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Lan Xichen has always believed that tea reveals more about a gathering than any formal report ever could.
The temperature, the steeping time, the order in which cups are poured and passed- these are small things, easily overlooked, yet they speak with startling honesty. In the Cloud Recesses, where having restraint is practically law and keeping your composure is second nature, the smallest deviations echo the loudest.
Today, the tea has gone lukewarm.
They sit in the smaller discussion hall rather than the main conference chamber, sunlight filtering through latticed windows and laying pale bands across the polished floor. The elders are arranged in a semicircle, robes pristine, expressions predictably severe. At the head sits Lan Xichen himself, hands folded loosely around his untouched cup. To his right is Lan Wangji, straight-backed and silent as a mountain. Beside him- far too close to be proper, and yet somehow entirely natural- sits Wei Wuxian.
Across from them, nearer the elders than his own uncles, sits Lan Sizhui.
Lan Xichen watches his nephew carefully.
Sizhui’s posture is correct, his voice steady as he responds to questions about patrol routes and talisman allocations. He answers with courtesy and precision, never raising his tone, never bristling when interrupted. There is a calm maturity to him that makes something warm and aching settle behind Lan Xichen’s ribs. He is growing into the role they are quietly shaping him for. He is listening not just to the words, but to the currents beneath them.
Good, Lan Xichen thinks. Very good.
He allows Sizhui to take the lead, stepping in only when clarification is needed, when an elder presses too insistently or veers into redundancy. This, too, is instruction- how to be able to hold authority without crushing those beneath it, how to redirect queries without humiliating.
Yet for all his attention on Sizhui, Lan Xichen cannot help but be aware of the subtle, constant pull of something else in the room.
Wei Wuxian has not touched his tea.
The cup sits before him, steam long since faded, porcelain cooling to the ambient air. Wei Wuxian’s hands rest in his lap, fingers idly toying with the thin chain at his throat. Every so often, the ring threaded upon it catches the light: blue and white gold shaped into a coiling dragon, delicate and unmistakably intentional.
Lan Xichen’s gaze flicks- only briefly- to his brother.
Lan Wangji has his own cup in hand. He lifts it, takes a measured sip, then sets it down. Only then does he reach for Wei Wuxian’s cup, fingers closing around the porcelain with familiar ease. He does not look at Wei Wuxian as he does it. He simply turns, extends the cup, and places it into Wei Wuxian’s waiting hands.
Wei Wuxian accepts it with a smile that is small, soft, and entirely unguarded.
Only then does he drink.
Lan Xichen inhales slowly through his nose.
Zhiji, he thinks. Yes. That is what they are called. Soulmates in understanding, bound by trust deeper than blood, deeper even than vows. Best friends, in Wei Wuxian’s own irreverent phrasing, though Lan Xichen has long suspected the term hardly suffices.
He has seen such bonds before, in history texts and old cultivation records. He has never seen one so… lived in.
Lan Wangji does not hesitate to refill Wei Wuxian’s cup when it empties. Wei Wuxian does not thank him aloud, only nudges his knee lightly against Lan Wangji’s under the table, a motion so subtle that only someone watching closely would notice.
Lan Wangji’s hand, when it returns to his own lap, does not stay still.
His fingers lift, precise and gentle, to the ribbon woven through Wei Wuxian’s hair. It is not the Lan forehead ribbon- Wei Wuxian would never wear that- but a looser tie, pale blue and unadorned. Lan Wangji adjusts it with the same care he gives his guqin strings, smoothing a strand that has come loose, retying a knot that no one else would have seen.
None of the elders comment.
They are too busy complaining.
“…and the patrol schedules have grown increasingly lax,” one elder drones, tapping his staff lightly against the floor for emphasis, “In my day-”
“In your day,” another cuts in, “there were not this many wandering cultivators trespassing through Lan territory without leave. We must consider stricter enforcement.”
Lan Sizhui listens, nodding, responding when addressed.
“We have already increased night patrols along the northern border,” he says calmly, “However, reports suggest the disturbances are not caused by human cultivators alone.”
Lan Xichen smiles faintly. He recognises the careful phrasing. Sizhui is steering them where they should have gone half an hour ago.
Wei Wuxian, meanwhile, has returned his attention to the ring at his throat. He rubs his thumb along the dragon’s curved back, over and over, a repetitive motion that speaks of habit rather than nervousness. Lan Xichen has seen him do it many times before- during long journeys, during moments of waiting. It is grounding, perhaps. Or simply comforting.
The elder seated closest to Sizhui frowns.
“You speak with confidence, young master,” he says, tone sharpening, “But confidence without experience is little more than bravado.”
Sizhui inclines his head respectfully.
“This disciple is aware of his limitations, respected elders.”
“Are you?” the elder presses, “Or are you merely parroting what you have been taught, without understanding the weight of responsibility that comes with leadership?”
Lan Xichen’s smile fades.
Before he can interject, Wei Wuxian’s hand stills on the ring.
The elder’s gaze flicks, just for a moment, toward Wei Wuxian. His lip curls.
“Perhaps,” he says slowly, “the recent increase in yaoguai activity is not coincidental at all.”
The room stills.
Lan Xichen feels the shift like a pressure change before a storm.
“What do you mean?” Sizhui asks, polite but wary.
The elder snorts.
“Yaoguai are drawn to resentment. To dark energy. It would not be the first time they have gathered around a certain individual.”
Wei Wuxian’s face drains of colour.
Lan Wangji’s hand tightens around his teacup.
“They gathered at the Burial Mounds once before,” the elder continues, emboldened by the sudden silence, “Drawn like insects to such rot. Perhaps history is merely repeating itself once more.”
The sound is sharp, violent.
And then porcelain explodes in Lan Wangji’s grasp.
Tea splashes across the table, shards scattering across the floor like fallen petals. The elders jerk back in alarm. Sizhui rises halfway from his seat, eyes wide. Wei Wuxian, however, does not move. He stares at nothing, pupils blown wide, breath shallow. His fingers curl around the ring at his throat as though it is the only thing anchoring him to the present.
Lan Wangji is on his feet in an instant.
“Wei Ying,” he says, voice low and urgent.
He reaches out, takes Wei Wuxian’s wrist, and pulls him up gently but firmly. Wei Wuxian stumbles, allowing himself to be guided without protest, his gaze unfocused.
“That is enough.”
Lan Wangji turns back to the elders. His expression is cold, fury compressed into something frighteningly controlled.
“As Xiandu,” he says, voice carrying effortlessly through the hall, “I declare the conduct of this elder unacceptable.”
The elder who spoke opens his mouth- perhaps to argue, perhaps to justify himself.
Lan Wangji does not let him.
“For thoughtless slander,” Lan Wangji continues, “for provoking such a traumatic memory without any cause necessary, and for disrupting a sect meeting with baseless accusations, you are hereby sentenced to five hundred strikes of the bastinado.”
A collective gasp ripples through the room.
“Xiandu-!” someone begins.
Lan Wangji raises a hand.
“Carry out the sentence,” he says, “Immediately.”
Two junior disciples hurry forward, pale-faced, and seize the elder by the arms. He sputters protests as he is dragged from the hall, his voice echoing down the corridor until the doors slide shut behind him.
Silence falls like a held breath.
Lan Wangji does not spare the remaining elders another glance. He turns, guiding Wei Wuxian toward the exit, one hand firm at his elbow, the other shielding him subtly from view.
Wei Wuxian goes without resistance, and Lan Xichen watches them leave.
Only when the doors close does he exhale.
His mind drifts, unbidden, back to his brother.
To Lan Wangji’s hand.
To the ring on his finger.
It is red and silver, shaped into a dragon that coils neatly around his finger, its design unmistakably similar to the one Wei Wuxian wears- only reversed in colour, like a mere reflection.
Lan Xichen’s breath catches.
He has seen that ring before. Many times. He has simply… not looked closely enough.
His gaze returns to the necklace ring in his memory. Blue and white gold. The way Wei Wuxian touches it without thinking. The way Lan Wangji wears his openly, without ornament or explanation.
Matching, and intentional, not meant to decorative.
Lan Xichen closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, his smile is slow, dawning, and edged with something like wonder.
Oh, he thinks.
Oh.
The elders are speaking again, voices low and unsettled, but Lan Xichen scarcely hears them. His thoughts have leapt ahead, rearranging memories into a new, startlingly clear pattern.
Marriage rings, he thinks.
He rises smoothly to his feet.
“This meeting is adjourned,” he says, voice calm and final, “We will reconvene after the patrol reports are updated. Sizhui, come with me.”
Sizhui nods at once, though his eyes flick toward the door through which Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji have disappeared.
As they leave the hall, Lan Xichen allows himself one quiet, private smile.
Slowly, he thinks.
Badly.
But inevitably.
The world, it seems, is about to catch up to his brother at last.
Jiang Wanyin does not belong in Gusu after dark.
He knows this. Everyone knows this. The rules are carved into the Wall of Discipline, recited to death, enforced with a calm, merciless precision that makes his very own teeth itch. From curfew to utmost silence, no unnecessary wandering allowed- no unnecessary anything.
Jiang Wanyin breaks the curfew anyway.
His boots strike the stone paths of the Cloud Recesses with deliberate weight, the sound sharp in the night air. Lantern light pools softly along the walkways, illuminating white walls and dark tiled roofs, the whole place looking as serene and infuriating as ever. The scent of pine and clean incense hangs heavy, as if the mountain itself is judging him.
Let it judge, he thinks sourly. He has never cared much for such insufferable Lan rules after all.
He is staying the night, officially. Passing through Gusu on his way to Lanling, officially. Visiting his nephew, officially. All very proper reasons, written neatly on the surface of things, officially of course.
Unofficially, he knows exactly why he is here.
Jiang Wanyin exhales through his nose and turns down a side path, hands tucked into his sleeves. His thoughts are a mess- half of it is due to irritation, the half due to something softer that he refuses to name inside his clattered mind. He tells himself he is restless from a long period of travel, from being trapped in guest quarters that smell far too clean, from knowing Wei Wuxian is somewhere in this cursed place even now.
That last thought sits like a heavy stone in his chest.
He rounds a corner and nearly walks straight into someone.
“Watch where you’re-”
He stops.
Lan Xichen stands before him, lantern in hand, robes pale against the dark. The light catches in his eyes, soft and warm, and his expression shifts instantly from mild surprise to something gentler, something unmistakably fond.
“Jiang-zongzhu,” Lan Xichen says, smiling, “Out for a walk?”
Jiang Wanyin’s pulse stutters, traitorously. He straightens, scowling out of sheer reflex.
“You could say that.”
Lan Xichen’s gaze flicks, briefly, to the empty path behind him.
“You know it is past curfew.”
“I know,” Jiang Wanyin snaps, then sighs, “I don’t care.”
To his annoyance, Lan Xichen laughs quietly. It is a soft sound, low and intimate, and Jiang Wanyin feels it more than he hears it.
“Of course, of course,” Lan Xichen says.
He steps closer, close enough that Jiang Wanyin can smell his scent- clean linen, faint tea, and something so incredibly warm beneath it all which fills his heart.
“I was hoping I might run into you.”
Jiang Wanyin’s ears heat.
Lan Xichen lifts Jiang Wanyin’s hand without asking, fingers gentle but certain. He bows his head and presses a kiss to Jiang Wanyin’s knuckles, lips warm against skin chilled by the night.
“How are you?” Lan Xichen asks softly.
Jiang Wanyin swallows.
“Fine,” he says automatically, then exhales, “I’m fine, A-Huan.”
Lan Xichen looks at him for a long moment, eyes searching, and then his smile softens further, as if he has decided to accept the answer for what it is.
“I’m glad,” he says.
The lantern is forgotten. Lan Xichen steps into Jiang Wanyin’s space fully now, arms slipping around his waist with an ease that makes Jiang Wanyin’s breath hitch. They fit together far too well- Lan Xichen’s height, his warmth, the way his presence steadies something restless inside Jiang Wanyin.
Their foreheads touch.
For a moment, the world narrows to the quiet between their breaths.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Lan Xichen murmurs, “if you came to visit me tonight.”
Jiang Wanyin’s grip tightens on Lan Xichen’s sleeves.
“You’re serious,” he says, though he knows the answer.
Lan Xichen chuckles, the sound vibrating lightly against Jiang Wanyin’s skin as he dips his head, pressing his face into the curve of Jiang Wanyin’s neck. His breath is warm there, a whisper of sensation that makes Jiang Wanyin’s thoughts scatter.
“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen murmurs, the name breathed like something precious.
His hands slide to Jiang Wanyin’s hips, firm grip tightening in a way you could name possessive. Jiang Wanyin’s scowl melts despite himself, replaced by something dangerously close to what the general public would consider a smile.
“I was going to escort you back to the Hanshi,” Jiang Wanyin mutters, “Make sure you don’t get caught breaking your own rules.”
Lan Xichen hums.
“How noble of you.”
Jiang Wanyin snorts.
“Shut up.”
He shifts, about to pull Lan Xichen along the path- about to give in, fully and without apology- when a sound cuts through the night.
A laugh.
Bright. Familiar. Unmistakable.
Jiang Wanyin freezes.
Slowly, he turns his head.
At the far end of the courtyard, half-hidden by darkened shadows and lantern light, Wei Wuxian is pressed up against someone. His hands are tangled in white robes, his posture loose and utterly unashamed. He is laughing into the space between breaths, voice low and delighted.
The someone is Lan Wangji.
Lan Wangji’s hands are on Wei Wuxian’s waist, steady and possessive. His forehead ribbon hangs loose, and his face- his face is tilted down, intent, lips brushing Wei Wuxian’s with a familiarity that makes Jiang Wanyin’s stomach drop through the ground.
They are not merely standing close.
They are kissing.
Not hurried, not secretive, not the stolen kind. It is unguarded, practiced, as if the courtyard belongs to them and no one else exists.
Jiang Wanyin gapes.
Beside him, Lan Xichen has gone utterly still.
Wei Wuxian pulls back just enough to grin, eyes catching the lantern light. He spots them immediately.
“Oh!” Wei Wuxian calls cheerfully, “You’re out late!”
Jiang Wanyin’s mouth opens. No sound comes out.
Wei Wuxian turns back to Lan Wangji, tugging at his sleeve.
“Husband, husband, we need to hurry back! There’ll be patrols here soon!”
The word hits Jiang Wanyin like a physical blow.
Husband.
Lan Wangji inclines his head, expression calm as ever, and takes Wei Wuxian’s hand. He does not correct him. He does not hesitate. They move off together, unhurried despite Wei Wuxian’s words, disappearing down the path in a tangle of white and black robes.
Silence crashes back into the courtyard.
Jiang Wanyin stares after them, heart pounding, thoughts refusing to line up into anything coherent.
“…Did he just say-” he starts.
“Yes,” Lan Xichen says quietly.
Jiang Wanyin turns on him.
“Did you know?”
Lan Xichen closes his eyes for a brief moment. When he opens them, there is wonder there. And something like quiet amusement.
“I suspected,” he admits, “I confirmed it earlier today.”
Jiang Wanyin’s hands curl into fists.
“They’re married,” he says flatly, “They’re married and no one told me.”
Lan Xichen’s lips twitch.
“It seems they did not tell many people.”
Jiang Wanyin lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl.
“Wei Wuxian,” he says, incredulous, “That bastard. Married. To Lan Wangji.”
He drags a hand down his face. Images flash unbidden- years of arguments, of blood and loss and stubborn devotion that never quite made sense until now.
“Since when?” Jiang Wanyin demands.
Lan Xichen shakes his head.
“I do not know the exact date.”
Jiang Wanyin exhales sharply.
“I swear to all my fucking ancestors, I’m going to kill him.”
Lan Xichen smiles gently. “You will not.”
Jiang Wanyin huffs.
“You’re right,” he mutters, “Lan Wangji would kill me first.”
They stand there for a moment longer, the weight of the revelation settling between them. Jiang Wanyin’s anger burns hot and bright- but beneath it, something else stirs. Something complicated. Something aching.
“They survived,” he says finally, quieter, “All of that. And they still chose each other. Just like we did.”
Lan Xichen nods.
“Yes.”
Jiang Wanyin swallows, jaw tight. He looks away, blinking hard.
“Good,” he says, “About damn time.”
Lan Xichen’s arm slips around his waist again, warm and steady.
“Shall we continue our walk, my dear?” he asks softly.
Jiang Wanyin hesitates only a second before leaning in.
“Yeah,” he says, “Let’s go before I break another rule. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
Jiang Wanyin knows, objectively, that attacking the Chief Cultivator of the cultivation world inside the Cloud Recesses is a terrible idea.
He also knows that screaming in the Lan sect mess hall- of all places- is a violation of at least a dozen rules, possibly more. He knows that Lan Wangji has done nothing, strictly speaking, to deserve being punched in the face.
None of this stops him.
The mess hall is bright with morning light, white walls and polished floors reflecting the sun until everything feels too sharp, too clean. The scent of simple food and tea hangs in the air. Junior disciples sit frozen at their tables, bowls half-lifted, chopsticks hovering uselessly in midair.
And in the centre of it all, Jiang Wanyin is losing his mind.
“Take that, you-!”
His fist connects with Lan Wangji’s shoulder, not as solidly as he intends, but hard enough to jolt the man back a step. Lan Wangji does not strike back. He barely reacts at all, expression unreadable, eyes steady even as Jiang Wanyin lunges again.
“Wanyin!” Lan Xichen shouts.
Strong arms wrap around Jiang Wanyin’s torso from behind, hauling him back just as he swings again. He snarls, twisting violently in Lan Xichen’s grip, rage flooding his veins so fast it makes his vision blur.
“Let go of me!” Jiang Wanyin roars, “LET GO OF ME, LAN XICHEN!”
“Calm down, Wanyin!” Lan Xichen says desperately, straining to hold him, “Please- this is not the place!”
Jiang Wanyin laughs, sharp and ugly.
“Oh, it’s the perfect fucking place.”
He wrenches himself sideways, slamming an elbow back. Lan Xichen grunts, grip loosening just enough.
That is all Jiang Wanyin needs.
He tears free and launches himself forward again, this time grabbing a fistful of Lan Wangji’s hair at the nape of his neck. The silk-smooth strands twist around his fingers as he yanks hard, fury burning white-hot in his chest.
Lan Wangji finally reacts- not with violence, but with a sharp intake of breath. His hand comes up instinctively, fingers curling around Jiang Wanyin’s wrist, but he does not strike, does not retaliate.
That restraint only makes Jiang Wanyin angrier.
“You-” Jiang Wanyin chokes out, voice breaking with the force of it, “You absolute-”
He does not finish the sentence.
Something crashes into him from the side, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Jiang Wanyin stumbles, his grip torn free, and suddenly he is being dragged backward again- this time not by Lan Xichen.
“A-Cheng!”
Wei Wuxian’s voice cuts through the chaos like Suibian.
Jiang Wanyin barely has time to register it before he is yanked bodily away from Lan Wangji and slammed back-first into the wall. The impact rattles his bones. Wei Wuxian plants himself in front of him, one hand braced against Jiang Wanyin’s chest, the other gripping his shoulder hard enough to hurt.
“Stop this!” Wei Wuxian snaps, “What the hell are you doing?!”
For a moment, Jiang Wanyin can only stare at him.
Wei Wuxian’s hair is slightly disheveled, robes hastily tied, eyes wide with shock and something like fear. He looks- of all things- domestic. Like he belongs here. Like he has always belonged here.
The thought sends another surge of rage through Jiang Wanyin’s chest.
“What am I doing?” Jiang Wanyin screams, shoving at Wei Wuxian’s hand, “What am I fucking DOING?!”
The mess hall erupts into murmurs, then outright shouting. Elders rise from their seats. Juniors scramble backward, bowls clattering to the floor. Someone calls for order. Someone else calls for the Chief Cultivator.
Wei Wuxian glances back once, sharp and assessing, before turning his attention fully back to Jiang Wanyin. He lowers his voice, trying to steady him the way he used to, years ago, back when Jiang Wanyin was still willing to be steadied by him.
“A-Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says urgently, “Talk to me, didi. What’s wrong?”
The words do it.
Something inside Jiang Wanyin snaps cleanly in half.
“You married each other without telling me!”
The shout tears out of him, raw and uncontrolled, echoing off the walls. His voice cracks on the last word, splintering into something dangerously close to upset.
The mess hall goes dead silent.
Wei Wuxian freezes.
Lan Wangji stiffens, his eyes flicking- not to Jiang Wanyin, but to Wei Wuxian. Lan Xichen’s breath catches audibly behind them.
Jiang Wanyin laughs again, breathless and hysterical.
“Married,” he repeats, “You got married. You-”
He jabs a finger past Wei Wuxian, straight at Lan Wangji.
“You married him.”
Then he points at Wei Wuxian, hand shaking.
“And he married you.”
Wei Wuxian’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks suddenly, absurdly young.
“…You weren’t supposed to find out like this,” Wei Wuxian says.
That, more than anything else, almost brings Jiang Wanyin to his knees.
“Like this,” Jiang Wanyin echoes hoarsely, “Oh, I’m sorry! Was there a better way? Maybe after a few more years? Maybe after I found out from you, calling him husband right in front of my face, and then running away?!”
The word still tastes wrong in his mouth.
Wei Wuxian winces.
“A-Cheng-”
“Don’t,” Jiang Wanyin snaps, “Don’t you dare ‘A-Cheng’ me.”
His chest heaves. He is suddenly acutely aware of how many people are watching. How exposed he feels. How old wounds are clawing their way to the surface, sharp and merciless.
“I had to hear it shouted across a courtyard,” Jiang Wanyin says, voice dropping into something low and shaking, “Do you know that? I had to hear you call him ‘husband’ like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t-”
He stops himself. Swallows hard.
Like I wasn’t your family, he does not say.
Wei Wuxian’s face softens, guilt washing over his features.
“I wasn’t hiding it from you,” he says quietly, “I just… didn’t know how to tell you.”
Jiang Wanyin scoffs.
“You never know how to fucking tell me anything, ge.”
Lan Wangji steps forward at last.
“Jiang Wanyin,” he says, voice calm but firm, “This was my responsibility as well.”
Jiang Wanyin whirls on him.
“You think that helps?”
Lan Wangji does not flinch.
“I regret causing you pain.”
The sincerity in his voice is infuriating.
Jiang Wanyin laughs again, bitter and broken.
“Oh, save it. You regret it. Of course you do.”
He looks between them- Wei Wuxian, alive and infuriating and standing here in white and blue Lan robes; Lan Wangji, unyielding and steadfast and somehow married to the person Jiang Wanyin has spent his entire life orbiting.
“I lost everything thanks to my fuck ups,” Jiang Wanyin says, the words tearing free before he can stop them, “Do you understand that, shixiong? Everything. And the one person who was supposed to stand beside me even if I messed up everything-”
He gestures helplessly at Wei Wuxian.
“You just… moved on. You built a life. Without me, ge.”
Wei Wuxian’s eyes shine.
“That’s not true, didi.”
“Isn’t it?!” Jiang Wanyin snaps, “Because it looks an awful lot like it.”
The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.
Lan Xichen clears his throat softly.
“Jiang-zongzhu,” he says, carefully, “Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more private.”
Jiang Wanyin shakes his head.
“No. No more private conversations. I’m done being the last to know.”
Wei Wuxian takes a step closer, hands open, placating.
“A-Cheng, I never stopped thinking of you. I just- after everything-”
“You chose him,” Jiang Wanyin says flatly.
“Yes,” Wei Wuxian says.
The honesty hits like a slap.
“And you didn’t think I deserved to hear it from you at least?”
Wei Wuxian’s shoulders slump.
“I was afraid.”
Jiang Wanyin scoffs weakly. “Of me?”
“Of hurting you,” Wei Wuxian says, “More than this silly brother already has.”
Jiang Wanyin stares at him. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he laughs, quietly this time, the sound brittle and exhausted.
“You always were a coward about the important things, Wei Wuxian,” he says.
Wei Wuxian flinches, but does not argue.
Lan Wangji speaks again.
“We did not intend to exclude you.”
Jiang Wanyin rounds on him.
“You don’t get to say that. You have no idea what it’s like to be left behind, Lan Wangji.”
Lan Wangji meets his gaze steadily.
“You are mistaken.”
Something in his tone gives Jiang Wanyin pause. But the weight of everything- years of resentment, of grief, of love twisted into something sharp and painful like a butcher’s knife- presses down too hard for clarity to come back to him.
Jiang Wanyin drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard.
“I need-”
He stops, shakes his head.
“I need air.”
He turns, pushing past Wei Wuxian without another word. The mess hall parts around him instinctively, cultivators scrambling out of his way as he storms toward the exit.
Behind him, Wei Wuxian calls his name once.
Jiang Wanyin does not turn back.
He steps out into the sunlight, heart pounding, hands shaking, and for the first time since stepping foot in Gusu, he feels utterly, terrifyingly lost.
Wei Wuxian sits badly.
This is not new information. He has never been good at staying still, whether on chairs, or at the idea that important conversations are meant to be conducted with complete dignity and restraint. He perches on the edge of the seat in the Cloud Recesses’ smaller discussion room like he might bolt at any moment, one leg bouncing, fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve. The room smells faintly of sandalwood and old paper. It is too quiet.
Everything in Gusu is always too quiet.
Across from him, Jiang Cheng sits rigidly upright, arms folded, expression carved from something sharp and unforgiving. His gaze has not left Wei Wuxian since the moment they entered the room. It presses like a blade between Wei Wuxian’s ribs.
To Jiang Cheng’s side sits Lan Xichen, composed as ever, hands folded neatly in his lap, face calm but eyes alert. Wei Wuxian has known Lan Xichen long enough to recognise that particular stillness. It is the quiet of someone bracing for blasting impact.
And beside Wei Wuxian- so close their sleeves brush- is Lan Zhan.
Lan Zhan’s presence is solid, grounding, a familiar weight at Wei Wuxian’s side. He sits straight-backed, eyes lowered, expression serene in the way only Lan Zhan can manage, as though this is merely another sect meeting rather than a reckoning decades overdue. Wei Wuxian knows better. He can feel the tension in Lan Zhan’s shoulder, the minute shift of his breathing. He nudges Lan Zhan’s knee lightly with his own, a reflexive gesture he doesn’t quite think about.
Lan Zhan does not look at him. But his little finger curls, just slightly, hooking around Wei Wuxian’s sleeve.
The door slides shut behind them.
Silence stretches.
Wei Wuxian hates it.
“Well,” he says, because someone has to, and it is always him, “This is… cozy.”
No one laughs.
Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens.
“Don’t.”
Wei Wuxian winces. Right. Not the time.
Lan Xichen clears his throat softly.
“Thank you all for coming,” he says, voice gentle, measured, “I thought it best that we speak openly here, rather than out in the mess hall. There seems to have been… a misunderstanding.”
That is one word for it, Wei Wuxian thinks. Several dozen other, rather uncomplicated and harsh words, come to mind.
Jiang Cheng exhales sharply through his nose.
“You can say it,” he says flatly, “They got married. In secret. And apparently expected their brothers to just… not notice, I suppose.”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, then closes it again. He glances sideways at Lan Wangji, who gives the faintest shake of his head. Not yet.
Lan Xichen’s gaze shifts, thoughtful.
“Wangji,” he says quietly, “Perhaps you should begin.”
Lan Zhan inclines his head.
“Mn.”
He lifts his eyes at last, meeting Jiang Cheng’s glare without flinching. Wei Wuxian watches him carefully. Lan Zhan does not speak unless he has weighed every word. When he does, it matters.
“At the time of our marriage,” Lan Wangji says, voice even, “Xiongzhang was in seclusion.”
Wei Wuxian feels Jiang Cheng’s attention snap to Lan Xichen. Lan Xichen’s expression does not change, but his fingers tighten slightly where they rest against one another.
“Xiongzhang was mourning his sworn brother,” Lan Zhan continues, “Jin Guangyao’s death required extended seclusion. I did not disturb my brother with personal matters.”
Wei Wuxian swallows.
He remembers that time. The long months when Lan Xichen had disappeared behind closed doors, grief wrapped around him so tightly it felt like something sacred and untouchable, something no one could dare to get so close to. But Lan Zhan had waited. He had always waited for his older brother.
Lan Xichen nods once.
“That is true,” he says softly, “I would not have wished to be disturbed.”
Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrow.
“Fine,” he says, “I’ll accept that.”
Wei Wuxian blinks. That was easier than expected.
Jiang Cheng turns his gaze back to Wei Wuxian.
“What’s your excuse?”
There it is.
Wei Wuxian scratches the back of his neck. His smile comes out crooked.
“Ah,” he says, “You see, about that…”
Lan Zhan’s hand tightens around his sleeve.
“At the time,” Wei Wuxian says carefully, “Jiang Cheng and I… were not exactly on speaking terms.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Jiang Cheng snaps.
Wei Wuxian winces.
“Right. Yes. We were spectacularly unreconciled.”
He looks down at his hands. The ring at his throat rests warm against his skin.
“When we got married,” he says more quietly, “I didn’t think you wanted to hear anything about my life. About… him.”
Silence again. This one is heavier. Jiang Cheng does not interrupt. Wei Wuxian keeps going, because if he stops, he might not start again.
“And after we reconciled,” he says, voice dropping, “it just… never came up.”
The words fall into the room like something fragile and irretrievable.
Jiang Cheng stares at him.
“Never,” Jiang Cheng repeats.
Wei Wuxian shrugs helplessly.
“We kept circling around the bigger things,” he says, “The past. Yunmeng. Everything we broke. Compared to that, marriage felt… small.”
Lan Zhan’s breath hitches, just barely. Wei Wuxian feels it.
“Small,” Jiang Cheng echoes, incredulous.
Wei Wuxian lifts his hands.
“Not small-small,” he says quickly, “Just- small in comparison to how badly I’d already messed things up for the three of us- you, me and… and shijie.”
Jiang Cheng looks away.
For a long moment, no one speaks.
Then Jiang Cheng sighs.
It is a tired sound. A sound Wei Wuxian recognises with a jolt in his chest. He has heard it in the aftermath of battles, in the quiet hours before funerals, in the spaces where anger finally burns itself out and leaves something raw behind.
Jiang Cheng turns, not toward Wei Wuxian, but toward Lan Xichen.
He reaches out.
Wei Wuxian freezes.
Jiang Cheng takes Lan Xichen’s hand.
The gesture is not dramatic. There is no flourish, no hesitation. He simply takes it, fingers curling with surprising gentleness, and squeezes once.
Lan Xichen’s breath catches.
Jiang Cheng says, evenly, “A-Huan is courting me.”
Wei Wuxian’s brain stops working.
He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
The world reassembles itself incorrectly.
“What?” he says.
No. That is not right. That is not loud enough.
“WHAT?!” Wei Wuxian screams, launching to his feet so abruptly his chair skids backward with a screech. He spins, wild-eyed, toward Lan Xichen, “You-”
Lan Zhan is also on his feet now, hand shooting out to steady Wei Wuxian by the elbow, but it does nothing to slow the oncoming disaster.
“YOU DIDN’T EVEN ASK ME FOR MY BROTHER’S HAND!” Wei Wuxian bellows.
Lan Xichen stares at him, stunned.
“I- Wei-gongzi-”
Jiang Cheng’s scowl snaps back into place.
“Excuse me?”
Wei Wuxian whirls on him.
“EXCUSE ME?! You can’t just drop something like that and expect me to be calm!”
“You got married without telling me!” Jiang Cheng fires back, “You don’t get to fucking lecture me on disclosure!”
“That’s different!”
“How?!”
Wei Wuxian jabs a finger toward Lan Xichen.
“Because he’s my brother-in-law!”
Jiang Cheng slaps the finger away.
“He is absolutely not!”
Lan Zhan steps between them, hands raised.
“Wei Ying-”
“And YOU,” Wei Wuxian says, spinning back toward Jiang Cheng, “are really going to let this man court you without even making him go through the proper channels, you little shit?”
“The proper- what fucking channels?” Jiang Cheng snarls, “He’s not raiding bloody Yunmeng. He asked me directly.”
Wei Wuxian gasps.
“He asked you directly?”
Lan Xichen opens his mouth. Closes it. He looks faintly helpless.
“Yes,” Jiang Cheng says, chin lifting, “Like an adult.”
Wei Wuxian laughs, high and incredulous.
“Oh, I see. So when Lan Wangji courts me without permission, he’s disrespectful, but when Lan Xichen does it-”
“Lan Wangji didn’t court you,” Jiang Cheng cuts in, “He abducted you emotionally and then dragged you into marriage!”
Wei Wuxian’s eyes go sharp.
“Excuse you, I did the abducting.”
“You are both impossible,” Jiang Cheng snaps, “And don’t think I didn’t notice the hypocrisy! You get to be offended about Xichen’s audacity while parading around as Lan Wangji’s husband like it’s nothing!”
“It is nothing!” Wei Wuxian yells, “I mean- no- it’s everything- but that’s not the point!”
“The point,” Jiang Cheng says coldly, “is that you didn’t ask my permission either.”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
“You would have said no.”
Jiang Cheng bares his teeth. “You didn’t even try.”
That hits.
Wei Wuxian’s anger flares brighter, desperate.
“And you think I don’t know that?” he snaps, “You think I didn’t spend years thinking you hated me too much to care?!”
Jiang Cheng steps forward. Wei Wuxian does the same.
They are too close. This is familiar. This is dangerous.
Lan Zhan reaches for Wei Wuxian again.
“Wei Ying-”
Too late.
Wei Wuxian shoves Jiang Cheng.
Jiang Cheng shoves back.
The room erupts into chaos.
Wei Wuxian lunges, all instinct and fury, and Jiang Cheng meets him halfway. They collide with a grunt, hands fisting in robes, feet tangling. Wei Wuxian swings- badly aimed, more anger than technique- and Jiang Cheng ducks and drives a shoulder into his ribs.
“YOU’RE UNBELIEVABLE!” Wei Wuxian shrieks.
“SO ARE YOU!” Jiang Cheng roars back.
They crash into the table. Cups clatter. Something breaks.
Lan Xichen shouts, “Wanyin!”
Lan Zhan moves like lightning.
He hooks an arm around Wei Wuxian’s waist and hauls him backward with startling strength. Wei Wuxian thrashes, still trying to reach Jiang Cheng.
“LET GO, LAN ZHAN!” Wei Wuxian yells, “I’M NOT DONE!”
“Enough,” Lan Zhan says sharply, voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
Lan Xichen grabs Jiang Cheng at the same time, arms wrapping around his torso, holding him back as he struggles.
“Let me go!” Jiang Cheng snarls, “Wei Wuxian, I swear to the fucking gods-!”
Wei Wuxian twists in Lan Zhan’s grip, breath heaving.
“You didn’t even make him suffer properly!” he yells over Lan Zhan’s shoulder.
Jiang Cheng laughs, wild and furious.
“Oh, trust me,” he says, “I plan to.”
The room goes still again, breaths harsh and uneven, the echoes of shouting hanging in the air.
Wei Wuxian sags suddenly, the fight draining out of him as fast as it came. Lan Zhan’s hold tightens, steady and sure, anchoring him.
Across the room, Jiang Cheng goes still too, chest rising and falling under Lan Xichen’s arms.
For a moment, they all just breathe.
Wei Wuxian presses his forehead briefly against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse.
“You really didn’t ask me,” he mutters.
Lan Xichen exhales, something like fond exasperation threading through his composure.
“I did not realise I was required to,” he says gently, “And for that, I apologise.”
Wei Wuxian snorts despite himself.
“You should have known.”
Jiang Cheng huffs. “You’re both idiots.”
Wei Wuxian laughs weakly. He lifts his head, meets Jiang Cheng’s gaze at last. There is still anger there. Still hurt. But beneath it, something familiar and unbroken.
“Well,” he says, “Looks like we’re even.”
Jiang Cheng scoffs.
“Don’t push it.”
The Jingshi is quiet.
Lan Wangji closes the door behind him and lets the stillness settle, the familiar hush of the Cloud Recesses at night folding around his shoulders like a well-worn cloak. The lamps are lit low, their glow warm against white walls and dark wood. Outside, cicadas sing softly. The day’s work- meetings, disputes, judgments weighed and delivered- has finally loosened its hold on him.
Wei Ying is not here.
The thought arrives gently, without ache. Wei Wuxian has gone on a night-hunt with their son, cheerful and irrepressible as ever, sleeves already half-rolled before the gates, voice bright with excitement as he explained- again- why this particular case was interesting and absolutely worth staying out overnight. Lan Wangji had watched them go, had pressed a hand briefly to Wei Ying’s back, had smoothed their son’s ribbon and reminded him to listen.
They will not return until tomorrow.
Lan Wangji sets Bichen aside, unfastens his outer robes, and moves deeper into the Jingshi. He pours himself tea, measures the leaves by habit rather than thought, waits as steam curls upward. The quiet invites something older, steadier.
The guqin rests where it always does.
Lan Wangji considers it. His fingers twitch, already remembering the weight of silk strings beneath them, the way sound gathers and clears the mind. There is time. For once, there is time.
He reaches for the instrument-
A knock sounds at the door.
Lan Wangji stills.
The knock comes again, measured, familiar.
He sets the guqin aside and turns. When he opens the door, he finds Lan Xichen standing there, lantern in hand.
His brother looks… ruffled.
Not uncomposed- Lan Xichen is never truly uncomposed- but something in him is askew. His robes are neat, but not quite as perfectly arranged as usual. His hair is tied back properly, yet a few strands have escaped, catching the lantern light. His smile is present, but strained.
Lan Wangji’s gaze drops, unbidden.
There is a bruise at the side of Lan Xichen’s neck. Not large. Fading already. Yellowed at the edges, dark at the centre.
Lan Wangji’s nose wrinkles before he can stop it.
Lan Xichen notices. He lifts a hand, almost sheepish.
“I apologise,” he says quietly, “I did not intend to arrive looking… disordered.”
Lan Wangji steps aside and lets him in without a word.
The door closes. The Jingshi seals itself around them again.
Lan Wangji gestures toward the low table. Lan Xichen sets the lantern down and sits, smoothing his sleeves. The movement exposes the bruise again, briefly, before the collar settles back into place.
Lan Wangji pours tea for them both. He does not comment. He rarely does.
They sit in silence for a moment, steam rising between them.
Lan Xichen exhales. It is a soft sound, but Lan Wangji hears it.
“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says, “I… wished to speak with you. Properly.”
Lan Wangji inclines his head.
“Mn.”
Lan Xichen’s fingers tighten around his cup.
“Earlier,” he continues, “things became… loud. I realised afterward that I never truly asked you something important.”
Lan Wangji waits.
Lan Xichen meets his gaze, eyes steady and searching.
“Do you approve of my relationship with Wanyin?”
The question lands without ceremony.
Lan Wangji does not answer immediately.
He looks down at his tea. The surface trembles faintly, disturbed by nothing at all.
Jiang Wanyin.
The name carries a certain weight that makes Lan Wangji feel almost fragile.
Lan Wangji remembers a young sect heir with sharp eyes and sharper words, standing beside Wei Ying with an expression carved from resentment and loyalty in equal measure. He remembers the day the Qishan Indoctrination, remembers the sound of screams in the Xuanwu Cave, remembers Wei Ying returning changed after the burning of Lotus Pier, burdened, bleeding devotion for a family that did not know how to hold him.
He remembers Jiang Wanyin turning away.
He remembers the siege at the Burial Mounds.
He remembers standing on a cliff, overlooking the emptiness of the Burial Mounds, left after the siege, dead bodies rotting, whip marks open at his back and a toddler in his arms, thirteen years of belief carved into his very bones: that Jiang Wanyin had killed Wei Ying with his own hands.
That belief had shaped him. Hardened him. Fuelled nights of grief and rage he never spoke aloud.
Even now, even after their reconciliation, Jiang Wanyin’s voice toward Wei Ying is sharp. Cruel, sometimes. As if old wounds must be reopened to prove they still exist.
Lan Wangji does not like him.
He does not trust him.
He has grievances. Deep ones. Not only for himself, but for Wei Ying- for the years of neglect, of expectation without protection, for the way the Jiang family took and took and called it love.
Lan Wangji lifts his gaze.
Lan Xichen is watching him carefully, not pressing, not retreating.
Lan Wangji considers the truth. He has learned, over the years, to speak it plainly when it matters.
“I do not understand most relationships,” he says at last.
Lan Xichen’s lips curve faintly.
“That has never stopped you from caring deeply.”
Lan Wangji inclines his head. “Mn.”
He continues.
“Jiang Wanyin is not a personal favourite of mine, Xiongzhang.”
Lan Xichen exhales, almost a laugh. “I suspected as much.”
“He abandoned his brother,” Lan Wangji says evenly, “He led a siege against him. For thirteen years, I believed he killed Wei Ying.”
Lan Xichen’s expression softens, sorrow threading through his eyes.
“I know, Wangji.”
“He still speaks harshly to my husband,” Lan Wangji adds, “Even now.”
The word husband settles easily on his tongue. It always does.
Lan Xichen nods. He does not argue.
Lan Wangji sets his cup down.
“However,” he says, “Wei Ying has reconciled with him. If Wei Ying is content with the arrangement, then I am.”
Lan Xichen’s breath hitches, just slightly.
Lan Wangji meets his brother’s gaze fully now.
“If you are content,” he continues, “then I do not object.”
Lan Xichen’s shoulders ease.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
Lan Wangji’s eyes flick, briefly, to the bruise. His voice remains calm.
“If he hurts you,” he says, “I will hunt him down.”
There is no threat in the words. Only statement.
“As I would have done,” Lan Wangji adds, “if I had known the truth of Jin Guangyao sooner. Or if Nie Mingjue had lived.”
Lan Xichen closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, there is warmth there. Gratitude. Something like relief.
“I expected nothing less,” he says quietly.
They sit again in silence, comfortable this time.
Lan Xichen hums, thoughtful.
“Would you like to know,” he asks, “how Wanyin and I came to court one another?”
Lan Wangji pauses.
“Yes,” he says.
Lan Xichen smiles.
“It was not,” he begins, “as dramatic as you might expect. Nor as orderly as Shufu might have hoped.”
Lan Wangji listens.
“It began,” Lan Xichen says, “after the matter of the Guanyin Temple. After everything had… settled. Wanyin had remained in Gusu longer than anticipated. Officially, he was assisting with the reconstruction efforts in Lanling, and travelled back and forth from Gusu to Lanling, if he. Unofficially…”
He hesitates, then continues.
“Unofficially, I do believe he did not know where else to go.”
Lan Wangji remembers those days. The fragile quiet after the catastrophe that had taken place. The way the survivors drifted, unmoored.
“Wanyin is, of course, not,” Lan Xichen says carefully, “adept at rest.”
Lan Wangji nods once.
“He would walk the Cloud Recesses late at night,” Lan Xichen continues, “Breaking our curfew with remarkable consistency. I encountered him often, after I had left seclusion to resume my duties. At first, our conversations were… pointed.”
Lan Wangji can imagine.
“He criticised our rules quite openly,” Lan Xichen says with faint amusement, “Our restraint and our silences. I pointed out, in turn, that he was a guest and ought to behave accordingly.”
Lan Wangji’s lips twitch, barely.
“Over time,” Lan Xichen says, “the arguments grew less… sharp, in a way. He would complain, yes, but still stay. He would insult the tea, but still drink it. He would scowl, but still listen.”
Lan Wangji thinks of Wei Ying, grinning. Yes. That sounds especially familiar.
“One evening,” Lan Xichen says, “I found him in the courtyard next to the Cold Springs, staring at the water as though it had personally offended him. I asked him why he stayed.”
Lan Wangji’s fingers still.
Lan Xichen’s voice softens.
“He told me he had spent his life being what others needed him to be. Zongzhu. A Twin Pride. Sandu Shengshou. A weapon. That now, with those roles… altered… he did not know who he was without them.”
Lan Wangji breathes in.
“I listened to him,” Lan Xichen says simply, “That was all. I did not offer him any advice, for I had none to give him. I did not correct his thoughts either.”
“That alone,” Lan Wangji says quietly, “is rare, Xiongzhang.”
Lan Xichen smiles.
“It seems so. He returned the next night. And the next.”
Lan Wangji can see it: Jiang Wanyin’s sharp presence, drawn back again and again, unable to name why.
“Eventually,” Lan Xichen continues, “he began to ask me questions. About leadership. About loss. About how one continues when the resentment inside threatens to hollow you out.”
Lan Wangji’s chest tightens.
“I answered honestly,” Lan Xichen says, “I told him that I had failed my sworn brothers. That I had been deceived, in turn, by both of them, in a way. That gentleness does not guarantee ultimate wisdom, and that I had been forced to learn the hard way.”
Lan Wangji watches his brother closely. Lan Xichen does not often speak of these things aloud.
“One night,” Lan Xichen says, “he asked me if I thought he was cruel.”
Lan Wangji’s gaze sharpens.
“I told him,” Lan Xichen says, “that cruelty is not the same as pain. That pain, unexamined, can make monsters of us all.”
Lan Wangji closes his eyes briefly.
“And then?” he asks.
Lan Xichen exhales, fond.
“Then he laughed at me,” he says, “Not kindly. But not cruelly either. He said I was infuriating.”
Lan Wangji opens his eyes.
“You are, sometimes.”
Lan Xichen laughs softly.
“So I have been told. He began bringing me lotus seeds, from Yunmeng,” Lan Xichen continues, “Insisting they were superior to anything grown in Gusu. I pretended not to notice when he returned to collect the empty bowls.”
Lan Wangji hums.
“One evening,” Lan Xichen says, voice lowering, “I realised that I had begun to look for him. That I had begun to… anticipate his presence. That his sharpness no longer felt like an attack, but… an anchor for me to hold on to.”
Lan Wangji understands that feeling. The way someone difficult can become essential.
“I did not intend to court him,” Lan Xichen says, “Not at first. I thought… after A-Yao, after everything… perhaps I was finished with such things.”
Lan Wangji’s fingers curl in his sleeve.
“But,” Lan Xichen continues, “Wanyin is incredibly persistent. He asked me, outright, one night, if I was avoiding him.”
Lan Wangji exhales. Of course he did.
“I told him the truth,” Lan Xichen says, “That I was afraid.”
“And he?” Lan Wangji asks.
“He said,” Lan Xichen replies, smiling, “‘Good. So am I.’”
Lan Wangji’s chest warms.
“He took my hand,” Lan Xichen says, glancing unconsciously to where the bruise had been, “Clumsily. As though daring me to pull away. I did not.”
Silence settles again, rich and full.
Lan Wangji nods once.
“I see.”
Lan Xichen’s eyes shine.
“That is how it began.”
Lan Wangji looks toward the guqin, untouched. Toward the door, beyond which Wei Ying will return tomorrow, loud and alive and utterly himself.
“This is acceptable,” Lan Wangji says.
Lan Xichen’s smile deepens.
“Thank you, Wangji.”
Lan Xichen returns to the Hanshi with his steps lighter than they were an hour ago.
The night air of the Cloud Recesses is cool and clean, pine and stone and the faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers lingering in the corridors. His lantern casts a steady glow along the white walls as he walks, sleeves folded neatly, posture composed as ever. Anyone who passed him now would see only the Lan sect leader- calm, dignified, unruffled.
They would not see the warmth still blooming behind his ribs.
They would not hear the echo of Lan Wangji’s voice, steady and unwavering, or feel the quiet relief that had settled into Lan Xichen’s bones when his brother had looked at him and said, without hesitation, This is acceptable.
Lan Xichen exhales softly as he reaches the doors to the Hanshi. The tension he had carried- carefully hidden, carefully managed- has loosened its grip. He had known, in his heart, that Wangji would never deny him happiness out of principle alone. But knowing is not the same as hearing it spoken aloud.
He slides the doors open and steps inside.
The Hanshi is dim, lit only by a single lamp near the bed. Shadows soften the room, turning sharp lines gentle, familiar. And there- already within that circle of light- Jiang Wanyin.
He is asleep.
Lan Xichen stills.
Jiang Wanyin lies on his side, dark hair spilled loose across the pillow and down his back, no longer bound in the severe topknot he wears during the day. His sleeping robes are light purple, thin and worn soft with age, pulled on hastily and sitting slightly askew. They cling just enough to hint at the shape beneath- broad shoulders, strong lines, the quiet testament of scars earned and survived.
Lan Xichen’s breath catches.
He closes the door behind him with deliberate care, sliding it shut without a sound. His lantern is set aside. He moves closer, steps unhurried, reverent, as though approaching something sacred.
He has seen Jiang Wanyin wounded, furious, grieving. He has seen him standing before entire assemblies, spine straight, eyes sharp enough to cut. He has seen him laugh, sharp and sudden, and scowl himself into silence.
But this- this unguarded softness, this vulnerable stillness- undoes him every time.
Warmth floods his chest, spreads lower, gentler and heavier all at once. He feels it in the way his pulse quickens, in the way his thoughts narrow until there is only the man before him.
My Wanyin, he thinks, not for the first time, my sweet lotus.
He kneels beside the bed, careful not to disturb it. From this close, he can see the faint crease between Jiang Wanyin’s brows even in sleep, the slight downturn of his mouth that speaks of habits too deeply ingrained to vanish entirely. He reaches out, then stops himself, hand hovering just above warm skin.
Lan Xichen watches him breathe.
Then Jiang Wanyin’s eyes open.
They are dark in the low light, deep amethyst catching the lamp’s glow as they focus, sharpen, and then soften when they land on Lan Xichen.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.
Then Jiang Wanyin smiles.
It is not the sharp, sardonic smile he wears like battle armour. It is small, sleepy, entirely unguarded. He shifts, pushing himself up on one elbow, hair slipping free to fall around his face in a dark curtain.
“A-Huan,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
Lan Xichen’s heart stutters.
Before he can speak, Jiang Wanyin leans forward and kisses him.
It is gentle at first, unhurried, lips warm and familiar. Lan Xichen barely has time to brace himself before the weight of it sinks in- the simple, devastating intimacy of being kissed by someone who knows him this well.
He returns it at once.
Jiang Wanyin’s hand comes up, fisting lightly in Lan Xichen’s sleeve, pulling him closer. Their foreheads brush. The kiss deepens, unspoken permission passing between them as easily as breath.
Lan Xichen’s world narrows.
There is only the warmth of Jiang Wanyin’s mouth, the faint taste of tea and sleep, the soft exhale against his lips. He shifts closer, one knee sliding forward, steadying himself with a hand on the mattress.
Jiang Wanyin hums softly, the sound vibrating between them. His other hand comes up, resting at the back of Lan Xichen’s neck, fingers curling there with surprising gentleness.
Lan Xichen tilts his head, deepening the kiss just a fraction, careful and deliberate. He has always been careful with Jiang Wanyin. Not because Jiang Wanyin is fragile- far from it- but because what he offers is the precious thing to come into being.
Jiang Wanyin responds immediately, lips parting, breath hitching just slightly. He leans fully into Lan Xichen now, weight warm and real, hair falling forward to brush against Lan Xichen’s cheek.
Lan Xichen’s thoughts scatter.
He tastes warmth, familiarity, the quiet promise of being chosen again and again. His hand finds Jiang Wanyin’s waist, resting there- not gripping, not claiming, simply there. Present.
The kiss stretches, unhurried, the kind that lingers not because it must go further, but because neither of them wants to pull away.
Jiang Wanyin shifts, straddling the edge of the bed slightly, closing the distance entirely. Lan Xichen lets out a quiet breath he did not realise he was holding.
He kisses back, slow and intent, letting his thumb brush once along Jiang Wanyin’s jaw, feeling the faint rasp of stubble beneath his skin. Jiang Wanyin makes a soft sound in response, more felt than heard.
The heat builds- not sharp, not frantic, but steady and consuming. Lan Xichen feels it in the way Jiang Wanyin presses closer, in the way his breathing changes, in the way his grip tightens just enough to speak of want without demand.
Eventually- eventually- Lan Xichen pulls back.
It takes a great amount of effort.
He rests his forehead against Jiang Wanyin’s, breath mingling, hands still steady at his waist. Jiang Wanyin’s lips are flushed, swollen from the kiss, eyes dark and bright in the low light.
He sighs softly.
“A-Huan…”
Lan Xichen smiles, the expression gentle and entirely unguarded. He leans in just enough to brush his nose against Jiang Wanyin’s.
“Wanyin,” he murmurs back.
Jiang Wanyin smiles back, slower now, something warm and teasing curling at the edges. He studies Lan Xichen’s face for a moment before speaking again, voice hoarse with sleep and lingering closeness.
“So,” he says quietly, “How did the talk with your brother go?”
Lan Xichen’s smile deepens.
He straightens slightly, though he does not move away, one hand still resting comfortably at Jiang Wanyin’s side.
“It went better than expected,” he says.
Jiang Wanyin snorts softly.
“You worried yourself sick over it.”
“I did not-”
“You absolutely did,” Jiang Wanyin cuts in, eyes glinting, “You paced and you sighed and you kept smoothing your sleeves like you do whenever you receive letters from Nie Huaisang.”
Lan Xichen laughs, low and fond.
“I was… concerned. You must understand, Wanyin.”
“Mm,” Jiang Wanyin says, clearly unconvinced, “Concerned enough that you almost talked yourself out of going.”
Lan Xichen opens his mouth to protest.
Jiang Wanyin beats him to it, smirking.
“Which is why I shoved you out the door.”
“You did,” Lan Xichen admits, amused, “With a considerable amount of force.”
“Someone had to, wo de,” Jiang Wanyin says smugly.
Lan Xichen leans in again, cutting off whatever retort Jiang Wanyin has prepared with another kiss.
This one is firmer.
Jiang Wanyin lets out a soft, surprised sound, more breath than voice, as Lan Xichen deepens the kiss, intent clear in the way he presses close. It is not frantic. It is certain.
Jiang Wanyin responds immediately, hand sliding into Lan Xichen’s hair, tugging just enough to draw a quiet sound from his throat. Lan Xichen smiles into the kiss, warmth blooming anew.
When he finally pulls back, he trails the moment downward, lips brushing once at the corner of Jiang Wanyin’s mouth, then along his jaw.
Jiang Wanyin inhales sharply.
Lan Xichen’s mouth pauses near his neck, breath warm against skin.
And there- right there- the moment holds.
The night is quiet.
The Hanshi is warm.
Lan Xichen smiles against Jiang Wanyin’s skin, heart full, and lets the moment linger.
-fin-