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Lanling stank of flowers and shit.
That was Wei Wuxian's first impression, and it stuck. The streets were paved with white stone that gleamed in the spring sunlight, and every corner had a pot of something blooming: peonies, orchids, lilies so white they looked like bones. But the gutters ran with brown water and the alleys smelled like someone had died in them.
He liked it.
Lotus Pier was beautiful, but it was clean. Too clean. The kind of clean that meant someone had scrubbed away anything interesting.
Lanling was alive.
Wei Wuxian adjusted the scroll under his arm: a letter from Jiang Fengmian to some minor Jin official about spiritual herb shipments. Boring. The kind of errand you gave to the disciple you wanted out of the way. He wandered deeper into the city.
He was not in a hurry to go back.
The fight with Jiang Wanyin was still fresh under his skin.
"You think you're better than me."
"I never said that."
"You don't have to. Everyone knows. Father knows. Mother knows. Even."
"Jiang Cheng, that is not."
"Just go. Just go."
So Wei Wuxian had gone.
He had taken the letter and the travel money and a change of robes and he had gone. He would tell himself he was just following orders. That he was not running away.
He was definitely running away.
But that was fine. He would go back eventually. When Jiang Wanyin had cooled down. When Yu Ziyuan's latest bout of cold fury had burned itself out. When Jiang Fengmian looked at him with something other than that soft, sad, guilty expression that made Wei Wuxian want to claw his own face off.
Eventually.
Not yet.
The red light district was easy to find. Just follow the music.
Wei Wuxian had heard about the famous courtesans of Lanling: their pipa players, their singers, the poets who wrote sonnets to their beauty. He was not interested in the sex. He was seventeen and curious, sure, but not that curious. What he wanted was the art.
The brothel did not look like much from the outside. A faded sign. Worn steps. Lanterns that had once been red but had faded to something closer to rust.
But the music.
The music was good.
Wei Wuxian followed it into a courtyard, half hidden behind a screen of bamboo, and found a girl playing guzheng. She was young: maybe fifteen. Her fingers moved like water. The song was sad, something about a woman waiting for a lover who never came.
Wei Wuxian sat on a stone bench and listened.
The girl finished. Wei Wuxian applauded.
She looked at him like he had grown a second head. "You are not supposed to be back here."
"Probably not," Wei Wuxian agreed. "But I am very good at being places I am not supposed to be. Your playing was beautiful. Do you know 'Moon Over the Mountain Pass'?"
The girl blinked. "I. Yes."
"Play it?"
She hesitated. Then her fingers found the strings, and she played.
Wei Wuxian closed his eyes and let the music wash over him.
When he opened them again, someone else was in the courtyard.
A boy his age, maybe a little shorter, wearing simple grey robes that had been mended too many times. He was carrying a ledger and a brush, and he was staring at Wei Wuxian like he had never seen anything so confusing in his life.
"Who are you?" the boy asked.
Wei Wuxian grinned. "A connoisseur of fine music. And you?"
The boy's eyes narrowed. "The bookkeeper."
"Ah, a man of numbers. I respect that. I am Wei Wuxian, of Yunmeng Jiang."
The boy's expression flickered: recognition, maybe, or wariness. "Yunmeng Jiang. In Lanling?"
"Delivering a letter. Very important. Very official." Wei Wuxian waved the scroll vaguely. "But I finished early, and I heard the pipa players in this district were the best in the cultivation world, so I."
"You are in a brothel."
"I am in a courtyard."
"Attached to a brothel."
". . . Technically."
The boy sighed. It was a long suffering sigh, the kind that said I deal with idiots every day and you are not special. Wei Wuxian liked him immediately.
"Your addition is wrong," Wei Wuxian said.
The boy froze. "What?"
"Your ledger. You are carrying the two incorrectly. You should be at 1,347 silver, not 1,327."
The boy looked down at his ledger. Did the math in his head. Did it again.
". . . Oh."
Wei Wuxian's grin widened. "See? I am very smart. Very handsome, too, but that is secondary."
"I am sure," the boy said dryly. He sat down on the bench across from Wei Wuxian, opened his ledger, and began recalculating. His brush moved quickly, precise, efficient.
Wei Wuxian watched him.
The boy had nice hands: long fingers, clean nails, ink stains on his knuckles. His hair was coming loose from its ribbon, and there was a smudge of something dark on his cheek: ink, maybe, or charcoal. His eyelashes were stupidly long.
"You have ink on your face," Wei Wuxian said.
The boy's hand went to his cheek. Missed the smudge entirely.
"Other side."
The boy wiped the wrong cheek again.
Wei Wuxian laughed. "No, here." He reached out and rubbed the smudge off with his thumb.
The boy went very still.
Wei Wuxian realized, belatedly, that he was touching a stranger's face. That they were alone in a courtyard attached to a brothel. That the boy's eyes were very, very dark, and very, very close.
". . . Sorry," Wei Wuxian said. He pulled his hand back. "Reflex."
The boy stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said: "Meng Yao."
"What?"
"My name. Since you keep asking without asking." Meng Yao closed his ledger. "Meng Yao. And if you are going to keep coming back here."
"I am."
"Then you should know that the madame does not like strangers in the courtyard. She will have you thrown out if she catches you."
"Then I will have to make sure she does not catch me."
Meng Yao's lips twitched. It was not quite a smile, but it was close.
"You are ridiculous," Meng Yao said.
"I have been told," Wei Wuxian agreed.
Wei Wuxian delivered the letter. He went back to Lotus Pier. He endured Jiang Wanyin's cold shoulder and Yu Ziyuan's sharp tongue and Jiang Fengmian's sad eyes.
And then, a week later, he found an excuse to go back to Lanling.
"Another shipment?" Jiang Wanyin asked, suspicious.
"Spiritual herbs are very important, A-Cheng. Very important. Sect Leader Jiang entrusted me with this task personally."
"Sect Leader Jiang entrusted you with a shopping list."
"A very important shopping list."
Jiang Wanyin threw a pillow at him. Wei Wuxian ducked and laughed and left before anyone could ask too many questions.
The brothel's courtyard was empty when he arrived. No guzheng player. No music. Just the bamboo screen and the stone benches and the faded red lanterns.
Wei Wuxian sat down and waited.
After an hour, Meng Yao appeared. He was carrying tea: a tray with two cups, steaming. He set it down on the bench between them.
"You came back," Meng Yao said. Not a question.
"I said I would."
"You did not say anything."
"I implied."
Meng Yao poured the tea. His hands were steady. His face was carefully blank. But there was something in his eyes, something that looked almost like relief.
"Why?" Meng Yao asked.
Wei Wuxian took a cup. The tea was good; not the best he had ever had, but good. "Why what?"
"Why do you keep coming back? You are a cultivator. A disciple of a great sect. You could be anywhere. Doing anything. Why are you here, in a brothel's courtyard, drinking cheap tea with a bookkeeper?"
Wei Wuxian considered the question.
He could lie. He could say something about the music, or the architecture, or the quality of the tea. He could deflect with a joke, the way he always did.
But Meng Yao was looking at him like he wanted the truth. Like he was starving for it.
"Because you are here," Wei Wuxian said.
Meng Yao's composure cracked. Just a little. Just for a moment.
"That is not. You do not even know me."
"I know you are good at math. I know you drink your tea without sugar. I know you have ink on your fingers and you do not sleep enough and you flinched when I touched your face but you did not pull away."
Meng Yao stared at him.
"I want to know more," Wei Wuxian said. "Is that okay?"
Meng Yao was silent for a long time.
Then, quietly: "My mother was a courtesan here."
Wei Wuxian did not flinch. Did not look away. Did not say I am sorry like it was a tragedy.
"She was beautiful," Meng Yao continued. "And kind. And she died because no one would help her."
Wei Wuxian set down his tea. Reached out. Took Meng Yao's hand.
"I would have helped her," he said.
Meng Yao's eyes filled with tears.
"I know," he whispered.
They met in the courtyard every time Wei Wuxian could find an excuse to leave Lotus Pier.
It was not often: once a month, maybe, if he was lucky. But he wrote letters in between: long, rambling, ridiculous letters about nothing and everything. About Jiang Yanli's latest soup disaster. About Jiang Wanyin's temper. About the way the lotus flowers looked at sunset, pink and gold and so beautiful it hurt.
Meng Yao wrote back. Shorter letters. Careful. He did not talk about himself much. But sometimes, in the spaces between words, Wei Wuxian could see him.
Today a man tried to pay his bill with a promise. I told him promises do not buy rice. He called me a bastard. I told him I knew.
The madame is angry with me. I do not know why. She is always angry.
I dreamed about my mother last night. She was young. She was smiling. I woke up crying.
Wei Wuxian kept every letter. He folded them carefully and tucked them into his sleeve and read them again when he could not sleep.
He was falling in love.
He knew it.
He did not care.
On the sixth visit, Meng Yao gave him a ribbon.
It was simple: grey silk, nothing fancy. A spare from his own hair, the one he used when his good ribbon was drying.
"Here," Meng Yao said, shoving it into Wei Wuxian's hands. "For your hair. It keeps getting in your face and it is annoying."
Wei Wuxian looked at the ribbon. Looked at Meng Yao's ears, which were turning pink.
"You are giving me a gift."
"It is a spare."
"From your own hair."
"I had two."
"Meng Yao."
"Stop looking at me like that."
Wei Wuxian grinned. He tied the ribbon around his wrist: not in his hair, never in his hair, he wanted it closer. He held it up to the light.
"I am going to wear this forever," he said.
"You are so dramatic."
"I am going to be buried in this ribbon."
"Wei Wuxian."
"I am going to."
Meng Yao kissed him.
It was clumsy and inexperienced. Meng Yao's nose bumped Wei Wuxian's cheek. His hands were shaking. He made a small, embarrassed sound when they broke apart.
Wei Wuxian stared at him.
". . . Oh," Wei Wuxian said.
Meng Yao's face went red. "If you are going to be weird about it."
"No, no, no weird, I am not being weird, I am just." Wei Wuxian touched his own lips. "That was. Can we do it again?"
Meng Yao's expression softened. Just a little.
"Yes," he said. "We can do it again."
They did.
Meng Yao turned eighteen in the spring.
Wei Wuxian wanted to be there. He begged, cajoled, threatened, and finally stole a boat to get to Lanling in time. Jiang Wanyin would kill him later. It would be worth it.
He arrived at the brothel's courtyard with a stolen mooncake and a wildflower he had picked on the road, already wilting.
Meng Yao was waiting for him.
"You are insane," Meng Yao said.
"Happy birthday."
"You stole a boat."
"I wanted to see you."
Meng Yao stared at him. The wilting flower. The stolen mooncake. The grey silk ribbon tied around Wei Wuxian's wrist, faded now from wear.
"I love you," Meng Yao said.
The words hung in the air between them.
Wei Wuxian's heart stopped.
"I love you," Meng Yao said again, quieter. "I know it is. I know we are not. But I love you, and I wanted you to know."
Wei Wuxian crossed the courtyard in two steps and kissed him.
The mooncake fell to the ground. The flower dropped from his fingers. Neither of them noticed.
"I love you too," Wei Wuxian said against his mouth. "I love you too. I love you. I love you."
Meng Yao laughed: actually laughed, bright and startled, like he had not expected to make that sound ever again.
"Idiot," Meng Yao said.
"Your idiot."
"Unfortunately."
They sat in the courtyard until the lanterns were lit, sharing the stolen mooncake (mostly intact, despite the fall) and watching the stars come out.
Wei Wuxian did not know, then, that this was the last good night they would have.
He did not know about the Duke.
He did not know about the madame's plans.
He did not know that in three months, he would be standing in this same courtyard, covered in blood, watching Meng Yao light a red lantern.
But that was later.
Tonight, Meng Yao was laughing.
Tonight, Wei Wuxian was in love.
Tonight, the world had not ended yet.