Work Text:
The Jingshi smells of ink and lotus soup. Wei Wuxian stirs the pot, humming off-key, while Lan Wangji sits at his desk, pretending to read.
"You're burning it," Lan Wangji says, not looking up.
"I'm perfecting it."
A pause. Then Lan Wangji rises, crosses the room, and gently takes the ladle from Wei Wuxian's hand. Their fingers brush. Wei Wuxian stills.
"Lan Zhan?"
Lan Wangji stirs the soup in silence, but his free hand finds Wei Wuxian's wrist, thumb tracing the faint scar there. A question. An answer.
Wei Wuxian leans into his shoulder and breathes.
Yes. This is home.