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When Lan Wangji saw Wen-guniang for the very first time, he thought red was made for her. She was more blood and fire, less a blushing bride—not that an unveiled bride would ever be a sight for him to bear witness.

“Wen Qing, niece and grand healer to His Chief Excellency.” She bowed, clutched sword crossing her lithe frame. Its hilt was lacquered with shining suns, unwieldy in the hold of her tiny hand. Lan Wangji noted the emphasis of her self-introduction, the relationship she mentioned and the one she omitted, the latter too evident perhaps to be said aloud. “My utmost pleasure to meet Lan-er-gongzi in person. Your reputation has preceded you.”

“Wen-guniang.” His back stiffened as he acknowledged her flawless courtesy, Bichen digging in the flesh of his palm.

On his left, between them, sounded a hoot of amused laughter, a bright string of sounds. “Wen Qing! Wen Qing! I didn’t realize you could be so courteous!” Her betrothed’s deep-belly laughter was a monstrous, wondrous thing. “Are you blushing? Even you are not immune to the beauty of Lan-er-gongzi, I see! But don’t worry, don’t worry, I believe it’s every woman’s right to ogle the Twin Jades of Lan regardless of her obligations! I have it on good authority that it was one of the Lan precepts.”

“Ridiculous,” Lan Wangji said, sidelining the impulse to turn to that sound, a tune of insolence and chaos personified that kicked his heart into a traitorous frenzy. Instead, he forced himself to fixate on Wen Qing’s silver guan, a small, pretty thing that managed to pin only a tiny lock of her hair, but he could imagine her with all of her hair up, braided around a bigger, more opulent, golden guan. Wei-furen, he would call her then and let the sound of it sit on his tongue like a thousand pin pricks.

A gust of hot air cut against his cheek. The wind was strong on this side of the Cloud Recesses.

Lan Wangji cast his eyes down, enough to find Wen-guniang throwing threatening glares at her promised, to which he grinned back happily, as if calling attention to an inside joke. The sight of their silent conversation roused a pressure in the depth of his chest. Something he had no name for. So, he reached for the axes of alignment that he did know the names of, and said, “Do not tell lies.”

“Huh?” said Wei Wuxian.

“There is no precept that governs one’s admiration allotments. But there are many that forbid one to mislead, including a specific rule on not lying, an action you have just committed.”

“Aiyah, Lan-er-gongzi, so straight-laced, can’t you forgive a little poetic license to compliment your beauty—”

“As a betrothed couple, you also may not be alone together.”

There was an instant tug on his sleeve, pulling him around, and he bit a sound back in his throat as his eyes were forced to take in the entire presence of—

—Wei Wuxian, with twirling light in his pupils and chapped lips wetted by clever tongue; Wei Wuxian, who had shone brighter than the moonlight as he danced his way around Bichen, and caused shufu an outburst so acute that the healers had had to prescribe nightly ginseng tea; Wei Wuxian, who wheedled and whined for his gaze every time they crossed path; Wei Wuxian, who would be marrying a Wen—

—Wei Wuxian, who was throwing an arm around his back, chin propped against his shoulder as he crowded both of them against a rock.

“Lan Wangji, ah, Lan Wangji, can’t you let this go just once?” His grin was brilliant like the grace of the sun, even as his bright eyes narrowed in mischief. He spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice, an exaggeration, really, because Wen-guniang was barely a few steps away. “We are absolutely not doing anything untoward! In fact, we’re so appropriate! The most appropriate! It is a serious, life-saving matter, I swear! I’m only seeking the medical opinion of the best healer in Qishan!”

Wei Wuxian’s breaths tickled his ear.

He did not respond, face heating up from the thick stare Wen Qing laid on both of them.

“Please, Lan-er-gongzi, aren’t we already so familiar? Wangji-xiong? Lan Zhan?” Lan Wangji sucked in a breath. A mistake. Wei Wuxian brightened. “Lan Zhan? Lan Zhan Lan Zhan Lan Zh—mmmm—”

Lan Wangji extracted himself from Wei Wuxian’s hold and came back to where Wen-guniang was standing, not needing to look to know that Wei Wuxian was stomping after him. She was observing them keenly, but did not speak up once in defense of her betrothed. Their eyes met again: hers were large and clear, brows curved like cocoons springing from the poems woven in the classics, but they were drawn together in a way reminded him of steel and sword, not satin and silk.

Wei Wuxian had caught up to them. He slid in next to her, throwing a tantrum with a string of highly expressive muffled sounds. She tilted her face to meet his eyes, in hers gleamed a trace of amusement, a note of softness, and her lips curled up into a pretty smirk as Wei Wuxian pouted at her, groveling at her, and at that instance Lan Wangji had to open his mouth even when he did not know what would come out—something, anything. “You will need a chaperone,” he found himself speaking, and froze.

The Silencing Spell dissolved while he was distracted by the implication of what he had just said, and Wei Wuxian paid him a bright beam. “Lan Zhan, how nice of you to volunteer! I knew you would come around!” He bent forwards, batted his lashes at Lan Wangji. “Er-gege, my chaperone… how about you call me Wei Ying from now on too?”

From a distance came a flutter of harsh calls—raspy chatters among a flock of magpies, as Wei Wuxian—Wei Ying leaned ever closer, and Lan Wangji found his knees buckling like he was treading on quicksand. He took a scalding step backwards.

“Wei Wuxian,” spoke Wen Qing, already turning around to resume her stroll up the slope of Yan mountain. “Could you get on with the matter, so as to not needlessly waste Lan-er-gongzi’s time and generosity?”

Her back was straight and dignified, her rhythm as controlled as her tone magnanimous, granting Lan Wangji a reprieve from the assault of her betrothed. And just like that, the entirety of Wei Ying’s attention was commanded forward and away from Lan Wangji; the ease with which it happened proved the compatibility of their temperaments—an auspicious sign for their future.

He let them stride side by side a respectful distance ahead, before gripping Bichen and following suits, allowing them a veneer of privacy even as he could make out the skeleton of their words.

At least, Wei Ying had not lied about the gist of the matter: their conversation entirely concerned the health of Jiang-guniang, possible remedies for her frequent bouts of illness. After the intimacy of their initial teasing, their discussion had taken on a dry, matter-of-fact cadence, with Wen-guniang leading the inquiry with a sharp, clarified voice, held fast with a dignified weight that belonged to someone who knew what it meant to uphold duty and obligation. She would have been right at home had she been raised in the Cloud Recesses.

Lan Wangji wondered if the reverse would have held true—would he have been able to shoulder the fate of his clan had he been born the lead healer of the Dafan Wen?

The distant whispers of water rolled into one another as they tread deeper into the mountain, soon wrapping around them a torrent of sounds. From behind, Wei Ying and Wen-guniang painted a beautiful silhouette—a tall, handsome young master and his petite, powerful wife.

In the midday sun, Lan Wangji’s eyes blurred up, fogged over, and he brought his hand to shield them from the harsh light. He maintained the sight of them through the gaps of his rough, qin-calloused fingers and wondered what it would be like to trace those arms with lithe, dainty touches, to gaze at those lips with large, dewy eyes, and to possess the security of being looked at in return until the end of time.

❖

The next time he saw Wen-guniang, it was her and Jiang Wanyin who found him—him and Wei Ying in a heap on the forest floor, their hands bound together still by the ribbon granted to him by his own father. He had not considered the meaning of it until then, when her curious gaze flickered to his damp, naked forehead, setting every patch of his skin on fire.

He was the one who demanded to be let go. The haste with which Wei Ying scrambled to fulfill it still intensified the hurt.

“Lan-er-gongzi,” Wen Qing addressed him as they managed to detach. For just one moment, he let himself straighten up, fist clutching on to the tail end of his ribbon, and meet her eyes with a fierceness that surprised him. She lowered her gaze, almost demurely, and nodded to him before Wei Ying began to push and prod for attention, Aw, Wen Qing, were you worried and Jiang Cheng, you’re just jealous you didn’t get to spend time with—

Lan Wangji spun on his heels and left to find his shufu.

A few days after, xiongzhang refused his request to join another night hunt in Caiyi. He gave the assignment to Lan Ruxue instead, and asked that Lan Wangji be present at the Qixi festivity.

Lan Wangji had attended the sky lantern ceremony only once before, and had concluded that it was a pointless celebration double-served as an open field for idle youths to hone their skills in rumors and gossip. The entire setup was primed for whispers of who and who were courting each other, of this guniang and that gongzi’s doomed fates to be rivals in marriage, some Jins that were too haughty, a Jiang that was too meek, and the Second Jade who was the most intimidating of all, an unmoving rock despite his pretty face, so ascetic, the poor guniang to ended up getting her hand fasted to his—

Lan Wangji bowed to his zongzhu and left.

He arrived at the cliffside when the sun still loomed atop the branches, a whole shi prior to the lantern release. Only a Lan-shijie was there, arms heaving the weight of several dozens paper scrolls. She was flustered to see him and adamant that he left her to the task, but he shook his head in solemnity, took over half the logistics and aided her in setting up the site. For a while, he sunk his mind into counting bamboo frames and ink brushes, accompanied only by the meditative silence of his clan kin and the chirping of a pair of swallows.

He had exceeded the expectation of his duty. He had even come early. He would pick out a character now to ink on his lantern, so that it would be ready for release by the time the ceremony began, and there would be no need for him to stay and witness the exchange of vows by any promised couples.

“Wei-gongzi!”

The shijie exclaimed, still half a shi before they were slated to start, her announcement not quick enough to alert Lan Wangji to the moment Wei Ying bounced over and clung onto his arm.

“Lan-guniang,” he called out to the shijie from the vantage point of Lan Wangji’s shoulder; his breaths were so close to his ears, a shiver spreading up his neck. “I’m so sorry! So sorry! I really did plan to come early, but then Nie Huaisang challenged me to create an invisible ink talisman, and sometimes nights just bleed into mornings into a ke after our promised time, you know how it is!”

Lan Wangji quirked his brow at promised time, but the shijie smiled in good humor. “There is nothing to be sorry about. As you can see, there is nothing left for you to do, gongzi. You may return to your talismans, if you wish.”

With Lan Wangji’s fastidious aid and her careful overseeing, all the materials had been fully distributed into mounds of suitable quantities for each clan group. The light is tinting pinker; from a distant came the chatterings of the first wave of celebration attendees.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying braced an arm over his neck, freezing him in place. “It’s all your fault! Here I thought I could score back some goodwill with Lan-xiansheng and help out a pretty dajie, and then you’re just here being a beacon of righteousness and making me look bad!”

With a breath, Lan Wangji gripped his wrist and flipped him around, tripping him to the ground. “Kidding kidding,” Wei Ying laughed, sprawling across the grass. His taunts played like a twisted melody, as he suddenly lowered his voice, a breathless whisper. “Lan Zhan, you’re seriously doing me wrong here. What will you do to make it up to me?”

Lan Wangji did not at all feel a burning need to tumble down with him, to pin those straying wrists on top of his head, to straddle those thighs and discipline him thoroughly on all matters regarding rule five hundred and fifty three. Be loyal to your spouse. Rule two thousand and eight. Do not flirt with others.

Wei Ying and Wen Qing weren’t yet married.

Lan Wangji’s gut was not a twisted coil.

In the aftermath of his outburst, he had pushed Wei Ying’s body to fall on top of the lantern he had been working on. The frame had survived, but his calligraphy was smeared all over the paper facade. He would have to start from scratch now, as the merry sounds of the coming crowd approached them, and he stared at the ruinous writings with all the fuel of the combustion in his chest.

Wei Ying frowned and followed the line of his stare, before breaking into a soft smile. “My bad, Lan Zhan,” he said, his voice almost tender, and Lan Wangji found himself caught between several impulses at opposite extremes. “I teased you too much, but I only want to be your friend! Will you be my friend? There are a lot of benefits in being my friend!”

The ribbon felt tight against his forehead, the pendant hot against his skin.

Wei Ying grasped onto his wrist and drew him down to crouch next to him. “To demonstrate, here, let me fix it for you!” He pried open Lan Wangji’s fingers to take the brush he had been unthinkingly seizing like a lifeline, and smoothened the lantern paper with his other hand.

“What character were you writing?” Wei Ying’s voice had regained a lilting note, a smirk on his lips as his eyes traced the remains of the smudged ink. “緣? It is Qixi after all, perhaps Lan-er-gongzi is wishing for the eyes of an intelligent, upright maiden?”

Lan Wangji stared at him. “No.”

“Then was it 徳? Seems like something a stick in the mud like you would have gone for. Though if you asked me I would reserve 嬍 for you, Lan Zhan. Ah, don’t look at me like that! I know vanity is forbidden in several hundreds of your family rules, but you don’t get to deprive us commoners of more of your jade-like beauty! Hey, Lan Zhan, where are you going?”

Lan Wangji could not stay there and listen to the shamelessness spouting out of his mouth any longer. If Wei Ying wanted to… fix his lantern, so be it. Wei Ying could take it, destroy it, rewrite it, do whatever with it, and Lan Wangji would not care, would not have to stand besides him and watch his clever fingers and hear him speculating about all of his shameful desires, distilled into the character he was going to release into the sky. He would not ask for a new lantern either—wastefulness was forbidden in the Cloud Recesses. He would just have to submit himself to whatever punishment xiongzhang might deem this defiance to be worth, and then make sure to always make himself unavailable for the weeks leading up to any subsequent Qixis.

A sparkling sound was his only warning when a burst of spiritual energy wrapped around his wrist, keeping him from moving. He took a glance down: a shining blue thread was strung tight on his arm, yanking him back to the field with a surprising strength. Back to its master, Wei Ying, who approached Lan Wangji even as he was already forced to step backwards.

They met in the middle. A small crowd had gathered at the site, the gibbering dying down a notch as the youths turned to gawk at them curiously.

“Neat isn’t it?” Wei Ying smirked, snapping a finger, and the blue thread disappeared. His other arm was hidden behind his back. “It’s another invention of mine, inspired by our little incident in the cave!” Lan Wangji tensed, but Wei Ying pouted, seemingly not noticing. “Perhaps you can help me name it? I was thinking… Binding? Or Bonding? What do you think?”

Lan Wangji bit his lips, not deigning to look at him.

“Ah, don’t be mad, Lan-er-gongzi. I’d let you go, but before you leave, would you at least take a look at this? I made it for you, after all.”

Wei Ying swung his arm around, and Lan Wangji was unable to restrain an audible breath at the sight of his lantern—the smeared calligraphy had been cleverly incorporated into an ink wash painting of a bunny. Not just any bunny, but one from the Cold Pond Cave, the sight of its forehead ribbon seized his trachea and squeezed it tight.

“You’re smiling,” Wei Ying’s eyes crinkled, and before Lan Wangji could keep his expression in check, Wei Ying had grasped his wrist and pulled him in a race towards the cliffside, and he found himself unable to resist, to stop, to chastise Wei Ying for running.

They crashed to a stop at the furthest landing, their sprint leaving Lan Wangji breathless, his mind foggy and over-triggered from a heady rush. Wei Ying took his hand and placed it atop the lantern. “Hold it,” he instructed but did not let go. Here at the edge, the breezes blew free, tousling his strands of jet-black hair into a tangled dance with his red ribbon, and Lan Wangji had to flinch back, purging himself of the desperate desire to arrange them into order.

“Alright,” said Wei Ying, and Lan Wangji blanked out as Wei Ying raised the sleeve of his free hand and retrieved a talisman with his teeth. He said a whisper, and it burst into a brilliant blue flame that ignited the candle pad.

As the lantern swelled up and glowed warm from beneath his palm, Lan Wangji felt something wild and unrepentant expanding in his chest. As Wei Ying gently removed his hold on the lantern top and released it into the twilight, he could not help turning to look—to really look at the entirety of Wei Ying, standing right next to him with his eyes squeezed shut, and somehow still a presence more radiant and luminous than any sky lantern, star, the moon and the sun. He listened to the melody of Wei Ying’s wish as the sounds of the world washed away, saved for the deafening thunders of his heartbeats.

He had been halfway through the strokes of 忍 before Wei Ying rolled over his lantern. Had Wei Ying known, he would have laughed, would have said something like A Lan disciple wishing for more forbearance, Lan Zhan? Could you get any more cliche? Or, I am glad I’m not marrying into the Lan sect, even your deepest wishes are a form of torture. He would not have meant it cruelly, because Wei Ying was the opposite of cruel, but neither would he have heeded the word’s literal composition, would he have seen the knife he dangled over Lan Wangji’s heart.

But perhaps Wei Ying had known Lan Wangji better than he had known himself, because all he could think about at this moment was 緣—chanced encounters, he thought, wished, prayed fervently as he watched the sun dyeing Wei Ying’s cheeks a rouge color. He would never have a wedding, even though Lan Yi had blessed his marriage. Soon, he would beg xiongzhang for an invitation. He would see Wei Ying bow three times with his beautiful bride, and tasted not more than a light pinch of bitterness. He would visit them with regularity, and with irregularity he would knock on the gate of Lotus Pier and sweep Wei Ying off to a night hunt he happened to chance across. One day, he would hold on to the tiny hand of a child and seek in their eyes the same light that filled their father’s, and ask Jiang Fengmian if he might consider a teacher-disciple exchange with the Cloud Recesses—Wei Ying and his students for an equivalent entourage from the Lan clan.

And if, if, if one day, if they both achieved the ultimate height of cultivation, if fate would permit all the ties and obligations of their mortal lives to dissolve away as relics of the tethered past—

Maybe then

Maybe then

Maybe then.

❖

Lan Wangji should have known that there was a difference between chance and fate. By his third encounter with Wen Qing, xiongzhang had gone missing, the Cloud Recesses were no more, and Wei Ying was engaged to an instigator of the Lan’s downfall.

The air within the walls of Nightless City was contaminated with resentment, a foul mixture of smoke and blood. Wen Xu had seemed excited by it. Wen Chao was too dim to notice it.

Wen Qing stood before him, her face an impenetrable fortress, as if she could not be tainted by it.

She came to his cell everyday to change the bandage over his knee with sharp, practiced motions. Her care was efficient, but only barely adequate—enough to stave off infection, but skirting away from the path to heal. Her presence was a signal that Qishan still wanted him to live. Evidence that the Lan sect had survived, still enough of a threat that he maintained some value as a hostage.

Lan Wangji wondered if she knew that he wanted her dead. If she had, there was nothing in her manner to indicate it.

❖

One day, the door to his cell swung open, and in place of Wen Qing were a dozen guards. They tried to rough him up, humiliating him on his hands and knees, but just because he was captive and weaponless did not mean that he was defenseless.

None of them dared to touch Lan Wangji as they escorted him out of the Wen dungeon. Even were he led to his death, he would not permit himself to be killed with indignity. So he held his head high, an arm behind his back, and spread his spiritual energy through his outer robe, repelling every bit of lava dust in the air. They led him around the labyrinth of Nightless City, and soon enough, he recognized the way to The Palace of the Sun and Flames. A public execution, then. The thought rang idly in his head, just a fact, a piece of knowledge not distinguishable from the sensations of these micro quakes beneath his feet, the sounds of low chatters of an assembly, and sight of—

His knee throbbed with an exquisite pain.

—dozens incredulous stares from all the sect heirs upon him.

He did not miss a step, did not return their curiosity, and did not respond to the onslaught of queries by the future Wen-fujun.

❖

Those days, his mind consisted mostly of fog, fog, fog.

The games played out before him like a curtain of thick smoke, through which his mind floated out and in, in and out. Wen Chao gloated, threatened, and taunted, while Wen Zhuliu and Wen Qing stood by his side in solemnity. Occasionally, they would flinch at the filthiest, most outrageous demands Wen Chao made of his new toys. Such reactions only made it worse. There was a constant stream of whispers among the sect heirs, but whispers were just whispers. Lan Wangji did not listen to them. He did not listen to most of anything.

Until he heard the recitation of the Lan precepts in Wei Ying’s voice.

He looked up, his full body shivering, mind snapped out of a trance. Wei Ying was delivering the rules, word for word, with clarity and confidence and something that was akin to joviality, and Lan Wangji felt the earth shifting beneath him again: everything was reshuffling in front of his eyes once more into the shape of something he could not quite grasp. He glared at Wen Qing, seeking for an explanation, only to find her staring at her defiant betrothed, her lips bitten as Wen Chao grew increasingly testy.

Lan Wangji heard the pops of his own knuckles. He counted the seconds and minutes; in his reddened vision there was only her, her, her.

But when Wen Chao ordered their punishments, the only thing she did was nod.

❖

Lan Wangji did not comprehend the light that danced behind the grin on Wei Ying’s face, unwavering even when they were buried alive in a cave with a slaughtering tortoise of legend, injured, weaponless, their only hope being the promise of a ragtag group of swordless peers.

He bathed in the warmth of that light anyway. Against the flicker of flame, Wei Ying’s smile was gaunt, but still breathtaking.

Wei Ying's robe was tattered; on his chest was an ugly, reddened swell. Through the dried blood, the shape of the burn remained visible, and Lan Wangji slapped his meager share of herbs against it—a bit more forcefully than he intended—eliciting a groan from Wei Ying.

“You’re welcome,” he deadpanned.

Wei Ying gaped at him, eyes openly staring as if he had never seen Lan Wangji, then laughed. Lan Wangji found himself breathing into that laugh like taking in the spring air after a particularly snowy season. Wei Ying relaxed against his arm, head resting on his shoulder, yet somehow remaining a weightless mass.

Lan Wangji could not take his eyes off that chest wound. “The brand on your body…”

“Are you fretting, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying walked two fingers up Lan Wangji’s forearm, his answer almost distracted. “It’s just a mild burn, I’m used to pain and injuries. It really is nothing!”

The crawling fingers left a trail of feather light quivers along his skin. “The scar will last,” he said quietly, not daring to move.

“Ah, I’m a man, what are a few scars here and there—besides, this one is proof that I once saved a pretty guniang like Mianmian. She would now have to remember me for the rest of her life!” Wei Ying cocked his head, half a grin teasing his lips. “Quite a dashing tale, don’t you think?”

A few months back, a reality ago, when Lan Wangji had been steeped in the fantasy of a different fate, he might have had a response, might have even found it in himself to issue a reprimand. Do not flirt when you can’t mean it, he might have said—a reminder for Wei Ying, a reminder for himself, a reminder of that shared future that he had once accepted to be close to enough.

He did not know what to say now, not when Wei Ying’s future in-laws had decidedly left them for dead.

“Aiyah don’t worry,” continued Wei Ying cheerily, filling in the dragging silence without a care. “It could have been worse! These bastards could have had a much uglier aesthetic! If anything, you gotta admit that the Wen brand looks quite cool!”

“Cool?” Lan Wangji repeated, despite himself.

His fingers went numb. The cave air was frosty.

Something in his tone had alerted Wei Ying. He glanced over in an instance, swallowing, a flash—a realization—dawned on his face. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and cushioned, like handling a stray cat.

“I heard something about the Cloud Recesses, Lan Zhan—how is your clan—?”

The mention of the Cloud Recesses greeted Lan Wangji like a slap. It had been days since he last felt drowned in an endless pool of pain and grief, his focus redirected to Wei Ying’s defiance, Wei Ying’s kindness, Wei Ying’s bravery, his senses tuned in to Wei Ying’s every movement, every harm received. Through the hollowed rocks reverberated a cool trickling sound, its echoes sending him back to the screams of his clan kins, to shufu’s guttural coughs. Over Wei Ying’s rib cage was a red, charred sun, its halos a rippled pattern, sharp like daggers. Its sight triggered in him a coiling heat, his own chest feeling torched alight, and immediately he ripped his eyes away, opened his mouth, and muttered, “Your betrothal…”

It was Wei Ying’s turn to go on a journey of expressions. “Ah, that—” His brows were twitching, his eyes darkened. Then, he coughed a fake laugh. “That obviously won’t happen. Who do you take Wen Chao for, Lan Zhan?” He fidgeted with the hem of Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “Too bad though. Yu-furen will be disappointed.”

Are you? Lan Wangji did not ask. Wei Ying’s knuckles had turned white. He stared at the ground, choking out a chuckle.

“Wen Qing was too good for me anyway.”

A sudden pressure burst from his chest, an explosion, blackening his vision. The next thing he knew, his hand was yanking on Wei Ying’s wrists, pinning them up against the cave wall.

“Lan Zhan, what—” But Wei Ying’s tongue had frozen over the moment their eyes met, his gleaming pupils blown wide, mouth falling ajar. His lips were dry, a little chapped. A bead of sweat started trailing down the side of his jaw, rolling up and down with the bobbing of his throat, in sync with the rhythm of his breathing. Of their breathing, uneven, like a series of gasps. From this distance, Lan Wangji could hear the faint pulse in Wei Ying’s veins.

There was a whisper he did not quite catch, stunned and soft.

Lan Wangji leaned in.

A loud bang sprung them apart, and Wei Ying instantly pressed Lan Wangji down to the rock floor as the entire cave trembled. A beastly growl sent waves of vibrations through the air, followed by a furious series of water slaps. Lan Wangji held his breaths, bracing for rocks to fall, pillars to collapse, his eyes racing to find—if not an exit, perhaps a hidden, stable nook that he could at least shove Wei Ying into.

But soon, the quiet returned. The tortoise’s tantrum never really lasted.

When they finally felt safe enough to get up from the ground, Wei Ying reached for his wrist, turning Lan Wangji to face him. “Hey, Lan Zhan,” he said, and in that moment Lan Wangji knew the spell was over. “Did they—what did the Wen clan do to your sect?” His face was shuttered, an uncharacteristic tact in his voice.

Pity, Lan Wangji could recognize. Remorse too, perhaps.

He closed his eyes, and recounted the burning of the Cloud Recesses.

❖

And yet, there was a veritable shift in the air afterwards.

Between meditation sessions and mostly fruitless attempts at procuring edibles, Wei Ying had taken to staring at him. Lan Wangji knew, because he looked—had always looked—so, the results were that they kept finding themselves lost in stretching, awkward, eye locks that Lan Wangji could not bring himself to tear away from.

They did not talk about it. They did not, in fact, exchange many words—even Wei Ying had concurred that most of their strength needed to be conserved for this critical fight, their only real chance. The forced restraint seemed to only encourage Wei Ying to study him more often, eyes darting around all over his face, his robe, his fingers, as if he was a particularly novel talisman.

On the fourth day, they converged on a plan. Lan Wangji had begun to collect the bows from the dead Wen soldiers; their strings, while not quite as thin as a Lan qin chord, were still weapons of a wealthy sect. He carefully untied the string of one bow, wrapping an end around his left palm while sliding his fingers across its length, letting its fiber speak to him. Then with a clean motion, he pulled both ends apart; suddenly strung tight, the string made a clear, bright sound.

This tensile strength would have to suffice for the Chord Assassination Technique.

Lan Wangji heard a squeaky, throaty noise, and he turned to find Wei Ying’s gaze almost scorching, line of sight direct on his biceps. When their eyes met, Wei Ying sputtered. “Lan Zhan,” he choked out.

“Mn.”

“If we got out of here alive…” he began speaking, but as Lan Wangji stared at him unblinkingly, something in his eyes changed. He faked a laugh, then shook his head away.

“Wei Ying.”

“Ah, never mind, Lan Zhan. I was, just—Let’s just, uh, let’s just focus.” His tongue darted out and wetted his lips, producing tiny, inadvertent sucking sounds that rang loud and obscene in Lan Wangji’s ears.

Without thinking, he shuffled closer. “If we got out of here alive…”

Wei Ying stiffened. Lan Wangji registered this fact before realizing that he had covered Wei Ying’s hand with his own. For a moment that could have lasted a shi, neither of them dared to take a breath.

Then, a whisper. “Oh.”

Lan Wangji tightened his hold, fingers pressed against Wei Ying’s sword calluses, tracing the rough texture of his bony thumb. Wei Ying’s eyes lingered on the sight of their joint hands, then crept up the line of Lan Wangji’s arm, his shoulder, his throat, before settling quite decidedly on his lips.

“Lan Zhan… ah Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he muttered briskly, his words falling over each other like his lung did not hold enough air to contain what he wanted to say, “if—when we get out of here, when you find your shufu, your fellow disciples, and your brother, and I suppose you will also need to have your blood debts settled with Wen Xu—”

“Wei Ying…”

“—right, when you’re done with all of that, would you come to Yunmeng?”

Lan Wangji hitched a breath, heart galloping in a wild, manic rhythm.

“Would you come to Lotus Pier? Would you ask to meet Yu-furen?”

Wei Ying’s voice quivered, his lashes fluttering rapidly as if he could not bear to look at Lan Wangji for too long. Lan Wangji found his own lips parting, but no sound escaped; his want was so big and crushing that it got lodged in the depth of his throat, sucking away all the vibrations needed to produce sounds. So instead, he held out the hand that was still holding onto the bowstrings, tied their wrist together with a loose knot, and dared to reach from the murky waters of his despair for a sprout of hope.

It would not be the last time he fell prey to that fruitless temptation.

❖

In one month, Lan Wangji would arrive at Lotus Pier to find Jiang Wanyin mounting a hill of Wen corpses. There would be no turn for an audience with Yu-furen.

In four months, Lan Wangji would find Wei Ying again with blood-rimmed eyes and a demonic flute. He would listen to Jiang Wanyin delivering news about Wei Ying’s former betrothed—imprisoned, battered and fiercely devoted, still, to her brother’s safety—and watch the minute return of something human in the strained twitches of Wei Ying’s lips, in the unhappy turns of his brows.

And as fate would have it, Lan Wangji would be the one to vanquish all traces of that short-lived humanity. In a moment of shocking despondence, he would issue a condemnation of the deviation that had captured his beloved; the dream he thought they had sown together would be a silent song only he could ever hear.

❖

At least, lost loves and ruined futures made fitting companies in a war. Thrusted into a grueling campaign and forced upon a command for which he was ill-suited to lead, Lan Wangji had little space in his mind but for ensuring the survival of his people through another battle, another horde of puppets. They came in seizes of the same sizes, at the same time of day, like clockwork; any bursts of pleasure in cutting them down had long worn thin, sapped by the knowledge that death could not end their enemies.

Then, by the time the sun went down and the last puppet of the day had been torn apart, it would be time for another kind of assault: behind the tent flaps, on the loose lips of drunk, drama-thirsty men.

“Another day of this war is another day we were made a mockery by the demonic path! To think that we have to kowtow to the likes of Wei Wuxian! Did you see his audacity on the field today?”

“Better him with us than against us, shixiong. Wasn’t you within inches today, only saved by a tendril of smoke?”

“Saved? Saved? The vicious vengeance of those filthy spirits—who knows if they were not actually poisonous on contact?”

“Have you even seen him with a sword?”

“Or inspected the details of his background? Did anyone remember he was to wed a Wen? And with that heretical cultivation, what’s the difference between him and a Wen-dog? You would think Chifeng-zun knew better than to set him roaming free in our campground.”

“Alas, in a war, the world is upside down, your foes become allies, and good, honest men might have to kiss the feet of yao and gui.”

A qin string snapped and pealed with a harsh, ugly twang that sent a slash of energy slicing the roof of the tent apart. Three Yao sect cultivators had dropped their liquor, aghast.

“Pardon me,” Lan Wangji said chilly. He sealed his qin back into the qiankun bag, and walked away.

So far, the only request Lan Wangji had made of Chifeng-zun was to allow him a tent on the far edge of their camp, away from the river and next to the sequoia forest. It had not pleased Nie Mingjue that Lan Wangji opted to stay so removed from all the cultivators he was supposed to train and lead, but in the end, he had won the concession that he could make a reliable lookout. Even then, that privilege weighed down on his mind, and in compensation, he had chosen the smallest, most cramped tent, its fabric devoid of the slightest markings. It suited him well—practical for mobility and a reminder of humility. He was no strategist even as he led—there was never a demand to pay him a visit. Lan Xichen could always invite him to his own tent, an airy and generous space, enough for a congregation of three.

Given all that, Lan Wangji could not possibly expect the sharp yelp at the entrance of his own tent when he stepped directly on a soft… thigh.

Bichen was out before the intruder took a second breath, solidly pressed against a throat. There was a quick knocking movement, followed by the sound of ceramic rolling against the earth. Then, Lan Wangji froze.

The cold gleam of Bichen revealed a delicate jawline, a cutting cheek, and then all the fine features of a face that frequented his most intimate dreams. Lan Wangji could not lower his sword; his body had been locked in place as the sight of Wei Ying—so close, and so reachable—threatened to swallow him whole.

They had not spoken after they parted in Yiling—after Lan Wangji left, after Wei Ying kindly clarified that he was the business of the Jiang and not the Lan, least so of Lan Wangji (who had failed, had arrived beyond late, too caught up in his own forbearance to seek for Yu-furen the first moment he could). Five months had passed—five months of non-interactions in strategy meetings and momentary flashes mid-combat—and now, here, in Lan Wangji’s too cramped tent, Wei Ying was half-sprawling on his straw mattress, eyes widened, an enormous wine jug lying next to him.

Wei Ying did not stay surprised for long. His eyes caught on to the carvings on Bichen, and his lips quirked up in a smirk. “Hanguang-jun,” he said, a little slurred. “You are truly formidable! Could you spare the life of this one?” Each of his words left a cold, icy burn on Lan Wangji’s skin.

Against the spiritual light of his sword, shadows still loved this Wei Ying. There were coils of dark smoke persistent in the air around him that were yet unable to obscure his innate brilliance. With a brazen smile, Wei Ying ran a finger along the blade, and grinned.

Lan Wangji stepped away from him and sheathed Bichen, and then, with a flick of wrist, he lit up a candle. Wei Ying stalked his every movement, the curve still plastered on his lips, flame flickering in his ashen eyes.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji spoke. It was the only sound he could think of that would not push Wei Ying away.

Perhaps he should push Wei Ying away.

Wei Ying seemed to sense the change in his expression. All of the earlier bravados began to melt off; his smirk withered, and his pupils flicked to a side, down at the wine jug like it had betrayed him.

“You’re drunk,” Lan Wangji stated.

“Were.” Wei Ying sounded rueful. “And you’re not a dream.”

“Wasn’t I?”

Wei Ying tensed, his back rigid, right leg drawn up and folded into himself. Quietly, Lan Wangji picked up the jug, only to find it emptied and dried.

“Disapproving, Hanguang-jun?” Wei Ying chuckled, a lilting note recovered in his voice. “Even away from the Cloud Recesses?”

Wei Ying’s fondness for alcohol was the last thing Lan Wangji was trying to regulate, but he did not dare correct him. He did not say a word; he would hold his breaths if he could—anything that could be made an excuse for Wei Ying to leave, he would stop doing.

His silence seemed enough of an encouragement, because once Wei Ying began speaking, his words came like water breaking through a dam.

“You know, you really need to be more flexible,” Wei Ying said with a bobbed head, his hand brought up to his face, smoothing his non-existent beard. “Pick your battles in what rules to enforce—the right battles, I mean! There were such serious matters that you turned a blind eye upon, while you always get so mad when I drink. That’s a contradiction! Isn’t there a precept against being contradictory, Lan Zhan?”

Lan Wangji dared not move at the sound of his birth name, so lovely on Wei Ying’s tongue, a sound he had not heard in months, now spilling out seamlessly, almost carelessly.

“Maybe, instead of taking it out on me for petty crimes, Lan Zhan, you should heed that very fine precept instead and reflect on all of your rule-breaking instances in the past.” Wei Ying dumped the last bit of wisdom with a self-satisfied kind of passion, Chenqing spinning on his fingers like a tamed, common flute. He had thinned out even further since Xuanwu Cave. He used to cut a warrior figure; together Lan Wangji and he were even in statures. Now, in the warm candle light that dimmed his ghostly flair, he could have been a penniless, roaming musician who had never known the sight of a sword.

Even then, Wei Ying’s smile was breath-taking.

“My rule-breaking?” echoed Lan Wangji, his voice barely kept from any modulation.

“You thought you could hide it from me forever, Lan Zhan? Too bad for you, I had a friendly chat with your deputy—Lan Ruxue—earlier today.” Wei Ying cocked his head, exaggerating a pout. “It’s quite disillusioning, Lan Zhan. Back then, I thought Lan-er-gongzi was so upstanding that he would submit himself to be punished, even when it was not his fault! Turns out you are only ever riled up when liquor is involved!”

Lan Wangji felt himself hardening up. There was a specificity to this line of taunt that rubbed against him, chafing at all of those exposed nerves in a way he could not quite decipher. Why then? Why would Wei Ying bring this up in the middle of a bloody war, as if those six months of lectures were anything beyond artifacts of a different universe?

In no universe could he be prepared for the next words out of Wei Ying’s mouth.

“Lan-xiaoguniang told me about the meaning of your ribbon.” Wei Ying laughed, his flute somersaulting. He tilted his head, eyes flickering to Lan Wangji’s forehead. “What happens with it in a Lan wedding.”

Something struck the ground, but the clanging sunk into a distant background, overtaken by the sudden clamors ringing in his ears. It took a shocked jolt from Wei Ying to make him register the sight of the jug—now a pile of broken pieces on the ground.

In his many months of longing for those brief hours in Lan Yi’s Cave, Lan Wangji never considered that Wei Ying would find out like this.

Find out, and then laugh about it.

He swooped down to summon the mess into his qiankun bag—it would only take a second before he could bolt out of this tent. He did not care that this was his tent, that he held the right to order Wei Ying to leave. There was no universe where he could linger a moment longer, could watch Wei Ying, this Wei Ying, whom he knew now capable of twisted cruelty and mocking darkness, trampled on the last vestige of memories he had hoped to hoard. No, he would be the one to fled, and once he left the enclosure of this tent, it struck him that he might never be able to go near Wei Ying again. At that moment, that knowledge congealed and solidified, and it hit him with the force of finality.

However, a resistance on Bichen stopped him midway. He swept his gaze across its length to find Wei Ying’s hand clenching on its sheath in an iron grip.

“Lan Zhan.”

Again with his name, again with that sound that was so breathless that it felt like a prayer. For a second, Lan Wangji heard the voice of the boy who asked him a question in a tortoise-infested cave, and just like that, any resolve he had gathered crumbled to dust.

The swordend in Wei Ying’s fist trembled, or perhaps it was Lan Wangji who was shaking. Any amusement had vanished from Wei Ying’s eyes—perhaps it had not been there at all, perhaps Lan Wangji had been too hurried in his hurt to really look, until now, until their eyes met, and he could finally see those pupils, wide and steeped in the night’s color. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying repeated, as if he himself was at a loss for words.

For the second time of the night, he allow himself to speak Wei Ying’s name in response, but this time it was wrapped in something new, almost sweet—a question he had never dared to ask.

Wei Ying traced his hand up the sheathed blade, and Lan Wangji followed his long, beautiful fingers until they landed on its guard, caressing the carvings on its hilt. Until they grazed over his own thumb, leaving him shuddering with each touch.

“Are you sure you’re not a dream?” Wei Ying said in a whisper, and Lan Wangji did not know if he could respond in affirmation. “Tell me Lan Zhan,” he spoke softly, “are we already married?”

His palm closed in, brushing against Lan Wangji’s knuckles, and suddenly Lan Wangji was basking in the hues of Gusu twilight, across from Wei Ying on the edge of the world, their hands holding on to the last moment before the release of a sky lantern.

Except that this time, Lan Wangji grasped on to that hand and hauled it forwards, crashing Wei Ying into his lap and colliding their lips brutally.

It could not really be called a kiss—it was far too violent, too harsh in their mutual desperation. Blood spilled on his tongue as teeth scraped against his lips, followed by a harsh whimper into his own mouth.

He pulled back, but Wei Ying’s hands had already traveled to his neck and anchored it in place. His thumbs angled Lan Wangji’s chin in adjustment, almost apologetically, as Lan Wangji squirmed beneath him, overwhelmed by a rush of overeager energy that had breached the prison of his self-restraint. As if in chastise, Wei Ying chirped out his tongue and lapped it at Lan Wangji’s mouth, easing the pace of their rhythm until Lan Wangji’s breaths slowed down, back to something that bore a resemblance of control. Then, with a long exhale, Wei Ying brought their lips together again—this time far softer, wetter.

Lan Wangji let himself be engulfed by the onslaught of scents and tastes—Wei Ying’s were a mixture of liquor and spices that sent him to the precipice of something akin to euphoria. He nudged Wei Ying’s bottom lip between his own, relishing its plumpness and its slightly dry textures.

“Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying chanted between moans, “you never—you still haven’t answered me—”

Wei Ying’s breathing were heavy, obscene, and wet. Those were the only sounds Wei Ying should ever make, so Lan Wangji pried his lips open with teeth, forced his way into the hollow of his mouth, and entwined their tongues together. Whatever was left inside Wei Ying’s throat was reduced to a muffled mixture of moans and confused noises, as if he was being subdued by the Silencing Spell.

Lan Wangji might never have to use that spell on Wei Ying again. The thought sent him into an intoxicating rush.

Right that moment, a pain throbbed in his hip as a black tendril jabbed at his side, knocking them both over the mattress. Too stunned to react, he found his arms twisted up in a wrist lock, his torso straddled by strong thighs, pinned down by the entire weight of Wei Ying’s body.

“Hanguang-jun, yield.” Wei Ying snarled, a smirk returning to his kiss-swollen lips. He leaned down to look at Lan Wangji, his hair a loose curtain that fell around Lan Wangji’s face.

Lan Wangji thrashed against him, but the resentment energy rendered Wei Ying’s body an immovable fortress.

“Blame yourself, Lan Zhan, you left me no choice.” Wei Ying took a handful of Lan Wangji’s hair into his palm and twisted the lock into a knot. There was a dim glow of red in his eyes as Lan Wangji failed to struggle out of Wei Ying’s grip on his wrists. “Are you mad, Lan-er-gongzi?” With his free hand, he brought the strands to his lips and kissed each of the ends. Lan Wangji glowered, blocking out the way that sight threatened to wipe out his mind and willing his body to relax, to be patient. “But aren’t I the wronged party here, Lan Zhan?” continued Wei Ying as he lowered down, lips brushing against the tip of Lan Wangji’s ear and licking it. “Or should I have called you—fujun?”

A deep, full-body shiver traveled up and down Lan Wangji’s spine, spreading to the tips of his fingers. He knew better now—better than to take anything Wei Ying said as a commitment, but he remained unable to stop the way the sound of it—fujun—the sound of it made every muscle in his body sing.

It took the summoning of all of his willpower to tamp it down, as he finally found an opening. Plunging his head forward, he struck the side of Wei Ying’s neck and sank his teeth into his nape. “Lan Zhan, are you a dog—” Wei Ying yelped as his fist loosened, and Lan Wangji reversed the wrist hold and yanked it down, tripping Wei Ying’s balance and keeping him sprawling out like a heap on top of him.

Next, he was going to try flipping them over, but right then, their hips ground into each other, causing Wei Ying to make an incredible, punched-out moan.

Even through the layers, Wei Ying’s dick is undeniably hard against his stomach. That knowledge finally painted his mind a blank, and he heard a series of undignified noises escaping his own throat.

“Lan-er-gege—” Wei Ying groaned, as Lan Wangji gripped Wei Ying’s left hip and kept it rutting against him. “Er-gege, er-gege, that feels so—please, don’t stop—”

All of Wei Ying’s earlier eloquence seemed to have been vanquished and replaced with indecent, erratic gasps. His body began floundering and rocking on top of Lan Wangji’s—every friction threatening to flay his skin open. Soon, Lan Wangji was thrusting up as well, both of his hands creeping down to knead on Wei Ying’s ass as they humped into each other.

Amidst the rousing heat and lustful fog that had overcome him, he found himself caught on a stray thought, on the knowledge that what he was holding on to was pure muscles on bones, either because Wei Ying had not been eating, or because resentment energy was sapping him dry. As Wei Ying cried out for him in nonsensical sentences, Lan Wangji briefly wondered if he would now be allowed, be welcomed to heal him, cook for him, play music for him. He wondered if that was what Wei Ying wanted in his persistent pursuit of Lan Wangji's confirmation.

With that thought, he gave an experimental squeeze. “Fuck,” Wei Ying muttered, his head lolling on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. He tried again, harder, and Wei Ying let out another chain of lewd noises, his breaths hot and damp on Lan Wangji’s neck.

“Quiet,” said Lan Wangji, but meaning none of that. He shoved his hand into the folds of Wei Ying’s robes, then underneath his pants, not bothering to fiddle with the sash. The moment his hand made contact with bare thigh in the featherest of touches, Wei Ying launched into a series of colorful swearwords, his body a writhing, boneless mass against Lan Wangji. The reaction emboldened Lan Wangji to slow down even further with his touch, determined to make the moment last.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying mewled pitifully, his body flailing violently when Lan Wangji’s fingers drew closer to his burning heat. “Be good,” Lan Wangji said as he heeded Wei Ying’s eyes, hooded with lust and intensely affixed on his lips.

Their lips found one another again the moment his hand wrapped around Wei Ying’s dick, and Lan Wangji let the kisses be sloppy and shallow this time as he began to pump until they fall in tandem: a kiss, a stroke, and a cascade of pretty moans against his mouth—no talks, no demands, as Wei Ying turned obedient and sweet for him, body pliant and willing to take him, as if all he had ever wanted, all he had ever been built for was to be good for Lan Wangji.

It did not take very long before he felt a stiffening in his beloved's spine, which rose up into a deep arc, and he sped up his hand, tightening his grip as a vicious string of tremors plagued Wei Ying’s body, accompanied by a wave of escalating sobs. The sight and sounds and scents sent him a thrill that he had never experienced, and he kept stroking and stroking until he felt a spill of thick, viscous release all over his palm, until Wei Ying collapsed onto his ribs, racing breaths ticklish against his ear.

Only then did he stop, but his hand remained, idly thumbing over the oversensitive slit. He buried his face into Wei Ying’s hair, trying to commit the sensation of Wei Ying’s weight, Wei Ying’s voice, Wei Ying’s softening cock into the safest bank of his memories.

Gradually, Wei Ying’s breathing returned to a steady pace, his eyes dimmed, his body a puddle in Lan Wangji’s embrace. Lan Wangji carded a finger through his hair as he listened to the sounds of their hearts, and let himself imagine that they might share a rhythm.

For a while, Wei Ying did not move, did not speak a single word. He looked like he could have fallen asleep. It was not until Lan Wangji raised his arm to extinguish the candle did Wei Ying murmur into his neck, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Lan Wangji closed his eyes.

“Were you going to make me the sickest of bastards? Were you going to let me go off and marry Wen Qing, like a knocked-off version of Jin Guangshan?”

Wei Ying’s speech was slow and drawled out, teetering on the edge between wake and sleep. Lan Wangji stamped out the flame with a flick of his wrist, and let the tent fade into the night’s silence.

One day—Lan Wangji thought to himself—one day, he would be able to slice open his skin and his bones, and draw apart his own lungs. One day, he would be able to sink his fingers into the chambers of his heart and dig through the leaves and the vines, until he could reach all of the tangled roots of love and fear and frailty that held his heart hostage. He would pluck, pull, scavenge their seeds and their sprouts and their tendrils, and lay them all out in careful, precisely chosen words. He would give the answer that Wei Ying deserved, any answer to any question that Wei Ying had ever asked.

Then, perhaps one day, he would be able to let Wei Ying go, and hold the certainty that he would always return.