Chapter Text
The days in Cloud Recesses passed with their usual quiet grace, the steady rhythm of bells marking lessons, the whisper of robes as disciples crossed white stone courtyards, the faint scent of pine carried down from the mountains. But within the quiet heart of the sword hall, Lan Wangji sat surrounded by scrolls, ledgers, and reports that seemed to multiply rather than diminish with each passing day.
Lan Xichen’s temporary absence had left him the duties of acting sect leader, a role he accepted without complaint, as he did all things. His composure was the same, his robes immaculate, his movements calm and precise. Yet beneath the stillness, Wei Wuxian could see it, the subtle heaviness around Lan Zhan’s eyes, the long exhale he thought no one noticed before dipping his brush back into ink.
Of course, Wei Wuxian noticed everything.
He had promised, somewhat halfheartedly, to help his husband with sect affairs. That promise had been made while sitting cross-legged in Lan Wangji’s lap, legs wrapped around his husband’s muscled waist, whispering into his ear that he’d be very good and extremely helpful. What he meant, apparently, was that he’d stay in the hall with him, fetch tea, and occasionally distract him so thoroughly that even the most disciplined man in the cultivation world would forget which report he was writing.
At the moment, Wei Wuxian was sprawled comfortably across the edge of the couch beside Wangji’s desk, chin propped in one hand, eyes following every stroke of his husband’s brush as if the flow of calligraphy were more captivating than the finest play in Yunmeng.
“Lan Zhan,” he murmured at length, drawing out the syllables. “You’ve been staring at that line for five minutes. Either your ink is dry, or you’re thinking about me.”
Wangji did not look up. “Wei Ying,” he said softly, a warning and an endearment in one.
Wei Wuxian grinned, leaning closer. “Ah, so it is me you’re thinking about.”
The faintest pause in Wangji’s brushstroke betrayed him before he resumed writing with perfect calm.
Wei Wuxian’s laugh was quiet, pleased. He stretched his legs, brushing Wangji’s knee with the hem of his robes. “You’re doing very well, you know. No fires, no brawls in the library, no missing disciples. Xichen-ge will come home and think you’ve turned the Cloud Recesses into a model of serenity.”
Wangji finally glanced up, golden eyes meeting his with a look that said it was always serene before you arrived.
“Ah, don’t look at me like that,” Wei Wuxian teased. “I’m improving the place. Look, even the juniors smile more now—”
“Rules are not fewer,” Wangji interrupted mildly.
Wei Wuxian sighed dramatically, leaning his chin on the desk now. “But happiness is more important than rules.”
A quiet hn. The smallest curve of a mouth that only he could see.
Wei Wuxian’s eyes softened. For all his teasing, he could see the quiet burden Lan Zhan carried, the endless petitions, the requests for mediation between sects, the dull but necessary work that Xichen handled with practiced diplomacy. Lan Wangji’s strength lay in clarity and action, not endless talking. Yet he bore it all without complaint.
Wei Wuxian would have kissed him right then — perhaps right on that delicate, barely-there smile — if not for the sound of a hurried knock at the door.
Lan Wangji set down his brush. “Enter.”
A disciple bowed low, nervous and breathless. “Hanguang-jun, forgive the interruption. A man requests an audience. He says it is urgent. He arrived past Xu hour but insists he cannot wait until morning.”
Wei Wuxian frowned. “Past Xu hour? That’s almost Hai time already. What kind of guest calls at this time?”
Wangji rose, robes falling into perfect lines. “Where is he?”
“In the outer hall, Hanguang-jun.”
Wei Wuxian watched his husband’s expression. Calm, as always, but there was that slight shift in the air, the one that told him Lan Zhan’s instincts were already sharpening.
Wangji nodded once. “Have the other disciples take supper before curfew. I will see him.”
“Yes, Hanguang-jun.” The disciple bowed again and hurried off.
Wei Wuxian stood and stretched, sliding his flute into his sash. “And I assume you mean we will see him?”
Lan Wangji’s glance was brief but meaningful. “En.”
Wei Wuxian smiled. “Good. I’d hate to think you were having secret late-night meetings without me.”
The outer door slid open, the lamplight dim, the paper lanterns flickering against the polished floors. Outside, crickets chirred softly under the eaves, the world beyond still and pale under moonlight.
The visitor walked alone to the center of the hall, robes of fine silk and dark embroidery too ostentatious for someone seeking humble counsel. His hair was neatly tied, his manner poised, yet there was something off about his smile.
When he saw them, he bowed: perfunctory, shallow. “Hanguang-jun. Yiling Laozu.”
Wei Wuxian’s brows lifted. “Oh? You know me.”
“Who doesn’t?” the man said smoothly. “It’s an honor.”
Wangji inclined his head slightly. “State your business.”
The man clasped his hands together, adopting a look of solemnity that did not quite reach his eyes. “I come on behalf of a client. There is an artifact in your sect’s treasure room: a scroll, ancient, bound in jade seals. It was once the property of my client’s ancestors. We would like to reclaim it.”
Lan Wangji’s expression did not change. “The contents of the Gusu Lan vault are not for sale or trade. Your request is denied.”
The man tilted his head. “Surely we can come to an understanding—”
“No,” Wangji said simply. “Our business is done.”
Wei Wuxian expected the man to argue, perhaps even beg, but instead his smile shifted, the courteous mask slipping away.
“I will have that scroll,” he said softly, voice flattening to something darker. “How difficult things must become before you hand it over… that is up to you.”
Wangji’s posture altered by an imperceptible degree. It was subtle, but Wei Wuxian felt the change instantly, the air tightening like a drawn bowstring. Instinctively, he stepped closer to his husband, slightly behind his right shoulder.
The man’s eyes glinted. “Oh? Protecting him?” he said with a mock laugh. “Never thought I’d live to see the day Yiling Laozu needed guarding. And by Hanguang-jun, no less. I do remember a rumor that you married well above your station, Wei-gongzi.”