame that refused to be caught.

“Too slow, Lan Zhan-zhan!”

“You are unfocused,” Lan Wangji replied, voice sharp.

Their swords clashed again, Suibian singing against Bichen with a high, bright note. One was chaos incarnate, the other order made flesh.

The contrast was beautiful and maddening.

“Careful,” Wei Wuxian teased. “If you smile even once, people might think you’re human.”

Lan Wangji pressed forward, strikes faster now. Wei Wuxian barely dodged, laughing even as he stumbled back. A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

“You’re getting aggressive. I like it.”

“I am not here to entertain you.”

“Then why do you keep chasing me around?”

Lan Wangji’s eyes flashed. Then, unexpectedly, he clipped Wei Wuxian’s thigh with the flat of his blade, hard enough to knock him off balance.

Wei Wuxian hit the ground with a dramatic “oof,” landing in a sprawl of red and laughter.

The disciples tensed. Lan Qiren’s brows twitched.

But Wei Wuxian only groaned and flopped onto his back. “Well,” he said, “I guess that’s what I get for teasing a Lan.”

Lan Wangji stood over him. “Are you hurt?”

Wei Wuxian blinked. It wasn’t the question—it was how gently it was asked.

He grinned. “Aww, Lan Zhan-zhan, I didn’t know you cared.”

Lan Wangji’s mouth opened, then closed. And wordlessly, he turned away.

Wei Wuxian sat up slowly and watched him retreat with something close to curiosity softening his grin.

That night, Lan Wangji entered his quarters and paused.

His robes were in place. His sword aligned. But beside his meditation pillow was a parchment scrap.

“You fight like a scroll—but a pretty one. I’ll beat you next time.”

A rabbit doodle smiled at the bottom. Lan Wangji stared at it.

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t throw it away.

The following morning brought barrier alignment drills. Somehow, Wei Wuxian was again placed beside Lan Wangji.

“You’re kidding,” Wei Wuxian muttered. “Is this fate or a prank?”

“Neither,” Lan Wangji replied. “You are simply difficult to place with others.”

“Ouch. Your words are like silk-wrapped thorns.”

Lan Wangji sat perfectly upright, guqin before him. Wei Wuxian slouched.

“Try not to be terrible.”

“I’ll try if you loosen that ribbon and smile once.”

Lan Wangji plucked a pure, steady note. Wei Wuxian strummed a mismatched scale that made others flinch. Lan Wangji winced.

“That was intentional,” Wei Wuxian said. “Testing your reaction time.”

They tried again. Slowly, notes began to align. By the end, they were in sync. Lan Qiren gave a rare approving nod.

Wei Wuxian leaned in. “Admit it. We make a good team.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze flickered. Then he stood and walked away.

Wei Wuxian blinked after him. “…Was that a yes?”

That evening, during the formal banquet, Wei Wuxian was already a glass deep into wine. He scanned the crowd and saw Lan Wangji—stoic, pristine, untouched.

When offered a tray of plum slices, Lan Wangji declined.

Wei Wuxian leaned toward Jiang Cheng. “Does the great Hanguang-jun even eat? Or does he just meditate the taste away?”

Lan Wangji didn’t react. But his shoulders stiffened. Wei Wuxian grinned, victorious.

The next morning, something had been moved in his satchel. Inside: a small cloth bag tied with blue thread. Inside that: three neatly wrapped Lan-style medicinal sweets.

No note.

Wei Wuxian narrowed his eyes. “No way.”

Still, he popped one into his mouth on the way to drills. “…Tastes like virtue,” he muttered.

Archery drills followed. Wei Wuxian’s attention wandered to Lan Wangji—his bow form perfect, movements fluid.

“You’re looking at Lan Wangji again, aren’t you?” Jiang Cheng asked.

Wei Wuxian didn’t answer.

That afternoon, during cultivation script practice, Wei Wuxian sauntered in late with dumplings in hand.

“Lan Zhan,” he said brightly.

Lan Wangji didn’t look at him.

“Tried one of those candies earlier,” he said, biting a dumpling. “Bit righteous-tasting.”

Lan Wangji paused. “You should not speak with food in your mouth.”

Wei Wuxian beamed. “You’re speaking to me! Ice prince melted.”

Lan Wangji turned. “You are an embarrassment.”

“Your embarrassment.”

That evening, Wei Wuxian doodled rabbits on talismans. As Lan Wangji passed by, he didn’t stop. But one rabbit was later circled—in the neatest calligraphy ink Wei Wuxian had ever seen.

He stared. Then tucked it into his robes quickly.

That night, Lan Wangji sat in meditation. But instead of clarity, his thoughts circled Wei Wuxian’s smile. His voice. The ink-smudged doodle.

Like a tug on a thread he couldn’t cut.

In the Jiang quarters, Wei Wuxian lay on his back, Suibian across his chest, staring at the ceiling.

The pouch of sweets rested beside him.

He’d only eaten one.

He didn’t know why he was saving the others.

Maybe he was starting to like the taste of virtue.

Chapter Text

The forest beyond Yunping Peak stretched into steep cliffs and jagged shadows, where light struggled to break through the thick canopy. Mist crept like fingers over the forest floor, and the path twisted in uneasy curves.

“Scouting group three,” Lan Qiren announced that morning with his usual grim clarity, “will sweep the northeastern trail. Reports of minor spirit disturbances have surfaced. I expect discipline.”

Wei Wuxian straightened with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Ooh, finally something fun.”

Jiang Cheng glared. “You think rogue spirits are fun?”

“Well,” Wei Wuxian said, looping Suibian onto his back, “they’re more fun than calligraphy drills.”

Lan Qiren ignored him though his lip twitched in unmistakable distaste. “Lan Wangji, lead the group.”

At that, Wei Wuxian’s eyes lit up with mischief. Of course.

Lan Wangji turned without reaction and began walking toward the forest’s edge, white robes trailing behind him like river silk.

Wei Wuxian followed with a little bounce in his step, hands clasped behind his back. “Lan Zhan~” he sang under his breath. “Ready for a romantic walk in the woods?”

“Stay quiet,” Lan Wangji said sharply.

Wei Wuxian pouted. “Rude.”

Their party moved in tight formation through the trees, five disciples from varying sects, silent except for the rustle of leaves and the occasional crack of a twig underfoot.

Wei Wuxian lagged slightly behind Lan Wangji, twirling a spiritual compass idly in one hand.

“You’re holding it upside down,” Lan Wangji said without turning.

“No, I’m testing your observational skills,” Wei Wuxian said smugly. “You passed.”

Lan Wangji kept walking. “Focus.”

Wei Wuxian sighed, slipping the compass back into his sleeve. “Yes, Hanguang-jun.”

Despite the constant barbs, the air between them was different today—tenser, somehow. Not hostile, but… charged.

Every time Lan Wangji turned his head to scan the trees, Wei Wuxian’s gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.

And Lan Wangji, though expressionless, always knew exactly where Wei Wuxian was standing. Always.

They reached a clearing framed by ancient trees and a broken shrine at its center half-consumed by moss, the wooden talismans rotted with age.

Jin Guangshan’s son, Jin Zixuan, a sleek boy with a smug grin, stepped forward to inspect the stones. “No significant readings,” he declared. “Just a petty ghost.”

Lan Wangji knelt near the base of the shrine, fingers ghosting over the grass. “There was a burial here. Recently disturbed.”

“How do you know?” asked another disciple.

Lan Wangji pointed to the loosened soil, barely visible beneath the moss. “The ground breathes differently.”

Wei Wuxian, despite himself, paused.

He had noticed it too but Lan Wangji had beaten him to the conclusion.

Again. And somehow… he didn’t mind. Not entirely.

He crouched beside Lan Wangji, inspecting the edge of the grave. “What kind of disturbance?”

Before Lan Wangji could answer, the wind shifted.

Cold.

Wrong.

And then—a scream.

It erupted from deeper in the woods. High. Twisting. Not human.

Wei Wuxian was on his feet in an instant. “Scatter!”

The disciples jumped back as the underbrush exploded. A flash of white fur and claws lunged from the trees—massive, spectral, dripping with dark qi. Its maw was open wide, twisted with jagged teeth.

“A fox spirit?” Wei Wuxian gasped. “No—too corrupted—”

The creature struck, aiming straight for the Jin boy, who froze.

Lan Wangji moved faster than thought—his sword Bichen flashed in a clean arc, intercepting the beast mid-lunge. The blow forced it back a step, but not for long.

“We need a barrier,” Wei Wuxian called out, pulling a talisman scroll from his sleeve. “Stall it!”

The disciples scrambled. Two began to chant. One ran.

The fox spirit reared, claws glowing with necrotic energy. It struck again—this time at Lan Wangji.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian shouted.

Instinct overrode thought. He lunged.

Suibian flared as he threw himself between Lan Wangji and the incoming strike. The claws slashed across his arm and shoulder, tearing fabric and skin alike.

Wei Wuxian grunted, blood warm on his sleeve but he twisted mid-air and landed behind the spirit, slapping three burning talismans onto its back.

“Seal!” he cried.

The spirit shrieked as the talismans flared gold. It bucked, twisted and fled into the forest, trailing smoke and qi like a wounded comet.

Wei Wuxian staggered back, clutching his shoulder.

Lan Wangji turned to him sharply, eyes wide for a fraction of a second. Then his voice snapped.

“That was idiotic. You could have died.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The other disciples froze.

Wei Wuxian blinked. Then grinned, panting. “Aww… worried about me, Lan Zhan?”

Lan Wangji’s mouth was a flat line. His hands trembled as he reached forward then stopped. Instead, he turned sharply. “You’re injured.”

“It’s just a scratch.” Wei Wuxian winced as blood ran down his sleeve.

“It requires treatment,” Lan Wangji said, more forcefully now. “Sit.”

He pressed a hand to Wei Wuxian’s uninjured shoulder and guided him to a nearby log with surprising gentleness.

The others, murmuring, began securing the area and regrouping.

Lan Wangji knelt beside Wei Wuxian and opened a pouch from his robes. Inside: salve, gauze, herbs wrapped in tight paper.

Wei Wuxian arched an eyebrow. “You carry first-aid? How domestic.”

“Be quiet.”

His fingers worked with the precision of a surgeon. He cut the cloth away with a small blade, revealing deep gashes. The wound wasn’t fatal but it was angry, bleeding, and dangerously close to the bone.

Lan Wangji’s jaw clenched. He dipped a cloth in spiritual water and began cleaning it with deliberate care.

Wei Wuxian hissed. “You’re not mad I jumped in, are you?” Silence.

“You’d rather I let you get ripped to shreds?” Still nothing.

Wei Wuxian tilted his head, studying him. “You’re trembling.”

Lan Wangji stilled. His fingers, still wrapped around the cloth, twitched minutely.

Wei Wuxian’s voice softened. “I’m fine. Really.”

Lan Wangji pressed a cooling salve to the wound with more force than necessary.

Wei Wuxian winced. “Okay! I take it back. You’re not worried, you’re punishing me.”

Lan Wangji finally looked at him.

Golden eyes.

Stormy. Intense.

Not angry. Not even annoyed.

Terrified.

Wei Wuxian’s breath caught. “…You really were scared,” he said, voice gentler now. “I didn’t think you—”

“You should not endanger yourself for others so recklessly,” Lan Wangji said, low.

Wei Wuxian shrugged with his good shoulder. “Comes with the territory.”

“Then learn restraint.”

Wei Wuxian laughed. “You know that’s not in my vocabulary.”

Lan Wangji began to wrap the wound with clean gauze.

His touch remained firm. But his hands no longer trembled.

And Wei Wuxian… couldn’t stop watching them.

By the time they returned to camp, the sun had fallen low.

The group reported to the elders. The rogue spirit was marked for full eradication the following day. But the disciples were dismissed early to rest.

Wei Wuxian collapsed onto his bedroll, arm throbbing, heart still hammering.

He’d saved Lan Wangji without thinking.

And Lan Wangji… He looked at him like he’d nearly lost something.

He’d never seen that look before.

From anyone.

In his own quarters, Lan Wangji knelt in meditation but his eyes refused to close.

The image of Wei Wuxian stepping between him and those claws burned behind his lids like a brand.

Foolish.

Unpredictable.

Infuriating.

And…

And— Beautiful.

Lan Wangji’s fingers curled around Bichen’s hilt. He had never hated his inability to speak more than he did now.

It began with the sparring field. Always the sparring field.

The sun was still low, a pale golden smear across the Gusu sky, as disciples lined up to run formation drills. Wei Wuxian spun Suibian lazily in one hand while humming a wildly inappropriate tune, only half-listening to the lecture about blade rhythm and spiritual pressure control.

Across the field, Lan Wangji was already standing in perfect stance. Robes pristine. Hair immaculate. Face unreadable.

Wei Wuxian grinned, feeling the familiar thrill. “Lan Zhan,” he called, voice raised just enough to carry, “how does it feel being Gusu’s poster boy for self-restraint?”

The Lan disciples tensed. Lan Wangji said nothing.

But he did glance over his shoulder. A flicker of golden gaze. An acknowledgement.

And—maybe—a challenge.

Later, they were partnered for formation again. Unspoken rule, apparently.

Lan Qiren didn’t even try to stop it anymore.

Wei Wuxian swaggered into the clearing, sweat-slicked and slightly rumpled from earlier drills. He pulled his ribbon tight around his wrist and offered Lan Wangji a crooked smile.

“Lan Zhan, are you following me or do we have some fated tie the heavens forgot to announce?”

“I do not follow you,” Lan Wangji replied.

“Then stop staring at me so much,” Wei Wuxian teased. “People are going to think we’re attached at the hip.”

Lan Wangji didn’t respond. But his jaw shifted.

Wei Wuxian caught it. He always did.

The shift came in the little things.

Wei Wuxian noticed it first when he lingered after practice one evening, chatting animatedly with Nie Mingjue’s cousin, Nie Zonghui—an older disciple with easy strength and a habit of ruffling Wei Wuxian’s hair whenever he made a clever joke.

He laughed, brushing fingers through his hair, eyes crinkled.

Then, behind him, a presence. Still. Cold. Watchful.

Lan Wangji.

Standing too close. Silent, as always. But with a glare sharp enough to cut through bone.

Wei Wuxian blinked. “Lan Zhan?”

“You are needed at the eastern pillar,” Lan Wangji said coolly.

“No, I’m not. I was just there.”

“There is an imbalance.”

Wei Wuxian arched his brow. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

Nie Zonghui looked between them and raised both brows but said nothing as Wei Wuxian shrugged and followed Lan Wangji down the winding path.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Wei Wuxian said once they were out of earshot.

Lan Wangji didn’t even twitch.

“Though,” Wei Wuxian continued, “if you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask.”

“I do not want your attention.”

Wei Wuxian beamed. “Liar.”

He escalated it after that. Just to see what would happen.

Every smile he gave to someone else was a test.
Every brush of someone’s hand on his back, every laugh too close, every compliment too loud.

He waited for the shift in the air, the unmistakable chill of Lan Wangji noticing.

It never failed.

And Wei Wuxian? He relished every second.

“Your aura has been unsteady lately,” Lan Qiren said during a lecture. “Disciples must cultivate clarity.”

Lan Wangji did not speak.

But from three seats back, Wei Wuxian watched as Lan Wangji’s fingers tightened slightly around his brush.

Unsteady aura, huh? Maybe he wasn’t the only one being tugged at by an invisible thread.

One morning, Wei Wuxian entered the training hall early, a miracle, honestly and found Lan Wangji already there, practicing silent strikes. Bichen moved like a part of his body, slicing through the air in smooth, fluid arcs.

Wei Wuxian watched, breath caught. And then impulsively he crossed the room and clapped once. Loud.

Lan Wangji stilled instantly.

“You always train like that?” Wei Wuxian asked.

“Yes.”

Wei Wuxian circled him like a curious cat. “Don’t you get tired of perfection?”

“No.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“You are careless.”

Wei Wuxian smiled. “Careless is fun.”

“Careless gets people killed.”

The words were sharp. Too sharp. Wei Wuxian’s grin faltered, just for a second. Then he stepped closer, until their shoulders nearly brushed.

“So don’t let me die, then.”

Lan Wangji didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe, maybe.

Wei Wuxian winked and stepped back. “You’re so easy to tease. It’s addictive.”

That evening, Wei Wuxian passed a pair of juniors talking behind one of the shrines.

“Do you think they’re—?” one whispered.

“Hanguang-jun and him?” the other hissed. “Don’t be ridiculous. They argue every time they meet.”

Wei Wuxian smirked to himself.

Good.

Let them keep thinking that.

The next morning, there was a small pouch waiting beside his washbasin. Inside: a new roll of flute string, perfectly sized and tightly wound. The exact kind he preferred. Lan-made.

Wei Wuxian stared at it for a long moment.

“…Lan Zhan,” he whispered to the wind. “You sneaky little stalker.”

He tucked it away. Didn’t say a word about it.

That afternoon, he found himself seated beside a handsome Jin disciple in the calligraphy hall. The boy was flirtatious, overly polite, and charming in a textbook sort of way.

Wei Wuxian flirted back. Just a little.

And Lan Wangji—who had been sitting two seats over—stood abruptly and left the room.

No announcement.
No excuse.
Just gone.

Wei Wuxian’s chest pulled strangely tight.

He found him later that evening near the lotus pond, standing beneath the moonlight with his back to the path.

“Lan Zhan,” he said softly. Lan Wangji didn’t turn.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Wei Wuxian added. “You know that, right?”

Silence.

Then, finally— “You are not a joke.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. “I never said I was.”

“You act like one.”

Ouch.

Wei Wuxian stepped forward. “You think teasing is a joke. I think teasing is…” He trailed off, searching. “…trying to get your attention,” he finished quietly.

Lan Wangji looked at him. “You already have it.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

Wei Wuxian opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.

“…You’re really bad at lying, you know that?”

Lan Wangji turned and walked past him, brushing their sleeves.

Wei Wuxian stood there for a long time. Heart tugging tight.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. Not because of guilt. Or confusion.

But because Lan Wangji had looked at him like he mattered.

More than sparring.
More than silence.
More than rules.

And Wei Wuxian… had no idea what to do with that.

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian didn’t come to the morning lecture.

Not that it was entirely unusual—he had a habit of slipping in late, or skipping them entirely if he thought no one would notice. But this time… this time felt different.

Lan Wangji noticed immediately.

There was a space beside Jiang Cheng that remained empty through the opening bell. A space that had, for the past three mornings, been filled with humming under breath, half-hidden smirks, and ridiculous doodles on the corner of his notes.

Today, silence.

Lan Wangji’s fingers paused over his brush for a moment too long.
The stroke of his character wavered by a fraction.
No one else noticed.
But he did.

Wei Wuxian had woken early—much earlier than usual but hadn’t left his room.

He sat by the window with Suibian resting on his knees and watched the mist roll across the mountaintops, letting the silence crowd into his chest.

He hadn’t meant for it to go this far.

Not the teasing. Not the rivalry. Not the wanting.

That was the problem.

He wanted to see Lan Wangji.

He wanted to say something ridiculous just to earn that tiny wrinkle between his brows. He wanted to brush fingers “accidentally” when they reached for the same talisman scroll. He wanted Lan Wangji to glare at someone else for standing too close to him.

He wanted to. And it scared him.

So, instead, he hid.

The absence stretched. One day turned into two. Then three.

Wei Wuxian slipped out early for chores, avoided shared lessons, skipped evening tea rounds. When he did appear, he was quiet, more subdued. He smiled when spoken to, laughed if prompted—but there was something off.

Something is missing.

Lan Wangji felt it like a splinter lodged just beneath his skin.

The sight of Wei Wuxian at the far edge of the field, surrounded by others but looking past all of them, sent a tug down the center of his chest, tight and insistent.

He didn’t approach.
He didn’t speak.
But he lingered longer near any group Wei Wuxian stood in.

He volunteered for the same tasks.
He stood at the edges, silent.
Waiting.

And Wei Wuxian, damn him, kept slipping away like water through his fingers.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen said gently one evening, approaching where Lan Wangji stood beneath the moonlit arch of the inner courtyard. “Are you unwell?”

Lan Wangji, startled, blinked once. “No.”

Lan Xichen smiled. “You are quieter than usual.”

“I am always quiet.”

“Quieter still, then.”

Lan Wangji didn’t reply. Lan Xichen’s voice softened further. “Is this about the Jiang disciple?”

Golden eyes flicked upward, sharp.

“I have eyes,” Lan Xichen said kindly. “You don’t hide things as well as you think.”

Lan Wangji looked away. “I do not understand him,” he murmured.

“You wish to.”

Lan Wangji hesitated. Then, “Yes.”

Lan Xichen folded his hands in his sleeves, serene. “Then you must be patient. Sometimes, when threads tangle, they must be loosened gently.”

Lan Wangji said nothing. But his shoulders slumped the smallest degree.

Wei Wuxian sat at the edge of the lotus pond that night, throwing pebbles into the water and watching the ripples spiral out.

He wasn’t sure why he was doing this. Avoiding Lan Zhan didn’t make the feelings go away.

If anything, they were worse now. He missed him.

He missed the way Lan Wangji always caught him watching and never said a word.

He missed the quiet way Lan Wangji always had an extra flask of water during long training days and always happened to place it near Wei Wuxian’s spot.

He missed the sound of his voice even when it was scolding. Especially when it was scolding.

He missed being known.

And now that he was pulling away, he realized how much Lan Wangji had come to fill the quiet parts of his days.

The thought hurt.

The next day, during lecture, Lan Wangji looked up and saw him. Seated in the last row, shoulders slouched, hair loose around his collar.

Wei Wuxian didn’t look at him. Not once.

But Lan Wangji felt the tension shift in the room the moment he entered.

His strokes of ink were harsher that day. His foot tapped once against the floor—barely audible, but Lan Qiren noticed.

After class, Lan Wangji didn’t return to his quarters.

He walked the long way around the training yard, stopping beneath the willow tree where Wei Wuxian sometimes napped. Empty.

Then the field where they sparred. Still empty.

At last, he stopped beneath the pavilion and stared out toward the outer courtyard. And found him.

Wei Wuxian was sitting on the steps, Suibian across his lap, head tipped back against the railing.

His eyes were closed, but Lan Wangji could see the tension in his brow.

He hadn’t been sleeping. He was just hiding.

Lan Wangji didn’t approach. But he sat on the opposite side of the courtyard, just within view.

A peace offering.
I am here.
If you want to be seen.

Wei Wuxian didn’t acknowledge him. But he stayed where he was. For over an hour.

The next morning, a small box appeared outside Wei Wuxian’s door.

Inside: a packet of pain-soothing tea leaves, the rare kind the Lan Sect used for exhausted cultivators who overextended their spiritual energy. The box was unmarked.

Wei Wuxian stared at it for a long time before tucking it under his sleeve.

That evening, he found himself walking the path near the lecture hall, only to stop short when he saw a familiar figure standing beneath the lanterns.

Lan Wangji.

He hadn’t seen him up close in nearly a week. And gods, he looked the same. Immaculate. Unbothered.

Except… He wasn’t.

His hands were clenched too tightly.
His gaze was a little too sharp.

Wei Wuxian stepped back before he could be seen.

But something shifted in the gravel.

Lan Wangji turned. Their eyes met.

A single second passed between them. Then two.

Wei Wuxian swallowed and said, “Lan Zhan—” And turned away.

He didn’t see Lan Wangji again for two days. And he hated it.

By the third night, Wei Wuxian couldn’t take it anymore.

He walked to the training hall under moonlight, heart beating out of sync, and found Lan Wangji already there, of course, sword laid across his knees in silent meditation.

“Hey,” Wei Wuxian said softly, stopping in the doorway.

Lan Wangji didn’t move. “You have been avoiding me.”

Wei Wuxian looked at the floor. “Yeah.” A pause. “I don’t know why,” he added.

“I do,” Lan Wangji said quietly. Wei Wuxian looked up.

Lan Wangji stood slowly, spine straight, but his voice was soft. “You realized you wanted something.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t respond.

Lan Wangji stepped forward, close but not too close. “I have wanted, too.”

The words hit like a wave. Wei Wuxian’s eyes burned.

He laughed. “That’s not fair. You’re not supposed to say things like that first.”

Lan Wangji tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because then I lose the game.”

“There is no game,” Lan Wangji said firmly.

Wei Wuxian looked at him. Really looked. And nodded. “Okay.”

Wei Wuxian woke to the early morning stillness that draped over Gusu like fog. A soft wind filtered through the open window, stirring the curtains like whispers.

He blinked slowly, face half-buried in his pillow. Sunlight slanted across the floor, catching on the grain of the wood, the edges of his robes strewn nearby, and something else.

Something that hadn’t been there before.
Something long. Pale. Familiar.

His gaze snapped fully open. Resting neatly atop his folded robes was a flute.

Not the old one he had been using—a cracked, poorly tuned replacement after his original was lost during a chaotic beast encounter two months ago. No, this one was… beautiful.

The bamboo was smooth and slightly cool to the touch. Polished and sealed, lacquered in midnight black with inlaid silver cloud motifs near the mouthpiece. The tassel tied to the end was a soft, pale blue.

Lan colors. His heart flipped.

He lifted it with reverent hands, breath catching at the craftsmanship. The tone holes were cleanly carved, precisely measured. The balance in his hand was perfect. It was light but steady. It hummed faintly with spiritual energy.

This was no store-bought replacement. This was handmade.

Personal.
Thoughtful.

Wei Wuxian stared at it for a long time, unmoving. There was no note. No name.

But he knew. Somehow, he knew.

His chest felt too tight. His lips parted. He swallowed once.

“Lan Zhan…” he whispered to the empty room, voice so soft even the wind missed it.

Then he laughed shakily, but real. And pressed the flute to his lips.

The first note he played was low and trembling, unsure like a first confession. But the next flowed clearer, and the one after that—a sharp fluttering trill—danced through the air like a bird taking flight.

Outside, a few disciples paused mid-conversation as the sound drifted across the inner courtyard.

Inside the library pavilion, Lan Wangji lifted his head from the scroll he was copying.

He did not move.
But he closed his eyes.
And listened.

Two days earlier, Lan Wangji had stood for nearly half an hour outside the craftsman’s studio in Yunping before stepping inside. His request had been succinct, his voice emotionless, but his fingers had curled tightly around the list of specifications he had written by hand.

The same length. The same key. Reinforced to prevent cracking. Balanced just as the one Wei Wuxian had lost.

The cloud patterns? …Unspoken.

The craftsman added them anyway.

And when Lan Wangji returned to Gusu, he placed the finished flute at Wei Wuxian’s quarters during the fourth watch, when even the clouds were sleeping.

Wei Wuxian didn’t bring it to lectures. Not yet.

But he played it every morning. And every evening.

And sometimes late at night, Lan Wangji would catch the faint melody of a song only he seemed to recognize, drifting through the air like something meant only for him.

He didn’t ask.
Wei Wuxian didn’t speak of it.
But the air between them buzzed anew.

Three days after the flute appeared, Lan Wangji found something tucked between the pages of Scriptures on Celestial Wardings in the library.

A talisman slip. Clean, precisely folded.

Not machine-cut. Hand-trimmed.

The design was Lan-style, but the stitching was foreign. The edges were laced with golden thread. More Jiang than Lan. And at the center was a small, precise character:

Still.

It shimmered faintly when his fingers touched it. He stared at it for a long time.

Then slipped it into the inner pocket of his robes. He kept it there. Always.

The others began to notice.

First it was Nie Huaisang, who leaned in during calligraphy to whisper, “Lan Wangji’s glowing.”

“No, he’s not,” Jiang Cheng said flatly.

“He is! Look at his aura! It’s like…” Nie Huaisang paused, squinting. “Like a glowing pine tree.”

Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes.

Later that evening, Wen Qing pulled Wei Wuxian aside during chores and asked, “What happened to you? You’ve been smiling like an idiot all day.”

“I have not!” Wei Wuxian hissed. Then smiled wider. “I’m just… in a good mood.”

“You're not being annoying. That’s how I know it’s serious.”

Wei Wuxian brought the flute with him to the practice field by the end of the week. He didn’t play it in front of others yet but he carried it everywhere. Like a charm. A secret.

During a rare moment of rest, he caught Jiang Cheng staring at it and quickly stuffed it into his robes.

“…You’re acting weird,” Jiang Cheng said suspiciously.

Wei Wuxian smiled. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Still taking it as one.”

Lan Wangji didn’t react to the flute. Not outwardly.

But every time he passed Wei Wuxian on the walkways, in class, near the gardens, his eyes would flicker briefly to where the flute was tucked at his side.

Just for a second. But it was enough.

Wei Wuxian saw it every time.

The talisman Lan Wangji received never left his person.

And when Wei Wuxian spotted it by accident—partially visible between the folds of his robes as they trained in tandem—his steps faltered.

“You dropped something,” he murmured, pointing.

Lan Wangji glanced down. His hand closed over it reflexively. “No,” he said quietly. “It is where it belongs.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. Then smiled, small and stunned.

Jiang Cheng exploded two days later.

“I’m going to lose it,” he growled after finding Wei Wuxian twirling that damn flute again during lecture. “You’ve been humming all week. You smile at nothing. And Lan Wangji keeps staring at you like someone stole his seal script and replaced it with a love poem.”

Nie Huaisang wheezed.

“I AM RIGHT HERE,” Wei Wuxian protested.

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

Later that week, someone placed a small pouch of lotus seeds outside Lan Wangji’s door.

Roasted. Lightly salted. Wei Wuxian’s preferred recipe.

There was no note. Lan Wangji didn’t need one.

He placed the pouch inside his drawer. It remained untouched. But not unwanted.

That night, as rain swept across the courtyards in soft silver sheets, Wei Wuxian sat on the wooden railing of the outer terrace, flute in hand, eyes unfocused.

“You should sleep,” a voice said quietly. Wei Wuxian turned.

Lan Wangji stood just beyond the doorway, not inside, but not leaving either.

“You too,” Wei Wuxian said.

“I will.”

They stood in silence, the sound of rain curling between them like a ribbon.

Wei Wuxian looked down at the flute. His voice dropped. “Thank you.”

Lan Wangji didn’t answer. But he stepped closer. Just a little.

Wei Wuxian didn’t move.

“I still don’t know if I’m imagining it,” he murmured, “but… if it’s not imaginary… then thank you.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze met his. “It is not imaginary.”

The wind picked up.
Their robes fluttered.
So did something else.

Wei Wuxian smiled. “Didn’t think you’d admit it.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes softened. “I will not lie.”

Wei Wuxian’s heart hurt in the way that felt like blooming. “…Lan Zhan.”

“Hm?”

He hesitated. Then shook his head. “Nothing.”

The rain kept falling. But Wei Wuxian didn’t feel cold.

Chapter Text

They weren’t supposed to be alone.

It had been a group assignment. A low-level night hunt along the misted foothills west of Qinghe. Routine, simple, boring by Wei Wuxian’s standards. Half a dozen disciples from several sects, meant to patrol the forest ridge and practice identifying resentful energy traces. A safe exercise.

Except the rain came early.

And the winds were stronger than predicted.

And one loud crack of splintering thunder had sent two horses fleeing, scattered three of the juniors, and left Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji soaked to the bone beneath a lightning-streaked sky, shouting over the sound of trees groaning.

They found shelter in the hollow of an abandoned shrine tucked between two rock faces.

Not ideal.
But dry. Mostly.

“I’ll check for traces,” Lan Wangji said, voice steady despite the wind.

Wei Wuxian slumped to the floor near the entrance, wringing out his outer robe. “You always say that like it doesn’t involve you walking directly into danger while I sit here and sulk.”

“You are not sulking.”

“Oh, I’m sulking,” he muttered.

Lan Wangji glanced back at him, then turned and stepped out into the swirling mist.

Wei Wuxian watched him go.

He didn’t say be careful. He didn’t have to.

Lan Wangji already knew.

By the time Lan Wangji returned, rain still falling, night already fully pressed down around them, he was soaked but uninjured. His robe clung to his frame, dark with water, and his usually perfect hair had begun to fall from its tie.

Wei Wuxian did not stare. He stared.

Lan Wangji knelt silently by the far wall and unrolled his traveling blanket. He said nothing.

Wei Wuxian huddled closer to the small fire he’d coaxed into life using the last of his dry kindling. The flames danced like something alive, throwing long shadows against the stone.

Thunder cracked again, deeper this time. “Looks like we’re stuck here all night,” he said aloud.

Lan Wangji nodded once. “The path is not safe to travel.”

“You hate this, don’t you?”

“I do not.”

Wei Wuxian snorted. “You hate me.”

“I do not.” The words came quickly. Automatic.

Wei Wuxian blinked. “…Do you hate this?” he asked again, quieter.

Lan Wangji looked at him, firelight catching the gold in his eyes. “No.”

They sat in silence for a long time, the only sounds the hiss of rain on stone and the soft crackle of flame.

Wei Wuxian rested his chin on his knees, watching the shadows.

He didn’t know when he started noticing things about Lan Wangji that weren’t weapons.

Like the way he always made room, even when he didn’t speak.
The way he handed back borrowed items cleaner than he received them.
The way he watched with his whole body—shoulders, posture, even his breathing—as if protecting everyone in his line of sight.

As if protecting him.

He didn’t know when he started remembering the look in Lan Wangji’s eyes the night of the flute gift. Or how he hadn’t denied it. Or the quiet way he had said It is not imaginary.

He didn’t know when sitting near Lan Wangji started to feel like rest.

But it had. And that was the problem.

“You always look at me,” Wei Wuxian said softly, eyes still on the fire.

Lan Wangji didn’t reply.

Wei Wuxian turned. “Why?”

Lan Wangji’s gaze met his. And held.

“Because,” Lan Wangji said, voice low, “you are reckless. Loud. Foolish.”

Wei Wuxian huffed a laugh. “You say that like it’s flattering.”

“I notice you,” Lan Wangji said simply. The words landed like a weight in his chest.

Wei Wuxian swallowed. “You look at me like you hate me and want to keep me alive forever at the same time.”

Lan Wangji didn’t blink.

“You do,” Wei Wuxian whispered.

Lan Wangji’s expression didn’t change. But something in his aura pulled taut, tense as a bowstring.

“I don’t understand you,” Wei Wuxian said, quieter now. “Sometimes I think you’d draw Bichen if someone insulted me. And sometimes I think you’d do it because I insulted you first.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze didn’t move from him. “You frustrate me,” Lan Wangji said at last. “But I do not wish for your harm.”

Wei Wuxian smiled, lopsided. “Lan Zhan… you saved me from a rogue beast. Gave me a flute. And didn’t say a word about it.”

He paused. “Do you hate me?”

“No.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled. “Do you like me?”

A long silence. The fire crackled.

Lan Wangji stood and crossed to the fire, his movements slow and deliberate. He knelt across from Wei Wuxian, separated only by the tiny flame between them.

Their knees nearly touched.

“I respect you,” Lan Wangji said quietly.

Wei Wuxian’s throat closed. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

Wei Wuxian’s voice dropped. “Then say what you mean.”

Lan Wangji looked at him. And then slowly—he reached into his inner robes and pulled out something.

Wei Wuxian froze.

It was the talisman. The one he had made. The one he’d hidden in a book days ago.

He hadn’t thought Lan Wangji would find it. Or keep it.

But he had.

“It has not left me,” Lan Wangji said.

Wei Wuxian stared at it.

“It worked,” Lan Wangji added.

“It’s just a stillness charm.”

“No,” Lan Wangji said. “It’s more.”

Wei Wuxian lifted his eyes.

Lan Wangji’s expression was bare, calm, unreadable, but present.

As if he’d peeled away something and let Wei Wuxian see what was underneath.

And what he saw… Was care. Raw. Quiet. Fierce.

Lan Wangji gently returned the talisman to his pocket and sat back. The space between them vibrated with something unspoken.

Wei Wuxian’s hand curled around the new flute at his side. “I liked it,” he said finally.

Lan Wangji nodded.

“I liked you giving it to me,” Wei Wuxian added, softer.

This time, Lan Wangji’s eyes flickered. “I am glad.”

The rain began to slow. The fire dimmed.

Wei Wuxian leaned back, heart thudding. “Lan Zhan,” he murmured, eyes slipping closed. “If I asked you to sit here until the sun rises without saying another word… would you?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “Then stay.”

They didn’t speak again that night. But they didn’t move apart either.

When dawn came and the storm faded, they emerged from the shrine with dry robes, warm tea, and something between them that neither could name but both felt like a thread winding tighter.

Not choking. Just… pulling.

Lan Wangji stood beneath the arching shadows of the bamboo grove, eyes fixed on the edge of the training courtyard, where Wei Wuxian's laughter used to ring loud and clear.

Tonight, it was quiet. Too quiet.

And the absence was sharp.

Wei Wuxian had been avoiding him again.

Not in the dramatic teasing way, no loud sighs or overacted offense, no calling him Lan Zhan-zhan just to needle his patience. No smirks. No sideways grins. Just… quiet, like a blanket drawn too tightly over a wound.

And the worst part?

Lan Wangji couldn’t even blame him. Not after what he’d failed to say.

Earlier that day, they'd passed each other in the corridor just beyond the pavilion, and the moment had felt heavier than most.

Wei Wuxian had slowed, eyes briefly catching his. “Lan Zhan,” he said, softer than usual.

Lan Wangji paused. “Yes?”

Wei Wuxian searched his face for something. A sign. A flicker. “Why do you always look at me like that?”

Lan Wangji’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”

Wei Wuxian’s smile was faint. “Like you hate me… but want to make sure I’m alive anyway.”

There was a pause. A long one. “You infuriate me,” Lan Wangji said instead.

And that was all.

Now, standing alone with the quiet pressing in from all sides, Lan Wangji regretted it more than he could bear.

He had nearly said it. He had meant to say so much more.

But what came out was the same line he'd always used, a line that was true, but incomplete.

A line that hid everything that sat beneath the surface.

In the guest quarters, Wei Wuxian sat cross-legged on his bedding, fingers curled around the edge of his blanket. His flute lay beside him, untouched.

He had gone out earlier past the lake, near the willows where the lotus wind sometimes blew in from the valley and had sat alone until the stars came out.

The music he hadn’t played still sat in his chest like steam, wanting to rise.

But what was the point? Every time he got too close, Lan Zhan pulled away.

Every time his heart reached out, it was met with silence. Or worse—“You infuriate me.”

Wei Wuxian laughed to himself, bitterly. “He says that like it explains anything.”

Because it wasn’t just that.

He’d seen it, the way Lan Zhan looked at him when he thought no one noticed. The way he lingered nearby, the way his hand once shot out instinctively to steady Wei Wuxian during a climb, only to quickly pull back as if burned.

There was something there.

But it stayed behind a wall that Wei Wuxian couldn’t climb, no matter how many times he knocked on the door with teasing and smiles and careless bravery.

He wasn’t sure how many more times he could try.

The next morning, Wei Wuxian didn’t go to the morning lecture. Lan Qiren didn’t comment, but his displeased glance was pointed.

Lan Wangji sat in the front row, hands steady, gaze fixed forward. But he didn’t hear a word of the text.

Not really. He only heard the echo of that voice:

“Why do you always look at me like that?”
“You infuriate me.”

He clenched his fingers tightly around the brush in his hand. So tightly, the bristles bent and the ink smeared across the edge of his sleeve.

He didn’t correct it.

Wei Wuxian had taken to the far training grounds that evening where the juniors didn’t go, where the wind was a little stronger and the pines a little older.

He set his flute down on the grass and stared up at the sky.

Lan Wangji found him there just before dusk. Wei Wuxian didn’t flinch when he approached. Didn’t greet him.

Just said, “Are you here to lecture me?” Lan Wangji didn’t answer.

Wei Wuxian looked over his shoulder. “No? Then what do you want?”

Lan Wangji stepped closer, slowly. “To… speak.”

Wei Wuxian raised a brow. “You already did. Remember? ‘You infuriate me.’ Very romantic.”

Lan Wangji inhaled through his nose, the words catching in his throat again. He reached into his sleeve.

Wei Wuxian blinked as something pale and smooth was drawn into view.

It was the twin flute. The one that matched his. The one he hadn’t known Lan Zhan had.

Lan Wangji held it gently, as if it were fragile. “I meant to give this to you.”

Wei Wuxian sat up.

Lan Wangji continued, voice quiet: “I made two. The second… I kept.”

“You never said.”

“I was not ready.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes searched his face. The wind tugged gently at their robes.

Lan Wangji looked down at the flute in his hands, fingers trembling slightly. “I should have said more,” he murmured.

“You still can,” Wei Wuxian said.

Silence stretched between them.

Then Lan Wangji said, softly: “You are… the only person who makes me feel like this. It is unfamiliar. And overwhelming.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath caught.

“You do not infuriate me because I dislike you,” Lan Wangji continued, tone steady despite the tremor in his voice. “You infuriate me because I care more than I understand.”

Wei Wuxian smiled. It was a slow, aching sort of smile, one that curled gently at the corners and threatened to become something softer.

He stood and stepped forward until only a breath of space separated them.

Lan Wangji looked at him as if he were something fragile and sacred.

“You didn’t say everything,” Wei Wuxian whispered.

“No.”

“But that’s okay.”

Wei Wuxian reached up, carefully brushing a strand of hair behind Lan Wangji’s ear.

Then, he stepped back. “You’re not ready yet,” he said. “But… I think you’re trying.”

Lan Wangji clutched the flute tightly.

Wei Wuxian gave him one last look, one last soft smile that shimmered with too many emotions to name, and turned to go.

He left without waiting for a reply.

Lan Wangji stood alone in the field for a long time, the flute in his hands, the wind whispering through the pines.

And though he said nothing, the thread between them pulled tighter than ever.

Chapter Text

Lan Qiren stood at the front of the training hall with his usual stern expression, arms folded behind his back as he addressed the junior disciples lined in perfect rows.

“As part of your development,” he began, “you will be conducting your first independent night hunt in the outer hills.”

Murmurs of excitement rippled through the group. The juniors were eager, more than ready to prove themselves, if not always equipped with the foresight to survive their own boldness.

Lan Qiren raised a hand. “You will not be unsupervised.”

Relief bloomed visibly in several young faces.

“Two seniors will accompany and guide your patrol team,” he continued. “To ensure adherence to rules, safety of the group, and completion of your task.”

Wei Wuxian slouched slightly in his seat, already bored. That is, until Lan Qiren said, “Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian will lead this expedition.”

The room tilted.

Wei Wuxian straightened. “I’m sorry—what?”

Lan Wangji looked just as startled, though he said nothing.

Lan Qiren’s gaze cut to Wei Wuxian. “Did you not hear me?”

“No, no—I heard,” Wei Wuxian said quickly. “Just making sure you’re feeling alright, Master Lan. You’re pairing me and Lan Zhan?”

“Precisely.”

“That seems… risky.”

“For whom?”

“Everyone.”

They departed at dusk with six juniors in tow, all too excited for their own good.

The mission was standard: investigate a series of unnatural disturbances in the foothills beyond the Gusu border—displaced talismans, odd animal behavior, residual spiritual energy.

Simple enough.

Except that nothing was simple when he and Lan Zhan were paired together.

By the time the sun vanished behind the horizon, Wei Wuxian had already clashed with Lan Wangji three times over how to handle a broken warding seal, a mistaken demon fox track, and one junior’s poorly tied outer robe.

“It’s a loose robe, not a fatal error,” Wei Wuxian muttered under his breath.

“They represent the Gusu Lan Sect,” Lan Wangji replied flatly. “Discipline is not optional.”

“You’re so dramatic, Lan Zhan. Loosen up.”

“I am not tense.”

Wei Wuxian snorted. “You’re always tense.” They walked in silence after that.

Despite the bickering, the juniors found their rhythm under the odd duality of their leadership. Lan Wangji gave quiet, precise instructions; Wei Wuxian added lightness, context, and humor when things became too stiff.

One of the juniors whispered to another, “I think they balance each other out.”

Another said, “They bicker like an old couple.”

Jiang Yanli would have loved that comment.

Night deepened, and the patrol brought them into a narrow gorge laced with old wards and broken symbols half-swallowed by moss.

“We shouldn’t linger here,” Lan Wangji said, inspecting a cracked talisman along the wall.

Wei Wuxian stepped beside him, brow furrowed. “This wasn’t broken long ago.”

They were scanning opposite sides of the gorge when the trap triggered.

A dull click, followed by a low hum—something spiritual, unstable.

Wei Wuxian spun around just in time to see a massive chunk of stone dislodge from the ledge overhead, loosened by spiritual residue.

He didn’t have time to move. But Lan Wangji did.

A flash of white.
A sharp shove.
Then pain.

Wei Wuxian hit the ground hard, skidding into the grass.

The boulder slammed just beside him, fracturing the earth.

Lan Wangji’s body took the edge of the force, his arm thrown up protectively over Wei Wuxian.

Blood bloomed across his sleeve.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian scrambled to his knees. The juniors cried out in alarm.

“I’m fine,” Lan Wangji said through gritted teeth.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes darted to the torn sleeve, the gash along Lan Wangji’s forearm—deep, already soaking crimson.

“You call that fine?” he hissed.

Lan Wangji met his eyes with infuriating calm. “You were going to be hit.”

Wei Wuxian stared at him. “Of course I was,” he said. “But you weren’t supposed to be.”

He turned to the juniors. “Stay back. Keep your eyes on the perimeter.”

They obeyed immediately.

Wei Wuxian knelt beside Lan Wangji and tugged at the robe. “Let me see it.”

“I can manage—”

“Shut up.”

Lan Wangji blinked.

Wei Wuxian’s hands were trembling as he unwrapped the sleeve carefully. His fingers weren’t usually clumsy like this, but they fumbled with the knot of the sash.

“You’re bleeding,” he muttered. “Idiot.”

Lan Wangji said nothing.

“You should’ve let me take the hit.”

“I will not,” Lan Wangji said, voice soft but firm.

Wei Wuxian’s lips pressed into a line. “You always do this,” he said. “Put yourself in front of me like you’re made of stone.”

“I am not.”

“No. You’re made of paper and pride.”

He poured medicinal powder over the gash and began wrapping it carefully with clean linen from the travel kit. His fingers still shook.

Lan Wangji watched him. “You are upset.”

“No. I’m furious.” Wei Wuxian looked up. “You always say I infuriate you, but you do the exact same thing to me, Lan Zhan. You make me want to scream, and cry, and—” He stopped.

Lan Wangji’s gaze didn’t waver.

Wei Wuxian laughed quietly, broken at the edges. “Why did you push me out of the way?”

Lan Wangji was silent for a moment. Then “Because I could not bear the thought of you being hurt.”

Wei Wuxian froze.

The wind moved gently through the grass around them.

He let out a slow breath, pressing the bandage one final time to tighten it. “That’s a dangerous thing to say, Lan Zhan.”

“I know.”

Wei Wuxian looked at him, truly looked.

Under the moonlight, Lan Wangji’s expression was open in a way it rarely ever was, unshielded, honest. No barriers. No rules.

“I would’ve done the same,” Wei Wuxian whispered.

“I know.”

Their eyes held each other for a long moment. Wei Wuxian glanced down at Lan Wangji’s hand.

He hesitated, then reached forward, threading their pinky fingers together.

Lan Wangji didn’t pull away.

He didn’t look startled.

He only closed his fingers.

And held on.

After that moment, everything was different. And yet, nothing changed.

They walked beside each other with the juniors as if nothing had happened.

They exchanged glances that meant too much. They bickered over where to camp.

Wei Wuxian teased. Lan Wangji glared. But between it all, underneath was something warm. Something constant.

Like a single golden thread, glinting just beneath the surface of everything they said and did.

Not fully visible.
But there.
Tied. Unspoken. Unbreakable.

It started with a single overheard conversation.

Wei Wuxian hadn’t meant to listen in, he was simply rounding the eastern corridor when he heard two Gusu Lan disciples murmuring near the training hall’s outer steps.

“I heard it was Lan Wangji who reported the unsanctioned talisman use during the last hunt.”

“I thought that was handled quietly. He submitted a written correction.”

“Correction or not, whoever caused the fluctuation almost endangered the juniors. He’s right to report it, even if it was…” the voice dropped, “Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian stopped in his tracks. He didn’t hear the rest. His ears rang too loudly.

Later that day, he found Lan Wangji by the scroll pavilion and approached in a blur of motion and bitterness.

“You reported me?” he asked, half a laugh in his voice. It sounded brittle. “Couldn’t say it to my face?”

Lan Wangji looked up slowly from the text he was reviewing. “I did not use your name.”

“But you knew it was me.”

“Yes.”

“And you still submitted a complaint.”

Lan Wangji set the scroll aside. “I reported a breach in safety.”

Wei Wuxian folded his arms tightly across his chest. “Even if it was me.”

“I would do so again.”

Wei Wuxian smiled tightly. “Right. Of course you would.”

“It was not personal.”

“No,” Wei Wuxian said quietly. “That’s the problem. You never let it be.”

Lan Wangji’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t explain further. He didn’t apologize.

And so Wei Wuxian walked away.

For the next three days, he avoided him. Again.

It was subtle at first, skipping breakfast in the main hall, joining patrols just after Lan Wangji had returned. But then it grew obvious.

He didn’t look Lan Wangji’s way during lectures. He left the room first. He disappeared for hours between lessons, choosing quieter, emptier paths around Cloud Recesses.

He laughed more loudly with others, smiled at passing juniors, let one of the girls fix his sleeve in the courtyard while he pretended not to notice Lan Wangji’s shadow just beyond the arch.

Lan Wangji did not approach. But he saw everything.

And his fingers clenched a little tighter every time someone else got too close to Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian, for his part, was miserable.

He was used to people disliking his methods. He didn’t mind being misunderstood most of the time. But this was different. Lan Zhan had watched him place the talisman with precision, had seen how gently it calmed the wild spiritual energy without harming a thing.

And he’d still reported it.

Because rules mattered more than he did. That realization left a hollow ache in his chest.

But still, Wei Wuxian wandered the walkways of Cloud Recesses at dusk, heart stupidly hoping he'd see him again anyway.

And Lan Wangji, silent and distant, watched from the shadows, always at a distance, always just near enough to react if danger approached.

Once, a cultivator from another minor sect bumped into Wei Wuxian in the courtyard. It was nothing, barely a touch, barely an inconvenience.

But Lan Wangji had moved in an instant, taking a single step forward, hand brushing the hilt of Bichen, before catching himself.

He said nothing. Turned away.

Wei Wuxian had noticed. And that only made it worse.

By the fifth day, Wei Wuxian ended up back at the lake, as always. It was quiet here. The water was still. The wind didn’t carry whispers.

He let his fingers trail over the surface, watching the ripples chase each other outward, one after the next.

“Did you mean it?” he murmured to no one. “That it wasn’t personal?”

There was no answer, of course. Just the hush of wind through the reeds.

But when he turned to go, he found a folded piece of paper resting beside his satchel.

Lan Wangji’s calligraphy. Not signed. But unmistakable.

He unfolded it with slow fingers.

“A thread, once pulled, cannot return to stillness.
It unravels only because it is alive.
Because it reaches.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes lingered on the page. He sat back down and didn’t move for a long time.

Later that night, the moon hung high, casting long shadows through the paper windows of the eastern wing.

Lan Wangji stood by his desk, unmoving. He had not meditated. He had not read.

He simply stood, as if waiting for something he could not name.

Then—footsteps.

A pause outside.

He didn’t turn.

“Lan Zhan.”

His heart clenched at the sound of Wei Wuxian’s voice, tired, uncertain, but here.

“You are still awake.”

“Yes.”

The door slid open. Wei Wuxian stepped inside and closed it behind him.

Neither spoke at first. Then Wei Wuxian said, “You could’ve told me.”

“I tried.”

“No, you wrote poetry,” Wei Wuxian snapped but not cruelly. He sounded... hurt. “You submitted a report on me and left a poem in my bag. You didn’t talk to me.”

Lan Wangji looked down. “It was not judgment. I feared you would be reprimanded by others if I did not address it myself, quietly.”

Wei Wuxian stared. “You were… protecting me?”

Lan Wangji nodded once.

Wei Wuxian’s voice cracked. “And you didn’t say that?”

“I did not think you would believe me.”

Wei Wuxian let out a soft, breathless laugh, turning to lean against the doorframe. “You’re such a mess,” he said.

“I know.”

“I’m a mess too.”

“Yes.”

Wei Wuxian turned back, eyes searching Lan Wangji’s face. “I missed you.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes softened, just a little. “I know.”

“I was angry. But I still hoped I’d see you.”

“I saw you,” Lan Wangji admitted. “Every time.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. “You were following me?”

Lan Wangji didn’t deny it. “I would have intervened,” he added, “if anyone—if anything—”

Wei Wuxian stepped closer. “I know.” He hesitated.

Then reached out, slowly, as if unsure if he’d be allowed. His fingers brushed the back of Lan Wangji’s hand.

“You scare me sometimes,” he admitted. “Not because I’m afraid of you. But because you… matter more than you should.”

Lan Wangji turned his hand over and closed his fingers gently around Wei Wuxian’s.

“You do not scare me,” he said. “But you unmake me.”

Silence.

Then Wei Wuxian smiled, sad and sincere.

“You’re such a poet when you’re honest.”

“I am not a poet.”

“You are,” he said softly. “And I think I’m starting to understand the language.”

They stood like that for a long time, fingers twined, hearts pulled tight and trembling.

And for once, neither of them walked away.

Chapter Text

When Lan Wangji arrived at Lotus Pier, the skies were clear, but the wind hinted at rain.

He stepped off the boat with quiet precision, official seal tucked in his robes, a scroll from the Cloud Recesses in hand. The request was mundane, a routine inter-sect communication about shared territory boundaries, talismanic recalibrations, and potential rogue spirit sightings near Yunmeng’s outer woods.

But that wasn’t why he’d come. The scroll could’ve been sent by the carrier.

This visit, this moment, was something he hadn’t allowed himself until now.

Wei Wuxian met him at the pier. “You?” Wei Wuxian asked, grinning, arms folded. “I expected someone more talkative. Maybe even a little friendlier.”

Lan Wangji didn’t smile, but his expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “Brother was busy.”

Wei Wuxian raised a brow. “So they sent you.”

“Yes.”

“Under official business.”

Lan Wangji nodded once.

Wei Wuxian smirked. “And definitely not because you missed me.”

There was a pause. The breeze danced between them. Then Lan Wangji said, “I did.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. His grin faltered for half a breath, replaced by something quieter, gentler. “…Come on, then. I’ll show you around.”

Lan Wangji had been to Lotus Pier before but never like this.

Not with Wei Wuxian walking just ahead of him, pointing out rebuilt pavilions and dock posts with a touch of pride. Not with soft warmth threading every word.

“That pavilion was rebuilt after the flood,” Wei Wuxian explained, brushing his fingers along a railing. “Jiang Cheng pretends he did most of the design, but it was actually Yanli-jie. She wanted it to face the water so the morning sun would hit it just right.”

Lan Wangji listened intently.

Wei Wuxian glanced sideways. “You’re actually paying attention?”

“I always pay attention.”

Wei Wuxian flushed slightly. “That’s… new.”

“It isn’t.”

The afternoon passed in slow steps. Wei Wuxian took him through the marketplace, then the temple garden, then up along the quietest parts of the pier, away from the bustle.

Lan Wangji asked a few questions. But he remembered everything.

The color of the lotus petals on the water. The way Wei Wuxian lit up describing the old orchard grove. The soft lilt of his voice when he mentioned his mother’s favorite tea.

By the time night fell, they were sitting at the edge of the old dock, legs dangling above the water, the moon rippling across the surface in broken strands.

Wei Wuxian leaned back on his palms, eyes half-lidded.

Lan Wangji sat beside him, unmoving. Listening.

The air was thick with something unsaid.

Then Wei Wuxian spoke. “I think about you too much.”

The words came out like a breeze—barely a sound. Lan Wangji didn’t react.

Wei Wuxian glanced at him, then huffed a laugh and waved a hand. “I mean you know. Rivalry. Irritation. Curiosity.” His voice wobbled. “You’re a hard person not to think about.”

Lan Wangji remained quiet.

Wei Wuxian looked back out over the water. “I used to tell myself it was just about winning,” he said. “About proving something. To you, to me. But…”

Lan Wangji turned his head.

Wei Wuxian laughed again. It was small and a little sad. “But now I think… I don’t care who wins. I just don’t want to stop looking at you.”

A gust of wind stirred the water. The lantern near the shore flickered.

Lan Wangji didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Wei Wuxian glanced at him, and for the first time, there was no teasing in his gaze. Just quiet, open vulnerability. He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I know. It’s too much. Too soon. Too—” he forced a chuckle, “—Wei Wuxian of me.”

Lan Wangji’s voice was soft. “It is not too much.”

Wei Wuxian stilled.

Lan Wangji’s eyes lit by moonlight were fixed on him, gaze heavy and unreadable. Like a storm gathering just before it breaks.

Wei Wuxian’s breath caught.

“Then why do you look like that?” he asked quietly. “Like you want to say something but won’t.”

Lan Wangji opened his mouth. Then closed it.

His hand, resting near his leg, twitched, fingers flexing once, as if reaching.

But he didn’t speak. Wei Wuxian watched him for a moment longer, then looked away.

“Lan Zhan,” he whispered. “Tell me it’s not just me.”

Lan Wangji hesitated. “…It is not.”

That was all. And still—Wei Wuxian smiled.

Not a triumphant smile. Not even a relieved one.

Just soft.
Hopeful.

He tilted his head to the sky. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

They didn’t speak much after that. But neither moved. And neither wanted to.

The water lapped gently at the dock’s edge, as if cradling the moment in secret.

And though nothing was quite said, not really, everything had been felt.

The next morning, Lan Wangji left Lotus Pier with the scroll returned and duty fulfilled.

But before he stepped onto the boat, Wei Wuxian pressed something into his hand. It was a folded slip of paper.

Inside: a hand-drawn talisman. Carefully stitched edges. Spiritual energy calm and balanced, like water held in a bowl.

“I made this for protection,” Wei Wuxian said lightly. “Not that you need it. You’re practically made of steel.”

Lan Wangji looked at him, then down at the talisman. He said nothing. But he kept it.

And never once let it leave his robes.

The scroll had been signed by Lan Xichen and sealed with the Yunmeng Jiang Sect’s emblem.

Wei Wuxian had blinked when he opened it.

“Joint night assignment,” Jiang Cheng had said with a sigh, passing him the second scroll. “And guess who you’re paired with.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t guess. He didn’t have to.

Lotus Pier was hosting a week-long joint cultivation initiative with selected disciples from Gusu Lan. A small contingent had arrived with Lan Xichen, calm and poised as ever. Wei Wuxian hadn’t expected Lan Wangji to come.

He definitely hadn’t expected this: a "randomized" night patrol that just so happened to pair him and Lan Wangji alone, with their route stretching the farthest from the main group.

“Coincidence?” Wei Wuxian had asked Jiang Yanli, eyebrows raised.

She smiled with all the innocence of a fox-spirit. “Fate, maybe.”

He squinted. “You and Zewu-Jun planned this, didn’t you?”

She said nothing. Just tucked a snack pouch into his satchel and patted his cheek.

The walk began in silence.

They trekked the riverside path under the slow bloom of stars, lanterns flickering gently in the night breeze. Mist clung low to the reeds. The only sounds were soft rustling and the occasional hoot of a distant owl.

Wei Wuxian didn’t speak. Not at first.

Lan Wangji, as always, walked beside him with even steps, eyes ahead.

They hadn’t talked much since the Lotus Pier visit. There had been a shift between them, one that lingered, delicate and unspoken. Wei Wuxian had almost confessed. Lan Wangji had almost reached out. But “almost” had stretched long, wide, and aching.

Tonight, the space between them felt thinner. Threadbare.

He glanced at Lan Wangji out of the corner of his eye.

Lan Wangji’s expression was unreadable, but his posture wasn’t as stiff as usual. His hands, clasped behind him, seemed looser. His eyes flicked to Wei Wuxian more often than he probably intended.

Wei Wuxian breathed in deep. “You know,” he said eventually, “when I read that patrol assignment, I laughed.”

Lan Wangji didn’t answer. But his eyebrow twitched slightly.

“I thought, ah of course. Of course it’s Lan Zhan. Who else would fate throw me together with in the middle of the night under the stars?”

Still no reply. Wei Wuxian’s lips curled. “Do you think they planned it?”

Lan Wangji was quiet a moment. Then “Yes.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “At least you’re honest.”

They made it halfway down the river before the silence grew too full. Wei Wuxian tilted his head back, eyes on the stars. “Do you remember the first time we sparred?”

Lan Wangji nodded. “At the Cloud Recesses. You mocked the sword form.”

“It was ridiculous. And you were so stiff I thought your joints might snap.”

“You lost.”

Wei Wuxian gasped. “Low blow, Lan Zhan!” But there was a grin tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, tone softening, “even back then... you irritated me so much I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Lan Wangji’s steps slowed slightly.

Wei Wuxian didn’t stop walking. “I used to lie awake and wonder why you made me feel so... strange.”

“Strange?” Lan Wangji repeated quietly.

“Like something was unraveling. In here.” He tapped his chest.

Lan Wangji said nothing.

Wei Wuxian looked at him. “You’re good at silence. But tonight, I’m asking. So you’ll have to answer.”

Lan Wangji finally stopped walking.

Wei Wuxian took a step closer. Close enough for their sleeves to brush. “Do you really hate me?” he asked, voice small, unsure.

Lan Wangji’s brow furrowed, not in anger, but something else. His lips parted. “No,” he said. “I have never hated you.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath caught. Lan Wangji stepped even closer. “Not once.”

They stood like that beneath the stars, the night wrapped around them like a cloak, their breaths threading into the cold.

Wei Wuxian laughed but it was tremulous. “Then why have we spent all this time pretending we don’t care?”

Lan Wangji’s answer came quietly. “I have never pretended.”

That startled a sound from Wei Wuxian. “Lan Zhan…” He reached forward—tentative, hesitant—and brushed his fingers against Lan Wangji’s hand.

Lan Wangji didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Their hands remained that way, fingers lightly touching.

Wei Wuxian swallowed. “If I say I care… that I’ve always cared… Will you laugh at me?”

“No.”

“Will you push me away?”

Lan Wangji turned, finally facing him fully. “I will not.”

Wei Wuxian’s heart stuttered.

Lan Wangji’s hand turned beneath his touch, palms meeting. Fingers curling. The contact was simple. Bare. And utterly devastating.

Wei Wuxian felt his throat close. “I don’t know what this is,” he whispered. “But I know I don’t want it to stop.”

Lan Wangji nodded, eyes never leaving him. “Nor do I.”

They continued their patrol like that, hands occasionally brushing, eyes drawn to each other like magnets.

Every movement, every word, felt like another golden thread woven into place. They paused at the old shrine bridge just past the lotus grove.

Wei Wuxian leaned on the railing. Lan Wangji stood beside him, so close their shoulders touched.

Lan Wangji looked up at the sky. “My brother said,” he murmured, “that people are like rivers. We shape the land, and we are shaped by it. You are like that.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. “I’m a river?”

Lan Wangji nodded. “Unstoppable. Unrelenting. Necessary.”

Wei Wuxian flushed. He turned away so Lan Wangji wouldn’t see his eyes dampen.

“You’re terrible at metaphors.”

“You understood.”

Wei Wuxian laughed quietly.

On the way back, their hands touched again—this time, lingering longer.

No one needed to see it. No one needed to say anything.

But when they returned to camp, Jiang Yanli greeted them with a plate of warm buns and a gentle smile.

Lan Xichen stood just behind her, sipping tea. Neither said a word.

But Wei Wuxian caught the look they exchanged. And for once, he didn’t mind being the center of their conspiracy.

Chapter Text

The fog was thick that morning, wrapping the marshland in a blanket of gray so dense it muffled sound and blurred shape. Wei Wuxian should have known something would go wrong. His instincts, ever sharp from years of living on the edge of danger and discipline, thrummed with unease the moment his boots sank deeper into the damp, unsteady earth. Mist clung to his robes and lashes, and a chill bit into the back of his neck like the fingers of an unseen hand.

He glanced to his right.

Lan Wangji walked silently beside him, still and composed as always. His face, half-shadowed by the fog, betrayed no concern. Even here, among the rotting trees and murky waters of the outer lands, he looked untouched, ethereal and unshaken. Wei Wuxian scowled.

"Do you ever get mud on you, Lan Zhan?" he muttered, voice low so as not to disturb the stillness too much.

No answer. Lan Wangji didn’t even turn his head.

Wei Wuxian tilted his head dramatically, watching the other boy out of the corner of his eye. "I bet the mud fears getting scolded by your rules. The very idea of dirtying you must terrify it."

Still, silence. But there—just there—the tiniest twitch at the corner of Lan Wangji’s lips. Barely perceptible. But Wei Wuxian saw it.

He grinned, victorious.

He began tapping his flute against his palm, a soft rhythm to fill the heavy silence. "If I die out here and you don’t blink, Lan Zhan, I swear I’ll come back and haunt you. I’ll leave your books misaligned, your scrolls just barely uneven. I’ll whistle your name every hour until you—"

A branch cracked.

Wei Wuxian stilled immediately.

Lan Wangji was already moving.

With one swift movement, Bichen flashed into his hand, a silver blur slicing through the fog. The peace shattered with a shriek that scraped across their ears—a corrupted spirit, malformed and wrong, burst from the reeds with a twisting, jerking motion, all shadow and rot and madness.

Wei Wuxian reacted with his own instinct, his flute already rising to his lips, spiritual energy flooding into the wood.

A piercing note rang out. The spirit staggered, but recovered with unnatural speed. It turned, claws extending and lunged straight at Lan Wangji.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian moved.

He launched himself forward without hesitation, shoulder slamming into Lan Wangji’s, shoving him out of the way. The spirit’s claws grazed his side—a sharp, burning pain but the blow that would have struck Lan Wangji square in the chest never landed.

They hit the ground hard.

Mud splashed, cold and clinging, soaking through robes and bruising bones. Wei Wuxian landed half on top of Lan Wangji, breath knocked from his chest, his arms wrapped instinctively around the other boy.

There was no time to speak. The spirit shrieked again.

Wei Wuxian rolled off, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side. "Stay back!" he barked, lifting his flute.

Lan Wangji, predictably, did not listen.

He was already on his feet, blood trailing down his arm where he’d skidded across a broken root. His expression was thunderous as he charged forward, Bichen blazing with spiritual energy. Wei Wuxian joined him with a blast of musical force, each of their attacks synchronized, seamless. They drove the creature back step by step, until with a final harmonized blow—blade and flute—it shrieked and exploded into ash.

Silence returned. The fog settled.

Wei Wuxian staggered slightly. Lan Wangji caught him by the elbow.

"You’re hurt," he said, voice too calm.

Wei Wuxian waved a hand dismissively. "I’ve had worse."

"You should not have done that."

"Saved you?"

"You could have died."

The look in Lan Wangji’s eyes wasn’t anger, it was something much closer to fear. Wei Wuxian stared, disarmed.

"You always do this," Lan Wangji said, stepping closer. "Throwing yourself into danger. Laughing while bleeding. Acting as if your life is something disposable."

Wei Wuxian tried to laugh it off. "That’s a little dramatic. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re—"

"You are infuriating," Lan Wangji whispered.

Wei Wuxian opened his mouth but stopped.

Lan Wangji was standing so close now. Too close. Their foreheads almost touched. His grip on Wei Wuxian’s elbow tightened slightly, not enough to hurt. Enough to hold.

"You are reckless. Loud. Stubborn. Impossible," Lan Wangji said, voice shaking. "And you are mine."

Wei Wuxian stared. Time stopped.

Before he could even process the words, Lan Wangji leaned in.

Their lips met in a kiss that was feather-light and trembling. Not desperate. Not overwhelming. Just… real.

A confession, soft and unspoken.

Wei Wuxian felt the world shift beneath him. He kissed back. Slowly. Carefully.

Lan Wangji’s hand rose to cup the side of his face.

When they parted, Wei Wuxian whispered, "You kissed me."

Lan Wangji nodded. "Yes."

"I thought I was the only one who felt this."

"You were not."

"I thought you hated me."

"I never did. I watched you. I admired you. And I loved you."

Wei Wuxian let out a breathless laugh. "You’re not very good at hiding it."

"You never noticed."

They sat together in the aftermath, the marshland eerily calm around them. Wei Wuxian leaned against Lan Wangji’s shoulder, wincing as he pressed a cloth to his side. Lan Wangji took over without a word, hands gentle.

"You’re very domestic all of a sudden," Wei Wuxian teased.

"You are very prone to disaster."

"And you love me anyway?"

Lan Wangji didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They sat there until the mist thinned and the sky lightened. And when they walked back to camp, side by side, robes stained and hands brushing, no one asked.

Because everyone already knew.

The transition was quiet.

Not abrupt, not shouted, not even clearly defined—like the slow shift from dusk to twilight—it happened without a single moment to name. But it was there. Real, and warm, and inevitable.

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, once known for clashing like fire and ice, now walked side by side through the Cloud Recesses. Some gaped. Others whispered. A few juniors stared with mouths agape as they passed—Hanguang-jun and the Yingye-jun, bickering in soft tones that somehow sounded… affectionate.

“Your grip is wrong,” Lan Wangji murmured, adjusting the talisman brush in Wei Wuxian’s hand during a joint teaching session.

Wei Wuxian elbowed him lightly. “My grip is perfect. Maybe the brush is just intimidated by your judging eyes.”

“Incorrect.”

“Okay, now you’re just trying to provoke me.”

“Mn.”

A sigh came from the edge of the platform where Jiang Cheng stood, arms crossed, watching with ill-disguised discomfort. He looked away as Lan Wangji’s fingers brushed over Wei Wuxian’s knuckles again, gentle, careful.

“You’re giving me cavities,” Jiang Cheng muttered under his breath.

Wei Wuxian laughed more now.

He still caused trouble, still broke curfews and charmed juniors and drank on the rooftop when he thought no one was looking. But there was less exhaustion in his eyes. Less effort in his joy. He seemed… content.

Lan Wangji was not much different to the outside eye, but those who had known him long—Lan Xichen, Lan Qiren, even some Lan juniors—noticed the shift. A tension had eased. His silences no longer rang with judgment but with peace. His movements, always elegant, now held softness.

When Wei Wuxian sat beside him in the Jingshi, curled up on the floor with a pile of talisman paper and lotus seed snacks, Lan Wangji would pause in his reading just to look at him.

And sometimes, if no one else was around, Wei Wuxian would catch him staring.

“What?” Wei Wuxian would tease. “Do I have ink on my nose?”

“Mn.”

“You weren’t going to tell me?”

“You are beautiful either way.”

Wei Wuxian’s brush would slip every single time.

The real gifts came next. No more anonymous sweets or secretly slipped flutes. Wei Wuxian handed Lan Wangji a silk-bound book of original compositions, each page carefully annotated. Lan Wangji accepted it with reverence, tracing his name written in Wei Wuxian’s hand on the front page.

In return, Lan Wangji presented Wei Wuxian with a custom blade sheath for Chenqing, carved with intricate clouds and stylized lotus blooms. A Lan and a Jiang—two motifs, one whole.

“You carved this?”

“Mn.”

“…Lan Zhan. You really know how to romance a man.”

“It is a gift of respect and practical function.”

“You’re such a liar.”

Their sects were… cautiously supportive. Lan Qiren sighed deeply. Often.

“It is highly irregular,” he muttered one evening to Lan Xichen. “And utterly predictable.”

Lan Xichen smiled gently. “It suits them.”

Jiang Yanli sent more letters than usual, all ending with Take care of each other.

Jiang Cheng refused to talk about it. But he also stopped growling whenever Lan Wangji entered the Lotus Pier. Once, he even poured him tea. Accidentally. And pretended he hadn’t.

When the official notice came—Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian as cultivation partners, assigned to lead joint training missions—it felt like something that had already been true for months. The announcement only put words to what everyone had begun to accept: they were better together.

On their first expedition leading juniors, they fought side by side with terrifying ease. Wei Wuxian would bark commands mid-battle, and Lan Wangji would act on them before the sentence was done. When Lan Wangji gave subtle cues with the flick of his sleeve, Wei Wuxian read them like poetry.

Of course, they still bickered in front of their students.

“Lan Zhan, you’re no fun! Let them roast a marshmallow. They almost died yesterday.”

“It is not permitted.”

“But they’re cold.”

“They will meditate.”

“You heard the great Hanguang-jun,” Wei Wuxian told the juniors. “Suffering builds character.”

The juniors laughed. Lan Wangji looked pained. And when no one was watching, he passed Wei Wuxian a mooncake warmed by hand.

One night, as spring turned to summer, they sat beneath the pale bloom of a flowering tree in the Cloud Recesses. Fireflies danced like silent laughter in the dark. The world around them was quiet, still.

Wei Wuxian rested his chin on his knees, glancing up at the branches.

“Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

“Do you remember the very first time we met?”

Lan Wangji turned slightly, gazing at him.

“You accused me of being improper before I even finished my first sentence.”

“You were improper.”

“You looked like you wanted to push me off a cliff.”

“I did.”

Wei Wuxian smiled at him, the kind of smile that carried every year between then and now. “And yet… here we are.”

There was a pause. Then, Lan Wangji reached into his sleeve and withdrew a thin gold ribbon, embroidered with a single cloud motif.

He tied it carefully around Wei Wuxian’s wrist.

“What’s this?”

“A binding thread.”

Wei Wuxian went still. “A Lan binding ribbon?”

Lan Wangji met his eyes. “The thread between us—never severed.”

The silence stretched. Then Wei Wuxian leaned forward, voice soft, eyes bright. “Took you long enough, Lan Zhan.”

They kissed under the moonlight.

Not a beginning.
Not an end.
Just a thread—tied at last.

Chapter Text

Thread of Gold

Several Years Later

The courtyard of the Cloud Recesses was bathed in soft golden light. Morning sunlight filtered through the branches of ginkgo trees, their leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Everything was still, the kind of sacred stillness found only in the hours before a ceremony.

Lan Wangji stood at the threshold of the Jingshi, dressed in white, pale blue with red and gold robes. His forehead ribbon had been re-tied with care, its ends longer than usual, embroidered with a pattern only the closest would recognize: a pair of lotus petals twined with clouds.

He stood alone, but not uneasy. His heart, once a tightly held thing, now moved freely within him. It stirred now with anticipation, not nerves. Today was not a battle. It was a promise.

Earlier That Morning—Lan Wangji had woken before the sun. He didn’t need a mirror to know the slight curve of his mouth was still there. Even in sleep, it remained.

He had spent years mastering his expressions. Years hiding softness beneath silence. But when it came to Wei Ying, it had always unraveled him.

He remembered the first day, the argument in front of the sect elders. The fights. The teasing. The way his heartbeat never returned to normal when Wei Ying was near.

He remembered how it felt to finally be kissed by him in the marsh, to hear his laughter echo off Cloud Recess walls, to feel his hands slip into his own during silent nights.

Wei Ying had always been brilliant. But now, Lan Wangji could look at him freely. Love him openly. And he would do so without hesitation for every day that followed.

In the wedding ceremony, Wei Wuxian did not wear white.

He wore red. Crimson so deep it shimmered like wine in the sun. Lotus flowers embroidered in silver spiraled around the edges of his robes, matching the threads on Lan Wangji’s sleeves. His hair was tied back with a red ribbon, not Lan blue—his choice. And around his wrist, still, the golden thread Lan Wangji had once tied beneath a spring tree.

He grinned as he walked toward him. Lan Wangji felt his heart lift.

They stood beneath the moonstone archway, an old and sacred place of the Lan Clan. Wei Wuxian’s eyes sparkled, and even as the officiating elder began to speak, he leaned in:

“Lan Zhan,” he whispered. “If you faint, I’ll carry you.”

Lan Wangji didn’t smile. But his ears turned faintly pink.

They did not say their full vows aloud before others. They waited until the sun dipped low and the guests had gone, until it was only the two of them under the stars, the Jingshi glowing with soft lantern light.

Wei Wuxian cupped Lan Wangji’s face. “I thought I had nothing left to lose, until you gave me something to live for. You are the best thing I never dared hope for.”

Lan Wangji held him close. “I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you always, even if the stars forget to shine.”

They lay tangled in each other on the wide bed in the Jingshi, a soft golden red quilt drawn over them. Wei Wuxian’s breath had evened, his head pillowed against Lan Wangji’s shoulder.

Lan Wangji watched him sleep for a long time.

When he finally drifted off, it was with a hand still entwined with Wei Wuxian’s, the golden thread still wrapped around their wrists, binding them.

Not by tradition. Not by duty. But by love, by choice—by a thread pulled taut, now woven forever.

What He Never Said

Lan Wangji had always known that words could betray.

Not only in what they revealed, but in how easily they failed to convey the full truth. So he had chosen silence.

Until Wei Ying.

He was not silence. He was not stillness.

Wei Ying burst into the Cloud Recesses like a sunbeam slicing through snow, irreverent and dazzling. He broke rules with a grin and defied order with a bow. Lan Wangji had hated him on sight.

Or so he told himself.

But it wasn’t hatred. It was fear. Not of Wei Ying—but of himself.

Of the way something tripped in his chest every time Wei Ying entered the room. Of how the sound of his laugh stirred things no scroll or sword ever had.

So he judged. Corrected. Scolded. Glared.

But he never turned away.

He remembered one night: Wei Ying had been caught sneaking wine and was punished with talisman copying. Lan Wangji was assigned to supervise. It was not punishment.

Wei Ying had looked up from his desk, ink on his cheek. “Oh no. It’s you. My favorite frowny statue.”

Lan Wangji said nothing. Sat down.

They sat in silence. Wei Ying hummed, muttered complaints, and Lan Wangji… listened. Memorized.

At one point, Wei Ying asked, “Lan Zhan… do you ever want to be free of rules?”

Lan Wangji didn’t answer. But his fingers curled tight in his sleeve.

He kept watch over him. Not out of duty. But because he needed to know he was safe.

He was quiet in his protection. But it was relentless.

And he knew, even then: he loved Wei Ying. Loved the chaos. Wanted to be caught in it, again and again.

Even if he never said it aloud, he would show it.

With a sword. With a ribbon. With a kiss.

Because sometimes, love is the silence that stays.

Beneath the Lotus Moon

The Cloud Recesses at night were nothing like Lotus Pier.

There were no frogs. No boats. No cicadas. But the quiet welcomed, instead of judged.

This was his home now. Not of birth. Not of childhood. But one he chose. And one that chose him back.

Lan Zhan had chosen him back.

Wei Wuxian sat beneath the eaves of the Jingshi, watching the moonlight across the courtyard. A wine cup sat full beside him.

Footsteps behind him. Familiar.

“You’re not asleep yet?”

“You are awake,” Lan Wangji said, kneeling beside him.

“Didn’t think we’d make it here,” Wei Wuxian said softly.

Lan Wangji said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Wei Wuxian turned to him. “You’re staring.”

“You are beautiful.”

Wei Wuxian flushed. “You’re just saying that because I didn’t trip today.”

“No.”

He reached for Wei Wuxian’s hand. “I meant it. Every time.”

Wei Wuxian smiled. “Lan Zhan... some part of me always wanted this.”

“I know.”

“You did?”

“You looked at me differently. Always.”

“Jiang Cheng didn’t agree.”

“He is not impartial.”

They laughed quietly. Watched the stars. A blossom drifted by.

“What now?” Wei Wuxian asked. “Are we boring?”

“Never.”

“Promise me—if I wander, wait for me.”

Lan Wangji pressed his forehead to his. “I will find you. Every time.”

They rose together. Entered their room. The moon hung high, and beneath it, the golden thread shimmered quietly between them.

The Juniors Take Note

Sizhui noticed first.

He always noticed. Lan Wangji lingering. Wei Wuxian’s timed entrances. Their laughter. Their eyes.

Jingyi was less subtle. “Sizhui, he smiled at him. I saw it. They’re in love.”

Sizhui blushed. “Lower your voice.” But didn’t deny it.

There were signs. Gifts exchanged. Long glances. Touches that weren’t touches.

During a fire demon hunt, Wei Wuxian threw himself into danger. Lan Wangji arrived seconds later. Silently scanned him, touched a scratch, and dismissed class with a single phrase.

Sizhui saw them again later. Lan Wangji applying ointment. Wei Wuxian watching him with eyes soft as silk.

“They’re in love, right?” Jingyi whispered.

This time, Sizhui smiled. “Yes.”

And all the juniors began to root for them, their odd, loyal, stubbornly-in-love teachers.

Grumbles and Blessings

Jiang Cheng hated the Cloud Recesses. Too clean. Too silent.

But he came. For Wei Wuxian.

He found him barefoot, humming to koi by a lotus pond.

“You’re barefoot.”

“Grounding my spiritual energy,” Wei Wuxian grinned.

They argued. They didn’t talk about the past. Not directly. But when Wei Wuxian handed over a hidden flask of wine, and Jiang Cheng accepted—it was something.

Lan Wangji watched from a distance. Jiang Cheng saw him. They nodded—just once.

On the way home, Jiang Cheng muttered, “Ridiculous couple. Disgustingly in love.”

But he didn’t stop smiling.