Chapter Text
The scent of charred paper and ozone hung thick in the air of the small room Wei Wuxian shared with Jiang Cheng in the Cloud Recesses' guest disciples' quarters. A triumphant little cloud of smoke swirled, contained by a hastily drawn—and hopefully effective—silencing talisman on the door. Wei Wuxian coughed, waving a hand to dispel the smoke and grinning at the smoldering remains of his experiment on the low table.
“A little more yang energy in the second quadrant,” he muttered to himself, poking the blackened talisman with the end of his brush.
“What are you setting on fire now?” Jiang Cheng’s voice grumbled from his bed, where he was supposedly reviewing notes. “If you get us kicked out because you burned down the Lan sect’s quarters, I’ll break your legs.”
“Relax, Jiang Cheng! It’s contained! Just a little… empathetic innovation.” Wei Wuxian’s grin widened. The whole point of this experiment—conducted while most of the disciples were at evening meditation—was to create a talisman of empathetic understanding. A way to, theoretically, get a faint sense of what another person was feeling. He’d envisioned using it to finally decipher the stony silences of the Second Jade of Lan, Lan Wangji. He’d never admit he was desperate to know what went on behind those golden eyes.
This, however, was not a success. The talisman had flared a violent purple and fizzled out with a sound like tearing silk. No burst of empathetic warmth. Nothing.
“Aiyah, another failure,” he sighed, though he wasn’t truly disappointed. Failure was just a stepping stone. He began gathering the scorched remnants to dispose of the evidence. As he reached for a larger piece, the edge of the paper sliced a tiny cut across his thumb.
“Ow!” He jerked his hand back, sticking the offended digit in his mouth. The coppery taste of blood bloomed on his tongue. Annoyed, he finished cleaning up, making sure not a single ash remained. He then flopped onto his bed, his head buzzing faintly from the expended spiritual energy and the late hour. He was asleep within minutes, ignoring Jiang Cheng’s exasperated sigh.
The next morning, the buzz was still there—a low, persistent hum at the base of his skull, like a silenced chord waiting to be played. He didn’t think much of it, attributing it to the aftermath of his botched experiment.
It was during the first lecture of the day, History of the Clans with Lan Qiren, that he realized something was profoundly wrong. Or perhaps… profoundly interesting.
Bored out of his mind, he slouched in his seat, his knee bouncing under the desk. A few rows ahead and to the side, Lan Wangji sat with perfect, ramrod-straight posture, his gaze fixed ahead, unblinking. Wei Wuxian, seeking a sliver of entertainment, leaned forward to mess with the Jin disciple in front of him. As he did, his hand brushed against Lan Wangji’s shoulder where he sat at the end of his row.
*‘...the third suppression of the Xue Clan was due to their flagrant disregard for the—’*
Wei Wuxian froze. That wasn’t Lan Qiren’s droning voice. It was… flatter. Cooler. A perfect, internal recitation of the lesson.
He stared at Lan Wangji, who slowly, deliberately, turned his head to fix him with a glare that could freeze fire. His golden eyes narrowed minutely in warning.
But Wei Wuxian hadn’t made a sound.
His heart began to hammer against his ribs. He pulled his hand back as if burned. The internal monologue cut off abruptly, leaving only the drone of Lan Qiren’s actual voice.
Tentatively, his mind reeling, he reached out again and let his fingers brush against Lan Wangji’s sleeve as he pretended to adjust his own robes.
*‘—distraction. Unnecessary. Why must he always— Focus on the lesson. The rules prohibit—’*
Wei Wuxian snatched his hand back, a gasp catching in his throat. Lan Wangji’s glare intensified, a faint frown now marring his perfect features. He shifted his posture away, putting another inch of space between them.
Oh. Oh no. The talisman. The cut. The buzz.
It hadn’t been a failure. It had just… changed channels.
He had somehow gained the ability to hear thoughts through touch.
The rest of the lecture was a special kind of torture. He couldn’t focus on a single word Lan Qiren said, his entire being consumed by the terrifying, exhilarating revelation. He kept his hands tucked firmly in his lap, afraid to accidentally touch anyone.
After class, he burst out into the sunlight, his mind racing. He needed to test this. He needed to know.
He spotted Nie Huaisang fanning himself by the carp pond and made a beeline for him. “Nie-xiong!” he called, slinging an arm around his shoulders in a familiar, friendly gesture.
*‘—hope Wei-xiong doesn’t ask about the essay, I didn’t finish it, maybe I can say a water ghoul ate it? Do water ghouls eat paper? Probably not, maybe a dog? But he’s afraid of dogs, that’s rude—’*
Wei Wuxian burst out laughing, a genuine, relieved sound. Nie Huaisang blinked up at him. “Wei-xiong? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, nothing!” Wei Wuxian said, giving his shoulder a pat before pulling away, the stream of anxious, rambling thoughts fading. “Just thought of a good joke. See you later!”
It was real. It was undeniably, impossibly real.
The following days were the most fascinating and chaotic of Wei Wuxian’s young life. He became a social butterfly of intentional, brief touches. He’d clap a junior disciple on the back and hear their silent admiration mixed with fear of his next prank. He’d “accidentally” bump into Jiang Cheng in their shared room and be met with a torrent of fraternal annoyance, worry, and fierce loyalty that was so *Jiang Cheng* it made his chest ache.
But his favorite subject, his greatest temptation, was Lan Wangji.
He became a master of the casual, incidental touch. A brush of fingers when passing a scroll in the library. A nudge as they crossed paths on a narrow bridge. Each contact was a stolen glimpse into a world of stunning complexity.
He learned that Lan Wangji’s silence wasn’t empty. It was a deep, flowing river of observation, analysis, and quiet judgment. He thought in clean, precise lines, his internal voice as calm and measured as his spoken one, but infinitely more verbose.
When Wei Wuxian would tease him, the external response was a frosty “Shameless!” or “Ridiculous.” But the internal monologue, accessed by a fleeting touch on his arm, would be a storm of confusion.
*‘—why does he smile like that? It is… distracting. His laughter is too loud. It echoes. I should not look. Rule 347: Do not succumb to frivolity—’*
Wei Wuxian started tailoring his mischief just to elicit these deliciously conflicted internal responses. He’d whisper a joke during a shared punishment, and when his shoulder pressed against Lan Wangji’s, he’d hear:
*‘—nonsense. Absolutely nonsense. …why is it funny? I do not understand the punchline. I will not ask.—’*
It was a secret game, a dance only he knew the steps to. He felt invincible, privy to the most intimate secrets of everyone around him.
The invincibility shattered one afternoon in the library. He was supposedly copying texts, drawing ridiculous portraits in the margins instead. Lan Wangji was reading nearby, a picture of serene focus. In a fit of playful exasperation, Wei Wuxian reached over and grabbed Lan Wangji’s wrist, pretending to guide his hand. “Lan Zhan, your brushwork is so perfect, you have to show me how!”
The usual torrent of *‘Shameless! Inappropriate!—’* began, but then Wei Wuxian, lost in the connection, didn’t let go. His grip lingered a second too long.
And in that second, the thoughts beneath the surface shifted. The internal voice, usually so composed, wavered.
*‘—his hand is warm. Warmer than mine. He is always so warm. It is… not unpleasant. I should pull away. Rule 52: Do not engage in physical contact without due cause—’*
The thought was cut off, forcibly suppressed. But it was too late. Wei Wuxian had heard it. He let go as if electrocuted, his own heart doing a strange, frantic flip.
He stared at Lan Wangji, who was pointedly looking at his book, though the tips of his ears were turning a brilliant shade of pink. The usual chastisement didn’t come. There was only a stiff, flustered silence.
Wei Wuxian’s clever mind, so full of schemes and laughter, went completely blank. He had been eavesdropping on surface-level annoyances and scholarly musings. He hadn’t prepared for… for that. For something quiet and warm and vulnerable.
The game wasn’t fun anymore. It felt like a violation.
He didn’t use his ability again after that. He kept his hands to himself, his laughter a little more forced, his touches now carefully avoided. The weight of his unintended eavesdropping felt heavy and wrong. He had peered into Lan Wangji’s inner world without permission and had seen something he wasn’t meant to see.
A week later, they were in the library once more, a tense, awkward thing that had grown between them. Wei Wuxian was sketching aimlessly on a piece of scrap paper, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at him.
Lan Wangji suddenly stood up. He walked over to Wei Wuxian’s desk and placed a cup of tea beside him—a silent, peaceful offering. His fingers, deliberate and unmistakable, brushed against Wei Wuxian’s hand where it rested on the table.
The contact was brief, but it was an open door.
And through it, clear and calm and meant only for him, came a single thought. Not an annoyed recitation of rules, not a confused observation. It was a feeling, simple and pure.
*‘…do not be sad.’*
Wei Wuxian’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. Lan Wangji was already turning away, returning to his seat, his expression as unreadable as ever.
But he had touched him. On purpose.
Wei Wuxian looked down at his own hand, then at the steaming cup of tea. The bizarre, unintended power had been a window into chaos, a tool for mischief. But it was in the quiet, chosen touch of another that he finally heard something truly worth listening to. And for the first time, he didn’t need any power at all to understand exactly what it meant.